Plague, page 11
“Sounds fair,” Mitch said.
“I’m in,” Kiana agreed.
“Aye.” There was another pause as O’Brien stared at his shoes and rubbed one across the other, making the leather squeak softly. “Aye,” he repeated in a softer voice.
“And . . . what have you found?” Kiana prompted.
He looked up from under his bushy eyebrows. “Shooting stars, Miss Rosemont, Professor Pine. Fiery manifestations from heaven.”
Chapter 21
The Montrose Cabin
Suko and Dr. Joiner sat on a balcony overlooking a pristine lake in the distance. The lake wasn’t large or particularly breathtaking, but it did add a splash of color to the uniform gray-and-green panorama. The sun had just peeked over the mountaintop, highlighting a soft dusting of snow that had fallen last night. The scene had a stark beauty Suko found curiously appealing. Edgar had not been lying when he described how remote this location was. She saw no evidence of human activity anywhere beyond the cabin grounds. There weren’t even any jet contrails marring the sky. The air had a crisp, unpolluted snap to it. Joiner had loaned Suko a thick, Patagonia parka, several sizes too big, to stave off the chill.
She sipped her oolong tea, savoring its strong, earthy flavor. “So does Hiru live here too?” she asked.
“Yes. We have our own apartments. He was already here when I came.”
Small plumes of condensation puffed from their mouths as they spoke.
“Is he hiding out, like you and Edgar, because of a sordid past?”
“I don’t know. He’s not very talkative.” He sipped noisily at his cup. “But I’m glad he’s here. His culinary skills are unbeatable.”
“Does he have an inner-ear implant like mine?”
“Not that I know of. I didn’t insert one, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Does anyone else? Have an ear implant, I mean.”
“No one you’ve met. But I have a drawerful of them I can show you.”
“Huh. That sounds like you’re planning on implanting more in the future.”
“Maybe.” Joiner set his tea on a small table and blew into his cupped hands to warm them.
“Does his hired muscle have them?”
Joiner tucked his hands under his armpits. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be telling you any of this. And it’s better you don’t know.”
“Why? Has Edgar forbidden it?”
“Strongly implied.”
She touched behind her ear. The swelling had gone down, but the sutures were still there. “Will you ever take mine out?”
“Let me see,” he said, tipping her head to one side. “Yeah, those look fantastic. I can take them out in a day or two.”
“Really? The implant too?”
He snorted. “No. That stays in until Edgar says so.”
“Oh. Will it cause any permanent damage?”
“Nope. I may have a ‘sordid’ past, but I am a brilliant surgeon and inventor.” His voice swaggered like an overconfident prima donna.
“Good to know.”
Itamae Hiru slid open the glass door leading to the balcony and gave a bow to the extent his back would allow. “Please forgive my intrusion. Would you like some breakfast?” he asked Suko in Japanese.
“Yes, please,” she answered in the same language. “Hopefully some real food will displace the sugar-induced nausea from eating too many blueberry muffins.”
He gave a brief smile. “I have made hot tamagoyaki, soup, and
steamed rice.”
“That sounds marvelous.”
Joiner cleared his throat. “Hey, if you’re talking about breakfast, deal
me in.”
Hiru bowed again and closed the door.
“You understood that?” Suko asked.
“I heard the words sūpu and gohan; soup and rice in Japanese, right?”
“Very good, Doc.” She stood. “Let’s go back inside. I love this cold, fresh air, but not when it freezes my nose hairs together.”
Settling atop the stools at the counter inside, Suko whispered to Joiner, “So what’s up with Hiru’s back?”
“Advanced degenerative scoliosis.”
“Ugh. You’re a brilliant surgeon. Why don’t you fix it?”
“I tried. Turns out it’s inoperable.” The look on his face was a mix of sorrow and frustration, with a large amount of embarrassment. “I want to try stem-cell infusions, but he won’t let me.”
Suko had heard of that therapy but hadn’t seen the stats on it. “Would
it help?”
The doctor shrugged.
She sipped her tea. “By the way, thanks for talking with me. You seem to be the only one willing to give me any answers, let alone treat me like I have a brain.”
He waved off the compliment. “You do have a sharp mind, no doubt about it. You can probably figure out fact from fiction faster than most.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Everyone around here is so uptight and closed-lipped. No sense of discovery. No adventure. You can’t carry on a decent scientific conversation with any of them.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed.”
“That’s why having you with us is so refreshing.”
“Thanks,” she said, unsure of how to take the comment. “So what’s up with Edgar and his obsession with bizarre Romantic-period art?”
“Oh, that. It’s not so much the period as it is the subject matter. It’s why the basement is loaded with doomsday supplies. Has he told you about his bomb shelter?”
Suko couldn’t suppress a smile. “A bomb shelter?”
“Yeah. He—” The doctor stopped abruptly when Hiru shuffled back into the room, pushing a trolley covered with several small bowls of food.
The chef served them equal portions of each selection then stepped back and bowed. “Dohzo,” he said.
“This looks delicious, Hiru-san. Hey, I know you trained at the Cordon Bleu, but how long have you worked here?” Suko asked in Japanese.
Hiru’s eyes darted to Joiner and back again. “Ten years.”
“Really? That’s a long time. Can I ask you something kind of . . . indelicate?”
He paused. “Yes.”
Tucking her ponytail into her coat so it wouldn’t fall into her soup, she asked, “Did you volunteer? I mean, were you hired, or are you hiding from something, like this guy next to me?”
Another pause. “I was hired.”
“But you are a graduate from the best cooking school in the world. You could work in any five-star restaurant on the planet.”
He gave the slightest hint of a shrug. “I do not like the outside world. It is a hateful place. It is quiet here. I am paid well, and I have everything I need.”
“What about family?”
“I have one son and a granddaughter.”
“You’re a grandfather? Congratulations.”
He bowed humbly.
“How often do you visit them?”
Again his eyes darted to and from Joiner. “I see them on video chat. I talk with my granddaughter as often as I can.”
“She must be wonderful.”
“Thank you. She is a jewel in my life.”
“I bet. Do you have a picture I can see?”
He paused. “Perhaps I can show you another time.”
“Oh,” Suko said, flicking her eyes toward the doctor. “Because of this guy?”
“Yes. And the others.”
“What others? I’ve only seen three or four people since being here.”
“Many others come and go, some domestic help—technicians and contractors too.” His eyes registered a look of caution as he glanced at Joiner and back again. In English, Hiru said, “Thank you for complimenting my food. It is a pleasure to cook for you.” And with that, he bowed again and left.
Joiner immediately spoke up. “What was all that gibberish about?” he asked, somewhat harshly. “Did he say anything about his surgery?”
“What?—no. We were just talking about his training and his work. Speaking of work, I’m long overdue at my lab at PSU. When do I get to talk to Mitch?”
“When Edgar says so,” he snapped with sudden animosity. “He’s still not convinced of your honesty. And, frankly, neither am I.”
She pretended to be shocked. “When have I been dishonest with you?”
“You said you know nothing of Dr. Pine’s research, yet you compiled all of his data. You said you’re willing to cooperate, yet you continually dodge questions relating to Dr. Pine’s conclusions. And just now you said you were talking to Hiru about his work. I heard you mention the Cordon Bleu, but I also recognized other words: sofu, which means grandfather, and kazoku, which means family. Until you’re completely honest and fully comply with Edgar’s requests, I doubt he’ll grant you yours.”
His bitterness raised her temper. “So don’t hold my breath, right?”
He smiled without humor. “Unless someone is holding your head underwater.”
She blinked hard. “Is that a threat?”
“Strongly implied.”
She glared at him. “Geez, Doc, what’s with the sudden hostility? I thought we were tight.”
“I’d like to be, but you need to start working with us instead of against us. Edgar is far more intelligent than you think. He knows you have an eidetic memory.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Your command of stats strongly suggests you do. And since you’ve been privy to all of Dr. Pine’s research, we’re convinced you’re holding back. I find that personally offensive.”
Suko huffed with unchecked apathy. “After what you did to me? Dude, I don’t really care if I hurt your feel-bads.”
“You need to be more cooperative.”
“And if I’m not, then what? Waterboarding? More experimental surgery in your little Dr. Frankenstein hospital?”
His eyes suddenly took on a look similar to Edgar’s, cold and without remorse. In slow, measured words, he hissed, “Do not mock my brilliance.”
“Or else what?” she spat.
The doctor pulled an implant remote from his pocket, made sure she saw it, grinned, and then pushed the button.
Chapter 22
Dublin, Ireland
Mitch sat up straighter at the words fiery manifestations from heaven. “Wait. You’re saying you believe your legends are based on shooting stars?”
O’Brien nodded. “Among other things, yes, I am. Although, falling stars is a more accurate way to describe them.”
“What legends are we talking about?” Kiana asked. “I’m no historian, but I don’t recall any that talk about falling stars.”
“That’s because the people of the time didn’t know what they saw,” the Trinity professor explained, folding his arms. “Are ya familiar with the Irish god Lugh?”
“No,” Mitch and Kiana answered simultaneously.
“Lugh is known as the shining god or the god of light. There’re actually several gods in European folklore that hold this title: Lyon in France, Lugo in Spain, Lyr in Wales, Leyden in the Netherlands. This is not to say these gods are simply enlightened; the name implies they are literally made of light.”
“So . . . not really human,” Kiana surmised.
“Correct. To support that assumption, the first question one should ask is why do ya suppose all ancient cultures tell of the visit of a ‘shining god of light’? And not just in Europe. Asia and the Americas have similar deity.” He held up an index finger. “Keep in mind, this was during a time when regular communication between countries and nations was all but nonexistent. Also remember that if ya try to look back at pre- and medieval history using today’s understanding, then you automatically taint your perspective with bias, ya? Strange happenings well-understood today, such as tsunamis and falling stars, the aurora borealis, and even severe droughts and floods, were ascribed to angry gods or battles between titans back then. They simply didn’t know any better. Then time passed, and those events became legend. As I said: they didn’t know what they saw, so they explained it in a way that made sense to them.”
Mitch could tell the man was warming into his lecturer mode. His words were said with conviction and surety. Hafthór had voiced the same tone when talking about volcanos. Mitch wondered if he sounded the same when he lectured on dendrochronology.
“To paraphrase, the arrival of Lugh is almost singularly described as a warrior-god, rising from the west, whose face shone so brightly man could not look upon it, who rode a flaming horse at great speed, and who carried a sword spouting flames of power and might. These descriptions are common throughout the world, ya? In Asian countries the deity is often replaced with a large serpent or dragon.”
“Couldn’t they simply be talking about the sun itself?” Kiana asked.
“No, lass, because the sun rises from the east, not the west, nor does it cause the destruction referred to in so many accounts. The sun is always written about as a single entity which moves at a set pace. Lugh, on the other hand, was always seen traversing the sky at speed, and usually with a sword or a tail or a long arm extending from his body. More than that, nearly all accounts say Lugh was as ‘bright as the sun,’ indicating he wasn’t the sun itself, you see?”
“Huh,” Kiana said, frowning in concentration. “So is that where the Mayas’ feathered-serpent legend comes from?”
O’Brien smiled at her, clearly impressed with her connection. “No, Miss Rosemont, Kukulkan was most likely a different cometary event than that of Lugh. You see, it all comes down to timing, ya? The Kukulkan legend and its Aztec equivalent, Quetzalcoatl, roughly originated around 30 ad. Most British and European god legends take place much later, in relatively identical time periods with one another—that is, at the beginning of the Iron Age.”
Mitch cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Professor, but did you say ‘cometary’ event?”
O’Brien smiled broadly and gave a long wink. “Aye, lad. That I did.”
“Comets?” Kiana exclaimed. “So you’re saying this god Lugh was actually a comet?”
“Not just Lugh, Miss Rosemont. If you look at descriptions of the many characters of legend, you can see similar elements in them all. Even Lancelot, Merlin, King Arthur and his sword, Excalibur, were all based on cometary sightings and near-earth events.”
“Wh-at?” she sputtered. “You’re saying King Arthur was a—a comet?”
“His legend was inspired by a comet, yes.”
Mitch chimed in. “If I’m not mistaken, Professor, I believe even King Arthur’s father was said to have had interactions with comets. His father was Uther Pendragon, correct? I read somewhere that Uther acquired the moniker ‘Pendragon’ when he saw a dragon-shaped comet, which allegedly predicted his glorious monarchy. It also inspired him to use dragons on all his military standards, right?”
O’Brien’s mouth opened halfway, but no sound came out. His eyes shone with astonishment and delight. But there was also a question in his gaze.
“Or am I wrong?” Mitch continued, wondering if his history was off.
“Nay, lad, you are spot-on. But how in the blessed name of St. Patrick did you know that?”
Mitch gave Kiana a sideways glance. “I’m a paleo-epidemiologist. As you said, Professor, a lot of strange stuff comes up in prehistory writings, whether it’s relevant to your research or not.”
“Saints be praised.”
“Okay, but I still don’t see the connection,” Kiana complained. “I’ve seen lots of instances where people are described as shining like the sun. How does a common description prove a cometary event?”
“Have you heard of them described as ‘spurting malignant mists and red, vaporous clouds boiling from their heads’?” O’Brien asked, his voice becoming more animated in the telling. “Because that’s how the god Cúchulainn is described in Irish legend. It’s said a halo rose from his brow, long and broad as a warrior’s whetstone, and he went about the sky rattling his shields, urging on his charioteer and harassing the hosts of earth. Also, he—” O’Brien paused abruptly. “One moment, please.”
The professor rose and pulled a book from one of his many shelves. Opening to a well-worn page, he continued in the same excited tone. “In reference to Cúchulainn, this says, ‘Then, tall and thick, high as the mast of a kingly ship, there rose from the center of his skull a straight spout of black blood, magically smoking like the smoke from a royal hostel welcoming its king.’ And all this was done from a flying chariot as he battled against the armies of Ireland, decimating vast tracts of land, killing thousands, and coming away with nary a scratch on his person! Now, does that sound like a mortal man to you, Miss Rosemont?”
Mitch chortled. “It certainly doesn’t to me.”
Kiana raised both palms. “Okay, okay. Hold on a sec. One: no, it doesn’t sound mortal at all. Two: who is Cúchulainn? And three: when did this become you guys against me?”
Mitch smiled, and O’Brien actually laughed, his cheeks coloring. “Forgive me, lass. I didn’t mean to accost you. As is no mystery, I am enormously passionate about my work.”
Kiana gave a relieved chuckle along with him. “Perhaps that’s why Edgar wanted us to meet you.”
“Edgar, Miss Rosemont?”
She waved it off. “Never mind. You still haven’t told me who
Cúchulainn is.”
O’Brien turned to Mitch. “Professor Pine?”
He held up his palms too. “Nope. No idea on this one.”
“Cúchulainn is a main character in one of the cycles of Ulster, the classic tales of the creation of Ireland, both political and physical. My point is, there never was a lad named Cúchulainn. But he is not merely myth either. He is pure legend, of a truth, because there is a documented event that inspired his creation. I gave you the simplified version,” he admitted, holding up the book in his hand. “If you were to read the full account of his life, it is incredibly detailed and quite graphic.”
“Yes, but couldn’t the author have just made up those details?” Kiana argued. “I mean, I’ve met a few fiction authors. Their heads are filled with all sorts of crazy stuff. This guy Cúchulainn just sounds like any other superhero to me. Have you ever read any Marvel comics?”
