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“Still, the rebels would only live to see their world destroyed.”
Fridtjof’s shoulders relaxed. Not only had he
sensed my coming around to his way of thinking, he had returned to the role of being my superior, my teacher. He felt comfortable around me as long as he remained in charge. “The old ones follow the same pattern: discovery, infiltration, invasion, breeding of hybrids that combine the DNA of the most adaptable local life form with their own. Oh, but they are as vain as they are rapacious. They visit the conquered planets, make holiday there, enjoy the worship of those they have conquered. Then when they grow bored with their new toy, they order the final stage of colonization: the building of the machine.”
“But these places”—my mind flashed again on the ancient monuments—“they were built several centuries apart.”
“And thousands of miles apart, but as your mind has little difficulty comprehending how the sites exist on different continents, the old ones have no problem understanding how they sit together temporally. The old ones exist outside the dimension we experience as linear time. Bound as most of us are by the flow of time, we aren’t able to experience their machine as a functioning whole. From any given point in our timeline, one part of the machine is viewed as having existed in the past. Another in the future. The only moment when it is possible for us to experience their device as a functioning whole is when it is flipped on. The image your subconscious carries is of the moment when our planet was about to be destroyed. That moment transcends history; it exists in the past, in the future—”
“And in the now,” I finished for him.
He nodded, seeming pleased by my understanding.
“But why would any witch cooperate with the building of the machine? They’d be committing suicide by helping.”
“The inhabitants of the highest order, those who have been bred to contain the greatest concentration of the old ones’ ‘pure’ blood, they build the machine, and as their home planets breathe their last gasps, the chosen ones leave behind the corpse of their mothers. They spread out through the universe like a virus, scouting new and suitable targets for exploitation. On earth this highest order is the witch, our having supplanted the Fae thanks to our functionary skills and the mercurial nature and general uncontrollability of the Fae.”
“We were to build the machine, drain the earth of its life force, and go out to find other planets to destroy.”
“Precisely, and the cycle was intended to go on forever, forward and backward through time, but here, on earth, we witches drew the line.” He reached out for me, drawing my hands into his. “That, Mercy, is why we need you to demonstrate your loyalty. We need you to join us in protecting the line so it can continue to protect us all.”
“I have never intended to do anything else.” I weighed the pieces I had been presented. Incredible and contradictory tales, but no concrete evidence. I compared Gudrun’s version of the story to that of this odd Swede. I had no idea how much of what either had shared was truth, and how much was lie. I suspected both had offered up no more truth than the bare-bones frame from which they suspended their stories. Fridtjof had without doubt whitewashed history and offered me up a pious fiction. Still, my gut told me that Fridtjof’s account was essentially true. Besides, I knew Gudrun was a monster by the company she kept.
With my hands cradled in his, Fridtjof bowed his head. “This is indeed good to hear. As you have expressed your commitment to preserving the line, we must discuss your mother.”
“What about her?” I sensed all of this had only been the windup; now he was ready for the pitch. I freed my hands from his grasp.
We three turned at the sound of a car pulling off the road and coming to a stop on the gravel parking lot. A boy, maybe eight, maybe ten, climbed out of the backseat. He was a round little fellow, his horizontally striped yellow-and-blue shirt adding to the impression. Large, thick glasses. He came barreling toward us.
“Mitchell, I told you to wait until I could get your sister out.” The voice of his harried mother chased after him.
The boy was entranced by the sight of the stones, but he stopped and walked sullenly back toward the car. “But Mom, they’re right there.”
“You will wait for me,” his mother said, climbing out of the car and opening a back door, “or we will get right back in the car and go home.” The boy folded his arms over his chest and stomped a foot; still, he didn’t talk back. There was something so comical about the sulky expression he wore as his poor mother struggled with the buckles and straps of the child seat that I fell instantly in love with the boy.
“Finally,” he said and sighed dramatically as his mother pulled a much younger child dressed all in pink out of the back of the car and onto her hip.
“The monument is closed for maintenance,” Fridtjof called out to them.
“Oh,” the mother said. “It’s just we’ve driven here from Atlanta. Couldn’t we just stay for a minute or so, get some pictures?” The boy was crestfallen, and within seconds on the verge of tears. I slugged Fridtjof on the shoulder and circled around him.
“Of course you can,” I said, “and you can stay as long as you like.” The woman flashed me a look that spoke of relief combined with gratitude. She saw me as another mother, willing to bend the rules to save another woman a two-hour return trip featuring a meltdown from a very disappointed child.
She handed her son a cell phone. “Well, go on then,” she said to the boy, then smiled at me. Her son raced to the monument and began taking pictures. “Honestly, I have no idea how he even heard of this place,” she said, bouncing the sweet and waking little girl on her hip. The child looked at me and smiled, then buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. “This one’s going through her shy phase, and that one”—she nodded at her son—“well, that one . . .” She shrugged signaling she had nothing more to say, but the love in her eyes spoke volumes. “Thank you so much. I promised him that if he got all As on his report card, we’d make the trip out here.”
“No need for thanks.” I glanced over at Fridtjof, who had slid on a pair of sunglasses. He still was unnaturally pale, but at least he had dealt with the most startling of his characteristics. I had no need to worry about the woman’s reaction to Fridtjof, though. Although she kept one eye on her son, her other appreciative eye followed Emmet as he began circling the monument. “My,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows and smiling as he began drawing nearer. Leaning in toward me, “Yours?” she asked in a whisper.
Emmet looked toward her. “I certainly am,” he said as he stepped up to us. “I certainly am.” His dark eyes bored into me. This moment told me more than any of his previous declarations. He would be persistent, patient, and most of all present. That he would be my husband and a father to my child were in his mind inevitabilities. Even though most of me rebelled against letting go of Peter, the tiniest part of my heart relaxed into the idea that Emmet was right.
“Isn’t he just the sweetest thing?” she asked, shaking her head.
“Mom,” the boy bellowed. “Take my picture.”
“How about I take one of you all together,” Emmet offered.
“You are so thoughtful.” She flashed me a look that said, “You are so lucky.” She called to her boy, “Okay, we’ll take a few pictures, but we have to get out of these nice folks’ way.” She picked her way through the field toward the standing stones and Emmet followed. I watched as he played peekaboo with the little girl, who had obviously fallen just as hard for Emmet as her mother had.
“He is quite the charmer, your golem.” Fridtjof spoke in a low enough voice that the others would not hear.
