Children of Semyaza Read online

  “Only what?”

  “A que…question. All he did…all he did was ask a question.”

  “Volant, I need you to stay awake!” But that was no longer possible. He’d lost so much blood. The transportation had drained him as well. This was it for him.

  “I’m sorry,” his voice had become a low whisper. She had to bend closer to hear. “I failed you. I failed the…Order.”

  Esme looked down at Volant’s dead verdant eyes as they darkened into a coalish black. He was gone. Volant, the greatest Atruman Hunter of the Order of Shimshon was dead. She fell on her knees as hot tears ran down her cheeks. Midori leaned by the shelf petrified. Lycanthropes in Gdansk didn’t seem to matter anymore.

  That moment, his graying hair gradually turned to its former black; his beards withered away from his chin; his wounds had begun to seal; His bones were realigning; and his muscles were becoming stronger.

  All of this happened unbeknownst to the weeping Esme and Midori.

  2

  APRIL 1952. READING, NEW HAMPSHIRE.

  Garrick was moribund.

  Everything within him seemed out of order. His heart raced frantically; his breathing was labored and heavy; and warm salty sweat slid from his forehead into his open mouth. He felt all would be better if he could just get out of his stifling bedroom. But his legs had become useless to him—getting up from the floor had become an exercise in futility.

  The ceiling swirled until it was a giant pool of colors. Above him was an ugly montage of mahogany, flavescent, earth yellow and rufous. A noisome image which intensified his desire to escape this place.

  The ground beneath him cracked, parted and swallowed him. As he took a vertiginous drop down into nihility, he was unexpectedly overcome by a foreign emotion. Something unlike anything he’d ever felt in his entire life. Something not so sullen and sorrowful. Was this joy? He wondered. Did he find complete repose in total darkness?

  Was death his way out of misery?

  He opened his eyes. He was out of breath and dizzy, but the worst part of the episode was over. After gently picking himself up and walking—staggering more like—into the bathroom across his room, he stared at his brown eyes through the mirror intently. “Mydriasis” he said to himself as he put on his glasses. It was common for his pupils to dilate after one of his panic attacks. It was common for him to have panic attacks after one of his peculiar dreams—dreams that seemed so clear and real when he was having them, only to be completely forgotten once he was conscious.

  He needed air.

  As he sat on the front porch, his attention rested on the license plate of a parked Pontiac. The motto, Live Free or Die, spoke to him. Was he living free? He didn’t think he was. He lived with his parents, a brother and a cousin, but they were free, not him. His father, Jared Hartmann, was only too pleased to see to that.

  Garrick often considered standing up to his abusive alcoholic father and expose him for the unbalanced brute that he was—but part of him blamed himself. Why else would a father willingly inflict so much harm on his own child? He must have been doing something wrong. Or maybe his birth had killed a long sought-after dream. His very existence might have been a constant reminder of a lost opportunity. Sometimes he felt disgusted with himself whenever he attempted to justify his father’s cruelty in such a manner, but he could hardly help himself. Because of this, Garrick only felt a sense of comfort while he walked to school. The few minutes of unbroken mentation calmed him despite the impossibility of ever arriving at any logically valid explanation for the series of unfortunate events which surrounded him and had become part of his daily life.

  If Garrick wasn’t struck at home, he was struck at school by his peers who took advantage of his frail stature and timid demeanor. But why did they go out of their way to torment him? They claimed it was because he was odd, and rumors had circulated that he was a communist sympathizer. Rumors, no doubt, concocted by Celina.

  “Live Free or Die,” he thought with a scoff. “How convenient.” Rubbing the scar on his shoulder, one of many, he considered his options. He wasn’t free, therefore, was death his only recourse?

  His ruminations were cut short by a blue 1950 Ford sedan that pulled up on the driveway. The moment he noticed the driver, in his red and white letter jacket, was getting intimate with his blonde passenger, he looked away uncomfortably.

  Celina sat expectantly with her eyes closed and dipped in pleasure as Lester Peck slowly slid his tongue up and down her neck. ‘This is so wrong,’ she thought, but she did not care. She sat waiting for it. She’d never done it in a car before, and she was always open to new experiences. “Take me,” she moaned. Lester obliged. He had begun to take off her sweater when she turned and noticed her scrawny cousin sitting down uncomfortably on the porch steps. He seemed to be examining a rock with great interest. “Shit.”

  “What?” asked Lester, his hand exploring under her unmentionables.

  “We’re going to have to do this some other time. My degenerate cousin is watching us.”

  Lester panicked. “Wait. We could go somewhere else.”

  “Not tonight, Lester. You should have thought about that before bringing me home. Next time, okay?” She alighted from the car and headed for the house. Lester swore out loud and glared at Garrick before driving away.

  Garrick observed his cousin and quietly acknowledged her physical beauty. Her long blonde hair, glistening blue eyes and enticing feline stride. She wore a black circle skirt with a dark blue thin wool sweater, a black belt and leather gloves. Regardless, her exterior beauty was only a mask for her interior ugliness.

  As far as he was concerned, Celina was evil.

  Her father had dropped her off when she was about eleven and the little love Garrick’s parents might have had for him had vanished. She wasn't a very nice girl when they were younger, but that wasn't an issue back then seeing as girls and boys at that age seldom got along. But as they grew up, she turned into an extremely cold-hearted person. Lady Macbeth would pale in comparison.

  For reasons unknown to him, Jared loved her beyond reason and would do anything for her. Celina was clearly aware of the power she had over him and often used it to her advantage. Thanks to her, Garrick felt like a prisoner in a gulag. She fabricated stories about him for her own amusement on a regular basis. Once, she accused him of stealing her pocket money—money she had spent on superfluous make-up; she also accused him of making fun of her at school—But he was the one being made fun of constantly—and these lies always sent Jared into unnecessary fits of anger which ended with a bleeding and tied up Garrick passed out in the basement.

  At seventeen, Garrick had so many scars on his body one would think he had fought in a war. But as the years passed by, pain stopped being an issue—he only hated being bothered at all.

  Garrick had shown great academic potential and could easily get into Dartmouth. It was fortunate because he was pretty sure Jared would neglect him after high school. So, most of his time alone was spent studying. However, having a drunken father beat him up during one of his drunken fits made it a little tricky for him to concentrate.

  Celina had walked past Garrick without a word and entered the house. He sighed in disappointment knowing it was his turn to enter the house. It was an unwritten rule in the Hartmann residence that no one, especially Garrick, could be out later than Celina.

  Entering the dimly lit parlor, Garrick was welcomed by a spirituous stench he only knew too well. Jared sat staring at the TV like an ignorant zombie with a bottle of scotch in one hand and a glass in the other. Garrick glinted at the ignominious creature and examined the sybaritic lavishness of the furniture and appliances around him. The question of how Jared, who was drunk half the time, could afford all this was still a mystery to him.

  “Where’ve you been?” He asked with eyes still glued to the TV.

  “Front porch. Needed air,” Garrick answered, inching away.

  “Stop right there!”

  Jared H
artmann was a man of average height who had the peculiar ability to be one person at home and another in public—almost like he had a split personality. The man Garrick was trembling before that night had very little uncommon with a monster from a horror movie. His dark brown hair was straggly; his beard was unkempt and dirty possibly from regurgitation; his auburn eyes had turned close to scarlet; his tummy was protruding; and his voice was hoarse and croaky.

  He dropped the bottle and cup and struggled to stand. “Are you lying to me?”

  Garrick shook his head frantically. “I’m not lying. I swear!” Jared’s head drooped as he looked down at his feet as though concocting some other excuse to punish his son. Celina, humming happily, walked into the parlor with a cup of orange juice when she noted them.

  Both noticing her presence, they turned to look at her.

  “Celina!” Garrick called out helplessly. “You saw me sitting on the front porch when you came in, right?” Celina winced as if he’d made a terribly disgusting statement. Garrick knew there was no way she’d help him, but in desperation he mouthed I’ll do anything to her.

  However, seeing this desperation, Celina couldn’t pass on the opportunity to see Garrick dealt with again. ‘It’s been a while,’ she thought.

  “Outside?” She asked, feigning ignorance.

  Garrick had begun to shake his head. “Don’t do this,” he said. “Please.”

  Celina had brushed her hair from her left eye as she denied seeing him sitting outside. She sipped her juice, winked at her emotionally defeated cousin and walked upstairs.

  Jared, on the other hand, had begun to take off his belt. “You know what to do, you fucking liar,” he said. There was no point reasoning with him. Yes, he was drunk—but also, Celina’s word was gospel. Garrick took off his shirt, turned his back and Jared proceeded to whip him.

  Garrick walked past his mother in the kitchen without a word and opened the fridge. Delilah Hartmann wasn’t physically abusive toward him; however, her main problem was that she never made any effort to save her son from her husband’s malevolent treatment. Garrick reckoned she was just tired of the whole family (except her baby, Hermann) and kept to herself most of the time. As a result, Garrick hadn’t spoken to her for a long time. By then their strained relationship merely involved the two walking past each other without a word.

  If only she knew what her son knew about her. Garrick had known her greatest secret for a long time. He knew she was having an affair with Lester’s father, yet that wasn’t all. She was so unfaithful, she couldn’t even stay faithful to the man she was being unfaithful with. Delilah had slept with scores of men from the neighborhood. Garrick was aware of her infidelity because his frustration over his mother’s apathy had compelled him to follow her for several days two summers ago. He never mentioned a word of his discovery to anyone, especially Jared, who would have most certainly killed her. He may not have liked Delilah—but she was his mother. Also, he couldn’t really blame her.

  “No doubt, you are manna from the heavens.”

  Octavius LeGrey grinned lightly at the short man whose facial etiolation bespoke a certain frustration with the office he oversaw. But he didn’t judge. He didn’t look very good himself. His long brown hair had become straggly, his eyes droopy and his countenance sullen. He simply blamed it on the weather.

  Despite Octavius’ queer appearance, Principal Devin was more than delighted to find a substitute teacher at such a critical time. The previous history teacher was unconscious in a hospital bed after a motor accident attributed to his apparent drunkenness, turning his periods into stagnation 101. Making matters worse, parents from the PTA had made it their pastime to constantly hen-peck him for a replacement.

  Almost a hundred calls later, Octavius presented himself in his office with a sparkling résumé. Though he had pondered on how it was possible that in a city such as Reading, whose size rivaled that of Manchester, only one applicant came in for the job. But he did not have the luxury of time to ponder on such things and was more than happy to have this spry, albeit sallow, man take up the position—even if just for the remainder of the semester.

  “If I may, Principal,” started Octavius, “would it be alright if I altered my predecessor’s syllabus. I assure you, I will follow the curriculum. I’m just interested in tackling it from a different perspective.”

  Principal Devin hadn’t replied immediately. Not because he wasn’t in concordance with Octavius’ suggestion, but because he was trying hard to place his accent. “Of course, Mr. LeGrey. So long as you follow the curriculum.” Octavius nodded his appreciation. “Where are you from, Mr. LeGrey?”

  “I was born in Aberdeen, but I’m originally from the Highlands.”

  “Ah, Scotland! How delightful. Yes, yes, you may carry on as you wish. I’ll show you to your classroom now.”

  How convenient he was there. Very convenient. Not as convenient, however, as the Principal being desperate for a substitute teacher. The nagging PTA proved to be immensely useful as well by heightening his desperation. It was quite evident to Octavius that if the Principal was more composed and presented with more options, he would have taken the time to scrutinize the résumé presented to him. He would have realized with enough time that his credentials were fake. Still, it was a possibility, so he was going to have to accomplish his mission in Reading soon.

  He was there for the boy.

  The boy’s time in Reading, living among its people, was over. After Devin ushered him into the classroom, he sat patiently at his desk waiting for him. He had never met him, but he was sure he’d know him the moment he’d lay his eyes on him. It was only a matter of time.

  Garrick wasn’t especially fond of the typical public school he attended. By typical he meant that it reinforced probably every teenage stereotype. It was also conveniently divided up into in-groups such as the group of future politicians; the jocks; the self-conscious beauty queens; the more modest and intelligent beauties; the four-eyed nerds; and the pariahs. His school had its own unique pariah—Garrick Hartmann, though his relegation to such a post often baffled him. He didn’t feel or look any different from the nerds. His hair was neatly combed; his shirt was always tucked in; his glasses were big and round; his stature was small and debile; and his walk was awkward and without rhythm. So, why the special treatment?

  That morning, Garrick had walked as he had always walked: fast but not too fast to avoid any attention—yet this tactic rarely worked. As he got to his locker, one of the jocks, whose name escaped Garrick, had approached him.

  “If this was one of those Shakespeare plays,” he began, “you’d be the fool, Hartmann.”

  Garrick looked askance at him. The grin of pride on the jock’s face was amusing. “If you paid close attention to what you read, you’d see the fool is usually the smartest character in the entire play. He knows what’s happening while the others are oblivious. So basically, by your characterization, I’m the smartest one here.”

  When the jock realized he didn’t have an adequate comeback, he hit Garrick’s books from his hand, shoved him hard against the locker and stomped away. Garrick simply counted his blessings for not receiving more than just a mere shove and proceeded to pick his books. Once he was back up, he saw Lester and Celina walking up to him.

  Celina’s outfit was ostentatious as usual. Her dress was a mixture of some of the brightest colors Garrick had ever seen and flashy jewelry she conned Jared into buying for her. Lester leaned toward Garrick slowly and whispered, “I haven’t forgotten the opportunity you made me miss, you commie bastard.”

  Garrick didn’t respond to the covert threat and tried to walk away but it seemed like they were following him.

  He walked hurriedly as he visualized his schedule. ‘History,’ he reminded himself and headed for the classroom. Unfortunately for him, Lester’s sidekick, Dennis, had emerged from the other end of the hall with his beautiful brunette girlfriend, Arianne McMahon. Arianne McMahon gave the young Garrick chills. H
e couldn’t help loving her—she was everything he wanted. Unfortunately, she was way beyond him. He was not on her level. She fell under the modest beauty category. Garrick had created that group especially for her. She was never in other people’s faces on account of her beauty, brains or wealth. Her perfect brown hair and the way her bangs brushed her forehead; her curvy body; her enticing green eyes; her killer smile; her…

  “Hey! You’re looking at my girl real hard there, boy!” Dennis had grabbed him by the collar.

  “He’s probably got strands of her hair hidden somewhere in his room,” added Celina.

  “What? That’s fucking sick!” exclaimed Dennis.

  “What I don’t get is why this commie has his own room,” continued Lester. “He should be locked up in a fucking cage!”

  “I’ll be sure to mention that to my uncle, baby.”

  “Would you guys just stop it?” Arianne cut in. “Dennis, let go of him.”

  “He was eyeballing you!”

  “I don’t care. Let him go!”

  “Well, next time you see my girl, you’d best keep those fucking weird eyes away from her.” Dennis had pushed him to the ground and walked into class with his arm around Arianne. She looked over her shoulder at him, a slight glint of pity in her green eyes. Normally, the school’s pariah wouldn’t have a chance in hell with a modest beauty. She belonged to the future politicians or a jock. That’s why she was with Dennis. It was the sad truth. The natural order of things.

  He suddenly didn’t feel like going to class.

  Uninteresting. They were all so uninteresting. Octavius was so close to regretting coming all the way to this town. Where was he? He was certain he’d be in this class. Or was there some sort of miscalculation? There couldn’t be! His feeling was genuine! A few sinewy boys in letter jackets walked in looking pleased with themselves for being alive. Octavius, in his frustration, had a pleasant mental-image or ripping their spines from their backs. Next was a group of giggling girls who struck him as the ardent followers of the aforementioned jocks. Still uninteresting.