Draigkhiun: Chapter One, Section IV

IV

Daylight was rapidly fading as we left the café and made our way towards the Capitol District. The evening exodus from the city was underway. Most of the people were on foot. The monorails were leaving every fifteen minutes as opposed to on the half-hour.

     Beordarakh’s Pub was located almost in the dead center of Tchawhir, in the shadow of the great complex that was the nerve center of the Confederation of Human Colonies; from here, humans stretched their proverbial wings to cross the universe. In ancient times it was said that all roads led to Rome. In our era, all shuttles came to Tchawhir. I still had to marvel at it as we drew near.

    

     Tchawhir was chosen as the name for this city after the ancient, great hill where Celtic high kings once tried to guide and unite their people. After the Wars of Global Termination, Terra’s survivors grouped together and pooled their few remaining resources among the plagued and blasted lands. Most of these survivors had already begun returning to nature-based or elemental spiritual beliefs heavily influenced by Terra’s more ancient religions and gods. Out of them was born the Tuahan Solas Shondra and the legend of the beauty and wisdom seated at Tchawhir reemerged and grew into a symbol of deliverance to them.

     Eventually, extinction seemed inevitable for these people as Terra continued to deteriorate. Attempts at terraforming other planets within the solar system failed or succumbed to additional wars so, like any cornered creatures with nothing to lose, humanity pooled its final resources and set off for the last horizons.

     Point by point, over generations, humans limped with worn-out ships and asteroid colonies to this system and set down on Innish Dokhas with no ability or resolve to go further. Many of the Shondrean, the most numerous of the survivors, remarked that it wasn’t unlike the ancient Tuatha De Danaan burning their ships upon the shores of ancient Eire. Humanity stepped onto a planet that required no terraforming and was compatible with the flora and fauna that had survived with them. It was as though the hand of some benevolent god had touched this land and guided a wayward flock to green pastures. The Shondrean were content to count their blessings and be free from the squalor of interstellar ships and failed colonies.

Others, feeling that a god had indeed touched the land and guided his flock home, found a strong rebirth in a fusion of other ancient faiths. And thus a black-clad, dark-haired figure awaited Phillip and me at the front door of Beordarakh’s Pub with open arms and a broad, sincere smile.

I looked at Paul in the waning light. He had been my best friend since we were small children. The clans of Kinsellas and Lonnergan had always been close. Paul, to the consternation of his deeply Shondrean family, had felt the “calling” during our final year of secondary school. The Church of the One Creator was the last manifestation of the ancient Judeo-Christian-Muslim beliefs. There were ancient tensions between Shondrean and Creationist that always lay just under the surface and it had been difficult for his family to accept his conversion. They still refused to speak of his vocation.

     “Father Paul, I’m glad you could make it,” I greeted him, extending my arms and embracing him.

     “Preacher-man, have you come to save me?” Phillip bellowed, wrapping his long arms around both of us.

     “Indeed I have, good brother, for thy soul appears empty and I come bearing the mighty word of Credit Card and I shall baptize thee with beer!”

     Patrons leaving the pub gave our spectacle concerned looks as the three of us embraced. All of them moved wide of us and we didn’t care.

     “It is truly good to see you guys,” Paul said.

     “Amen, brother,” I replied. “How’s Magritte?”

     “She’s doing well, thank you. She does wish the baby would hurry. Her back is awfully sore these days.” Paul’s Confederate was much better annunciated since he found his vocation.

     “Boy or girl?” Phillip inquired. “Or do you still not know?”

     “We’ve both decided to let God reveal that when it is time. Come, let’s get inside. I could use a holy beer myself!”

     As we entered the pub behind Paul, Phillip elbowed me and whispered, “Pretty wife like Magritte and he still wants to come out for drinks with us?”

     “Aye, God does work in mysterious ways,” Paul replied, hearing Phillip’s whisper. It was no secret that, vocation or not, Father Paul Kinsellas was deeply thankful that God did not demand chastity of his clergy any longer. Magritte was good for Paul and he had met her while performing the wedding ceremony for her older sister.

     There were too many times I felt jealous of them both. I guess I had spent too much time by myself.

     Beordarakh’s was an upscale pub that should have been too expensive for our budgets; especially with Mother MacGuire’s only three blocks from where Phillip lived in Parasfana, on the other side of the city. It was always crowded but reasonably quiet as most of its patronage came from the Capitol. The oak-paneled interior gave an organic, homey feeling that reflected the souls of anyone Shondrean. For the three of us it was well worth the extra credit per drink. We could come here to have a drink for the sake of sharing a drink. If we wanted only to get drunk, Mother MacGuire’s did nicely.

     Unlike Mother MacGuire’s, there was no live music here. That was fine because the air was full of the buzz from the Capitol. I loved it for the stories I could overhear. History and stories had always been a passionate hobby for me.

I was a little too preoccupied with my own thoughts to eavesdrop on others this evening though.

     The place was so crowded, tonight, that we had to take a table in the dead center of the pub. Having accumulated unspent credits, I ordered the first round. We started with whiskey.

     “Slantcha,” Paul raised his glass and toasted our health in Shondrean.

     “Slantcha,” Phillip and I answered. We clinked our glasses together and drank our shots. Feeling the good burn of the whiskey rush straight to my head, I realized that it had been a while since my last drink. Phillip caught the waitress’s attention and ordered three beers.

I looked around, taking in the politicos, bureaucrats and others. There were members of the CAF as well. I noticed one man, in the green uniform of the CAF, sitting by himself. It was strange to ever see anyone alone in Beordarakh’s. He was bent over a sheet of paper and an envelope. He was obviously distressed. I felt sorry for him and idly wondered that there were more people than I had thought that still used letters to communicate. It looked to be one letter I wouldn’t want to receive. He motioned for another whiskey.

“Caleb!” A hand slapped my shoulder. “Are you coming back to us?  Phil says you mentioned that you wanted to talk.”

“Yeah, sorry, I was just drifting off in my own world.”

“When aren’t you in your own world, Cal?” Phillip chuckled. He took a healthy swallow from his beer. I found I couldn’t touch mine. I was suddenly too giddy and agitated. It was time to start telling people and I wasn’t sure I was ready.

“I’ve, ah,” I paused. I let the whiskey glow spread through me a little more. I hoped it would numb that cowardly voice at the back of my mind that kept telling me I was doing wrong by going to the TRP.

“I’ve,” I continued, “I, ah, I’ve had something interesting kind of come up for me just recently.”

“And who is she?” Paul asked as he sipped his beer. His green eyes carefully studied me.

“I bet it’s that cute, redheaded teller at his credit union,” Phillip added. “I know he almost drools over her whenever he goes in there.”

“Ah, sadly, no!”

“Maybe, it’s not a she,” Paul commented. He looked at me very pointedly and took another swallow from his beer.

“Well, that other teller is cute—for a man!” I wanted to slap Phillip for that comment.

“I don’t care whichever it is, Caleb,” Paul continued, “We only wish you happiness. I, for one, was beginning to become quite concerned over just what you might be doing with those antallop you so passionately hunt!” He hid his smirk behind his glass of beer as he began to drain it.

“Father Paul!” I pretended to be mortified. This was an old joke among us regarding my definitive lack of a love life.

Paul motioned for another round. I hastily picked up my glass and drank it down as fast as I could. It was refreshing after the burning glow of the whiskey.

“Besides,” I continued, “In the fall, antallop are very warm and woolly!”

Phillip started chuckling uncontrollably and he elbowed Paul several times. The last time was a little harder and Paul almost stumbled into our waitress as she set the next round on the table. The interplay helped ease my inner tensions.

I grabbed my glass and raised it. “Here’s to the warm and the woolly. May it keep you warm and happy on a cold night.”

“Like lambskin condoms,” Paul added. I almost choked.

“Hey, I thought Creationists couldn’t use those?” Phillip asked, half-seriously.

“Why do you think our ranks are growing so quickly as opposed to you heathens?” Paul responded. They both started giggling like school kids.

“I think I have a job with the Projects.”

“Tcha bagnakh fokhann amsir, Caleb,” Paul commented.

“It is about time,” I reiterated.

“Congrats, Cal,” Phillip raised his glass for another toast. “Here’s to your new job!”

“Sylphalia?” Paul inquired. “I honestly don’t think that situation would be in your best interests.” He had never cared for Genevieve the few times they had met. As far as I could discern, the feeling had been mutual.

“No antallop there,” Phillip interjected. They both started giggling again.

“It’s on Terra.” I stopped them cold.

“No!” Phillip’s glass slid out of his hand and onto the table. The beer sloshed onto his hand but he didn’t seem to notice. His face was ashen gray; his mouth hung open slackly like it used to during complicated or boring lectures in school.

Paul continued to drink from his glass, his thoughtful eyes never leaving mine. He looked as sober as I suddenly felt.

“You heard from Malakai, then?” he asked, setting the glass down.

“Just this morning. How—how did you know it was Malakai?”

“You told me about his proposition. You told me the night you graduated from Guildhall.”

“You remember that?  I can’t remember that night very well!”

“I bet you can remember the hangover,” Phillip commented. He grabbed at my hand. His was still sticky from spilled beer. I didn’t move but looked at him; at his frantic hazel eyes.

“Cal, you can’t really be serious about this?  I mean that place is an absolute disaster!”

“Not as much as you might think,” I replied.

“Kakamas! We ravaged that place with wars and all; it turned against us; every other attempt to re-colonize has failed. Kinyintai, people die there—constantly. Caleb, we are not meant to be there!”

“People die everywhere, Phil.”

“I know. I know.” He looked away from me. “What’s gonna happen with the three of us if you disappear to some desolate, old planet that isn’t worth shit?  You and Paul are my best friends. Beyond the café, you’re all I’ve got.” I didn’t quite agree with him on that thought but prudently kept my mouth shut.

Phillip looked at Paul, who was slouched back in his chair. He cradled his glass in both hands, against his stomach, and looked back and forth between us. His face revealed intense thinking.

“Paul, come on, you’ve gotta tell ‘im. Tell ‘im how crazy this is!”

Paul sat up straight. He carefully set his glass on the table; every movement measured and perfect.

“I cannot,” he calmly replied.

“What?” Phillip shouted. His voice became almost shrill. For a big man, he could sound girlish when agitated. Several patrons turned to look at him.

“Well, Caleb, it appears God has plans for you that none of us could have imagined.” He stopped and took a delicate sip from his glass and set it down just as delicately. It was a sure sign that he was thinking his words through carefully. He looked at Phillip, then at me. “As much as I—as we—will miss you around here, I can’t forget how many times you have spent baring the frustrations of your life, of your soul, through the voice of alcohol.”

He picked his glass back up, drained it, and set it back on the table with a deliberate thunk. He was through thinking.

“I don’t need this,” he gestured to the empty glass, “to know how unhappy, how disillusioned, how listless, you have been. When’s the last time you grabbed anything by the balls, Caleb; let alone your own pair?”

“Ah, I…” I fumbled for an answer.

“I thought as much.”

“You are really going to support him on this, Paul?” Phillip asked. He was calming down.

“And why not, my heathen brother?”

“Don’t start preaching me that kakamas, Paul. You know I never understood how someone as rational as you could buy into that—”

“Exactly, Phil,” Paul cut him off. “Of course I am. I am supporting him because, never once, has Caleb ever doubted the paths I have needed to tread!”

“Go roh mohagat,” I thanked him.

“You’re welcome,” Paul responded. Looking me in the eye, he gestured towards the back table; the one we usually liked to sit at. It was occupied by the definitely inebriated soldier as he still read through his letter.

“Right over there,” Paul continued to gesture. “It was the night of the memorial for Phil’s father, just the two of us, and I told you of receiving my vocation. Do you remember it?  Do you remember what you said, Caleb?”

“We both got pretty drunk but I remember it well.”

Paul launched into a very good imitation of me drunk. It was a needed, humorous break to the tension at our table.

“’Paul’,” he slurred, “’when ya feel lost in the woods, and yer not sure of yer trail, ya gotta always-always-always believe yer compass. Ya can’t navigate by the landmarks alone—those’ll shift quicker than a fleeing antallop’s ass. And, then yer screwed! That damned compass’ll always point ya true.”

Phillip snickered. It was good to hear him calm down.

“’And’,” Paul continued, “’if the trail ya find isn’t part of the beaten path, who fokhann cares?’”

“Obviously true wisdom,” I commented.

“Here-here,” Phillip added. He held his empty glass towards the bar and showed three fingers.

“You went on to tell me that the compass was my soul, Caleb.”

“I did.”

“I think the metaphor is more than appropriate, here, as well. The compass is here.” He put a fist against his ribs, covering his heart.

“You know,” he said specifically to Phillip, “he actually went with me to tell my parents.”

“I didn’t know,” Phillip replied. “That was pretty damned brave.”

“Do your parents know of this, Caleb?” Paul asked.

“No,” I swallowed hard. “Not yet.”

“Jehosephus, tcha djiaval roiv me!” Phillip cursed.

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“No,” I replied. “Not this time. But thanks for offering.”

Three new beers arrived. I had lost count of our drinks. I knew there were more than a few but I still felt very sober.

 We stayed for one more round. None of us paid any attention to the time. The conversation never quite returned to the happy or peaceful discussions we used to have. We toasted Paul and Magritte; we toasted Phillip and the café; and we toasted me and the TRP.

“Go nieri antaw laht!” Paul and Phillip toasted me for good luck.

“Slan go fowhil,” I replied, and we finished our last glasses. It would be until we met again. There should be no Shondrean goodbyes. We swiped our cards, divvying our shares of the drinks, and got up to leave.

As we made our way for the front door, the lone soldier came stumbling out of the bathrooms. Paul backed into him as he stretched to fit his arms into his black coat.

“Fokhann djiaval duhv!” he cursed, referring to Paul as a black devil. He pushed at Paul who quickly regained his own balance.

“Go moleshcayl,” Paul apologized, trying to help the soldier balance himself, “tcha broan orum.”

“Nil Shondrean a me, tcha fokhann ayrikakh agat!” He caught his balance and put his nose right in front of Paul’s. “Don’t you speak the Shondrean to me, you fucking heretic!” he reiterated in Confederate.

“Easy!” Phillip grabbed the back of the soldier’s tunic and began to pull him away. He was almost as tall as my father so he towered over the two of them. “He’s trying to apologize. No harm was meant.”

“Get your hands off me, pokakhmor!”

“Okh! Who’s the real piece of shit?” Phillip asked him as he steadied him.

“Let him go, Phil,” Paul said, “he’s obviously not having a good night.”

“Jya, let him go!” All four of us turned towards the voice, heavily accented by the Deutshenge of a Wassenglian.

Three other soldiers were walking towards us. Phillip let go of the drunken soldier and half pushed him away. He fell to the floor, rolled onto his back, and struggled to get up. He was too drunk to recover himself.

“This isn’t your problem, gentlemen,” Phillip said.

“It is now,” one of the others replied.

The pub was quiet by now; deathly quiet. I moved up beside Phillip and pushed Paul behind me, adrenaline making my heart beat heavy. I could hear nothing else and the world slowed down.

Thump! I could feel my heart hit the inside of my ribs.

The one who told us it was their problem began to circle towards our right. I kept my hands at my side. Unlike Phillip, I would not throw a first punch. If he made a lunge at Phillip I would kick him in the groin and ruin his chances of ever fathering children. But he still had to make the move.

Thump!

The drunken soldier had made it to all fours. He still couldn’t stand. In my peripheral I saw Paul begin to lean over to help him but he cursed and started to crawl away. I didn’t dare take my eyes directly off the second soldier circling me and Phil.

Thump!

The Wassenglian was gesturing at Phillip’s chest with an extended finger. He kept making jabbing motions with it. Phillip calmly stood there and said nothing.

Thump!

The third soldier had moved over, between Paul and the one on the floor. He had a fist raised at the back of Paul’s head. Paul was so intent on helping the drunk that he never saw him. I took my eyes off the second soldier and the world returned to normal speed.

“Paul,” I said.

Crrraaaaack! The bartender was standing by us with a rattan practice sword. He had snapped it across the arm of the soldier about to sucker punch Paul.

“Shit! Shit! Fucking shit!” the soldier cried.

“Hey,” the Wassenglian began to object. The bartender pointed his rattan at him.

“These boys have come here a long time and never caused any trouble. That one has.” He gestured with the rattan towards the drunk on the floor.

“Now,” the bartender continued, “I’m gonna let them go out first and go home. You boys are gonna wait ten minutes so there won’t be any problems outside. You will behave. And, then, you’ll take that one to wherever he needs to go.”

“What if we don’t?” asked the second soldier.

“You’ll be on the floor, like that one, and the Garda Shoheen’ll be here in half a minute!”

Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

My heart was still beating heavy.

“Let’s go,” Paul said from the doorway. Phillip turned and walked past the bartender towards Paul. I stepped backwards, never taking my eyes off them.

“Go roh mil mohagat,” I thanked the bartender as I passed him. I turned around then.

“Tcha faltcheh roat,” he replied.

We headed out into the night. Overshadowing what could have been a good night of friends reuniting, after our daily lives pulled us so far apart, was the introduction of our own mortality. The three of us had been through much together. The loss of family, Garda Plannad boot camp and training, school, jobs and loves; it had formed a strong core between us.

Tonight it was never more apparent that we were finally splitting off from this old core. Our lives were taking us beyond the call range of Personal Access Links or delayed get-togethers because of family or work schedules. We were growing into the new generation to take the reins of our society. We had businesses, blossoming families and desires to fly from old nests. We were fledged and our wings could only stretch from now on and fly.

Unfortunately, flying from the old nests meant starting new territories and leaving much of the old behind. It was a symbolic reminder as we split off from each other: Phillip first, towards Parasfana, and Paul, second, on the outskirts of Duilledair. And it bore a greater significance for me than ever before.

I had the furthest to walk that night. This fact was punctuated by passing in and out of the warm glow of the street lights, each feeling like a travel point taking me further away. Or was each point I walked through the closing on a chapter chronicling each stage of my life?  I had the sense that I was truly leaving them behind and continuing upon a dark road from which I would not see them for too long. The Shondrean hated thinking in absolute goodbyes but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it truly was a goodbye.

I wondered how Malakai could do it.

On the sidewalk, I stood in front of our darkened Tchakh Clann and stared at it for a long time. No one was awake. I wondered how the next step of my new journey was going to proceed.

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