January 31, 1608
General Schenkhuizen poked at the edge of his warm cup with his lips testing the temperature of the milk inside with an apprehension like a cat edging the rim of a puddle. The warm atmosphere of the vessel was also present in the fire-lit ambience of the whole of the room coming from the hearth and smoothened the transition of warm liquid into the retired commander’s chilled throat.
“Something that helps me relax,” he said with a small smile—a shadow of a grin perhaps—after he had sipped the topmost layer. He had a guest who was sitting on the seat directly across from him on the opposite side of the fuzzy carpet which granted their booted feet extra security. The cushions, although heated by the hot air flowing about, when rested upon by the two gave way to the cool wooden interiors not yet penetrated by the fire’s heat.
“I’m sorry to have visited you like this,” the visitor commented while refraining himself from sipping at the similarly prepared dairy next to him.
General Schenkhuizen did not seem to return the pleasantries with much vigor. Instead, his hand placed his cup onto his side table and his body coiled into the lukewarmness of his chair. “It’s been a while since you’ve visited, Your Eminence.”
“It’s my fault,” the visitor replied with another apology, “the Room has been very busy lately. It’s coming close to another upheaval in Europe…”
The one they used to call “Grubby” with affection brought his cold hands together into a ball and, at the naming of the continent; he lowered his half closed eyes to ponder the violent sparks of the evening blaze. “I’m flattered that you always come to me for advice, Your Eminence, but I’m just an aging man now…”
The visitor had his face briefly illuminated by a sparkle of orange and red. Only a bearded face let itself be shown. “Even though there were many more senior people than yourself involved in the Room, there were not many who were as close to them as you were.”
A kind of misty gloss partially obscured the old General’s eyes and he let out a breath that sounded like that of a man gasping in pain but spread out through several seconds. “You have been trained in the Silent Room since you first arrived as a young man, and then as a young priest, Your Eminence,” the tone was somehow different this time, “I trust in your decisions as successor to my friends; just as they trusted me for a time.”
Apparently satisfied with the acknowledgement, the visitor relaxed his arms onto the sides of the seat and bowed his head in a pause of contemplation. His shadow was a mix of white and red spread out along the chair that he now sat in. A slightly wiry figure, he took comfort in the folds of his vestments. “Raul should be in the tundra by now,” the visitor said quietly while still angling his gaze to the floor.
“Raul Espinoza Roxas,” the General instinctively whispered. “Will he be the next one?”
“He must make the choice just like… just like my predecessors have done,” was the simple reply. For a moment, the visitor’s angular appearance straightened. “The Room abhors a vacuum. A Substitute cannot sit there forever.”
General Schenkhuizen similarly leaned back into his seat and focused his hazy eyes on the man with him. “He will need help; if the Room and Spain are to move forward, then his generation will need help.” The words coarsened as they moved through the teeth like some seething pain was hampering the voice.
“He will get the help he needs… don’t worry,” the visitor consoled, “despite The Disappearance, everything has moved forward. Soon, even Novgorod will be ours and it is about time that Western Europe is reunited again.”
The general immediately lowered his eyes once more at those words. “My predecessors… my forefathers in the great army that had once retaken Alexandria…” came the nostalgic voice with words that were lubricated with the sweet softness of the milk he had drunk. “I recall the stories of their surprise at the order to take Perpignan. It meant that France would be the goal in the mind of our nation. You similarly ask a heavy toll on your commanders today. But,” and he was quick to interject, “I do not believe in its failure… but I do not believe in its ease either.”
There was no swift response from the visitor. Instead, both men distracted themselves with the movement of the fireplace. “It was true,” the reply began, “It was incredulous then as it is nearly impossible now. The weight of the world defies our goal, General. The souls of those of us who remain worldly are weighed down by Earth’s gravity. We long for the heavens.”
“And this is why you press hope on a disturbed young man wandering into the Russian wilderness?” was the nearly biting question. It was not so much an indictment as it was a shuddering worry. The general held his hands together tighter while resisting any eye contact.
The mentioning of “disturbed” bothered the visitor but he nonetheless composed his slim figure like a gothic statue. “He will not fail us. The metropolitan should have told him already where all five pieces of the Artifact are. If he follows his instincts, he will have them soon. You should not worry, old friend… the corps is already heading into position and we have enough friends to help Raul.”
The General forced his eyes forward and reflected the fire of the hearth towards his ecclesial counterpart. “You do understand what happens if you are wrong.” The visitor looked back at him without moving any unnecessary muscles.
“We will succeed.”
---
The cellar door closed with no thud or slam, but with the gentle slide of careful hands. The darkness of the room was only mitigated by a singular lamp absconding behind barrels of wine. Not even the crimson sunset of the Alpujjaras could disturb the shade of the inner chamber.
The man who had just sealed the opening with as much care as one gave to a frail mother now approached the golden lamplight without a word. The fair faces gathered around the singular source made themselves discernable. “You’re late, Abdrahman,” a face in the shadow said.
“My apologies,” the tardy one replied, “the parish priest—the new one from Alexandria—saw me walking from the tavern… I wanted to make sure to avoid him.”
The mention of the local clergyman seemed to stir the floating faces and glances were interchanged with mutterings. “Does he understand our Aljamiados?” another voice asked a bit louder. All eyes focused on the newcomer.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted, “but if he’s from Alexandria he might…”
He was cut off about further talk albeit with hushed tones. “The Spaniards are getting smarter to send a priest here who can speak Arabic,” one said authoritatively, “They may be suspecting what we’ve been doing. From now on, we must be careful in what we say around him. With that, tell us of what news you have, Mahmat.”
One of the faces, a younger visage, leaned into the light. “The news is from Tunus… the rumors we heard are true. Al-Imberatoriyya al-Usmaniyya and Faris have finished negotiations…”
The still breathing of all in the room allowed the lamp flame to create a perfect bulb atop the metal casing as it ignited the oil undisturbed. Looking towards the younger one, they awaited those words. “They have agreed to begin Jihad against the Infidel Spaniards together in the coming years…”
A collective short gasp electrified the room but none dared to speak louder or make any greater noise. Flushed faces blushed with anticipation. “It is finally approaching…” one muttered with much difficulty, “the restoration of the Caliphate!”
Another was quick to interrupt the silent exultations, “And what about Misr, Tunus, Jazair, and Maghariba?”
Their messenger milked the second of waiting as he grabbed their silent attention once more. “All are ready for open revolt,” he finally said, “We too will be funded by Faris.” Their eyes looked to each other once more in astonishment. “And none of the Spaniards suspect a thing,” was the added news, “they are preparing for operations elsewhere.”
The report could not have been better—the sound of gold pouring in already echoed in their ears. It would not be wasted; however, it would be needed for supplies and for weapons. Boats and steel must be purchased secretly in preparation. Finally, there would be no more pretenses. “We will not need to feign duty at their churches any longer,” one of them whispered gravely. “Send word to Lanjaron, Guadix, and Almunecar! With the two great nations of Islam coming to our aid and our brethren across the sea ready to rise up, we will succeed!”
---
Like a passing wraith, the gust of chilling air animated the temperate snow into a violent frenzy that chafed against Raul’s cheeks like rakish scrapes on his face. There was no howl involved in the push, but merely a heavy thunder like boom that brought pause to the traveler. Raul could barely see a few feet ahead of him, but he could, at least, make out the trail of trees far to his left.
Acquiescing to the direction of the wind, Raul cut a path across the thick blasts of wind and sleet before entering the relative calm of the edge of the forest. Already, despite his frosted face, his arms burned with strange eagerness in holding a box to his chest—the work of his labors. “Raul!” a voice called out.
Turning into the labyrinth of trees he could barely make out the figure of what seemed like a bear with human arms and a human head. “Riku?” Raul yelled back while narrowing his eyelids. “I’ve found it!” Riku clarified. Immediately, his voice was lost into the influx of blistering air but he started his huddled walk towards the figure. Eventually, Riku’s form began to gain detail.
“You’ve been gone for three hours,” Riku said in a quieter tone now that the distance between them was nearly bridged. “Willem is on the other side of the clearing looking for you there.”
“Tell him to come back, we’re finished here,” was the curt acknowledgement. “I’ve found the second piece.” At first, Riku curled his eyebrows half annoyed, but he quickly accepted the order and started to lead his master back to town.
“Willem is beginning to wonder if this has been worth it,” Riku commented raising his voice against the rush. “Honestly, with you running off to secret places in the snow without telling us, I’m starting to wonder the same.”
“When we are older you will understand,” Raul sharply said back. “For now, we are so close that it is impossible to stop.” His guide immediately halted and turned to face him. His expression betrayed a beam of frustration.
“I have spoken to Willem about why you’re here, Raul. It’s a fool’s errand. I’ve heard rumours of what you’re pursuing; it’s impossible!”
Raul’s face blinked some of the frost away from his eyebrows and his eyes locked with his taller companion. “Trust me,” was the strangely reliable command, “in this endeavor just like with all other things we have done, we will succeed.”
Taguchi could barely stay awake. The warmth of the classroom in the afternoons as well as the apparent dryness in the air forced his lids closed and open several times. As if in perpetual agreement with his professor at the front of the class, his chin attempted to land on his chest over and over again.
“This is your last hour and a half,” he tried to tell himself in a low mutter to keep those lids from sealing shut for too long. “Just make it out of here and…” but his head was starting to weigh pounds heavier. Already, the notes he was taking on his paper were beginning to lose cohesion—the letters were becoming long squiggly marks and horizontal lines.
A cough suddenly erupted from the rear of the classroom but in Taguchi’s half asleep mind, it might as well have been a gunshot. Quickly blinking his eyes open, he stood up straight in a jolt before immediately looking around him in supreme embarrassment. It did not take long, however, for that head to droop once more closer to the desk.
If only his cousin had been more considerate, he thought to himself. “Something’s happened,” he remembered his cousin Hayato had told him cryptically last night. “We need to stay at your place for a little while.” As his mind wandered with added frustration, the images flowing through his head of the previous night finally settled on that primary picture which dominated the doorframe: the stranger.
It was not as if that was the only person who had come upstairs into his apartment accompanied by his cousin. There was an older gentleman, probably a bodyguard judging from the uniform—his cousin always had a bodyguard or two—two more young men and a young lady. All the guys stayed upstairs in the attic while the young lady—he remembered her name… Lara or something like that—had slept on the couch.
“What is he doing…” he thought to himself. “Bringing people like that into my house…” His thoughts kept getting slower. Eight hours of class did not help the fact that he did not sleep much that night; that stranger—the first one he saw—would not be quiet or keep still. Taguchi’s room at the rear of the house was directly under the portion of the attic where the visitors stayed and the crying, screaming, and pounding on the ceiling refused to allow him any rest.
He could not refuse him, though, he thought. Hayato may be younger, but he was also the Crown Prince… In fact, Pablo, he recalled, was absolutely stunned. Recognizing who Hayato was from news conferences and the like, he had hardly guessed the presence of royalty in his home. The two young men accompanying his cousin somehow talked with Pablo aside and got his permission for the house, but Taguchi had cursed that night not just at the noise but because that Pablo had been spared from such an inconvenience since he stayed in the front room away from the attic’s cavity… How could Hayato be so thoughtless?
He forgave Pablo since he was the one who drove him to class that morning otherwise he might have passed out along the street. Nonetheless, only a few more minutes and he would be free. For now, he would just focus on the lecture at hand. His eyes strained to the front of the classroom.
“And that,” the professor was summarizing, “leads us to the next period, the early 17th century which we will go into further depth next time, but I wanted to touch on a few key points from this period.” Taguchi strained to hear but he at least managed to write in his best cursive the message he was receiving. The lecture was progressing but he could only make out small words here and there.
“Darkest…. Hours,” he heard intermittently. Whatever it was, he thought, he thought it important enough to record. “East… West…” Taguchi could only think about getting home to his bed. He hoped that Pablo would be ready to pick him up—he would rather skip dinner tonight just for some relief.
But then the image of that stranger entered into his thoughts again: a disconcerting view of a disheveled individual. Although he breathed and walked, it seemed as if the circles around his eyes—bruised by some kind of strange press—bored into his consciousness like a memory from some horror film. Who was that man, he thought and why was he in his attic screaming as if somehow dying? And, he thought… if he would be there when he returned…
“As… a famous…. …. …. of the time… once said…” Taguchi was careful to write as much of the conclusion as he could hear in between his near narcolepsy, “We have failed.”
Chapter LXIV: Success and Failure (coming soon)
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