Mara

 

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$16.99  print   $4.99 ebook

over 600 pages

a novel by Dean Michael Christian

The First Who Is Last...

More cryptic words that send Jareth on yet another quest.  But he’s been   promised; it is the last one.  A daughter brought him faith when he most needed it, a son then gave him hope.  Yet he’s not complete.  This last quest will either see him home or finally bring ruin...Mortally wounded and lying on a field of Death the bard Jareth Rhylan is taken away by one of his two protectors; the Cervine lifts his spear-pierced body, passes by a son now drawn into the story.  Revenge satiated, his other  guardian, Leanan Sidhe––a daughter of myth, has left a bloody spike to pierce the earth in memory, and taken her dark presence from the man she loves.

Taryn lies in a coma while Beryl can’t stop the  monitors of machines keeping her father alive from one by one blinking out.

On a frozen plain not of his making, the bard must find a way to rescue the third key to a story of which he  no longer has control.  He must enter into the land of the Snow Queen––an owl-masked being whose hatred for the man cannot be defined.  It is an enmity that should have killed him long ago but the Cervine and Dark Muse are still at his side.  It is a battle begun before the Invasion, a war before the War. As fear manifests into snow beasts and fractured mountains, into walls of song-murdering silence, is there any chance a house that used to be a home can stitch enough memories together and save them all?

 Mara is a tale of desperate prisoners, of black swords and winged claws, of anger and forgiveness.

It’s a story only love can imagine and a bard could sing.

 It’s the tale of Jareth Rhylan.




excerpt The walls weren’t actually smooth, not as she’d always thought.   Then again, she’d never noticed such a small detail, such a small measure, not in all the years since. For too long her focus had always been on phosphorescent lights that formed moving lines on the monitors.  Colors that were sterile, as the room had always been.  The room was still white, but the intricacies of its texture were only creeping forth, as if in respect for the man who’d finally lost its precious hold on life. They’d told her what to expect, someday, but she’d never really believed them, despite the obvious danger her father had always been in, against the odds of alien chemicals destroying the human body in ways no one understood.   The men in white coats had tried to disconnect Martin Hennessy from the nameless cocktail before.  Just once.  Then, he’d defied their arrogance at defining humanity’s will to live. Beryl would have let the irony loose if she’d been able to overcome the welling grief.  But as it was, she was doing her best not to show any emotions, no matter Henri had told her it was okay to do so.  So many years had passed, since before she’d even met Hank, that the tears cried then were now only a dim memory, and one that barely made her heart stumble. Behind her, as he always seemed to be, the wizened old black man stood waiting, knowing if the girl needed him, he was there.  She never really had talked about her mother’s murder and if it hadn’t been for the story on the laptop, he wondered if he’d know as much as he did when it came to understanding the love she still held for her father.  Even now he watched her attempt at strength––though the reason escaped him.   It was over.  At long last, the suffering was ended.  The doctors were so clinical it was hard to look at them with a straight face, as if what they had told the girl just had to be true.  But he and Beryl knew better. Something had happened, something that once sprang a daughter from a prison of pain only a character like Jareth Rhylan could know.  He and Martin Hennessy, who were undeniably interconnected as the same person. Henri Peltier, the long time sentry for room B4 in the New Government’s converted hospital building, hadn’t even flinched when the girl had broken at last, when whatever fading hope she’d held was finally lost.  And he’d been right there with her, holding her hand even as she held her stricken father’s, the aging skin reflecting more than an inner trauma that was transmogrifying the motionless body on the gurney. And all about them, the monitors still tried to hide their phosphorescent trails with sound.  But now, it was steady.  Now, there was no rhythm.  The doctors called it flatline.  And it didn’t take them long.  Maybe that was because Beryl was past the tears and didn’t see the same signs as the last time the authorities had thought they were right.  This time though, they were. Quiet; the interloper’s name was ‘quiet’, because once the monitors had been shut down, that’s all there was.  Especially when they’d taken the boy away.  Henri knew that just down the hall, in another white, sterile room, similar sounds to what had accompanied the girl and her nightmare for so long, still went on.  But now, for another.  For Martin Hennessy, Taryn and Beryl’s father, there was only the interloper as witness. “I never noticed the walls aren’t smooth, Hank; isn’t that strange?  After all these years...” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper and the man heard her breath catch even as she tried to give pain a voice.  He’d never seen her this way, had never imagined she could look so lost.  But he understood just the same. “I always thought they were like fog veils, hiding shadows with their impenetrability, yet filled with enough solidity to keep me from seeing further.  Is this what lies beyond?” Hank gave her hand a squeeze, not sure anything he said would make much difference.  At least she’d know she wasn’t alone. “It’s not like the last time, is it?” Hank couldn’t keep himself from shaking his head in agreement. “Last time, I just knew.  He couldn’t be gone.  There was too much color in his skin, too much vigor to his muscles.  But I don’t see it anymore.” Hank felt the tremble of violin strings being played, their vibrato slung in the eddies of a cello, just on the edge of perception... “And there were his words––the story; it just kept going...” The black man nodded imperceptibly, his short cropped white hair like a lowering veil. “Look at his skin...and his hair’s gone white.  I don’t see any tension in the folds beneath his eyes anymore, and his hand hasn’t moved even once, not since Jareth went down.  Not even when the Cervine came and took him away...” Henri Peltier merely nodded; The Cervine, one of the mythical protectors bound to the story’s main character, Jareth Rhylan.  No, not even then.  And though the muse had come back, all she’d come back to was emptiness and vengeance, as if such were one and the same... Henri wanted to exonerate the two protectorates but knew Beryl wouldn’t listen, not now, not as she looked on her father’s still form.  She’d only ask why and why not, she’d only demand they be true and then curse them as she realized they couldn’t give her what she wanted.  But then, hadn’t she experienced this before when her mother had been taken? Then, she thought she was the only one, the last one, and except for her comatose father, alone in the world.  Maybe that’s what had given her the strength to hold on even as Rhey brutalized Martin Hennessy, trying to recover the viral DNA sequence racking his alien body.  Then, as long as her dad held out, there was a reason to remain hidden, to remain watchful. But wasn’t this time different?  Hadn’t she a brother now to which she could cling?  Despite he also was comatose?  Could irony be more defined?  Henri didn’t think so and as his thoughts were brought back to what Beryl was saying, he realized she was fighting to hold back tears.  This moment was different and in time, she’d come to realize it.  Taryn was in a doctor-induced coma to alleviate the pain while his body and the drugs could counter what thugs on the edge of the city had done. A burning sensation wanted to rise up in the old man but he pushed it back; sometimes, at the moment there was no justice on earth and he had to remember, in the end, there would be.  Still, he hoped the perpetrators were caught and brought to trial. Not that it would do Beryl any good; what she needed was family.  If only to watch her life slip back into the familiarity of tragedy.  Still, if she could get past the grief, she might remember... “I hated the monitors once, all the beeping and symmetrical glowing lines...now, I miss them.  At least it meant Dad was still with me.” It wouldn’t be long now, Henri thought. And it wasn’t as bare minutes passed before he watched her grip loosen and finally slip, her father’s hand quietly, smoothly, embraced by the sterile white linen of the bed. She exhaled loudly, catching on emotions so deeply buried he knew only Jareth Rhylan might understand.  And once the breath dissipated, the tears flushed and the crying became choked.  It was then Henri stepped up and wrapped soft but strong arms around her as she buried her head into his shoulder, whether trying to deny the tears and audience, or to muffle them altogether.  Either way, it didn’t matter; she couldn’t run from time forever... Henri Peltier knew it wasn’t the fact her father’s breath ceased to fight the respirator, nor that his heart didn’t move the phosphor lines anymore that had finally pulled her down.  No, it was the flicker of the laptop’s screen where the words had once been.  Although a technician might attribute the laptop’s sudden malaise to the fall it had taken when Taryn had been hit, both he and the girl knew it was far more.  Once, there’d been so many words that reading it all took hours, but now?  Now, even before the monitors failed, the words had been fading––first letters then words began to fall to the cursor’s backstroke.  And no matter what she’d tried, the words turned into lines and then paragraphs, erased and eroded before their eyes until finally, the cursor had stopped.  At the beginning of course, where white space met emptiness and claimed it. The story was gone and with it, Beryl’s father.  It seemed so simple and maybe that’s why it hurt so much.  At least, that’s what the girl tried to say... A human life is a small measure, sometimes, and it remains that way when there’s no one to remember, going so far as to be nonexistent when no one cares.  And isn’t that how all tales are forgotten?  Isn’t that the true secret of power over a life? Henri Peltier fervently hoped Beryl understood how delicate such a knife edge was and more importantly, who held the handle.  She’d need this understanding and more; she’d need belief to move forward.  Martin’s words might have been deleted on digital white space but if the pain did not overcome, would be legible still on the heart of those he loved. Black fingers felt the texture of the girl’s hair, feeling every strand on her head even as he closed soft brown eyes and brought to mind a song that once resonated in a child.  He wasn’t sure the sound would be heard above the girl’s sobbing but he had hope. The texture of the walls began to run together and where once the details could be seen, now only a veil of white surrounded them, laced with the tracks of Beryl’s tears. 
 
 
 Chapter 2 
 The Power of Goodbye 
 
 
 
 
 Just like in the story, he thought he heard the chords, amplified of course by the crashing surf, but the song nonetheless.  Or was he still dreaming.  But no; how could the grass beneath his fingers feel so real if that were true?  And the wind, blowing as it did on his face, forcing him to pull his tunic tighter about his neck.  A tunic, yes, that’s what it was called, even though he’d never worn one before in his life.  From another age, he was dressed as squires of old had dressed, and the feel of fine steel mesh against his skin assured him he wasn’t hallucinating. He sat high on the cliff of some nameless sea...though he supposed it must have one, despite he couldn’t remember.  It was the Great North Sea, wasn’t it?  Isn’t that what Jareth Rhylan had said?  What his father labeled it?  He did remember after all.  With more than a hint of chagrin, he realized it used to be Jareth Rhylan’s problem––that of recalling memories.  And now, in the world his dad had created, he found himself assuming the same idiosyncrasy.  But then, wasn’t that the way with fathers and sons? He dug in the coarse grass and unearthed a stone, flicking it out over the dizzying height between cliff edge and surging ocean below, losing sight of the rock until he thought he saw a smidgen of light reflect on the splash as the sea swallowed it. “Sort of how I feel right now” Taryn mused, understanding only that he now had memories of both Láeg’s son and his own.  When the boy had been called T. Rinn.  Now, why hadn’t he glommed onto the similarity between the character’s name and his own?  Had he been using selective vision, seeing only what he wanted?  Maybe.  But then, when Beryl had first told him about the story, no one in their right mind would have ever taken it as gospel. Hmm, gospel; something Dad believed in.  And something whose echo caused him to squirm.  He wanted to go back to his earth science, to living for the moment––that there was no past or future, only a present to experience.  Not that he didn’t acknowledge history, but he wasn’t going to live his life in that light.  And how would history help now even if he did see any help there? But he wasn’t being truthful with himself as he scanned the sky, watching as the clouds merged and coalesced into different shapes, a dynamic mirrored by the water below.  Though, the sky wasn’t a loud roar, more a silent intruder on his thoughts. Perhaps the history he was trying to ignore was contained in the very words of which he now seemed a part.  And the ironic thing was, typically he read for information, but this time he’d been reading for his father’s reason; escape. Which might explain his predicament.  Though, it was less clear about explaining why his heart felt as it did.  Something was wrong and he was at a loss to understand.  Even when the queen had graciously offered to take him away from this land.  Had he been short-sighted to decline her offer?  Surely there had to be a good reason he was still here, right?  The real problem though lay in the fact Jareth––his father––was gone. Oh, he knew what had happened, had even fought through the conflicting emotions of losing Láeg on one hand and Jareth on the other.  Of losing Jareth Rhylan––his dad. He knew now how Jareth must have felt whenever the memories conflicted with reality; if Jareth Rhylan was missing, where was he?  And though the spear had felled him, why had the the Cervine taken him away? Then there was the Dark Muse, Leanan Sidhe; she’d come like the night, and like one of its shadows, appeared from a crease of darkness before disappearing just as suddenly.  The shock of her action hadn’t worn off until the new day’s birth. Taryn dug another rock out, cupped its smoothness in his palm while angling his arm back, preparatory to yet another toss.  He felt the rounded edges and intuitively understood that once, the great ocean below had surged against the very heights on which he dangled his legs.  Only an age of battling against the waves could have dulled all its edges.  Hmm, was there something to learn from this? The thought was so alien that he started, dropping the stone.  This wasn’t something he normally contemplated, no, it was more in line with his dad’s thinking.  With a smile, he realized he had learned more about the man than he’d ever known.  And mostly from the words put down in story form on a computer. The words surprisingly stayed with him, as if in rereading as Beryl had suggested, he’d submerged himself in that final chapter and had breathed life into text he’d shunned since a boy.  It was all a fantasy though, wasn’t it?  It was his father’s passion, not his.  And yet, just acknowledging the fact he was aware it was a passion told him something inside had changed.  Or, was changing.  What would Beryl think? But she wasn’t here.  And sifting through what he remembered about the tale of Jareth Rhylan, told him she wouldn’t be, either.  The alien Rhey had killed her, in another life, in another time.  Still, she lived and had gone on to continue the story; hadn’t he too been part of that arc? So, unable to explain how he was here in the first place, with the ‘why’ also a riddle, there still remained what to do now. He exhaled slowly and once again wondered if he should have gone with Emer.  Maybe she had the secret to returning him to his own world.  But then, Jareth hadn’t sought her assistance out of this world either.  A memory reminded that the the Bard had been on a mission, a quest, something that would indeed find the way home. The way.  The Way; hmm, now wasn’t that something left over from Dad’s book of faith?  He was sure he’d heard it before...could it mean something? Dad would know...Jareth that is.  And up until the moment, he’d not realized how the answers seemed contained by the words pouring out of the laptop, even if neither he nor Beryl had understood immediately what they were.  But there was no laptop here, and there were no characters left––when the Queen had returned to her ship, all the players except himself were gone.  As if they’d been written out.  Now, that was both an odd and alarming thought. Taryn got to his feet, the wind surging as he did, pushing him away from the edge and back toward the mainland.  As if insuring he chose the right path back.  But, the right path back to where?  To home and his sister?  To a world where his dad lay like a vegetable on a table, kept alive by alien drugs and serenaded by mechanical beeps that sung with respiratory whooshes?  To the life he’d come to accept as a survivor?  This world was Dad’s––was a figment of Martin Hennessy’s tortured mind.  Dad...Martin Hennessy...Jareth; one and the same yet all with seemingly different paths... And, how did remembering Dad’s story make ‘tortured mind’ its conclusion?  Hadn’t Beryl hinted as much, though?  Why was he now only figuring this out? Taking one last look at the sea below, watching as one wave curled over another, he understood maybe there was more to what Dad had been writing than he’d first thought.  Certainly, he himself was still a part of it.  Was there more for him to do? The longer he thought about it, the more plausible the idea seemed; despite the absence of his father, the T. Rinn character was still around.  At least, he hoped so, though Dad had read a lot more science fantasies than he had.  Not beyond age seven, at least.  And then there was the Invasion and the War...surviving meant believing in science and no one in their right mind could trust fantasy to save them.  Still, until the Invasion, aliens had been bound by fantasy... The irony hit him like a hammer and he stumbled.  He recognized that his steps were leading him toward the forest in the distance––the same wherein the Cervine had taken his father.  It seemed in this world, it would be more prudent to trust fantasy than science.   The distance wasn’t great but he doubted he’d reach its edges before twilight, so he began to look for a place to make camp.  He was glad he’d at least taken supplies and food from the Ulster queen.  His first step actually on the path triggered another memory, one of a song from a book read long ago called the Hobbit.  It was a journeying song, something that gave breath to adventure and life to the feet.  Which was odd to say the least because for a long time, he’d looked at being on his own solely as being on his own.  And adventure seemed so vague, driven by chance––not exactly something that brought him surety. Grass gave way to beaten earth wide enough to suggest a game trail, and if he looked hard enough, Taryn thought he saw it widen further as it swept toward the trees.  But once on the path and accepting the fact he had to do something, thoughts drifted back to Queen Emer’s words at their parting.  Then as now, he’d been full of questions... 
 
 
 “Can there be peace after losing someone you love?” Taryn was caught off-guard by her query, not sure if she meant himself or her.  Surely the body of the Hound of Ulster, her late husband that lay in the ship’s hold, was testament to how much she must be grieving.  Too though, the queen thought he despaired at losing his own father, Láeg, not aware of the fact it was actually Jareth’s fall that was causing the pain.  Still, she showed great concern and he tried his best to be receptive.  Even to the extent of releasing Láeg’s body to her so it could be laid in a tomb near Cú Chulainn’s.  After all, didn’t they all belong together in the end?  Láeg had been the King of Charioteers, and so the two belonged together.  At least that’s how he interpreted the myth. It was tricky trying to separate folklore with who he really was.  And maybe that was the real reason for watching as the Díoltas slip it’s berth, and nestled by a rising zephyr, disappear over the horizon.  Jareth wasn’t of her world and she could not understand he was not part of hers. Taryn frowned, understanding she didn’t know how he was somehow part of both, now. “The world will miss the music.” Taryn turned toward Emer, totally missing the fact she was talking about the Bard, not Martin Hennessy. “Maybe other bards will tell his story.” Queen Emer looked hard at the young man, noting his face seemed less hidden than usual, as if some part of the boy had been replaced by the man. “Maybe.  Time will tell.  And memories will attest.” The statement rang a bell in Taryn’s head and he blinked twice as if not understanding.  But he thought he did. “The world won’t forget Cú Chulainn, milady.” The grim pursing of lips softened on the queen’s face though she didn’t let it linger long. “Are you a soothsayer then, lad?  How can you know the minds of people not yet born?” Taryn started to explain but thought better of it and just shrugged, hoping his smile was enough. “Take care of yourself, young Rinn; I still wish you were coming with us.” And she looked from the dock toward shore, noting the swell of mountains and woods that wanted to press against the seaside city. “I think the world is changing and an ill wind coming.  In my kingdom, there’s still green fields and greener eyes to go with them.  It’s still a place in which the magic of song can flourish.” Taryn couldn’t hold out and turned to follow her gaze, trying to see what she saw. “I fear with Jareth’s passing, that the power of song went with him.  How can what’s left be a place worth living?” Taryn nodded, a sudden thought rising. “Maybe the magic is where you find it, milady.” The queen pulled back her auburn-gold locks and a true smile found purchase. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve spent more than a fair bit of time with the Bard, young Rinn!  And do you believe, despite everything that happened on Fand’s Isle?” Taryn looked at the older woman whose beauty still shone from beneath a royalty-cloaking shrift. “Not despite it, but because of it.” The queen gave him an appraising look but said nothing; it was her turn to shrug. “Well then, if you won’t be coming with us, at least take this as proof you took part in a tale of gods!” Emer turned and lifted a long bundle wrapped in green cloth.  Handing it to Taryn she did so with reverence.  He adopted her demeanor and gingerly received the gift. “What is it?” But instead of saying anything, she merely unfolded the top wrap and a brilliant gleam of silver burst loose; it was Jareth’s black sword! “The Valkyrie left it on the battlefield, rising from the traitor even as life left him.  I didn’t want to burn it with his body as even though the blade speaks of darkness, it is not Lugaid’s kind of evil.  It is surely sharp young man, so mind how you handle it!” Taryn had no words but furiously tried to remember everything the story had ever said concerning the blade. “What about the other?” He’d meant Jareth’s side sword, the one used more often than not. “The creature took it with him when he carried Jareth Rhylan’s body into the forest.” And he remembered that moment, even though his face had been wet with tears, as he reluctantly let go of his father.  Something in the creature’s eyes had assured him it was the way it had to be. The way it had to be...so sure then, but now he had doubt.  Was it because he was no longer around the creature?  Because there  was no brown eyes that looked right through you? “Fare thee well, young Rinn; keep the Bard’s magic alive then with a quest of your own!” The words were said with an embrace, causing more confusion than calm, though.  He wasn’t about quests, or even magic.  Still, he was a son, and a son had a duty to a father.  As well as a sister, he realized. 
 That moment with the queen faded and he felt the weight of the blade across his back, trussed securely as he’d once seen Jareth do.  He wondered if the forest track would allow him to keep it sheathed though, a premonition of danger grew stronger as he neared the woods’ edge.  That though brought a small chuckle; what would he do with a sword, anyhow?  Not like he knew how to use one.... “Beryl gave you Faith, Jareth, and Taryn has given Hope; only one more and you’re home.  One more key, my son; the First who is Last holds Love.” They were words at the end of the story, a last conversation between Jareth and the Cervine.  The sword and the queen’s words triggered the memory and now it gave him pause.  Pause because if he interpreted them right, it meant only one thing; that his older sister was still alive.