The Fruits of Labour

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

“Isn’t that—?”

“Yeah. I think it is.”

Immediately the two British college swells rushed up the hallway to follow the dark-haired, young, athletic man in the striped red-and-black tee-shirt, both searching out a pen and something to write on from their pockets and bags. He did not appear to see them as he walked down the halls of Oxford—which wasn’t his alma mater, as he was an American. In fact, he stood out a bit like a sore thumb, or… rather, like a man who was accustomed to extreme athletics combined with the odd voodoo ritual. At least, he had his famous faux shrunken head dangling at his hip from a belt strap. He also wore a shark’s teeth necklace with a red crystal on it.

As he went around a corner, they sped up to catch him. But when they turned that corner too, he was not there.

“Where did the bloody American go?” the one young man said.

“Maybe he really is a Witchdoctor,” the other toff replied.

Both rushed further down the hall, scouring the hallways for Peter McCabe—the rather famous ‘footballer’ from the US (known as the Witchdoctor) who was currently visiting Oxford while alternately interning at the British Museum in London. Rumors had spread he was there. He was not quite interning. It was some sort of agreement with Oxford, the museum, and royal family apparently. How in the world he knew them, no one could figure out. He was just a guy from Massachusetts.

Peter stepped from the shadow, peeking after the pair of football enthusiasts before taking another hallway.

Being famous was usually useful. It got Peter into doors most of his other friends (and colleagues of the Holy Seven) struggled to enter. But sometimes it was a pain. He had to learn tricks for avoiding people. He had also picked up a few spells from Daniel Smith’s half-sister Silvia, which warded off stalkers and truly dangerous people. A few fans were no big deal. But there were times he needed to be invisible.

So he was… to certain eyes.

He continued on his way to visit with his ‘mentor’ at Oxford—Prof. Hamish Taylor, who was an expert in Medieval and Celtic Mysticism. Peter had obtained this contact from none other than Mr. Brian McDillan of California, a former SRA agent and vampire hunter who had encountered the professor ages ago, along with Matthew Calamori and Tom Brown back when they were just teenagers. It had been an interesting story—a story which both he and Daniel had also extracted from Tom and Matt in detail once Peter had learned about it. This was the professor who had ridden on the Halloween Highway[1], snatched up by the Unseelie Court along with Mathew and Tom—the very same Halloween that Eve McAllister had discovered she was not just a kid with a rare form of albinism, but a vimp[2]. It was also the same professor whom Howie[3] Deacon’s three friends had met in Cochem, Germany the day before a werewolf pack had attacked them (He had also been extremely grieved to hear about what had happened to the three college boys). Prof. Taylor got around.

Under Prof. Taylor’s tutelage, mostly using his collection of ancient records about the faerie folk, Peter had been researching everything the man knew about European elves. Peter only had time to do this between football matches and training, so he had been in and out all the time at Oxford over the course of a year, never steadily there. And yet he had been able to collect a substantial amount of information—which he quietly gave to his ‘flat-mate’ Daniel Smith who was supposed to be attending Oxford on exchange in relation to his former Masters and now PhD research, all connected to the same field of Cult Mysticism and Ancient Mythology. But Daniel hardly sat in on lectures. He said he wanted to just visit England for a ‘cultural experience’.

That’s what he told everyone at least. Daniel and Peter were on the same task. Daniel spent most of his time traveling the length and breadth of the UK, doing the footwork while Peter was the face of the operation. As a famous ‘footballer’, Peter was the one who opened doors to information while Daniel acted on it. As such, Daniel spent most of his ‘work time’ tracking down various living elves in the country, looking for ‘the one’. They had started this project together several years ago when the last of the previous Holy Seven, Mr. Carlton Jones, had charged them to find the Holy Seven’s ‘patron elf’. They believed they were now close.

Several years back, before this all started, Mr. Jones had told them all that he knew about this patron elf, which really wasn’t that much. He said it was one of the tasks or quests of each generation of Seven to find this select elf who had inconveniently dropped out of sight millennia ago. The patron elf was supposed to guide the Holy Seven in their work and give them aide whenever they needed a supernatural boost. No modern Seven had succeeded in finding the elf. But when they asked for more details, all Mr. Jones could say was, “As far as I know, the Seven’s patron was a penitent god-elf from Egypt.”

“God-elf?” It was the first time either of them had heard of the term.

Mr. Jones had clarified. “A god-elf is an elf who played god to human beings, usually in one of the pantheons. Our particular elf is rather difficult to pin down. Evasive, possibly. And the records of who that was were lost in the ‘Dark Ages’.”

That was the beginning of their research. They just knew their elf as ‘The Elf’. They had little else to go on, except one other thing.

“We do know the Elf did not originate in Egypt. In fact, we are sure it originated somewhere in Europe. The Elf had definitely been in Greece, but was not from there either,” Mr. Jones had informed them.

“And how do you know that?” Peter had asked.

“Artifacts left to us,” Mr. Jones had said with a tired sigh. “Bits from ancient records. Oh, and we know for certain that the Elf’s major gift was fire.”

“Fire?” Daniel had perked up.

Peter had smirked at him, as Daniel was a borderline pyromaniac. Yet he asked Mr. Jones, “What artifacts? What do we look for?”

“The ankh and the box came from the Elf. The Elf made them,” Mr. Jones explained. “If you study that box and all the writings on it, it may point you to him.”

Well, Peter had studied the folding Egyptian puzzle box that had been left in his possession, the one they had inherited back in high school when they had finally proven to the United Nations be that generation’s Holy Seven[4]. And that research had eventually led him to a ruin in Egypt which was (conveniently for him) under excavation at the time through a Stanford University group co-operation with the Cairo Museum. He went under the premise to visit and study under the Cairo Museum (with special permission as usual, getting it from the Egyptian government). The site itself was a temple once dedicated to the goddess Bastet.

When he came to the dig, he crossed the established barriers preventing tourists from entering, and he methodically explored that entire temple until he finally found the inscription he was looking for. The box itself was a model and map of the temple, so it did not take as long as he had expected. The inscription was in a stone wall—the sign of the Holy Seven which had been on the ankh[5], along with five colored circles arching over the top of it, three more to the left if that. The placement of the circles on the right had implied an abstract hand print that had each fingertip touched with paint, the sun symbol in the palm, as it would be in all of their palms. The last three were like the other hand with only the thumb, the middle finger, and the pointer. It made sense to Peter to fit his hands in those spots, fingers matching the colors. But when he had done that, his hand burned, propelling light into the wall, causing the wall to shift. A door opened in the stone.

Everyone at the site who had been near him at the time were shocked to see the entirely obscure doorway open. They were even more shocked when Peter walked right in. Luckily they had not seen him conjure a fire in his palm once inside then, with it, light a basin of oil which was standing next to the doorway. It was amazing the oil was still there. It was even more amazing the room did not reek of foul gasses.

The illuminated room was something else. It was full of treasure, from gold to ornate jars to weapons. A number of the artifacts looked too recent to fit the setting, though. Peter noticed a handful of medieval swords from Europe, each with the ankh mark of the Seven on them. There were also armor and shields—again, not Egyptian. Much of it looked Persian. Some appeared to even be East Asian. As far as he could tell, it was treasure room for the Seven, at least up to the Middle Ages. Nothing more recent. There were also mural on the walls with Egyptian hieroglyphs still perfectly preserved. But on one wall, near a peculiar carving of that universal Tree of Life found in almost every ancient megalith culture in the world, was a cartouche with writing in Aramaic (which at the time he could barely read), Greek (which he could read), and what looked like Ogham… that northern European writing which he knew nothing about at all. As the others rushed in, Peter quickly dug out his camera and took pictures of everything.

The others gasped, flooding into the room with declarations to the others that they had found something. That was when Peter realized he should have closed the door right after opening it and come back later that night, alone. This room did not belong to the world. It belonged to the Seven. But it was too late. Already the professors were inside, exclaiming over the treasure and the pristine hieroglyphs. They took pictures, but they also eagerly claimed items for removal to the museum.

The treasure, thankfully, was entirely claimed by the Cairo Museum, and would at least not leave the country. Peter was sorry he had not snuck out a few of the weapons belonging to the previous Sevens, though. They would have been useful. The others would have appreciated it. Instead, the find was credited to Professor Wycliffe of Stanford. And upon seeing the mixed treasure, he already had theories as to why such a mishmash of artifacts were together there. He was pontificating to as many who would hear him.

Peter’s name, of course, had not been mentioned in the final report of the discovery. He wasn’t supposed to be there anyway, and those on the site had attributed his discovery to ‘fools luck’. He had accidentally dislodged something, they had said. They all thought he was just a stupid ‘soccer player’ after all.

However, those hieroglyphs Peter had photographed had led him to another location, another buried temple. This one, he went to alone.

Again, he followed the signs of the Seven around the sandy ruin, opened doors and shifted age old stone with just the touch of his marked hand. But this temple, when he stepped in, he saw was untouched, unlike the previous temple of Bastet. No one else from the other Sevens had been there. They had not followed the signs as he had, though they had been right there on the wall like a map. The tree of life in the first mural was clearly a representation if the Nile. And where those images of Magi standing next to it had pointed, he went.

Peter took pictures of this one, made rubbings and inspected pristine the artifacts which showed this place was once a temple to Wadjet—also known as the eye of Ra. Yet there was one wall which had writing from different cultures on it. More cartouches. He saw once more Aramaic, Greek, and something that made him think of Vikings for some odd reason, though it made no sense. However, he had copied down the writing, inspected for more maps in plain sight, sealed up the room again, and then followed where the newest map led him—to Greece. The Greek in the cartouche, he noticed, had two names: Ailuros and Σεμιήλ—Shamsiel.

However, Peter did not spend much time in Greece. The location on the map that he was seeking had been demolished long ago. Razed to the foundation stones. There was nothing left, not even a basement to a temple, though he searched around for one.

And that would have ended his journey had he not looked more into the Aramaic שִׁמשִׁיאֵל and peculiarly Celtic or Nordic type of markings he had copied. He could read the Aramaic which had only one word: Shamsiel, the same as the Greek. Which in translation means Sun of God. Sun. Not Son. He thought it was rather fitting that the patron elf had a name connected to the very symbol burned on the Seven’s palms. But he could not read the other writing, which he felt truly pointed to who this elf actually was and where to find him. What he needed was an expert.

Which was why they were now in England.

Due to his obsession with the faerie folk, Prof. Taylor was the foremost expert in such things as Ogham, Old Norse, and elfish folklore in general. He had accumulated copious records of elfish activity in Europe and Great Britain, and evidence of their existence in the world altogether. He kept it all stored in a secure cool room where the documents could be handled in a controlled, moisture-free, environment. Though he knew about the gifted professor himself, Peter had actually learned of the professor’s collection while studying the Egyptology collection at the British Museum, as well as the Greek artifacts, still searching for clues. When was finally allowed to use the professor’s collection, it had been extremely useful. It at least gave him names and locations of real living elves.

The only problem was, as far as he knew, Prof. Taylor did not know a thing about the Holy Seven, which meant he could not get in too deep with the man or tell him the truth about his research. Besides, Peter and Daniel agreed not to drag Hamish Taylor any deeper into the supernatural world than he already had been. The man had seen enough.

Presently, Peter had finally arrived at the professor’s office adjoining the record room. The office was a regular sort of study, with dark shelves full of books covering one half of the room, a lamp, with a table and chairs, while the side with the bay windows contained the office desk, and the professor himself sitting in a swiveling high back, leather chair. As usual, Prof. Taylor was scouring the internet—undoubtedly for real sightings of the supernatural in the modern day among the various social media websites. Peter quietly walked over to that side of the man’s desk. The professor too fixated on the computer screen to notice him coming in. He peered over the man’s shoulder to see what he was staring at exactly.

One tab open displayed the Supernatural Regulator’s Association website—a dismaying sight but expected considering the professor had found out about the SRA since the morning after his faerie abduction and subsequent escape so many years ago. Another tab was Anonymous_Wolf’s website… which consequently was Howie Deacon’s site created to inform ordinary people of true werewolf facts, for their protection. Peter had to hide a smirk. Howie had done a great job maintaining this site. It was getting solid traffic, hopefully dispelling the lies the SRA were spreading about werwolves. Peter did not recognize the third tab on his screen. Currently, the professor was reading from the SRA’s page.

“Afternoon, Professor,” Peter said with a nod as he stepped in a little louder to get the man’s attention. “I called ahead and—”

“It’s on the table,” Prof. Taylor said, not looking away from the computer screen. He wasn’t even startled, which meant he had been aware that Peter was there after all. “Use gloves.”

Nodding, Peter walked over to the table in the center of the other side of the room, pulling out a pair of nitrile gloves from the box next to the document. This was how they usually did it. The professor often selected manuscripts for Peter to study—most in Old English though some in even older writing as an exercise on Peter’s ancient languages study skills. Peter pulled the gloves on with a more obvious peek to the computer the professor was engrossed in. “Back at your old research? What are you looking for?”

“Patterns,” Prof. Taylor muttered, ignoring him.

Peter nodded again, picking up the document. They already had the discussion about the SRA website. Peter had accused them of being LARPers to test the waters of skepticism, and the professor merely hid what he was doing after that. Prof. Taylor did not respond to mockery and did not spend time explaining himself to skeptics. That was fine. However, Peter was worried the man was taking the SRA site as gospel. Eventually, some day in the future, he might have to have a little talk with Prof. Taylor about trusting people who had an agenda. And, of course, he would have to point out the SRA’s agenda as well.

Peter walked back to the table and carefully cleared off a space to read the Old English. It was a gift Peter had, the ability to acquire old if not dead languages. He was not sure if it was a result of his time in the other world when he had been ‘zombified’, thus making his brain more flexible, or if he had always had the knack. He had mastered Ancient Egyptian a long time ago, then Ancient Greek and Latin. Aramaic had been a must also. He had been studying various forms of Gaelic and Slavic, but he found Old English pure fun. He had devoured document after document in the old writing, often decoding it for Daniel and the others on his laptop so they could know what he was discovering along the way. But he must have been enjoying it too much because Prof. Taylor lifted his head and said, “You’re giggling again.”

Lifting his head, taking his eyes from the document, Peter chuckled. “Sorry. Um. It was a rather funny account. But I think I’ve read this in English already in Yeats’s Fairy and Folktale Book of the Irish Peasantry. Or a form of, at least.”

Prof. Taylor smirked benignly at him. The hale yet older man leaned back in his seat, his haunted eyes finally leaving the computer screen to take Peter in. “Ok. You’ve convinced me. You want something more difficult?”

Peter perked up. This was promising. “You have something more precious?”

The man nodded, yet remained seated, his hands taking their places on the arm rest. “I do. But I don’t share some of my records with dabblers. You keep calling some of these researchers I’ve been contacting LARPers—”

“Just that one stupid website.” Peter chuckled, watching the professor carefully as his reaction mattered. Some people were too sensitive these days. “You actually think there are people out there regulating the supernatural?”

Heaving a sigh, Pro. Taylor rose. “There are things that I have seen, young man, which would make your hair curl.”

Yet he got up to fetch the document he had promised. That was a good sign.

Rising, Peter felt his heart thump in his chest. Finally he would get to see something more substantial. He had mostly be mucking through all sorts of British and Celtic folklore which Daniel was already well-versed in and was therefore useless. Peter’s main job was to find out how much of these stories might be real and how much was just made up to scare kids… like Santa Claus and the tooth fairy. He had been looking for real places connected to the faery folk. His notebook was full of those names and locations which Daniel was verifying or clearing out. So far they had identified a handful of real elves just trying to get by in the real world, but not the one they were looking for.

However when the professor came back, Peter could tell he had not fetched a useful record as claimed. Peter recognized the one in his hands.

“I’ve already read that one,” Peter said, pointing to it. It had been useful. It had given him one location and one connection which had influenced his decision to limit his research to the UK and not to go into the rest of Europe at all. It was one of the oldest legends of Merlin which had mentioned a nameless elf who had matched his research enough to validate the move.

Prof. Taylor halted, glancing at the manuscripts in his arms. “Then you have read everything I possess.”

“I don’t think so.” Peter shook his head, approaching him. “I’m sure you have reserves which you keep for yourself.”

The professor shifted, his eyes raking him over again. “Those are not for skeptics like you.” Prof. Taylor turned to put away the manuscript.

“You actually think I am a skeptic?” Peter asked, smirking while following him into the room. He had been in several times, but had never dared to just take what he wanted. He needed to keep things proper and respectful. It did not pay to insult even a proud Brit who deserved it.

“I know you are skeptic.” The professor huffed, picking up the protective case, slipping it inside. He made sure the damp absorbers were fresh. “You mock the serious modern research I do—”

Peter squashed a throat-laugh, thinking of the SRA website.

Hearing him, Prof. Taylor turned with a sharp eye. “You think I’m being hornswoggled?”

Wiping his mirth off his face, or trying to, Peter replied, “Oh, no sir.”

“You are being disingenuous.”

Peter more successfully cleared his expression, realizing he might lose this opportunity if he did not make peace soon. “It’s not that, sir. It’s just that—”

“You don’t actually believe in the supernatural,” Prof. Taylor rebutted. “You are merely doing this to amuse yourself between football matches.”

This time Peter shook his head, watching the professor put the manuscript away with care. “The opposite sir. I do matches between this.”

Yet Prof. Taylor glared at him, locking the case to his preserved records, each in its own clean container. Peter looked up at all of it, wondering if he’d have to do a Jessica Mason and just break into the place to read what he needed. He knew how.

“If anyone is a LARPer, it’s you,” the professor said, once more heading to the door, gesturing for Peter to go.

Peter quickly whipped his eyes back to him. “No. You have it wrong.”

“I don’t think we have the same end goals,” the professor grumbled, shooing Peter more forcibly back toward the door.

Peter only went because it was not his place and he had to do things legally.

“You think this is all amusing.”

Moaning, Peter loudly protested, “I didn’t spend all these years studying ancient languages to make fun of it.”

The man shoved Peter (who as a tall ‘footballer’ could have easily fought back) out the room and shut the door. It immediately locked. Peter wondered if it was also alarmed. He knew the professor had more than just a metal key securing that room. Stepping briskly back to his desk, the professor sat down. “Go. I don’t see any reason for you to come here anymore.”

Damn. He had blown it. Some people just rode their egos. This man was one of them. However, he could not leave. Peter did not budge. “No, sir. I have every reason to be here.”

The professor huffed, hardly looking at him. “What? Are you going to demand it is your right? You don’t have a right to be here. You were here on my good graces. You had been recommended, but I see that was a mistake.”

The sound of the clocks in the dusty room ticked. The office would have had the deathly feel of a funeral hall all otherwise—a room with a dead end.

Inwardly groaning, Peter sighed. “Alright old man. I see you are going to be stubborn about this. Let me prove to you that me being here is not a mistake.”

The professor gazed dryly over the top of his computer. His eyes said he was considering calling in Security.

Peter walked over to the side of the desk where he could see the computer screen, nodding to the websites. “I am actually quite familiar with the SRA. I was calling them LARPers because, to be quite frank, they are a joke.”

Prof. Taylor’s mouth dropped open in protest.

“However,” Peter pointed to Anonymous_Wolf’s website, “This site is a good one. I happen to know the guy who makes it. And he tells the truth.”

The professor’s mouth hung open more to protest that he was not buying it.

Yet Peter then said, “I was in Cochem, Germany, the day of the attack—the day after you were there.”

A compete change went over Prof. Taylor. His mouth snapped shut. He went white. His hands shook.

Nodding, Peter said as the room seemed to get uncomfortably colder, “I was in Europe around then, but it was before I knew you. But Rhett Williams mentioned you.”

He watched as the professor went paler. The man leaned back in his chair, staring at him. Prof. Taylor mouthed, “How…?”

Nodding while lowering his voice to a whisper, Peter replied, “I happen to be a very good friend of Howard Richard Deacon the Third. He’s from my hometown.”

Immediately the man’s eyes whipped to the SRA site, which basically declared that Howie Deacon was a savage werewolf, as was his father. Of course they were werewolves, but the way the SRA painted them as blood-thirsty monsters was entirely false. Their prejudice against the Deacons was huge. The SRA regularly tracked both Deacons, always waiting for a time in which they could hunt down and kill them as wolves.

Peter heard the professor breathe out with a tremble in his voice, “What exactly are you looking for in these records, then?”

Shrugging, Peter tried to keep things business-like. “An elf. A particular one.”

“You?” The professor looked him up and down, his eyes tracking the shark’s teeth necklace, red crystal and Peter’s striped shirt, lastly ending on the shrunken head. “You personally know werewolves, and you are searching for an elf?”

It did sound odd. But Peter shrugged, trying to keep it friendly. The man was clearly on his guard.

“We’ve tracked the Elf down to the UK, but we need more detail to actually find him.” Peter shook his head, glancing at the computer again before taking a step away from the professor to give him room to breathe. “Elves don’t like to be seen or found. My good friend here has located Robin Goodfellow, but—”

“You are tracking elves?” The professor stiffened, eyes widening from a memory. “That is dangerous.”

“True,” Peter replied with a shrug. “Yet here you are investigating known werewolves, using the SRA as your source—which is an extremely biased source by the way.”

“You say that because you are friends with—”

“No.” Peter shook his head, watching how almost sick the professor was looking. He was on the verge of hives. Peter also glanced around for something to catch vomit, if he had to. “I say it because I’ve had plenty of encounters with the SRA. They’re unscrupulous monster hunters. I can only count on one hand the good ones.”

Staring, Prof. Taylor pulled back. He looked to the far door, then the windows behind him, possibly in search for an escape, just in case. It was natural response of somebody who had encountered dangerous elves. Peter could not blame him.

“Look,” Peter said, trying to keep it easy by maintaining his distance. “I realize I went into this backward. I had heard things about you, mostly good. But I was not sure how much trouble this might cause you, so I wanted to keep you out of it. But now you have to know because I need your help.”

“Who are you?” Prof. Taylor breathed out, eyes wide on Peter.

Sighing, nodding, almost with a bow, Peter said, “My name is Peter McCabe. And I am here with a friend, representing a group known as the Holy Seven.”

He had expected the man to stare at him, puzzled, like so many before him, but the professor drew in a sharp breath. He stared Peter up and down again.

“You have heard of us.” Peter lifted up, genuinely surprised. “I didn’t expect that. What do you know?”

With a nervous laugh, Prof. Taylor leaned away to make even more space as he inspected Peter once again. “I… I’m not sure. Rumors mostly. Some say you are ghosts. Others… well, I’ve heard people say that there is group of Yankee Magi who call themselves this generation’s Holy Seven.”

“Yankee Magi?” Peter made a face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Prof. Taylor almost replied, yet hesitated, still examining how Peter appeared. Perhaps he just did not have the right mystic aura. He was one of the more ordinary individuals of the Seven. For starters, Peter was his actual age in soul and body. Most of the others were in fact older in soul.

“Well…” the man led in with cautious thought, “I heard this generation of the Holy Seven is in fact contested.”

“Not by the UN.” Peter huffed irritably. He pulled out his wallet and extracted his official ID from the United Nations to show him. Admittedly, Peter was a ‘kid’ in the picture, sweaty, and in pink soccer clothes. Blushing, he muttered, “It was taken a while ago. We haven’t updated them yet.”

But the professor took the card and checked the date as well as the signatures, seals, and the holograph in the plastic layer.

“The SRA contests it because they want to be us,” Peter explained, still fighting a blush. He hated that picture.

Eying Peter, the professor handed the ID card back. “What proof do I have that this isn’t a fake?”

Nodding, Peter sighed, glancing at the card before tucking it back into his wallet. “Well, I happen to know you had met Mr. Brian McDillan… who is a former SRA agent. He can tell you the truth. He knows us. He’s one of the good guys.”

Prof Taylor stared again, recognizing the name. Then he blinked it out, shaking his head as if he had merely been slapped in the face.

“But I also know Tom Brown,” Peter added, letting that name smack the professor in the brain

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 09.10.2020
ISBN: 978-3-7554-7907-9

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