Betrayal
by John Powers
“I am not,” the woman said as she stared into the depths of her drink,
“a particularly nice person.” She picked up the cut-crystal tumbler,
looked at the amber fluid for a moment and then took a sip. Sighing
softly, she put the glass back on the bar. “Damn good scotch, if I may
say so myself.”
The old man behind the bar nodded once. “Thank you Miss. You asked for
top shelf. Had some 21 year old single malt I thought a classy lady
like you could appreciate.”
The woman finished the scotch and pushed the glass over to the
bartender. “I’ll have another if you please.”
“Certainly Miss.” He poured her two fingers worth and put the glass in
front of her. “But begging your pardon ma’am, I don’t see how a lady
like you can’t be a nice person.” He waved his hand to include the
whole bar, which besides himself and the lady held only 4 other
patrons. “Place like this, it tends to only attract some pretty classy
people.”
The woman looked around for a moment and nodded. It was a bar that
prided itself on being high class. It was a quiet place, there were no
wall-mounted TVs blaring the news or sports, no annoying jukebox or
karaoke music. Just… she smiled just a second …quiet. There was a young
couple in one corner, staring into each others eyes and oblivious to
everyone else in the room. The fact that their trust funds put together
could probably buy most third-world nations didn’t really matter to the
two of them or to anyone else in the bar, they were smply in love and
didn’t care if the rest of the world knew it.
On the other side of the room two businessmen talked quietly as they
scribbled figures on scraps of paper and pushed them back and forth to
each other. Every few minutes one of them would gather up the scraps,
rip them into tiny pieces and put the shredded remains in a slot on the
table. There would be a barely audible popping sound and flicker of
blue light as the flash disposal turned the scraps into ashes. It might
be a deal worth billions or just two men discussing baseball stats or
fantasy football. But this was the kind of place that guaranteed them
discretion to carry on their conversation without fear of being
overheard.
It was close to the financial and high-end shopping districts but not
really in either and the people it attracted craved
anonymity above all
else. If you were an attention-craving wanna-be actress or a spoiled
publicity seeking club-hopping nouveau riche trying to show off, this
was not the place for you. Actually most people couldn’t even find the
place. It didn’t deliberately go out of its way to hide, it just was
discrete.
The woman turned back to the bartender, who had the age-old trick of
being able to watch her without being obvious about it down to a
science. When he saw her turn to him, his smile turned back on full
force. “Like I said, it’s a nice place and tends to attract nice
people.”
“And I appreciate that to no end.” The woman took a sip of her drink.
“But sometimes someone like me wanders in.” She put the glass down and
shook her head slowly, tracing a pattern on the counter-top with one
well-manicured finger. “Don’t let the looks fool you buddy. I can be as
rude and crude as necessary if I feel the need.”
“Well,” he polished a martini glass as he thought for a moment, “I’m
sure most of us could be Miss. It’s not like it’s a skill you’d need in
place like this too often though.” He put the glass on the rack and
picked up another one. “You’ve got to understand something though. In a
place like this, rude and crude just labels you as common.” He frowned
for the briefest moment, “we don’t tolerate common here.” He put the
second martini glass on the rack beside the first one. “You did see the
two,” he cleared his throat slightly, “gentlemen at the front door
didn’t you?”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Large, heavily muscled, armed to the
teeth and dressed to the 9’s in tuxedos that probably cost as much as a
decent used car?” A brief smile crossed her face. “Very discrete
though. And neither raised a finger or said a word to me.”
“Oh they’ll let anyone in the door Miss.” He nodded towards the
entrance to the bar, “but whether you leave under your own power or
with the assistance of one or both of them is completely up to you.”
The woman looked over her shoulder for a moment. “And if you’ve had a
few too many?” She raised her eyebrow again.
The bartender managed to look baffled. “Never, ever known that to
happen here ma’am.” He polished another glass and set it on the rack.
“Of course most of these people have got people that their job is
pretty much making sure something like that doesn’t happen or else make
sure they get taken someplace where a little sleep and a head-ache
popper or two will take care of it.”
She finished her drink and pushed the glass towards him. “Another
please?”
“Certainly ma’am.” He poured her some more scotch, replaced the napkin
in front of her and put the glass down.
“This is my third one and you don’t seem too concerned about me getting
a bit sloshed.”
The bartender nodded once. “You’re not even close to drunk yet Miss.
Not sure why, but I can tell. Been in this business for going on 40
years now. I’ve seen tipsy and I’ve seen drunk. You’re not in either
category.”
“Maybe I just hold my liquor well.” She took a drink as she stared at
the man. “You know, a professional drunk.”
The bartender chuckled softly. “Ma’am, no offense but I know entire
families of professional drunks, families where the kids started
drinking while still in junior high and continued through-out their
whole lives. Sometimes I’m convinced it’s an inherited trait, that the
sober ones are the odd-balls.”
“Might be at that,” she admitted as she took another sip. “So tell me,
how old do you think I am?”
The bartender looked at her for a few moments and then reached out for
her hand. “May I ma’am?
Puzzled, she nodded and he picked up her left hand and examined it
closely, taking almost a minute to do so. Then he did the same with her
left. Then he shook his head slowly. “Your face, especially your eyes,
they say you’re in your early 40’s.” He pointed to her hands. “But
those…” he looked confused. “Those tell a different story. You’ve done
manual labor before but not recently, decades maybe. Strong hands and
both equally so. Either you’re ambidextrous or you’ve got some kind of
job that requires you use both. But you don’t have the fingertip
calluses of a professional secretary or keyboardist.” He touched the
sleeve of her pale-cream blouse near her wrist. “And no secretary could
really afford this.” He looked at her, “because I know this set you
back at least $1,500, maybe more.”
The woman blinked and sat up straight. “You seem to be quite perceptive
for a bartender.”
The old man shrugged. “Like I said Miss, 40 years come next month I’ve
been doing this.”
She stared at him as he polished another glass and then seemed to make
her mind up about something. “What if I told you I was 192?”
The bartender frowned and put the glass down. He looked into her face
for a few seconds and his frown deepened. “I’d say you certainly seem
to believe it.”
She seemed put off by his comment. “In the year of our Lord 1833 I was
born in London England.”
“London?” The bartender shook his head. “Miss, I’ve had every
nationality in the world walk through those doors. I’ve heard every
tongue spoken on this good Lord’s green earth and most of the accents.
Yours…” he paused for a moment and thought, “if anything there’s a
faint trace of French and I mean real French, not French Canadian or
something like that. Maybe… just maybe a touch of Italian but that
might be a stretch.”
The woman frowned and finished her drink and pushed the tumbler back
over to him. “I’ve not been back to England since…” she thought for a
moment as he refilled her glass, “1903.” For a moment a look of sadness
and loss cross her face. “There are reasons I can’t go back.” She
accepted the scotch and took a sip. “So I have spent time in Italy.
Almost 23 years until that idiot Mussolini took over.” Now she looked
mad. “Mind you the country was a mess before he took over but it wasn’t
like he was any kind of improvement.” She took another drink. “So I
moved to France. Marseilles to be exact.”
The old man thought about it a moment. “Someplace in the south isn’t
that?”
She nodded as she traced the same pattern on the counter-top that she
had earlier. “Yes. It’s a very old city with roots back almost as far
back as recorded history.” She sighed while still tracing the pattern
on the bar. It seemed to be an unconscious reaction, she wasn’t even
watching what she was doing. “Very civilized, very cultured.” She
stopped tracing the pattern and her right hand tightened into a fist.
“And then that moron Hitler…”
The bartender shook his head. “Wasn’t the southern part of France
technically a free country...”
The woman’s glare could have melted a glacier with its intensity. “You
weren’t THERE!” For a moment the two men in the corner looked up,
startled but turned back to their quiet conversation after a few
seconds. The woman managed to look abashed. “Sorry,” she muttered
softly, “but you weren’t there. I was.” She took a shuddering breath.
“Damn Nazis…” She trailed off and finished her scotch in a single gulp.
“Another ma’am?” The bartender held up the bottle and raised one
eyebrow. She nodded and he silently poured and put the glass down in
front of her.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “But it was a very difficult time. There
were already those that had a suspicion as to what I was already,
including the Germans. Starting in 1943 the Gestapo were hunting for me
constantly.” She frowned. “And the damn Russians of all people! How in
the hell the NKVD found out about me I never did find out!”
“And so you…”
“Barely escaped.” Her face was almost savage looking in her anger.
“Used all the gold and silver I had accumulated over the years.” She
ran her hand down the front of her blouse. “And traded my body more
than once for forged passports, travel documents and passage, first to
Lisbon and from there to New York.”
The bartender nodded. “An age old problem for women through-out history
I’d have to guess.”
“Obviously,” she snapped sarcastically, “but I’d rather not have to
make deals while on my damn back!” She gripped the tumbler so tightly
her knuckles turned white. “There were times I'd wished I’d been born
ugly or deformed!”
The bartender shrugged slightly. “Won’t that have made escaping
problematic though?”
The woman looked at the old man intently. “You believe me?”
For a brief moment he glanced to the right and left, making sure his
other patrons didn’t seem to be paying any attention. Then he leaned
forward and lowered his voice. “I’m 316 years old ma’am.”
Her face turned white and she swayed back and forth for a few seconds.
Then she looked to either side herself before she turned her attention
back to the bartender. “What are you joking about you old fool!” Her
left hand disappeared for a moment and reappeared with a small pistol
in it, centered on the man’s chest. “What kind of idiot do you take me
for?”
The bartender didn’t seem to be fazed by the gun pointed at him. If
anything, he seemed to be mildly amused. “We can’t be killed lady.” He
looked into her eyes. “Surely you’ve figured that out already?” When
she didn’t say anything but tightened her grip on the gun he sighed and
shook his head slightly, flashing a wry grin at the same time. “Come on
now! You claim to be 192 and you’re trying to tell me that someone
hasn’t tried to kill you but failed or you haven’t had some kind of
accident that should have had you having a conversation with St Peter
at the gates of heaven?”
The woman relaxed slightly but kept the pistol pointed at him. “Yeah…”
she frowned as memories flooded over her, “yeah, a few times. Hurts
like bloody hell every time though!” She rubbed her head with her right
hand. “Been shot in the head twice. Second time, it was almost a month
before I even remembered my name.”
The bartender nodded sagely. “Yep. You’ve got to watch out for things
like that. Also I’m pretty sure that a really massive fire or something
that destroyed the whole body would do one of us…” He stopped at her
shocked expression and sharply in-drawn breath. “What, you thought you
and me were the only ones in the world with the Methuselah gene?” His
grimace made her flush and his disapproving tone clearly wasn’t what
she was expecting. He leaned forward even more. “Oh come on now!” He
thumped a finger on the counter. “You’re not stupid, otherwise you’d
have been captured, chopped up, dissected and experimented on long ago.
It’s happened to more than one of us! I was held in a dungeon by an
asshole Turkish millionaire for almost 6 years before I escaped in
1893!” He held up his left hand. “He chopped this hand off 10 times!”
The old man took a deep shuddering breath to try and drain some of his
anger. “10 times!! Just so he could watch it regrow so his stupid
doctors and scientists could try and figure out what made me immortal.”
He looked away for a moment. “He didn’t survive his mistake,” the old
man said softly but there was iron in his voice.
The woman shuddered. “There’s been attempts to kidnap but so far no one
has succeeded.” As suddenly as it had appeared the gun disappeared. She
picked up her drink and finished it in one gulp and pushed the empty
tumbler over to him. “So why are you here?” She waved her hand to take
in the bar. “I mean in this place, this bar?”
The bartender held out his hand. “Jack.” He extended it bit further.
“Jacob Meijer actually, from the Zeeland area of the Netherlands.”
The woman stared at him for a few moments and then hesitantly extended
her own hand. “Olivia, Olivia Wood.” She smiled a tiny bit. “From
London.”
They shook hands and then the bartender took a step back. “As to your
question Olivia, how did you happened to end up here?” He smiled. “Not
in New York, but here in Kingwoods Bar?”
Olivia blinked and straightened up. “Uhhmmm….” She flushed again and
looked away for a moment. “You promise not to laugh?” Jack nodded
solemnly, poured her some more scotch and pushed it towards her. She
smiled in gratitude and took a sip. “I felt…” she rocked her hand back
and forth, “I felt lead to this place.” She rubbed her forehead. “Maybe
drawn would be a better way of putting it?” Now she tapped her head.
“Felt that way for years now.” She waved back towards the city outside.
“I’ve been in New York since…” she thought for a few seconds, “spring
of 1944.” She made a circle in the air. “Been in or around the city
ever since, never traveled more than 50 or 60 miles away.” She frowned
slightly. “And every time I did I couldn’t wait to get back here.”
Jack patted the counter. “You’ve been called here all right dearie.” He
pointed towards the floor. “Actually, it’s underground that’s been
calling you. A stone…” He grimaced. “You know the legend of the Sword
in the Stone Olivia?” She nodded once, her eyes wary, “It’s not a
legend.” Her disbelief was as plain as day. Jack sighed. “Yeah, I
didn’t believe it at first either. There’s three stones actually. One
of them is here, in the basement of this building. There’s one in
England, buried under about 40 foot of dirt. If you’d gotten a chance
to go back there, eventually it would have called you.”
Olivia shuddered. “I think it already was. For 30 or 40 days after I
left England I was sick almost every day, I had the shakes, throwing up
and unable to sleep for more than an hour or two. Slowly, so very
slowly it got better but I had headaches for almost a year afterwards.”
“Aye, sounds about right.” Jack rubbed his own head. “I’ve had the same
problem, twice now.”
“So where’s the third stone?”
“Mecca.”
Olivia’s face reddened. “SAUDI ARABIA??”
Jack shrugged. “Sure, makes sense actually when you think about it.”
Olivia started to snap back at him but then stopped. Her eyes closed
for a moment and her forehead furrowed as she thought it through.
Finally she nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Yeah, I guess so. Are the
stones the source of our long lives?”
Jack frowned and shook his head. “No one knows for sure. Some of us
have never come within 500 miles of one of the stones. They feel the
call but they’re able to resist it for some reason. Others though,” he
tapped himself on the chest and then her forearm, “we’re more closely
attuned to the damn things, we bound to them.” He looked at her
intently. “1903 was a long time ago, you sure you can’t go back to
England now?”
Olivia hesitated, her face showing uncertainty. “I’m not sure. Probably
would be fine. There was another one of …” she quirked a very brief
smile, “another one of us there. He was… persistent in his pursuit of
me, he knew what I was somehow and wanted to have children with me.”
Jack blinked and backed up a step. “The Right Honorable Charles Leslie
Shuttleworth?”
Olivia’s mouth fell open. Jack’s hand shot to grip her shoulder as she
swayed for a few moments. Then she blinked and straightened up, nodding
her thanks. “You know him?”
“A right jack-ass that one is.” Jack nodded towards the couple. “She’s
met him, to her sorrow. Charles held her captive for almost a year,
trying to get her pregnant.”
Olivia frowned. “We can’t…” She stopped and shook her head, “Okay, to
be precise, I’ve never been pregnant and God alone knows I’ve had
enough unprotected sex that I should have been pregnant a few dozen
times.”
Jack patted her hand a couple times. “No woman with the longevity gene
has ever gotten pregnant Olivia.” He grinned. “But the males are
unusually fertile. I’ve been a father 30 times over.”
“And are any of them…” Olivia raised one eye-brow.
“Nope, not a one.” Jack sighed and picked up the bottle and looked at
her. She nodded and he poured her a double. “Three of my children are
still alive. The youngest Tommy, he’s is 62, lives in Montana.”
“So the women can’t get pregnant and the men never produce a long-life
child?”
Jack shrugged. “Seems to be.”
Olivia looked like she was ready to cry. “So where in the hell do we
come from?”
Jack shook his head sadly. “Only the good Lord himself knows honey.” He
picked up a glass and polished it slowly, not looking at her. “There’s
some very smart people, some of them with money to burn that have
researched this for a couple hundred years. There’s just no answers.
Even with the advances in DNA research we’re no closer to knowing why.”
Olivia finished her drink in a single gulp, put the glass down and
pushed it to the side. Then she leaned forward. “Where’s Charles now?”
Jack shook his head. “Still in England last I’d heard. Only he’s going
by James Singleton now.”
“What?” She blinked even as she said that, “oh… if he didn’t leave the
area he’d have to change his name every once in a while, wouldn’t he?”
“Aye, there’s that.” Jack sighed and shook his head. “Still a prick
though, he’s still bound and determined to and breed a long-life
female.”
Olivia slumped, putting her elbows on the bar. “I’d carve his balls off
with dull butter knife except that I know they’d grow back.”
Jack grimaced. “Olivia, for a guy and I can speak to this personally
unfortunately, is it hurts like a real bastard the entire time they’re
growing back. Takes about 10 days of constant utter agony.”
“Oh…” there was a nasty gleam in Olivia’s eyes, “OH!!!!” She snickered
and the hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stood straight up.
“I’m thinking it a good thing he’s in England and you’re here in New
York.” He stared into her eyes and she glared back. He was the first
one to look away. “Jesus lady…”
Olivia shrugged. “I’m not leaving town.” She seemed about to say
something but then her eyes narrowed and she blinked a couple of times.
“Wait a moment. You said the Sword in the Stone legend! There really IS
a sword?”
Jack nodded. “Yep, I can show it to you if you’d like.”
Olivia’s face lit up. “Would you please?!” She was almost bouncing with
eagerness, a movement that attracted Jack’s eyes.
“No problem. It’ll take a moment lock up though. Need to wait, can’t
have anyone just wandering in off the street while we’re down there.”
Olivia sobered quickly, “no… that wouldn’t do at all I guess.” She
looked at the few people in the bar. “Does anyone besides… you know….
Us long-lifers ever come in here?”
Jack nodded as he came out from behind the bar and headed towards the
door. “Sure, some nights we’re out-numbered 10 to 1. But on a Tuesday
night this early in the summer?” She heard the locks click and Jack
came back to the bar. “This time of year this is about average.” He
winked at her as he untied his apron. “It’s not like we have to make
money doing this, most of us are quite rich and there’s a… I guess
you’d call it a committee of sorts that makes sure that the bills get
paid and the liquor stocks are kept topped up and are of adequate
quality. Most of us are pretty fussy drinkers.” He chuckled. “Not like
we haven’t had the time to develop some pretty peculiar tastes mind
you.”
Olivia nodded as he motioned her behind the bar. She circled behind the
bar and followed him into the backroom. There was a trapdoor in the
floor that required two separate keys and then Jack flicked a switch on
the wall beside the trapdoor. Bright lights lit the stairwell and a
huge room at the bottom.
“Has the stone always been here?” Olivia was a bare step behind Jack, a
fact he was well aware of and not protesting in the least. “I mean, did
someone bring it here?”
“Nope, it’s been here as long as any man can remember. The local Native
Americans, the Iroquois were the ones that told the white settlers
about it. At that time there was nothing but a long dirt tunnel leading
down here.”
They got to the bottom of the stairs, Jack moving off to one side to
give Olivia an unobstructed view. He chuckled at the expression on her
face. “Yeah, it’s a big sucker all right.”
She walked around the stone twice. It was taller than her by at least
2’ and about 10’ around at the base, tapering slightly towards the flat
top. There was a set of sturdy wooden steps wrapped around the rock
leading to the top. There was a platform there, solid wood with a rail
about 3’ tall around the edges. A heavy black cloth covered whatever
was stuck in the stone.
“Wow….” Olivia ran her hand over an exposed section of the rock. “What
is it anyways?”
“Magnetic iron ore.” He held up his arms and slowly turned around.
“Notice that I’m not wearing anything metal. The steps and platform are
pure wood, held together with pegs, everything else within 5 or 6 foot
of the rock is wooden.”
“I was wondering.” Olivia tugged at her blouse, “this damn under-wire
felt kinda strange all the sudden.” She flushed slightly, turning away
from Jack while trying to adjust her bra. “Sorry about that,” she
muttered.
“No worries.” He motioned towards the steps. “I’m thinking you want to
take a look?”
Olivia blinked, looked at the platform and then back at Jack. “That’s
allowed?”
Jack chuckled and waved his hand towards the steps. “Of course it is.
Why wouldn’t it?”
“Well…. I mean, there’s really a sword under that?” She looked as did
Jack. “A real sword?”
Jack shrugged. “Only the handle and about 6” of the blade are visible
to be honest. Everybody assumes the rest is stuck in that rock.”
Olivia looked around for a moment and then walked over to a small table
by the foot of the stairs. She put her purse on it and then after a
moment’s hesitation, pulled the slit in the side of her long skirt
open. There was a holster attached to her upper thigh. She pulled her
small automatic out and put it on the table beside the purse.
Then she fished inside the purse for a moment, taking out a necklace.
“Pearls on silk string,” she said as fastened it around her neck, “and
the clasp is brass.” She adjusted how it fell into her cleavage, “I
picked it up in Rome in ’22. It’s kinda like my good luck charm.”
Jack dragged his eyes away from her chest and smiled. “Whatever gets
you through the evening lady.” He walked to the bottom of the steps
wrapped around the rock. “Only one rule ma’am.”
Olivia stopped with her hand on the railing. “And that would be?”
Jacks’ face turned serious. “You get a single chance to pull on the
sword. You can pull as long as you want, but just one time.”
“What?” Olivia took her foot off the steps and turned to face the
bartender. “Forever and ever, just one try?”
“No…” Jack frowned very slightly, “What I mean is you can’t stay up
there for hours or days trying to pull it out. You get one good try.
Most people give up after about five minutes. Anything past ten is
considered excessive. Now mind you, here are some people come back
every two or three years to take another run at it.” He shrugged and
spread his hands, “We kinda look the other way as most of them don’t
make a big deal out of it. They’re sure they come in when it just us
folks, have a few drinks, wander downstairs for a few minutes, come
back up and leave. It’s mostly those that don’t feel the pull of the
stone too hard. One guy, he comes clear from Brazil like clockwork
every 30 months to the day.”
“Oh…” Olivia started up the steps, moving slowly, her face a study in
uncertainty and what might have been a twinge of fear. Jack stood there
watching her, admiring the view as much as anything else. She was as
good looking from behind as from the front.
To Jack someone coming down to see the rock was old hat, he couldn’t
even reasonably estimate the number of people that had tried to pull
the sword out of the stone. He leaned against the wall and folded his
arms as Olivia disappeared around the curve of the rock.
Then she appeared at the top. “In the legend, Arthur Pendragon pulled
out the sword and became king of England. What would that mean here? I
mean I can’t exactly tell the President of the US to take a hike
because I earned the job by virtue of a legend that’s been fodder for
more bad movies than I can remember.” She laughed as she ran her hand
over the cloth. “So what would be the Cracker Jack prize if someone
pulls it out?”
Jack shrugged. “Couldn’t say seeing as no one’s ever pulled it out.”
Olivia tugged on the cloth and it slid off the sword handle. She folded
it up carefully and put it on the platform. “So what’s the point?” She
stared at the sword handle but looked up for a moment. “I mean besides
bragging rights?” She put a hand on the handle but snatched it back
immediately. “It’s cold!”
“Always is. We’ve measured it, using a mercury thermometer. It’s at a
constant 50 degrees… Oh, that’s Fahrenheit, not sure Celsius is in case
you use that.”
“I can manage.” Olivia put her hand back on the sword handle but didn’t
exert any pressure on it. “I can say been there, done that to just
about anything you care to mention.”
“Most of us can Olivia.” Jack slouched slightly and rubbed his back on
the stone wall. “Especially the older ones.”
Olivia took her hand off the sword again. “Older ones? How old exactly?”
Jack straightened up slightly. “I’ve personally met a woman, she’s from
Austria that’s 880 or so years old. And of course there’s Samuel, he’s
here in the city, he’s either 920 or 930, even he’s not sure. Back then
keeping track of your birthday wasn’t a high priority. He was common
born to a farm family near what is now Berlin so there’s that.”
Olivia frowned. “Farm born? Christ on a rockin’ horse, he’s lucky he
survived childhood! Childhood mortality around the 1100’s was
astronomical!”
Jack nodded. “He’s got stories that would turn your hair white ma’am.
And I mean that, quite literally.”
Olivia turned back to the sword. “Well, might as well try I guess.” She
put one hand to her neck and fingered the pearl necklace, muttering
something so quietly Jack couldn’t hear her. It didn’t matter to him,
he’s seen all kinds of rituals, about a third of the people that tried
to pull the sword had some kind of lucky charm or else what they
thought was a magic chant they tried while pulling the sword.
Jack brushed back a couple of strands of hair that were blown into
his…. He froze, his hand half-way to his face. A breeze? DOWN HERE?
He snapped a startled look at Olivia, who had one hand on the sword
handle and her other hand wrapped around the pearl necklace. She was
chanting louder now and there was a distinct wind through the chamber.
Jack gaped at her for a few more moments and then sprinted for the rope
that lead to an alarm bell upstairs. Due to the magnetic iron ore rock
anything electrical frequently failed. It had taken years just to
figure out how to route the wiring and where to place the light sockets
to get the electrical lights to work properly.
He grabbed the rope just as something lifted him off his feet. He
jerked frantically on the rope as a force pulled him away from it. He
could dimly hear the bell upstairs ringing. “HELP!!! HELP!!! It’s the
WITCH!! It’s MORGANNA!!” Then the force that had been holding him
slammed him against the stone wall and he fell limply to the floor.
Olivia felt the power coursing through her. After all these centuries
she was complete again! Her hair blew out in streamers around her head,
once again the gorgeous honey-blonde it should be instead of the dull
brunette she’d been forced to adopt for centuries.
And her clothes… she glanced down, gone was the dowdy human clothes she
come into the bar wearing. Once again she was wearing her gown of
spun-silk, as thin as a whisper, a garment that covered her yet
concealed nothing. She put her head back and laughed at the heavens as
she put her hand out and grasped the handle.
She pulled gently and her smile was terrible to behold as the handle
trembled in her hand. And the part that amused her the most was the
fact that it wasn’t a sword at all. To be sure it did vaguely resemble
a sword that humans had used in ancient times but it really was a key.
The key to her prison, to the power and the force that held her on this
benighted primitive planet, that prevented her from leaving this
hellhole existence and returning to her rightful place as the reigning
queen of an empire that stretched for thousands of light-years
The handle trembled some more and rose up a hand-span. She grinned and
exerted more of her mental energy. Then a stray fragment of another
power pulsed through the air.
“NO!!!” she screamed at the top of her lungs as she desperately pulled
on the handle, “YOU CAN’T! NOT NOW!!”
There was a tremendous spike of mental energy and brilliant red and
green flashes of light filled the chamber. Then there was dead silence
for a brief moment and then furious sound of air rushing in to fill a
sudden void.
“MORGANNA!!” It was a man’s voice, or at least a masculine one.
Olivia/Morganna spun around, throwing out her hand as a blast of energy
surged out of her.
The pale lavender beam splattered less than a foot from the figure
standing at the foot of the basement stairs. “Going for the dramatic as
always Morganna.”
“YOU PIECE OF SHIT!!” Morganna made to leap from the platform to the
floor but the man waved one hand almost casually and she found herself
rooted to the spot. “ARTHUR!!”
The man shook his head. “My human name, just as Morganna is yours.” He
bowed and sneered at the same time. “Your majesty.”
Morganna shuddered as she strove desperately to move. “You dare! I am
your QUEEN!”
“In exile.” He made a show of glancing at his wrist, a perfectly human
gesture that he knew would annoy her. “In exile for another 982 cycles
of this planet around its sun.”
Morganna threw back her head and screamed in fury, her neck corded with
the strain. A shudder ran through her body as she felt another burst of
energy. “NO!!” she screamed again, “NO!!”
There was a woman standing beside Arthur. She bowed slightly but from
her it wasn’t sarcastic but neither was it subservient. “Your majesty.”
Morganna flushed bright red and her entire body trembled like a thin
branch in a high wind. “Guinevere…” The sound of her grinding teeth
could be plainly heard as she glared at the woman.
“It is amusing,” Arthur said as he knelt to examine the unconscious
Jack, “that human legends and history have made Guinevere, who is your
chief jailer, as the queen of their tales.” He shook his head, dusting
off his hands as he stood up. “The human will be fine. His recovery
will be painful, Morganna fractured his skull but like all of those
cursed with our longevity he will recover.”
“That is good,” Guinevere walked up to the base of the stone and laid a
hand on it. She muttered under her breath and suddenly all of the power
drained from the room. Morganna collapsed in a heap, sobbing as she did
so. Guinevere took a step back. “Once before Morganna, you tricked
Arthur into removing the first key himself. We had to invent the Lady
of the Lake legend to explain how it was returned to its rightful
place” Guinevere shot Arthur a withering look. His eyes dropped and he
looked away, finding something of such interest on the stone wall that
demanded his full attention.
Morganna stood up slowly. “So close…” she muttered, finding herself
back in her Olivia guise. Her power, carefully husbanded and concealed
for hundreds of years was gone, a vague memory, an ache in her breast
and a dull throb in her head. “You idiot,” she hissed venomously, “you
arrogant stupid idiot!” She stalked down the steps towards Guinevere.
“There will be a reckoning for this…” she worked up a creditable sneer,
“my lady in waiting!”
Guinevere shrugged, supremely unconcerned. “I am sure of that your
majesty. But first you must deal with the ruling council that has been
running the empire since you were sent here.” She waved her hand
towards the ceiling. “They may be a bit…” she frowned as she puzzled
through her human expressions, “reluctant I believe is the right term,
yes, reluctant to release the power they’ve held since your exile.”
“So what?” Olivia straightened her clothing, slipped her gun back into
its thigh holster and picked up her purse. “I will return as queen…”
Arthur turned back to the conversation. “Actually no you won’t.” He
held up a hand as Olivia started to cloud up. “Hear me out your
majesty. Perhaps you have conveniently forgotten but part of your exile
was that you had to stand in front of the council and prove your
worthiness.” He looked over at Guinevere for a moment and then back at
Olivia. “And I have to think that as long as it took you to build up
your power to this level your exile will be over long before you can
try to escape again.”
Olivia whirled around, her face wild with rage. “ANOTHER 1000 YEARS
WITH THESE IGNORANT APES!!??”
Guinevere’s face was as hard as a block of stone. “You brought this on
yourself Morganna.” She waved her hand, “And we are all leaving this
place right now. These apes, as you call them, will one day rule the
galaxy and I for one don’t want you damaging any more of them…”
THE END
© 2018 John Powers
Bio: John Powers is a retired computer tech with a deep interest
in science fiction, science fantasy, military science fiction and
almost anything related to AD&D type stories.
Email: John Powers
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