Son of Abel (The Judge of Mystics Book 1) Read online

  Son of Abel

  The Judge of Mystics Saga

  by Sapha Burnell

  Vræyda Literary

  An Imprint of

  Vræyda Multimedia Incorporated

  9131 207B Street, Langley, BC V1M 2P5

  www.vraeydamedia.ca | www.saphaburnell.com

  Copyright © 2016 by Sapha Burnell

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editing by Leanne O’Creefe & Rhet Czak

  Layout & Cover by Marissa Wagner

  Cover Photography by Felix Russell-Saw

  Printed in Canada

  First Printing, 2016 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN: 978-1-988034-06-5 (Paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-988034-07-2 (eBook)

  Vræyda Literary can bring authors to your live event. For information, to bulk purchase or to book an event contact [email protected] or visit our website.

  The Judge of Mystics Saga

  Son of Abel

  The Book of Revels (Autumn 2017)

  The Wendigo and Fox Wives (2018)

  More by Sapha Burnell

  Usurper Kings

  Eve and the Other

  Chaos Machines & The Universe Child

  Acknowledgements

  Gratitude is a hungry machine at the launch of my second book. I’ve fed it my thanks to MacroMicroCosm Literary & Art Journal, for serializing Son of Abel over six issues. I’ve served it a second course for Marissa, whose tireless effort, sounding-board ears and constant drive has added a Leprechaun’s adventure to what was once a tight, personal novella. A main course served on behalf of my fiancé, whose ears are burning with variations. A dessert for The Writers Union of Canada for allowing all Canadian writers the honour and privilege of typing out our uncensored, diligent words. The Vancouver Writers’ Bloc gets my eternal thanks (and an aperitif for the hungry machine) for listening to my authorial gripes, sharing wisdom and taking this fledgeling author under their wise wings. Now that Son of Abel is complete, and The Book of Revels & Hedonism Wholesale Inc are but stars on my horizon, I’ll be at my desk feeding this beautiful and hungry machine.

  ”A good loneliness, a good insecurity. Stone room, pines. His will, His mercy. An imperfection to say it and insist: lack of faith.

  Do not explain.”

  Thomas Merton, March 3, 1961

  Chapter 1

  Transcription from the Jæren Account of Cardinal Bricius.

  778 AD.

  My lungs ache in my bone cage. I’ve hefted up the hill’s crest and crashed on damp grass. Marte offered to patch my cowl, which covers me from the radiant blue sky reflecting off the fjord’s unforgiving crevasses. She lost her husband during the raids, and longs for another. A fine woman, one gently reminded that Ragnar is yet unmarried, and my spiritual brother would do well with a wife. My wineskin is fresh as new, no doubt because of my love of its’ contents. If Christ’s first miracle at Cana was indication of our Lord’s own perpetuations, I can find myself a true follower of His Way. Below, the village continues on. Smoke of hearth fires crackles through holes in sod roofs. Children play and the menfolk repair a vessel wide and long to take to the seas. The fjord lead only hearty stock to its berth.

  The scant sun spreads across the sky, pouring shadows into a weaver’s spindled thread. In this pause, I record a conversation most bespeaking of the Northmen and their ways.

  “Amazing, no? The seed is planted, raids are due, our menfolk ride the seas to bring Midgard’s bounty. Have you decided, Bricius? Are you raiding with us or staying with our women?” Magni Einridsen’s shoulders sunk to the grassy earth, his legs stretching beyond my own.

  “The Lord says love thy neighbour as thyself.” I offered Magni my wineskin. The raven-headed jarl declined.

  “Odin demands his quarter, and I demand my bread. Would you have our village starve over a carpenter’s words, when he lived in fair and gentle season?”

  “Did Israel’s sons not stoop to Egyptian charity to survive in bleak times?”

  “Seven years you have been among us and still you think us liable to stoop at another’s table.” Magni’s sigh broke the wind. It trailed off and entangled with the village below.

  “Cooperation ought to be better than the constant rut of the sword. How serendipitous it is that the village stands at all. Are your fellows not three villages over waiting for the opportune moment to raid those left behind? This constant killing… it does no one good.”

  The viking sat up and brushed hair black as tar away from his pale face. How Magni carried himself. How tall, the viking was a living representation of Saul before he was crowned King of Israel. The Jarl sat pulling up strands of grass, letting them sail off in the steep wind for some time. His voice lilted out in a petulance most out of fashion in my Frankish homeland.

  “You’ve made my brother into a martyr, Priest. If it were mine to decide, I’d fix you to the front of our ship. Drown you and your carpenter God.”

  “Thor’s hammer is as much a tool of creation as it is implement of war.” I watched an uncauterized wound wash across Magni’s face. What disaster kept this Viking at distance from the others, and yet respected more than their gods? I shiver at the thought of Magni’s raiding parties returning with silk, gold, slaves and food. Must there be new notches on his sword?

  “Did my brother tell you that?” Magni croaked.

  “If you keep your brother in disregard, the Lord will hold him. The decision to stay was Ragnar’s and he will stay by my side as a Disciple of the Way. Take your ships for survival and bloodlust. Howl at the moon. Sacrifice to your ashen gods. Mine paid the blood price for our misdeeds. Yours are always thirsty.”

  Magni worked his jaw, the muscles of his arms and neck taught.

  “Priest…”

  “If you continue to refuse Ragnar, I will be his keeper.” I rose, fingers curling around the leather of my rucksack to halt the shake of my retreat.

  “I should kill you both and spill your blood at Odin’s feet! Maybe then… maybe then.” Magni’s voice died off, lost to his own ruminations. I returned to my chapel, where Magni’s brother repaired the roof.

  Outer Hebrides Isle of Bernera;

  Present Day

  Sunlight peppered through the bitter morning fog in the Outer Hebridean isle of Bernera. A lonely place, Bernera had a few scant settlements known more for 19th century eviction riots than any event of historical significance. What it did have was legend. A legend which decided to spew crossbow bolts at Caleb Mauthisen’s face.

  “Son of a whore headed bitch!” Caleb slammed down on the stone ground and slid his boot heel into the grooves. He pushed himself into the corner. His knapsack slopped into his chest. Where was his gun? The empty HK 45C compact semi-automatic pistol had saved his Scandinavian ass since the Plaza Incident in ’02. Tel Aviv arms dealers could suck lemons. Lemons and couscous. The gun! He pulled it up and groaned at its’ missing magazine.

  “Bullets… Son of God, bullets… Go to Bostadh, he said. Need nothing but a shovel, he said. Nothing but a shovel my ass… stop shooting at me!” Caleb pitched his shovel at the marauding local spirit who identified with horned Cernunnos.

  “Ye be driving your wedge into my sacred space, Christian!” The spirit said.

  Thwk.

  Thwk.

  Thwk.

  The desk exploded inward in a tiny exit hole. The bolt clattered against the stone beside Caleb’s foot. Wood splinters fell. Caleb froze.

  “Get off it, buddy! Y
ou’re as Celtic as my father’s hair in the 60’s!” Bullets. Bullets! Caleb shoved his hand in his knapsack for the spare magazine. Hair brush, nope. Wallet, nope. Scroll, nope. Pack of gum… He peered over the shopkeep’s desk and ducked as Cernunnos’ namesake played duck shoot with Caleb’s hairline.

  “Bloody… hey! Heard of parlay?!” Worth a shot, he thought, digging into the bag. The spirit’s footsteps (dead giveaway, that) creaked into the stone floor and Caleb ducked his head into his bag.

  “Where is it? Where in the…”

  “Don’t you be digging up our dead, stealing our artifacts and thinking to be free without your soul in my sights, Mauthisen.”

  “What is it with you minor fae and knowing my freaking name? Is it posted on Fae.net? Am I that popular? Did my Dad write it in my shirt collars? Aha!” The magazine clicked into place. Caleb kicked a stool at Cernunnos and fired as the spirit tripped. The recoil snapped Caleb’s hand back. The room stopped smelling of fungus and moss and took the brimstone tang of gunpowder. Caleb rolled to his feet and kicked the crossbow out of the spirit’s fleshly hand.

  “Stop trying to kill me.” Caleb wheezed. He pointed his gun at Cernunnos’ face and watched the thick bearded man smile.

  “Stop digging up my village, Viking.” The grin extended into an inhuman gaping maw across the width of his face. His fingers twitched toward the crossbow, indignant to the metal cannon pointed at his forehead. Caleb put his boot on the fae’s chest and pushed until he heard a pop.

  “Deal. I got what I wanted.” Caleb rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “It’ll damn you, what you’ve done.” said Cernunnos’ craggy voice.

  “Not my religion, mate. Not even close. Don’t move.”

  The creature grinned. His bearded face contorted in a festering representation of the taint Caleb’s father had cured in his day, before ‘his day’ descended to watching ladies in Parisian fashion tromp down Montmartre. The creature spasmed and reached for a stone knife hidden in his vest.

  Caleb’s gun flared twice. A quivering mass of flesh transformed from the macabre beast of an old Pictish legend to the body of a bleeding, kicking stag.

  “Poor thing.”

  Caleb sunk down the wall and upended his knapsack on the mossy, stone ground. He systematically began refilling the three magazines scattered between the ephemera of his current situation. Caleb threw canteen water at the stag’s twitching corpse.

  “God of all mercy, cleanse this animal and this place. May it not be overrun by spirits of the long dead. May it be a place of grace.” He kissed the heavy ring of twisted gold strands which curled around his left thumb. The runic engravings buzzed across his lips, a familiar hum in the lull.

  He popped gum to dissipate the tang of copper in his mouth. Tossing the empty pack, he sorted through the tissues, passport, wallet, socks, razor and rolled up leather journal until he unravelled a bundled t-shirt. A collection of carved stones, bones and rusted metal trinkets nestled in a leather pouch. Caleb sliced open the side seam of the ancient hand-stitched bag and tossed the stones away. Sand poured through his fingers. He rubbed his hands on his pants.

  “Rune stones. Amulets. Joy. Oh, here we go.” Inside the bag, a thinner layer of leather peeled from the outer casing. Caleb peeled it with his thumbnail until the yellowed material flaked off in one large, macabre piece.

  He chewed his gum to mask the bile rushing up his esophagus. The palm-sized flake of skin buzzed in his fingers with a sickly film of gut-rotting regret. Caleb tensed his jaw as he flipped it back and forth in the light, watching how the light seemed to fight against it, bend around it. Even the sun didn’t want to grace the skin with its’ light. Snapping pictures with his cell phone, he laid the piece of human skin inside his journal and rolled it back up. Flicking through the pictures, he fiddled with the contrast until an ancient tattoo cleared up. A shrill line of repulsion coated his ribcage. Caleb wanted to torch his hands, to throw the entire bundle into an oak-wood fire and sink the soot to the bottom of a deep sea trench. The gum popped and slicked around his teeth and tongue. Caleb shut his eyes and remembered to breathe.

  “‘And the Lord said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother?… What have you done? The voice of thy brother's blood cries from the ground. And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother's blood from thy hand; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be…’ Son of a bitch. I got you.”

  How the Mark of Cain had gotten buried in the sand of a Pictish Village in the Outer Hebrides, Caleb Mauthisen shuddered to imagine. The Picts had, from all accounts, done everything from totem worship to human sacrifice, as most Northern European religions had at one time or other. In modern times such unholy events were distant genetic memories - horrible nightmares humanity had evolved away with the eve of science, reason and the sacredness of human life. Yet, something held a strong enough power to bring back the old spirits to defend the place. The dig appeared recent. Shovels and pick axes lined the road too easy to find. One man digging shouldn't have awakened Cernunnos’ spirit into possessing a stag. Caleb shook the sensation off and repacked his bag, shoving the rune stones in for good measure. Ancient rune stones would sell high enough to stem the tide of his dwindling accounts.

  Pitching the stag’s body off a cliff, Caleb limped toward the town of Breaclete and put his cell phone to his ear.

  “Hey, Finnegan I need a door. Get me off this God forbidden rock, will you? Yeah, Dublin works… Thanks.”

  The old woman would never forget the moment a blonde stranger with a canvas rucksack opened the tailor shop’s door and disappeared.

  Chapter 2

  Transcription from the Jæren Account of Cardinal Bricius.

  779 AD

  An illness has come to the village. Our wise women bathed the brows of the sick in a tincture of pine needles and wild allium. The elders sacrificed seven rams to Woden and taking the blood, mixed it with clay from the shore and the herbal tincture. It seems to give some relief, but for a short while. The smell is appalling.

  I have converted enough of a flock to burn precious frankincense from my trunk around those of the sick whose faith belongs to Christ. In an attempt to commune with the skeptics, I allowed the women to bathe my ill flock in a poultice of pine needles, allium and clay. The smell is pleasant still, the cheeks of my beleaguered flock grow from ashen to pink. Most day and night I spend in commune, fed by those who have recovered or refused the sickness upon them. To pass the vigil I recite stories of our infant Christ, of the Hebrew Kings and the Apostles. The Jarl spits profanely at my tales. Little Gunnar, who has survived six winters, three of which as an orphan under my and the village’s care, sat on my knee and begged for a story. The longhouse stilled, the sick craned their ears, the wise women calmed their ministrations and I furiously attempted to recollect a story the Northmen would hearken to the best.

  “Far South of the Dane-lands and Frankish borders, South of the Mare Internum is the Kingdom of Aksum, where the sun shines so bright it turns a man’s skin dark. They are keepers of wisdom, relics, and an Order most sacred. A hermit sat me beneath a tree to shelter us from the noonday heat. It happened after the sons of men had multiplied, that daughters were born to them, elegant and beautiful. And when the angels beheld them, they became enamoured saying, ‘Come, let us select wives from the progeny of men, and let us beget children.’

  They took wives; teaching them sorcery, incantations, and the dividing of roots and trees. And the women conceiving brought forth giants. These devoured all which the labour of men produced; until it became impossible to feed them. They turned themselves against men to devour them; and began to injure birds, beasts, reptiles, and fishes, to eat their flesh, then the earth reproved the unrighteous. And man’s voice reached to heaven.

  Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael looked down, ‘The earth deprived of her children has cried even to the gate of heaven. What on account of these things ought we to do to them?’r />
  To Gabriel the Lord said, ‘Go to the reprobates, and destroy the offspring of the Watchers; bring them forth, and excite them one against another. Let them perish by mutual slaughter; for length of days shall not be theirs.’

  To Michael likewise the Lord said, ‘Go announce his crime to Shemihaza, and to the others. When all their sons shall be slain, when they shall see the perdition of their beloved, bind them for seventy generations underneath the earth. Even to the day of judgment, and of consummation, until the judgment be completed. Then shall they be taken into the lowest depths of the fire in torments; and in confinement shall they be shut up forever. Let every oppressor perish from the face of the earth; let every evil work be destroyed; let the plant of righteousness and of rectitude appear, and its produce become a blessing.

  Righteousness shall be for ever planted with delight. And then shall all the saints give thanks, and their sabbaths shall be completed in peace.’

  For my mistaken wits I cannot rectify the sight. Gunnar laid frail and aching against my chest. I thrust mine eyes to the Jarl, the raven-haired Magni my oppressor and did spake as if from the mouth of the Lord’s Herald to the heathen. A rustling came from the door. My friend and spiritual brother Ragnar had entered with fresh cut wood for the fires and seeing his brother, walked chin forward to place the logs and sticks into a fireside basket. But for Gunnar’s place in my arms, Magni may have ripped my body in twain and as I stooped to put the ill child to his bedroll, Ragnar did stand before me. The hatred between brothers crept profound and frozen into the longhouse. For only in a land which killed by its’ winters could evil, disdain and anger be so cold. As Magni laid eyes on his own mother’s son, I felt the twinge in my bone cage that pride had led us here, and my pride was best taken secreting Ragnar and our flock to warmer spiritual climes. If only the Lord my God had given his humble servant a vision of what would become of the two warring brothers, I might have salvaged all before these two giants came to blows.”