Halcyon's Wake: Faith

Tunaki

I came to warm and dry - my head surprisingly not throbbing too bad. No knot on the head, no scratches on my arms or hands, hell - even the wound on my neck was completely healed. I must have been out for days or weeks.

I was lying on a rather large mattress of what appeared to be finely woven grasses, softer than polished silk and quite plush, elevated just slightly above the floor. I was in a spacious, domed room of red stone constructed in a perfect half-sphere. Smooth, unadorned walls rose gracefully to about 25 feet, meeting an inverse, glowing pyramid of turquoise hanging directly overhead. The pyramid emitted a gentle hum, just barely audible and suffused the room with a soft, comforting light that began to brighten as I propped up onto my elbows, followed by a faint chime.

To my right was a large arched doorway, and I heard the distinct sound of approaching footsteps. I sat up completely and a young boy of about twelve years entered the room holding a large, wrapped bundle - Hiro’s sword visibly sticking out the middle. The boy was wearing leather sandals that laced criss-cross up to his knees, and what looked to be a kilt woven of the same grasses as the mattress I was on, dyed a deep forest green that matched his eyes. His hair was a ruddy brown and hung to his shoulders in lazy waves. He looked a little frightened, and his posture spoke of a false confidence and bravado, and maybe even a little awe. His complexion bore a faint olive hue, like those kissed by the Aegean sun.

More footsteps sounded in the hall, and an older gentleman with nordic features, dressed similarly to the boy but with breeches and tall boots entered the room. His hair was almost totally grey, and pulled into a long braid that ran down the middle of a broad back. His beard was full but neatly trimmed, snowy white and framed a genuine smile beneath eyes that carried the same violet hue as my own. He clapped the boy on the back soundly with a hand that looked capable of crushing boulders to dust, motioning him forward.

“Welcome, Major Zacharias Dalton - I am Jacob, and this is Enoch - I trust you’re feeling better?” He spoke in a clipped, precise English with a voice like timpani - akin to a British noble that spent a few decades in the Mediterranean speaking more Greek than English. But only my mother called me ‘Zacharias’ - and only if I was in serious trouble.

“Thank you, Jacob - and yes, I actually feel pretty darn good. And please call me Zack.” And I did feel good - almost too good, it seemed. “And no offense, Jacob - but just where exactly is here, how long have I been out — and how do you happen to know who I am?”

Enoch walked forward and placed the bundle at the foot of the massive bed, and I nodded my thanks.

“Unfortunately, your own clothing was beyond repair - and according to my wife Elaina ‘unclean beyond belief.’ I think you’ll find our clothing to be quite comfortable. If you would kindly dress then meet us in the next room - Viceroy Tarak is anxious to formally make your acquaintance - and I’ll let him fill you in on just where you are, but as far as knowing your name - I read the name tag on your flight suit. You’ve only been out of sorts for a few hours, Zack.” He paused and pointed a finger at the corner of one of his eyes, smiling as he turned to go, leading the smiling youth out into the corridor, “It appears you and I have our own notes to compare as well, sir.” He stopped and looked at me seriously - “Do not be alarmed at what you see and who you meet, Major Dalton - all here are friends.” He waited for me to acknowledge, then nodded sagely and left the room.

I opened the bundle of unfamiliar clothing, rummaged through my backpack to check the contents - the kid hadn’t stolen my M&M’s - then set about getting dressed. The stockings and undergarments fit me like a glove, and the breeches of a tanned leathery material felt custom made. I’d worn kilts in the past — don’t ask, the wife was on a Renaissance Faire kick for awhile — and had little trouble in getting it properly donned. The kilt clasp was an ornately carved red-stone circle of eight interlocking hands clasped wrist to wrist, with bands of silver running throughout the stone. The clasp pin was of a pure, flawless turquoise almost luminescent, and complemented the red and silver stone perfectly. Soft boots of a deep maroon slipped on my feet effortlessly, again as if custom made for my feet. The closest thing I’d ever worn similar were a pair of too-expensive Italian leather loafers my wife made me buy years ago in Florence.

I donned the sword-belt then made my way out of the room and down a corridor that veered smoothly off to the left in a slow, gentle arc, feeling a little like I was heading off to a celtic costume party. Turquoise fixtures similar to the chandelier in my room were spaced intermittently along the wall, brightening the path as I approached, then dimming to a more subdued level as I walked by. The scientist in me leaned close to look at one of the fixtures, trying to detect a sensor or some kind of power source, but the placement was seamless between the rock and glowing stone. The kid in me hurried back and forth between the lights, just to see if they would change. They did. Cool.

I continued down the corridor and could hear the sounds of a large group engaged in conversation and laughter, peppered with bits of muted music from what I guessed were flutes, horns and strings. When I rounded the last bend, I entered an enormous hall - ten times as cavernous as the largest aircraft hangar I’d ever been in, and it appeared to stretch off into the distance as far as I could see. My jaw hit the ground when I laid eyes upon the occupants gathered around a series of massive, highly polished, red-stone tables encircling an enormous fire pit glowing brightly. Jacob approached from the nearest table smiling broadly, accompanied by what I can only describe as a Bigfoot dressed exactly like me. The figure was at least 8 feet tall and wide as a barn door, and what wasn’t covered in the dark green kilt revealed a trimmed, brown fur splotched with traces of blond and red. Its face was clean-shaven, save for a lengthy scruff of blond beard framing a powerful, lower jaw. The eyes were a dark brown and danced with a light of curious humor and obvious intelligence - and perhaps respect?

“Major Zack Dalton, it is my honor to introduce you to my liege, Viceroy Tarak, leader of the Redstone Tunaki, and Prime Warden of the Sons of Amalek.”

I didn’t know whether to bow, salute or extend my hand, so I opted for a little of each, stammering out a too-loud “thank you, it is an honor to meet you, your… Viceroy...ness.” I spoke haltingly and distinctly - as if to someone who didn’t completely speak my own language, and the humorous twinkle in Tarak’s eyes brightened. With lightning speed, he grasped my extended right hand up to my forearm with fingers that could no doubt span my entire neck with ease. My hand lay flat against his forearm, unable to circle the massive muscle - and to my credit, I didn’t flinch. I didn’t have time to.

He eyed me intently and placed his other giant hand upon my shoulder, his thumb across my breast and his fingers extending just below my shoulder blade; then slipped lithely to one knee in front of me. The gathered group of humans and Tunaki took in a collective gasp, the music and laughter stopping in a flash; including Jacob who looked as if he’d been sucker-punched, then all reverently fell to one knee, placing both hands on the stone before them. Even though the Viceroy knelt, I was still looking slightly up to him, but closer to eye level than before. “Tunaki Basereh, Dakhoa Oleas-Esureh, Donasha”, he said in a rumbling bass that rang through my chest. The same language as the voice of the storm. “I offer you Basereh - the binding- to the Tunaki, Zack Dalton.” His English was crisp, more precise than Jacob’s, and it shocked me. “The stone of my soul is yours to share, Dakhoa - ‘brother’.”

I bowed my head uncertain of why I was receiving these accolades, and even if I should - but knew to refuse what seemed to be an enormous honor might go south in a heartbeat; then I said the only phrase in his language that came to my mind, thinking it might be appropriate.

“Aehad Dharkimon, Dakhoa.”(Remember love, brother). He eyed me with a grand smile, replied with “Apeq Dharkimon, Dakhoa - Defend love, brother!” then tilted his head back and let out a roar unlike anything I’d ever heard before. Chilling, haunting and thrilling - all at the same time. The other Tunaki soon joined in, while those like me, (human I presumed, one could never tell these days), simply kept their heads lowered and their hands reverently upon the stone. There ain’t no freakin’ way Mouse and Beth are gonna believe this, but I gotta admit it’s pretty damn cool, whatever the hell just happened.

I learned over the next several hours why I received the honor from the Tunaki leader - and felt compelled to tell them -repeatedly- that it was in no way due to skill on my part - just pure, dumb luck. Period. Viceroy Tarak seemed to think fate wove my role with them more than I would acknowledge, and I learned quickly that you simply can’t argue with a Tunaki. For one, even the smaller females among the group could rip my arms off and beat me to death with them; secondly, they were logical and kind to a fault, and I finally acquiesced, although begrudgingly.

Apparently when I fell off Àlo’s back I managed to somehow skewer a really bad guy - like a Satan-level, Über bad guy - but not really a ‘guy’ as we understand it - as far from a ‘guy’ as I could imagine, really - even with all the crazy shit I’d encountered the last few months; tail of a scorpion, body of a winged horse, arms that could crush iron like putty - kind of like a Centaur with a really bad attitude, hell-bent on batting for the other team. Just take a creature from your worst nightmare and supersize it, and you’ll get the picture.

Whatever fates there may be managed to make me the killer of Morthos - High Commander of the Kilkenor; the top dog of some freaky, winged, scorpion-lion hybrid creatures made in antiquity by someone named Abaddon, a name the Tunaki spoke of in hushed whispers, like gypsies discussing the devil. Morthos had been the first of Malathus - the bad guy Lothar mentioned, who served under Abaddon, and another name the Tunaki didn’t seem to like speaking out loud. This was the stuff of fairy tales and mythology, even for the Tunaki - and in no way even remotely resembled the reality I thought I knew. Maybe Beth would have a better grasp of what was real.

What I learned over the next few hours proved as disconcerting and enlightening as my link with Lothar had - and I learned a little bit about why my eyes had started to change. The real bitch of that? Apparently, it was only the first of more changes yet to come. Yee freakin’ ha.