Solomon's Sieve (8 page)

“What happened?”

“Nothing. He’s one-of-a-kind stubborn.”

Heralda looked at Culain. “Thinks he knows everything and should be in charge?”

“Got to be Ragnal’s,” said Culain without even looking up from what he was doing.

“No doubt,” added Ming.

Heralda turned to Huber. “So go get Ragnal and tell him to fix the problem.”

Huber stomped his biker boot clad foot and his belly jiggled noticeably. “Don’t order me around like I’m an Elemental. I’m a peer!”

“Of course you are. I would go myself, but I’m really in the middle of something. Would you mind? Please?” Heralda used her most persuasive tone. “I’ll look at your dragon babies later.”

“You will? All right. I’ll go this time.”

“Thank you.”

Huber waited outside Ragnal’s harem, if not patiently. He paced, fumed, and muttered something about Viagra. He stopped in front of one of the massive androgynous Elementals guarding the door.

“How much longer?”

The guard’s face never changed expression. He slid a dispassionate almond-shaped gaze Huber’s way but said nothing.

“Fine!” Huber said. “Just give him this message.”

Huber turned his back to the door and wrote a cursive message in the air with his index finger. “Urgent Council biz. GG wants to see U. Tired of waiting. Call me. – HQ”

The black letters hung in the air at eye level. Huber looked them over and decided that cobalt blue would be better. He waved his hand and stepped back to better see the result. Satisfied with the new look of his airborne graphic, he made a face at the guards and vanished.

Huber had made sure that Ragnal couldn’t help but see the message when he emerged from his fuck fest. But Ragnal chose to interpret the word “urgent” as “when you get around to it”. After all, according to his personal version of hierarchy, he saw the other Council members as working for him.

The others had let him get away with the self-delusion for centuries, but he was on the verge of pushing it one too many times.

“He what?” Heralda asked.

“His guards wouldn’t let me in. I left a message, but he hasn’t returned my call,” Huber said.

“Did he know it was Council business?”

Huber nodded. “Used the word urgent and told him you said.”

The room rumbled underneath their feet.
Uh oh.

Heralda was more than a little upset that Ragnal had ignored Huber’s message, which was virtually the same thing as a summons. She stormed out of the Council room and materialized in Ragnal’s private foyer, but unlike Huber, she didn’t bother with polite protocol which entailed asking the guards for entrance. As far as she was concerned, Ragnal had used up his chances to play by guidelines and be social. Good manners don’t hold integrity for long without being a two way exchange.

She bypassed the guards and went straight to where Ragnal was enjoying felatio as performed by a creature of indeterminate genetics. When Heralda grabbed the giver of head and pulled her away, the sudden loss of suction – which had apparently been sincere – resulted in a wet pop and the lolling of a Council member’s rapidly deflating penis.

Ragnal stood, making a noise that resembled a howl, raised his hand to Heralda, but thought better of it just before he struck. His brain reengaged in time to remember that she had a reputation for holding a grudge and fighting dirty. He lowered his hand.

“What do you want, Heralda?”

She deliberately looked down at his flaccid godhood. “Let’s start small. Cover that up and we’ll talk about bigger issues.”

He sneered as he pulled a robe over his head. “Better?”

“Will you join me at Council willingly, Ragnal?” He hesitated one beat too long for her patience. “Or…”

“Oh all right.”

Within the blink of an eye they were in the Council room and he was being apprised of the situation.

“What makes you think he’s one of mine?”

Huber snorted.

Ragnal looked at him like he’d farted instead of snorted.

Heralda more or less strutted to her rococo chair and made a show of sitting down. “Comparing his qualities to yours, there can be little doubt.”

Ragnal’s eyes roved over the Council members present before fastening on Heralda. “And what is it you want me to do about it?”

“Your child. Your problem. Figure it out.”

He glared at her for a bit before saying, “Where is he from?”

She looked at Huber, who answered, “An inconsequential little cell of a layer on the fringe of the ellipse.”

Ragnal let out a long sigh managing to communicate without words that he was perturbed, put out, and prickly.

“And where is he now?”

“Saturnia,” Huber answered again.

“Show me.”

CHAPTER 5

Shamayim

It seemed to Sol that he’d spent an eternity in Hel. The caretakers on Saturnia had tried everything imaginable to calm the soul who insisted his identity remained that of Solomon Nememiah, even though he’d left his physical body behind. Since he hadn’t forgotten the details of his former life, he was not adapting well to his spirit’s vacation between incarnations.

He was supposed to be basking in the sensory perfection of Saturnia’s Summerland and rejoicing in the initial stages of Phase One, but what he was doing instead was trying to incite other sojourners to riot. He’d demanded to be told what the caretakers were talking about when they repeatedly referred to Phase One. When they refused to answer, his response could only be described as a fit – a display the caretakers were not accustomed to seeing in a passively pleasant dimension like Saturnia.

The caretakers’ reply was always the same. Sol’s response to that was always the same. They would stare at him as he demanded to see the person in charge and blink slowly when he threatened them with a sound throttling.

During brief periods when he would take a regrouping break from his full on assault of the status quo, he would return to the grassy knoll where he first awoke to find himself trapped in a nightmare that, to him, made Dante look like Disney. He was perpetually pissed off by the oversupply of pristine and pastoral. How he longed to hear someone, other than himself, object to something! Anything!

He swore that, if he ever escaped the madhouse, he would never complain about complainers again.

The grassy knoll, which he had come to think of as his personal space, was replete with aggravating birdsong, but at least he didn’t have to look at the serene beatific and creepily robotic expressions of humanoids whom, he concluded, must have been lobotomized.

The biggest drawback to his retreat was not birds that never slept, but a sheep that hadn’t anything better to do than stare. Sol began to wonder if it was a robot spy, equipped with camera and sound, observing and recording everything he did. The thought sounded paranoid even to him, but that thought was always followed by the admonition that all conspiracies are not imaginary.

Sol was sitting on his knoll studying the sheep, envisioning ways to dismember it, wondering how the legs would look Frenched and how it would taste with mint sauce. That led him to the realization that he hadn’t either eaten or been hungry since arriving. Nor had he consumed liquids of any sort. Because he was lost in that thought and because he didn’t anticipate company, he was startled by a nearby voice.

“Solomon Nememiah?”

He jerked his head in the direction of the inquirer, a man with tan skin, tan pants and a black Ravi Shankar tee shirt with long sleeves and three long slits across the torso that were evenly spaced like claw marks. He was medium height with strong facial bone structure, brown eyes and hair cut so close to the scalp it was impossible to tell its actual color. But by far the most striking thing about him was the no-nonsense expression he wore. The guy wore a presence that screamed, “I am not a pussy.”

“Yeah?”

“I hear you’ve been requesting to speak with someone in a position of authority.”

“And would you be that guy?”

Ragnal’s face wore a ghost of a smile, but it didn’t change the hard look one bit. “What do you think?”

Sol met the confrontational gaze eye to eye, but knew without asking that the fellow was altogether a different sort than he’d encountered since arriving in that godsforsaken place. He got to his feet so that the newcomer wouldn’t be looking down on him. Literally.

“It seems you have me at a disadvantage.”

The ghost of a smile grew slightly bigger. “How’s that?”

“You’re dressed. I’m not.”

Ragnal’s eyes drifted down to Sol’s bare legs and feet. Then he put back his head and laughed. “Yes. You’re one of mine all right.” Sol had no idea how to respond to that, but his eyes narrowed. Ragnal’s laughter ended in a sigh, a smile, and a shake of the head. “What would you like to wear? Never mind. Just think about your preference.”

Before Sol could ponder the bizarre instruction, he had, in fact, formed an image in his mind of what he would like to be wearing – his favorite old jeans that had been washed so many times they were buttery soft, the ones with a hole in the knee for character, a plain white tee shirt, and coffee-brown Ropers. He knew the instant his clothes had changed because he no longer felt grass between his toes, no longer felt a breeze ruffling his, um, skirt, and he did feel the familiar comfort and security of having his package supported. Even though he knew what he’d find, he looked down for confirmation.

Yes. Those were his favorite weekend jeans and his broken-in boots. He passed a large hand over his chest and abdomen reveling in the feel of the tee that covered his upper body. To his mind there was nothing better than the freshness and classlessness of a plain white, soft fresh cotton tee.

He didn’t understand how physics worked in hel, if that’s where he was, but he did understand saying thank you to someone when they did you a good turn. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” The guy nodded once. “I assume you have something to say? Would you like to stand, sit, walk?” Ragnal cocked his head, tilted his chin up as he looked at Sol and said, “Never mind. I know the answer.”

In less than a blink of an eye, Sol found himself sitting on a leather barstool in front of a well-aged oak bar, being handed his favorite long neck by a kindly-looking bartender who winked when he set it down. Sol swiveled around to take a read on his environment. Old vampire hunter habits never seem to fade away. There were only three people in the bar. Himself, the bartender, and a yet-to-be-named companion.

“I’m Ragnal.”

“Just Ragnal?”

“Yes.”

“It seems you already know my name.”

Ragnal gave a slight nod. “What I don’t know is why you’ve been causing such a ruckus.”

“I need to get out of here.”

“I see. And where do you want to go?”

“Back.”

“Back?”

“Yes. You know. Back to where I was before I was here.”

“Oh.” Ragnal paused before adding, “I see.”

The bartender walked to the end of the bar and disappeared around the corner as he slung a damp towel over his shoulder. Sol thought that was a nice realistic touch. The guy must have gone to the Elia Kazan school of acting.

Ragnal grasped the long neck that sat in front of him. It was covered with the telltale condensation caused when glass-bottled beer is chilled in ice. “So this is your favorite, huh?” He took a sip and pursed his lips. “Hmmm. Not bad.”

Sol looked at his own beer. He liked the way it looked sitting in front of him, but he just didn’t have a desire to reach for it. “So. About going back?”

“Ah, yes. About that.” Ragnal looked into Sol’s face. “Just out of curiosity, can you tell me what you were doing at the moment of your death?”

That question shouldn’t have come as a shock to Sol. He’d put it together shortly after arrival… that he must have died. But still, having someone just say it out loud like that made him feel funny. Inconsequential somehow. He heaved a big sigh even though he’d also discovered shortly after arriving that inhaling and exhaling were purely optional.

“So I really am, uh, dead.”

“Let’s not play games, Solomon. You know you’ve moved on to another phase in the process.”

“Sol.”

“What?”

“If you’re going to call me by my first name, call me Sol.”

“All right. Sol. What were you thinking at the very last?”

Sol looked down at the bar, looked at the beer, then looked at his hands. “I was thinking that I couldn’t check out because too much depended on me. I was thinking that, if it turned out there was an after-existence that was supposed to make me happy, I would have to convince somebody that the only thing that would make me happy is being returned to duty where I belong.”

When he turned back, Ragnal searched his eyes like he was looking for something in particular. “And what sort of ‘duty’ is it that’s so important?”

Sol drew up short, realizing for the first time that he would have to discuss Black Swan business with an outsider. That presented a dilemma. He couldn’t get out of there without breaking his vow of secrecy.