Over the Rainbow - Book One - 'The Gathering Place' (2 page)

And then again without warning they abruptly
stopped.

But this time the weathered fingers began to tremble
and shake, softly quivering as they hovered above the mystical
objects, the flickering golden glow from the leathery palms now
alternately flaring and fading.

The timid voice inquired tremulously, “Is- is there
more?”

In silent response, one of the hands shakily
descended and tentatively- indeed almost reluctantly, turned over a
final disk. Revealed on its’ surface was a crude, jagged scratch, a
bolt of lightning, dividing a 'man' in half. A sharp intake of
breath betrayed the unmistakable fear in the words that followed,
“Oh-! Kane-hekili!” The ancient voice paused as this revelation
echoed into silence, and then it continued- slowly, deliberately, a
distinct note of caution underscoring the next words. “There will
be great danger…”

A quavering tone of fear colored
the other voice as the words tumbled out. “To-? To the
girl?”

“
To all,” the ancient one declared
flatly.

Above – Part One

F
ar above
the chaos and cacophony that were the streets of Lower Manhattan,
an ancient ritual was taking place in the airy confines of the
seventy-third story penthouse club. From this God’s-eye view atop a
glittering skyscraper, far removed from the mere mortals scurrying
in squalor below, a quiet celebration was underway, one as old as
time itself, as old as the notion of royalty had existed,
perpetuated by the myth of privilege and divine right that has
persisted to this very day.

It was the anointing of kings.

A chamber quartet played a soft Vivaldi tune as
silent waiters in starched white uniforms glided skillfully among
the colorful guests, their glistening silver trays piled high with
exotic canapés and bubbling crystal flutes, bending and offering
their wares to deliberately ignoring lords and ladies whose
attentions were aloof and distant. Elderly dowagers and ancient old
men were scattered about the room, perching limply on elegantly
brocaded and gilded furnishings, nodding off or nursing drinks,
evidence of their youth long dissipated.

A group of suits, exclusively men, balding and
middle-aged, were clustered before a massive marble fireplace,
their rumblings and gestures slow and deliberate, forced by
necessity as a result of the tight constrictions of ill-fitting
jackets and strained-to-bursting cummerbunds.

Business, as usual, was the order of the day.

Walter Matthews, the second of his line, was
unmistakably the elder statesman of the group. With his
silver-white hair and ruddy complexion, it was clearly evident that
he had achieved that point in his orbit where a life of leisure was
now the pinnacle of his existence, a world where sailing yachts and
polo ponies where the sole focus of his attentions. He slowly
scanned the room over the rim of his glass, which was at present
nearly empty of the twenty-four year old Glenfidditch he had
reserved especially for this occasion. He sighed contentedly in
response to his observations and then turned to address his son,
Walter, third of his line (hereafter referred to merely as
‘Walter’) a wry smile and twinkling blue eyes underscoring the
barely concealed irony in his voice.

“
Never thought I'd actually see
the day that you managed to salvage that one,” he said as he
gestured with his glass across the cavernous room, slowly polishing
off the remainder of the amber liquid to conceal his private
amusement.

Walter glowered over the rim of his own glass,
knocking back the few remaining drops with a scowl. His gaze
travelled across the distance to join his father’s on an ornately
Baroque wooden archway in the distance, its entrance framing a
boisterous and rowdy scene within. But among the clustered group of
twenty-somethings gathered around an intricately carved antique
pool table, only one was the focus of his attentions-

His son.

Christopher Robert Matthews, newly
minted Harvard MBA, was drunk,
very
drunk, or so it would seem. His mortar-board was
tilted and askew on his head, and he wavered and wobbled as he
tipped a foam-laced glass to his lips, propped up on either side by
a pair of ridiculously beautiful sorority girls, who by their looks
appeared to aspire to nothing more ambitious than being future
trophy wives, vapid arm candy that Chris was idly fondling with an
air of detached boredom.

A rousing chorus of cheers and jeers suddenly burst
from the room, briefly piercing the soft strains of Vivaldi, and
Walter snorted derisively, jerking his attention back to his
father. “That makes two of us,” he said, casting his gaze about for
someone to refresh his drink.

“
So, what are your plans for
him?”

“
Oh- the usual. Rough him up in
the trenches, give him a feel for the business, then toss him into
the fire, temper him a bit...”

“
Sounds familiar.”

“
It should. It's exactly what you
did to me.” At Walter’s insistent gesture, a waiter glided silently
to his side, refilling his glass with almost invisible ease and
then disappearing just as quietly, a white-clad ninja with a silver
tray. Walter took a long, slow, contemplative swallow and
continued, “I sometimes wonder if he ever really wanted
to…”

“
Wanted to what?”

Walter frowned into the distance. “To graduate- it
was almost as if he was trying to sabotage it to the very end, you
know? He would get top grades- best in his class, and then blow off
school for a week so he could go chasing after the first hint of
powder in the Alps!”

Walter the second replied with a wry chuckle and a
raise of white eyebrows, “Well, they say the apple never falls far
from the tree...”

Walter turned and countered defensively, “Hey! I
never-”

Walter II interrupted him with a
raised glass and a slow wag of his head, “Sorry, my boy, but it's
true... For
you
,
it was sailing. I was never really sure which was more important,
the lure of the water or the allure of the club, but it’s true.” He
sighed resignedly and continued, “Fortunately, parents exerted
more-
control
back in the day. If you had been brought up
now
, you'd have probably
done the same damn thing.” He paused in silent contemplation of his
empty glass and full life, and then added wistfully, “Things were
just different... then.”

The conversation faded as the
mutual gaze of
both
Walters returned to the elaborate archway, where the sounds
of youthful exuberance and a driving techno beat now pulsed and
pounded, fracturing the soft strains of Vivaldi under their
relentless assault.

Chris watched the action at the pool table with a
toxic combination of dry amusement, sardonic irony, and just a bit
of dark despair as the rhythmic clack of brightly colored balls
kept time with the music. Of all the places to be, the dim, smoky
confines of the Billiards room were world’s away from where he
would rather be, and worlds away from here was truly where he would
rather have been.

In sharp contrast to his peers, Chris was clearly a
‘black sheep’, so to speak. With his surfer-boy good looks,
golden-blond curls and translucent brown eyes, Chris stuck out like
a sore thumb when compared to the dark-haired and flinty-eyed group
surrounding him, a golden seagull among a flock of dark and
brooding vultures. Even the perfectly proportioned blond and
brunette Barbies that bookended him on either side seemed
incongruous to his bearing- shallow and hollow, plastic and
polished. And now they were beginning to bore him.

“
Hey Loser- you’re up!” The
grating voice of his loathsome cousin Dan shot across the room,
rousing Chris from his dark introspection. Shrugging the girls off
with an almost callous carelessness, Chris leaned unsteadily on the
pool table and stroked the cue ball indifferently. The shot skipped
off the rail, missing badly.

Dan laughed- a braying, abrasive
sound, and said, “Oh, my God! Total Fail! Watch and learn, loser.”
He rudely elbowed Chris aside and leaned in with a calculated
precision, lining up a tricky combination shot and then quickly
banking the shot home,
both
balls clicking neatly into the pockets. With a
smug, self-satisfied grin, Dan stood and raised his arms in
mock-triumph to the smattering of applause.

He bowed theatrically and then
said, “
That's
how
it's done. And now, for my final trick...” Casually chalking his
cue, Dan slowly leaned down on the table, taking aim at the far
end, where only the eight ball remained. It was in a difficult
position, near the end rail, and the only possible shot the near
left corner. With a crisp, powerful stroke, Dan firmly struck the
blue-smeared orb, and as it traveled he declared, almost
nonchalant, “Eight ball- corner pocket.”

The cue ball ricocheted crisply off the far rail and
struck the eight squarely. The ball flew straight and true,
dropping with a click of finality onto the other balls nestled in
the pocket, the ‘8’ clearly visible through the mesh, almost as if
mocking Chris. Dan sighed with a barely restrained superiority and
reached into the pocket, crisply plucking out the ball and holding
the shiny black sphere before his face a la Hamlet with Yorick’s
skull.

“
And what
do
you
have to
say, o' magical eight ball?” The ball remained mute, and Dan shook
it slightly, peering intently at its inky surface. And then his
eyes lit up with feigned revelation, his voice grating with
nails-on-chalkboard abrasiveness as he crowed, “Well, what a
coincidence, it agrees! It says- ‘Loser!’” Dan laughed hollowly at
his own joke as several others in the room laughed with
him.

Grandly gesturing with the ball,
Dan now played to the crowd. “And so it is written- 'Loser'.
Destined for a desk job in corporate America, just another stuffed
shirt for the offices of Matthews, Incorporated…” Dan paused, a
quick dramatic beat, reigning in his audience, and then continued,
“Could have had it all- the corner office, the staff... but alas-
no. His future, squandered, cast into the wind, just another sad
casualty of the 'Slacker Youth Syndrome'.” Dan sighed gustily, a
smirk of mocking irony creasing his face. “I hear you're starting
off your brand new career as a shipping magnate in the mail room.”
Dan gaped at Chris in feigned astonishment and sputtered, “The mail
room? Are you kidding? Just a tad cliché, don’t you think? Better
get FedEx.” Dan laughed again at his own self-perceived witty
retort and continued, this time waving the ball tauntingly in
Chris’ face. “You're sort of behind the eight ball my friend, not
exactly the place for the
heir
apparent
to be, now is it?”

Chris roughly snatched the ball
from Dan’s grasp and raised it like a weapon. “Enough with the
'Heir Apparent' bullshit, okay!? I didn't
choose
to be born to this- and
neither did
you
.
Things just- are. And because of what? Fate? Destiny? Random
chance? What-fucking-ever. We just… are.” Chris suddenly paused in
his tirade as a thought washed away his anger and brought a tiny
smile to his face, a slight crease of dimples cratering his cheeks.
“Okay, jerk-wad, I'll tell you what…” Chris pulled out his wallet
and produced a bulging sheaf of bills encased in a delicately
engraved money clip. He fanned them tauntingly in Dan's face and
said defiantly, “I've got a thousand bucks that says this 'Loser'
can kick your arrogant ass.”

Dan sneered in disgust as he stared at the bills
below his nose, “For a measly grand? No way.”

Chris shrugged and again reached
into his wallet. This time he pulled out a flashy trust fund credit
card and dropped it casually into an empty glass on the edge of the
table. “Fine,” he said, “I'll
add
a zero.” He gestured idly to the glass, where the
card glittered softly in the light refracting through its crystal
facets and stated grandly, “Your card sir.” As Dan grudgingly
complied with a matching card, Chris smiled again, the dimples
deepening further, and said, “Rack 'em up.”

Dan aggressively racked the balls, his movements
swift and precise, and then viciously flung the cue ball to Chris,
who snagged it coolly without flinching. “You break,” said Dan with
oily menace.

Chris took the hand of one of the girls he had
previously discarded and pulled her roughly to him. Quickly,
forcefully, he kissed her, long and hard. The girl stiffened,
struggling just a bit, and then relaxed slightly, giving in to the
kiss. Chris just as suddenly released her, again discarding her,
almost contemptuously. The girl moved away, startled, resisting the
urge to wipe her lips.