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Chapter Fifteen

It was hard to think with the ringing in his ears. Nothing musical about it either, just an annoying, high pitched, and constant jingling, a querulous phone that could never be answered.

He muttered against it, shook his head, and opened his eyes.

Still on the tor. Storm overhead. Stink in the air.

Work to do.

Richard was fairly sure they'd not been struck by the otherworldly lightning. That would have killed even him. Maybe it had, and he'd not figured it out yet.

No, he hurt too much to be dead. And there was that bloody ringing. It seemed to be fading. He swallowed and worked his jaw to make his ears pop.

That helped. Work to do. Things to do.

And chances were the first man on his feet would be the one to walk out of here.

There was Bourland standing over him.

Unless . . . it was all over.

Bourland had the Grail, holding it protectively, but gingerly, as though it might break. He looked worse for wear and shaken, but there was a grim light in his eyes. What was that? Triumph? "You all right?" he whispered.

That was still under consideration. "Charon? Where is he—?"

"You got him. He's had it."

He wanted to laugh, but Richard had to see to believe. Bourland helped him up again, and Richard leaned on him to hobble over.

Charon lay sprawled partway on his side, skewered through his chest. Whatever energies he'd pulled in were leaking out along with his blood. His whole body seemed to be slowly deflating, his stolen health turning into extreme emaciation. Only his eyes retained their strength, burning with life and madness. He stared around, bewildered, and singlemindedly reached out.

Bourland hastily stepped backward, still holding the Grail like a baby. "Can we leave now?"

"We kill him first."

Richard looked for and found Charon's sword. He hefted it experimentally, and thought about what he needed for the task. The shape and length of the blade changed, along with its weight. It acquired a wickedly, visibly sharp edge, and the balance felt off, tip-heavy. It wasn't a weapon for fighting, but of execution.

"What are you—?" Bourland stared, horrified.

"Beheading," Richard answered shortly. "Always does the job. Don't look if you don't want to."

"But—"

He gazed steadily at his friend. "You know my history, this kind of violence has been part of it. Take the Grail and get clear. I don't want his blood defiling it."

Bourland got out of range, and Richard raised the sword, two-handed. He glared down at Charon, who yet lived, but only just. His breath rasped hard, and blood bubbled from his mouth. He would likely die within minutes anyway, Richard was only shortening the process with this finality. It didn't seem right, too quick compared to the deaths the bastard had given to who knows how many thousands of others—and one in particular.

Charon choked and coughed blood, and spat out a word: "Michael!"

Richard paused, alert for a threat. "What about him?"

"Give him. The Grail."

What the hell . . . ? "Why?"

"Only one with . . . the right . . ."

"What do you mean?" Richard risked coming closer to hear, ready to get out of reach if necessary.

Charon struggled for another breath, eyelids at half-mast. "We both . . . loved her."

Richard gaped in shock, felt ice form in his veins. Oh, no. Nonono . . . 

He whirled.

Bourland's face was alight with cheerful mischief. He mimed pointing a gun at Richard, winked, and smirked. "Gotcha!"

No! Richard launched like a sprinter, but Charon made a sweeping gesture and smashed him to the side. The invisible force was hard as iron.

"Hoo-boy!" he laughed, twisting Bourland's voice out of shape in a cross between a giggle and a chuckle. "Shoulda thought of this one before, but couldn't do a soul-swap on that Side. Didn't know if it'd work either, but, man-o-man-o, what a delivery. I can do all right with this dude, not too old, not too young. I'll find me a sweet little fang-girl to do the honors and just keep going and going. Think Pocahontas back home'll find me sexy?"

Not going to happen.  

Charon must have had some knowledge of their way back. A shadowy shimmering began forming behind him, marking the path to the circle and the fire. Iona and Michael would have seen everything, would know what Charon had done. He'd kill them. This avatar here would return to Bourland's Realside body, then he'd use his gun on them both. Michael would die, Iona would be slowed enough by the bullets for Charon to finish her off with a piece of splintered firewood. He didn't dare keep her alive, even to make a blood exchange.

No. Absolutely not going to happen.

Dazed, Richard strove to pull himself up, find that sword . . . no, it would be useless, think distance. A crossbow? With an iron bolt. Only one shot, but if he moved fast it would be enough. If he could just focus.

"A switch like this is perfect." Charon giggled again, giddy. "My old body gets expelled back to Realside, I take off and disappear myself. Your oh-so-important balance is restored. Everyone wins. Even Mommy Nature can't object to that arrangement. Dickie-boy, I am grateful! I'll see to it you get a champion's send-off. There's a nice symmetry to it. You and your greatest enemy slaying each other on the field of honor, very heroic. They'll be weeping in the aisles for that one. I'll write an opera about it just for you."

Richard shut his eyes, the better to recall what it felt like to hold a crossbow, remembering the weight, the positioning of his arms. The goddess provided. When he next looked he had exactly what he wanted in his hands.

Charon was unimpressed. "Kill me and you kill your bud."

"He'd want this."

"Yeah, sure, give it your best shot—I mean it!" But he stepped back; the smoky and vaguely circular opening of the path behind him grew larger, much larger than was needed. It dilated twice his height and kept growing. Why was that?

"Wait!"

"Wa'for? I got me a hot date waitin'." The opening began to envelope his shoulders like smoke. He took another step back.

Had to get to him before he went through, had to—

But it went still larger. Very much larger. Enormous.

Richard had no Sight, but good instincts, and he thought he felt the coming of a pressure wave. He threw himself clear and rolled.

Just in time.

He glimpsed Charon being knocked over by the wave, which saved him, otherwise he'd have been struck by the god's passage as it hurtled out of the shadows. The thing was grown far more huge than in Richard's vision, and the portal widened considerably to accommodate a great coiled knot in its body. Its gaudy scales glittered like jewels, reflecting the lightning and seeming to hold its white fire like an afterimage.

With the majestic delicacy of an oversized train coming to a precise stop, Kukulcan slowed and hovered a mere ten feet up, his bulk between the tor and the storm, cutting the wind and creating night shadow below. Richard was right under it. If the thing decided to land . . .

Movement. Only the knot lowered until a portion of it touched the earth, then the coils relaxed, the muscles beneath hypnotically rippling. Their form changed, widened, stretched out, and lifted. Standing where they'd touched was Sharon Geary, looking rumpled, but otherwise alive and well.

"Mother of God!" She puffed, staggering, then caught her balance. She looked unsteadily up at the serpent. "Wherever this is, thank ye, sir! Thank ye!" Then she dropped flat.

Kukulcan, if he heard, made no sign, rising straight up into the thick of the storm. Lightning licked his flanks, seeming to go into him, be absorbed. In seconds he was hidden by the clouds.

Richard was on his feet, dashing toward Sharon. She was conscious and showed no great surprise at seeing him, gazing up with a crazed smile.

"There ye are, ye great clot, looking just like yourself. Where's that bastard Rivers? I'm gonna throttle him."

"Promises, promises," said Bourland. Charon. He was winded, but in charge. He pointed at Richard. "Don't move." There was power in the words.

Richard tried to lift the crossbow, but nothing happened. He'd been on this Side too long, its reality had grown too strong . . .

Sharon struggled up, glaring. "You! I know who you are under that skin you're wearin'. "

Charon pointed casually at her. "You—put a sock in it."

Her green eyes seethed pure fury. "To the devil with ye!"

He didn't expect that. "I said shut up, Sherrie-pie, or I'll spank you. Shut up and don't move." 

"Bloody idiot." She tried to pry the crossbow from Richard's petrified grasp. "I spend God knows how long in the company of a deity like that and you think I can be bothered listenin' to the likes of you? Richard, give this damned contraption over or I'll—"

Charon grabbed her hair, yanking her away. "Hey, baby, did you forget who's boss here?"

She snarled and slammed the heel of her palm under his chin. His teeth clicked together and his head snapped up. She broke free and followed through with a sidekick to his belly. He folded and fell back.

"God, I HATE that man!" She started after him.

He made a quick, outward-sweeping gesture. That stopped her if nothing else could. She was thrown to one side, made an oof sound when she landed and rolled several times from the momentum.

Richard willed himself to thaw. If she could ignore that voice, so could he. He dragged one foot free, then the other. He still had the crossbow, bringing it up, aiming.

But Charon moved nimbly away, apparently choosing flight over fight to be the wisest course. He headed for the opening, which was fast shrinking. It reduced down close to man-size and stopped. The shadows floating on what might be its surface lost some of their darkness. A silvery sheen replaced most of them until it looked like water under moonlight, improbably vertical. The light flared across the uneven ground like glittering mist.

The change made Charon hesitate before going into it, staring up and around, suspicious. "Okay, Big Mamacita—what's your game? Think with Snaky along to help with the cooking you can fry me? Cold day in hell, cooold day in—"

The silver brightened, turned gold, and a tall and lean figure stepped through. The fiery radiance about his body was like a sunrise in that last moment just before the light becomes too intense to directly look upon. Apparently, even at that level, it was too much for Charon, who cried out, and threw an arm over his eyes.

"Michael," Richard whispered.

But that was only one facet of the young man's face. In it Richard also saw the visages of his long-dead son Michel, of Galahad, and dozens of others. Many, many lives. One great soul. Richard had known that truth in his heart, but it was quite another thing to see the actuality. This was the boy's Otherside self.

Clad in gold with an upheld sword like his archangel namesake, Michael reached forward and pulled the Grail from Charon's grasp. Charon tried to resist, tried to strike him, but Michael raised the sword but a little higher and the gesture alone knocked the man right over. He howled against the blast of light, rolling as though on fire.

Michael's gaze swept over Richard and came to rest on the wreckage of what had been Charon's body.

Richard thought he understood what was wanted and went over, kneeling by the dying man.

"Philip . . . ?" He hardly dared hope for a response.

Bourland's eyelids fluttered. He had no breath for speech, what remained was shallow and bubbled blood.

"Oh, God. Hang on and remember where your real body is."

Richard grasped the sword and as gently as he could, pulled it clear, but there was no way to make it easy for his friend. It had to be done so the metal wouldn't interfere . . .

Michael stalked forward until he stood between Charon and Bourland, and held the Grail high. Flashing straight down from the storm came a pure white blast of lightning, far greater than the power Charon had ever summoned. It danced within the cup and splashed out shards of brilliance that split themselves, then split again, fanning out, growing, joining.

A dozen yards away, Charon shrieked in Bourland's voice.

One of the shards leapt between him and his cast-off body. Richard caught some of the tingling shock, just the edge, enough to stand his hair on end. He winced and blinked. His sight cleared. Everything cleared. He took a breath of air, and it was like spring sunlight and honey.

The effect spread outward from them in a growing ring, following the contours of the ground. The storm in miniature fled from where Michael stood, and where it touched, the earth seemed to ripple and revive. Dead and blasted patches recovered their green life, even the hole Charon had made digging with his knife filled in as though it'd never been.

Charon was the only thing unaffected by the healing. He was back in his wasted body again, glaring venom at Richard. "You fucking pricks, do you know what you've done to me?"

Richard didn't care, caught up in the awe of what was happening. It's not every day one gets to see the forces of the universe at work. Then he sensed a swoop of his own restored strength. One of Charon's claws grasped his arm. Feeding, feeding. Richard tore free while he could and went to see to Sharon. She was already on her feet, open-mouthed at the show.

"D'ye believe it?" she asked in wonder. "It's beautiful."

"Indeed," he whispered, looking at her. For an instant he wanted to put his arms around her. A terrific longing washed over him, familiar, once treasured, but now the core of unbearable pain. All that he'd gone through since that night in the hospital was nothing compared to it.

Yes, it was an unlooked-for miracle to have Sharon back, but Sabra was gone.

He searched the sky, hoping. Of all places it would be here that she could manifest some sign of her presence. He called to her in his mind, called desperately, but the void within remained unfilled and silent.

Above, the storm abated. The clouds and whatever things might have been hiding or held in them began to dissipate. The bolt of lightning that filled and overflowed the Holy Cup retreated.

Michael stood unhurt, even smiling, and lowered his arm.

Despite the wound and blood loss, Charon made an effort to crawl toward him. He'd gone truly skeletal, panting, struggling with the now sweet air. The only thing keeping him going must have been will alone.

"Help me," he rasped.

Michael looked down upon him, his smile gentle yet terrible. "Do you truly want my help?"

Charon teetered, doubt clear on what was left of his face. Then finally, "Yeah, kid. Help me."

"You'll have to earn it. And that will take awhile."

"Wha—no, don't . . . don't leave me. Dammit, don't . . ."

Michael turned and walked toward the opening, passing Bourland, who was just sitting up. He stared at the young man, almost speaking, but holding off. What could be said?

"Come away," said Michael, his voice carrying to all of them.

Leaving seemed a very good idea. Richard went over and helped Bourland stand. "You all right?"

Bourland had no words, but his expression was eloquent, as in What a damn-fool question to ask. 

Sharon balked, pointing to Charon. "We just leave him?"

"He's to be looked after, I think," said Richard.

Stars shone down steady in the cold, still air. The storm was gone, its stinking clouds quite vanished. In their stead was Kukulcan, his length compressed into a multiple S-shape, improbably floating, watching them with calm, black and ever-open eyes. The air was chill, fresh . . . if just slightly tainted with the scent of snake.

His massive head came lower and lower, body gracefully stretching and twisting, until it was right over Charon, who hadn't quite realized what was going on. The serpent made an almost leisurely strike.

Richard held his breath, expecting a final scream, but none came.

"He won't be back for awhile," said Michael. He looked sad, but oddly optimistic. "Has a lot to learn."

Kukulcan rose high, turning to the west and south, and soared away. It took a long time before he ceased to be visible. Richard saw a last tiny glint of green and gold wink in the distance.

Some things are worse than dying; having your soul eaten is one of them.  

"Good riddance," muttered Sharon. She stood next to Richard and somehow or another his arm had come to be around her shoulders. When had that happened?

Michael walked through the opening, vanishing to the other Side. Bourland waited on them, looking drawn, and little wonder. He'd seen, felt, and gone through things he'd rather not learned about.

"Shall we go home?" he asked.

The clearing behind the cabin was the same, but the fire had died down, and instead of clouds, a butter-yellow full moon shone upon them. It was still very cold, which was the subject of Sharon's first comment, once she picked herself up out of the snow within the circle and dusted off. Her clothes were fine for the Yucatán in winter, but not here.

Richard came to himself standing exactly in the same place where the sage smoke had swirled around him. He rocked on his feet when he opened his eyes and it took a moment to orient to his home reality. What a trip.

Bourland was also the same, his expensive suit no worse for wear, which could not be said of what happened to its Otherside version. He blinked and looked around, clearly unsettled again. "Is it over?"

Iona opened her eyes and stiffly lowered her arms. "Pretty much." Acting as their anchor on this Side had obviously exhausted her. She slumped, and Michael—minus the sword, but with the Grail in hand—went to her, catching her just in time.

Dammit—he did look taller.

They trooped tiredly into the warm kitchen. Sharon looked about with curiosity, then pounced on an open bag of cookies on one of the counters.

She scarfed down two and began a third, but paused to clear her throat. "Ye'll be tellin' me what this is about, right?"

"In detail," Richard promised.

"Good. Wouldn't have it any other way. Where are we?"

"Just north of Toronto."

She took it rather well, considering.

Michael slid into his favorite chair at the kitchen table and placed the Grail in the center. They spent a long, quiet, somber moment looking at it. It showed no sign of change, no damage, shining in and of itself in their midst. Flawless, constant.

Then Michael looked up, beaming at them all. "Hey—was that totally cool or what?"

Hours later, Richard dressed silently in the pre-dawn dark, not wanting to disturb Sharon, who was asleep in his bed.

It could be their bed. Sharon had made it clear she could be persuaded to settle down for good with him now. She'd not been ready before. Her recent experience had sharply delineated her priorities.

Richard's, too. He'd fought his last great battle; he would fight no more.

Things would be just fine, he thought.

Bourland and Richard had talked many things over during the drive back to Toronto from the cottage. They'd each been too wired to rest, and so they sketched out that which had to be done. Most of it would be in Bourland's yard. He had the talent and contacts for it.

Sharon had dozed in the back seat of the van. Michael had elected to stay at the cottage with Iona. Apparently they also had much talking to do. The boy was elated from his sojourn to Otherside. He wanted to know more. He was in good hands.

As was the Grail. Safe once more.

With Bourland's help, life would indeed get back to a more or less normal footing. For the time being She-Who-Walks would take up residence in Sabra's cottage under the name of Iona Walker. Michael and Bourland looked to be regular and frequent visitors.

The Rainbow bridge explosion would doubtless continue as a media mystery, but would fade from the public consciousness as no new leads were discovered. The luckless cab driver would be memorialized with an educational fund set up in his name; the identity of the man who went tumbling into the Niagara river would remain unknown, his body never to be recovered. The people who participated in the rescue effort were already sworn to secrecy for reasons of national security. Bourland's friend Frank would also be very supportive about obtaining the cooperation of his own people. The sunglasses group were silent by nature and necessity and would vanish from the radar entirely.

They'd worked it all out by the time Bourland dropped them at Richard's Neville Park house. It was good to have things all tidied.

He and Sharon trudged arm in arm up the steps, went in, went upstairs and collapsed. He did not sleep, though. His heart and mind still thrummed as he lay next to her.

Richard rested, considered, mourned, and decided to carry on with the decision he'd already made for himself. He'd fought his last battle, he would fight no more, nor would he live on without Sabra. There was much comfort in that for him.

He looked at Sharon; sadness welled up in him. She was very beautiful, long limbs and red hair and bright spirit sprawled artlessly in the tangled sheets. They'd rested together, but not made love. Too exhausted, mentally and physically by their respective ordeals, the both of them, but it had been nice lying wrapped around her warmth in the dark.

He had vast regret about what this would do to her, but the others would be there for her. She was a strong woman, well on her way to swiftly getting over her experience. Much if it was already fading from her mind like a dream. She said she'd slept through most of it, which was likely for the best.

Richard left her, moving quietly as only he could, and crept from the bedroom.

And what of Michael? Well, he would be cared for and loved by Bourland and Iona, little to worry about there. Of all of them Michael would be the one who would understand Richard's actions the best. The likely irony was that he would comfort them.

Richard paused downstairs. No fire in his hearth, an unthinkable lapse in pre-modern times, now hardly anything to bother about. From the mantel he took down a heavy ceramic urn. Sabra's ashes. He hugged them close and went outside, hatless and coatless, carefully and quietly shutting the door behind.

Cold. Very cold it was. It would be colder still, shortly. He looked forward to it.

He trudged along the sidewalk to the end of the street, using the stair rail to the steps down to the beach, one at a time, slow. Silly, really, to take such care, but if he slipped on the ice and broke something it would delay him, and he'd waited long enough.

He labored across the mix of snow and sand, making his way to the cement groin. The beach was thankfully empty. This was a private thing. He wanted no witnesses, no well-intentioned interference.

He went to the very end of the cement construct and, without ceremony, without prayer, slowly poured Sabra's ashes out over the water.

The Goddess knows her own.  

A freezing wind from landward swirled them away from him, scattering them wide upon the lake's dark, gently surging surface.

Perfect. Sabra of the Lake, gone home again at last.

He gave a sudden painful shiver from the cold, but that was all right. Just part of the process. Life was harsh and laborious and the Otherside would be all the sweeter after his earthly strivings.

Richard put the urn carefully down and sat on the glacial cement with the wide metal edge, his long legs dangling over the chill water. It was very black in this pre-dawn dimness, hiding its mysteries well, but he would soon discover them. He faced east, patiently watching the horizon. He noticed the cold; it seemed unnaturally bitter to him, his shivering nearly constant, his teeth chattering violently. Not long. Not long...

All he had to do was wait. The sky was cooperating, free of clouds. All he had to do was wait and let the light work on him, weaken him. Even winter's pale orb was more than enough to overwhelm him, given time. He would resist it as long as possible, of course, resist until he was too wearied to sit up any longer. Then all he had to do was slip forward into the water . . . there were worse ways to die. Too weak to struggle against the acidlike burn of free flow, he would drift to the bottom and be content to stay there, welcoming death.

All he had to do was go to sleep and wait. He knew how to do that.

He breathed in the cold, cold air and held it for as long as he could, then puffed it out again, his starved lungs sucking in the fresh automatically. A little practice for what was to come. He'd hold his breath just this way down there, release, then pull in a draught of water. A painful shock at first, but he was confident in his ability to fight off the instinct to rise to the surface as he'd done before.

The horizon got lighter. He shut his eyes against the growing glare.

His bouts of shivering lessened, almost as though things were shutting down already. He'd not been out here long enough for his body temperature to drop, though. Perhaps his subconscious was being helpful.

He drowsed and smiled as the peace settled on him, smiled as the sun crept up, its deadly light saturating him.

But from the wrong direction. It seemed to be on his right, not in front of him. He blinked slowly awake and without much surprise saw Sabra sitting next to him. She was in her favorite jeans and a soft jersey the color of wheat. After all this waiting, all this silence, there she was, as though she'd turned up to take a morning walk with him.

She was a dream, of course, a last defense mechanism thrown out by his mind to talk him out of taking this path. In life he could deny her nothing, but this time, this one time he would have to refuse her.

But there is so much more yet for you to do, she whispered.

"Not without you," he said.

"Of course not. I will always be with you." Her supposedly ethereal presence had a physical effect, for he felt her grasp his hand. That was odd. "Our souls are still linked beyond all other mortal ties, you will never be without me."

"Why now?" he demanded. "Why have you not come to me before? I was in agony for you."

Her form wavered suddenly. Faded. He held his breath, for a different reason now. "Wait—don't leave!"

Gradually, she returned. Her brown eyes were sad. "That's why. Your grief blinded and deafened you to me. The peace you feel now has at last opened you up. You must go on, my Richard. You will go on."

"I cannot. The pain is gone from me only because I know I'll be with you again. The Goddess must see that and allow it."

"She sees more and farther than you have. The time has come for an ending, but not the one you think."

"What do you mean?"

"It's time for you to take the road you were denied before. You've been on such a long side-journey with me, but now the two roads are converged. As you move forward it will just happen."

"I don't understand."

"That night long ago, you gave up your original life, the original closing of your circle as a living man."

"If you'd not come to me that night, I'd have lived with defeat on my head for yielding, or I'd have died—by my own son's hand, no less."

"That would have been bad," she agreed. "But you and circumstances have changed over time."

"More than I can stomach. I will close my circle well enough in this manner. It serves." He watched the sunrise, loving the deadly heat.

I will love the coming heat, I will even love the burning.  

"No, my Richard. You will have children, and pass yourself and your memories on to them as other men do. You will help raise Michael and prepare him for his future. Dear Philip can't do it all on his own."

"Such matters are forever beyond my reach. They are not to be. That's the path I took that night."

She asked, "How long since you last fed?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. That woman in the lab . . . a long time."

Sabra smiled. A light shone from her, sweeter and more piercing than the sun. "Are you even hungry?"

He was, vaguely . . . but he would not be distracted. Today he would feed on thin, cold lake water and be glad of it.

"No, you won't. Not today or tomorrow," she said, responding to his thought with absolute certainty. She little by little shifted from sitting by his side, and hovered between him and the rising sun. She and it were of the same brightness. It was very like the glow Michael had given off on the Otherside.

Richard stood up, bathed in that loving warmth, spread his arms to it. He gloried in it until the light was too bright to bear, then shut his eyes to feel its heat pulsing upon his body.

The air was cold on his face. The chill was cleansing, like throwing open a window to sweep stale air from a sickroom. He felt like he'd never really breathed before, and gulped down great draughts of it. He waited for the flames to kindle, to overtake, to overcome him . . .

But they never came.

What was wrong?

He opened his eyes. It wasn't a dream, the sun was truly up now, and he'd stood long in its glare, long enough to summon the weakness, long enough for the fire to begin its consumption of his flesh.

But he continued unharmed.

Why?

He suddenly knew the answer. The Otherside battle. Michael holding the Grail, using its true power as it was meant to be used. It brought transformation to them all in one way or another, to a greater and lesser degree.

"It seems," he murmured, "It seems . . . I've been living in the past."

Sabra had told the truth. Ahead of him was a life he could never otherwise hoped to have. A life for himself, for Sharon, one with their children, and grandchildren . . .

It was all before him now. And Sabra would be there, too. In her own way, as ever she'd done before.

He felt laughter bubbling up within, a kind of joy so great he could burst from it, the kind of eager elation that saints spoke of in awe and gladness. He wanted to tell someone about it, anyone, even if they thought him mad.

Oh, my Richard, I know about it.

He saw a shimmering along the beach like a cloud of tiny crystals catching the sun. Laughter made visible. Dancing as though in celebration. Was it a swirling of snow particles . . . or Sabra, beckoning him to come and make a start on the new day?

No matter.

He quit his place and hurried his way back. He and Sharon had much talking to do, many plans to make. Happy plans.

A young man . . . he was only thirty-five . . .

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Framed

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Chapter Fifteen

It was hard to think with the ringing in his ears. Nothing musical about it either, just an annoying, high pitched, and constant jingling, a querulous phone that could never be answered.

He muttered against it, shook his head, and opened his eyes.

Still on the tor. Storm overhead. Stink in the air.

Work to do.

Richard was fairly sure they'd not been struck by the otherworldly lightning. That would have killed even him. Maybe it had, and he'd not figured it out yet.

No, he hurt too much to be dead. And there was that bloody ringing. It seemed to be fading. He swallowed and worked his jaw to make his ears pop.

That helped. Work to do. Things to do.

And chances were the first man on his feet would be the one to walk out of here.

There was Bourland standing over him.

Unless . . . it was all over.

Bourland had the Grail, holding it protectively, but gingerly, as though it might break. He looked worse for wear and shaken, but there was a grim light in his eyes. What was that? Triumph? "You all right?" he whispered.

That was still under consideration. "Charon? Where is he—?"

"You got him. He's had it."

He wanted to laugh, but Richard had to see to believe. Bourland helped him up again, and Richard leaned on him to hobble over.

Charon lay sprawled partway on his side, skewered through his chest. Whatever energies he'd pulled in were leaking out along with his blood. His whole body seemed to be slowly deflating, his stolen health turning into extreme emaciation. Only his eyes retained their strength, burning with life and madness. He stared around, bewildered, and singlemindedly reached out.

Bourland hastily stepped backward, still holding the Grail like a baby. "Can we leave now?"

"We kill him first."

Richard looked for and found Charon's sword. He hefted it experimentally, and thought about what he needed for the task. The shape and length of the blade changed, along with its weight. It acquired a wickedly, visibly sharp edge, and the balance felt off, tip-heavy. It wasn't a weapon for fighting, but of execution.

"What are you—?" Bourland stared, horrified.

"Beheading," Richard answered shortly. "Always does the job. Don't look if you don't want to."

"But—"

He gazed steadily at his friend. "You know my history, this kind of violence has been part of it. Take the Grail and get clear. I don't want his blood defiling it."

Bourland got out of range, and Richard raised the sword, two-handed. He glared down at Charon, who yet lived, but only just. His breath rasped hard, and blood bubbled from his mouth. He would likely die within minutes anyway, Richard was only shortening the process with this finality. It didn't seem right, too quick compared to the deaths the bastard had given to who knows how many thousands of others—and one in particular.

Charon choked and coughed blood, and spat out a word: "Michael!"

Richard paused, alert for a threat. "What about him?"

"Give him. The Grail."

What the hell . . . ? "Why?"

"Only one with . . . the right . . ."

"What do you mean?" Richard risked coming closer to hear, ready to get out of reach if necessary.

Charon struggled for another breath, eyelids at half-mast. "We both . . . loved her."

Richard gaped in shock, felt ice form in his veins. Oh, no. Nonono . . . 

He whirled.

Bourland's face was alight with cheerful mischief. He mimed pointing a gun at Richard, winked, and smirked. "Gotcha!"

No! Richard launched like a sprinter, but Charon made a sweeping gesture and smashed him to the side. The invisible force was hard as iron.

"Hoo-boy!" he laughed, twisting Bourland's voice out of shape in a cross between a giggle and a chuckle. "Shoulda thought of this one before, but couldn't do a soul-swap on that Side. Didn't know if it'd work either, but, man-o-man-o, what a delivery. I can do all right with this dude, not too old, not too young. I'll find me a sweet little fang-girl to do the honors and just keep going and going. Think Pocahontas back home'll find me sexy?"

Not going to happen.  

Charon must have had some knowledge of their way back. A shadowy shimmering began forming behind him, marking the path to the circle and the fire. Iona and Michael would have seen everything, would know what Charon had done. He'd kill them. This avatar here would return to Bourland's Realside body, then he'd use his gun on them both. Michael would die, Iona would be slowed enough by the bullets for Charon to finish her off with a piece of splintered firewood. He didn't dare keep her alive, even to make a blood exchange.

No. Absolutely not going to happen.

Dazed, Richard strove to pull himself up, find that sword . . . no, it would be useless, think distance. A crossbow? With an iron bolt. Only one shot, but if he moved fast it would be enough. If he could just focus.

"A switch like this is perfect." Charon giggled again, giddy. "My old body gets expelled back to Realside, I take off and disappear myself. Your oh-so-important balance is restored. Everyone wins. Even Mommy Nature can't object to that arrangement. Dickie-boy, I am grateful! I'll see to it you get a champion's send-off. There's a nice symmetry to it. You and your greatest enemy slaying each other on the field of honor, very heroic. They'll be weeping in the aisles for that one. I'll write an opera about it just for you."

Richard shut his eyes, the better to recall what it felt like to hold a crossbow, remembering the weight, the positioning of his arms. The goddess provided. When he next looked he had exactly what he wanted in his hands.

Charon was unimpressed. "Kill me and you kill your bud."

"He'd want this."

"Yeah, sure, give it your best shot—I mean it!" But he stepped back; the smoky and vaguely circular opening of the path behind him grew larger, much larger than was needed. It dilated twice his height and kept growing. Why was that?

"Wait!"

"Wa'for? I got me a hot date waitin'." The opening began to envelope his shoulders like smoke. He took another step back.

Had to get to him before he went through, had to—

But it went still larger. Very much larger. Enormous.

Richard had no Sight, but good instincts, and he thought he felt the coming of a pressure wave. He threw himself clear and rolled.

Just in time.

He glimpsed Charon being knocked over by the wave, which saved him, otherwise he'd have been struck by the god's passage as it hurtled out of the shadows. The thing was grown far more huge than in Richard's vision, and the portal widened considerably to accommodate a great coiled knot in its body. Its gaudy scales glittered like jewels, reflecting the lightning and seeming to hold its white fire like an afterimage.

With the majestic delicacy of an oversized train coming to a precise stop, Kukulcan slowed and hovered a mere ten feet up, his bulk between the tor and the storm, cutting the wind and creating night shadow below. Richard was right under it. If the thing decided to land . . .

Movement. Only the knot lowered until a portion of it touched the earth, then the coils relaxed, the muscles beneath hypnotically rippling. Their form changed, widened, stretched out, and lifted. Standing where they'd touched was Sharon Geary, looking rumpled, but otherwise alive and well.

"Mother of God!" She puffed, staggering, then caught her balance. She looked unsteadily up at the serpent. "Wherever this is, thank ye, sir! Thank ye!" Then she dropped flat.

Kukulcan, if he heard, made no sign, rising straight up into the thick of the storm. Lightning licked his flanks, seeming to go into him, be absorbed. In seconds he was hidden by the clouds.

Richard was on his feet, dashing toward Sharon. She was conscious and showed no great surprise at seeing him, gazing up with a crazed smile.

"There ye are, ye great clot, looking just like yourself. Where's that bastard Rivers? I'm gonna throttle him."

"Promises, promises," said Bourland. Charon. He was winded, but in charge. He pointed at Richard. "Don't move." There was power in the words.

Richard tried to lift the crossbow, but nothing happened. He'd been on this Side too long, its reality had grown too strong . . .

Sharon struggled up, glaring. "You! I know who you are under that skin you're wearin'. "

Charon pointed casually at her. "You—put a sock in it."

Her green eyes seethed pure fury. "To the devil with ye!"

He didn't expect that. "I said shut up, Sherrie-pie, or I'll spank you. Shut up and don't move." 

"Bloody idiot." She tried to pry the crossbow from Richard's petrified grasp. "I spend God knows how long in the company of a deity like that and you think I can be bothered listenin' to the likes of you? Richard, give this damned contraption over or I'll—"

Charon grabbed her hair, yanking her away. "Hey, baby, did you forget who's boss here?"

She snarled and slammed the heel of her palm under his chin. His teeth clicked together and his head snapped up. She broke free and followed through with a sidekick to his belly. He folded and fell back.

"God, I HATE that man!" She started after him.

He made a quick, outward-sweeping gesture. That stopped her if nothing else could. She was thrown to one side, made an oof sound when she landed and rolled several times from the momentum.

Richard willed himself to thaw. If she could ignore that voice, so could he. He dragged one foot free, then the other. He still had the crossbow, bringing it up, aiming.

But Charon moved nimbly away, apparently choosing flight over fight to be the wisest course. He headed for the opening, which was fast shrinking. It reduced down close to man-size and stopped. The shadows floating on what might be its surface lost some of their darkness. A silvery sheen replaced most of them until it looked like water under moonlight, improbably vertical. The light flared across the uneven ground like glittering mist.

The change made Charon hesitate before going into it, staring up and around, suspicious. "Okay, Big Mamacita—what's your game? Think with Snaky along to help with the cooking you can fry me? Cold day in hell, cooold day in—"

The silver brightened, turned gold, and a tall and lean figure stepped through. The fiery radiance about his body was like a sunrise in that last moment just before the light becomes too intense to directly look upon. Apparently, even at that level, it was too much for Charon, who cried out, and threw an arm over his eyes.

"Michael," Richard whispered.

But that was only one facet of the young man's face. In it Richard also saw the visages of his long-dead son Michel, of Galahad, and dozens of others. Many, many lives. One great soul. Richard had known that truth in his heart, but it was quite another thing to see the actuality. This was the boy's Otherside self.

Clad in gold with an upheld sword like his archangel namesake, Michael reached forward and pulled the Grail from Charon's grasp. Charon tried to resist, tried to strike him, but Michael raised the sword but a little higher and the gesture alone knocked the man right over. He howled against the blast of light, rolling as though on fire.

Michael's gaze swept over Richard and came to rest on the wreckage of what had been Charon's body.

Richard thought he understood what was wanted and went over, kneeling by the dying man.

"Philip . . . ?" He hardly dared hope for a response.

Bourland's eyelids fluttered. He had no breath for speech, what remained was shallow and bubbled blood.

"Oh, God. Hang on and remember where your real body is."

Richard grasped the sword and as gently as he could, pulled it clear, but there was no way to make it easy for his friend. It had to be done so the metal wouldn't interfere . . .

Michael stalked forward until he stood between Charon and Bourland, and held the Grail high. Flashing straight down from the storm came a pure white blast of lightning, far greater than the power Charon had ever summoned. It danced within the cup and splashed out shards of brilliance that split themselves, then split again, fanning out, growing, joining.

A dozen yards away, Charon shrieked in Bourland's voice.

One of the shards leapt between him and his cast-off body. Richard caught some of the tingling shock, just the edge, enough to stand his hair on end. He winced and blinked. His sight cleared. Everything cleared. He took a breath of air, and it was like spring sunlight and honey.

The effect spread outward from them in a growing ring, following the contours of the ground. The storm in miniature fled from where Michael stood, and where it touched, the earth seemed to ripple and revive. Dead and blasted patches recovered their green life, even the hole Charon had made digging with his knife filled in as though it'd never been.

Charon was the only thing unaffected by the healing. He was back in his wasted body again, glaring venom at Richard. "You fucking pricks, do you know what you've done to me?"

Richard didn't care, caught up in the awe of what was happening. It's not every day one gets to see the forces of the universe at work. Then he sensed a swoop of his own restored strength. One of Charon's claws grasped his arm. Feeding, feeding. Richard tore free while he could and went to see to Sharon. She was already on her feet, open-mouthed at the show.

"D'ye believe it?" she asked in wonder. "It's beautiful."

"Indeed," he whispered, looking at her. For an instant he wanted to put his arms around her. A terrific longing washed over him, familiar, once treasured, but now the core of unbearable pain. All that he'd gone through since that night in the hospital was nothing compared to it.

Yes, it was an unlooked-for miracle to have Sharon back, but Sabra was gone.

He searched the sky, hoping. Of all places it would be here that she could manifest some sign of her presence. He called to her in his mind, called desperately, but the void within remained unfilled and silent.

Above, the storm abated. The clouds and whatever things might have been hiding or held in them began to dissipate. The bolt of lightning that filled and overflowed the Holy Cup retreated.

Michael stood unhurt, even smiling, and lowered his arm.

Despite the wound and blood loss, Charon made an effort to crawl toward him. He'd gone truly skeletal, panting, struggling with the now sweet air. The only thing keeping him going must have been will alone.

"Help me," he rasped.

Michael looked down upon him, his smile gentle yet terrible. "Do you truly want my help?"

Charon teetered, doubt clear on what was left of his face. Then finally, "Yeah, kid. Help me."

"You'll have to earn it. And that will take awhile."

"Wha—no, don't . . . don't leave me. Dammit, don't . . ."

Michael turned and walked toward the opening, passing Bourland, who was just sitting up. He stared at the young man, almost speaking, but holding off. What could be said?

"Come away," said Michael, his voice carrying to all of them.

Leaving seemed a very good idea. Richard went over and helped Bourland stand. "You all right?"

Bourland had no words, but his expression was eloquent, as in What a damn-fool question to ask. 

Sharon balked, pointing to Charon. "We just leave him?"

"He's to be looked after, I think," said Richard.

Stars shone down steady in the cold, still air. The storm was gone, its stinking clouds quite vanished. In their stead was Kukulcan, his length compressed into a multiple S-shape, improbably floating, watching them with calm, black and ever-open eyes. The air was chill, fresh . . . if just slightly tainted with the scent of snake.

His massive head came lower and lower, body gracefully stretching and twisting, until it was right over Charon, who hadn't quite realized what was going on. The serpent made an almost leisurely strike.

Richard held his breath, expecting a final scream, but none came.

"He won't be back for awhile," said Michael. He looked sad, but oddly optimistic. "Has a lot to learn."

Kukulcan rose high, turning to the west and south, and soared away. It took a long time before he ceased to be visible. Richard saw a last tiny glint of green and gold wink in the distance.

Some things are worse than dying; having your soul eaten is one of them.  

"Good riddance," muttered Sharon. She stood next to Richard and somehow or another his arm had come to be around her shoulders. When had that happened?

Michael walked through the opening, vanishing to the other Side. Bourland waited on them, looking drawn, and little wonder. He'd seen, felt, and gone through things he'd rather not learned about.

"Shall we go home?" he asked.

The clearing behind the cabin was the same, but the fire had died down, and instead of clouds, a butter-yellow full moon shone upon them. It was still very cold, which was the subject of Sharon's first comment, once she picked herself up out of the snow within the circle and dusted off. Her clothes were fine for the Yucatán in winter, but not here.

Richard came to himself standing exactly in the same place where the sage smoke had swirled around him. He rocked on his feet when he opened his eyes and it took a moment to orient to his home reality. What a trip.

Bourland was also the same, his expensive suit no worse for wear, which could not be said of what happened to its Otherside version. He blinked and looked around, clearly unsettled again. "Is it over?"

Iona opened her eyes and stiffly lowered her arms. "Pretty much." Acting as their anchor on this Side had obviously exhausted her. She slumped, and Michael—minus the sword, but with the Grail in hand—went to her, catching her just in time.

Dammit—he did look taller.

They trooped tiredly into the warm kitchen. Sharon looked about with curiosity, then pounced on an open bag of cookies on one of the counters.

She scarfed down two and began a third, but paused to clear her throat. "Ye'll be tellin' me what this is about, right?"

"In detail," Richard promised.

"Good. Wouldn't have it any other way. Where are we?"

"Just north of Toronto."

She took it rather well, considering.

Michael slid into his favorite chair at the kitchen table and placed the Grail in the center. They spent a long, quiet, somber moment looking at it. It showed no sign of change, no damage, shining in and of itself in their midst. Flawless, constant.

Then Michael looked up, beaming at them all. "Hey—was that totally cool or what?"

Hours later, Richard dressed silently in the pre-dawn dark, not wanting to disturb Sharon, who was asleep in his bed.

It could be their bed. Sharon had made it clear she could be persuaded to settle down for good with him now. She'd not been ready before. Her recent experience had sharply delineated her priorities.

Richard's, too. He'd fought his last great battle; he would fight no more.

Things would be just fine, he thought.

Bourland and Richard had talked many things over during the drive back to Toronto from the cottage. They'd each been too wired to rest, and so they sketched out that which had to be done. Most of it would be in Bourland's yard. He had the talent and contacts for it.

Sharon had dozed in the back seat of the van. Michael had elected to stay at the cottage with Iona. Apparently they also had much talking to do. The boy was elated from his sojourn to Otherside. He wanted to know more. He was in good hands.

As was the Grail. Safe once more.

With Bourland's help, life would indeed get back to a more or less normal footing. For the time being She-Who-Walks would take up residence in Sabra's cottage under the name of Iona Walker. Michael and Bourland looked to be regular and frequent visitors.

The Rainbow bridge explosion would doubtless continue as a media mystery, but would fade from the public consciousness as no new leads were discovered. The luckless cab driver would be memorialized with an educational fund set up in his name; the identity of the man who went tumbling into the Niagara river would remain unknown, his body never to be recovered. The people who participated in the rescue effort were already sworn to secrecy for reasons of national security. Bourland's friend Frank would also be very supportive about obtaining the cooperation of his own people. The sunglasses group were silent by nature and necessity and would vanish from the radar entirely.

They'd worked it all out by the time Bourland dropped them at Richard's Neville Park house. It was good to have things all tidied.

He and Sharon trudged arm in arm up the steps, went in, went upstairs and collapsed. He did not sleep, though. His heart and mind still thrummed as he lay next to her.

Richard rested, considered, mourned, and decided to carry on with the decision he'd already made for himself. He'd fought his last battle, he would fight no more, nor would he live on without Sabra. There was much comfort in that for him.

He looked at Sharon; sadness welled up in him. She was very beautiful, long limbs and red hair and bright spirit sprawled artlessly in the tangled sheets. They'd rested together, but not made love. Too exhausted, mentally and physically by their respective ordeals, the both of them, but it had been nice lying wrapped around her warmth in the dark.

He had vast regret about what this would do to her, but the others would be there for her. She was a strong woman, well on her way to swiftly getting over her experience. Much if it was already fading from her mind like a dream. She said she'd slept through most of it, which was likely for the best.

Richard left her, moving quietly as only he could, and crept from the bedroom.

And what of Michael? Well, he would be cared for and loved by Bourland and Iona, little to worry about there. Of all of them Michael would be the one who would understand Richard's actions the best. The likely irony was that he would comfort them.

Richard paused downstairs. No fire in his hearth, an unthinkable lapse in pre-modern times, now hardly anything to bother about. From the mantel he took down a heavy ceramic urn. Sabra's ashes. He hugged them close and went outside, hatless and coatless, carefully and quietly shutting the door behind.

Cold. Very cold it was. It would be colder still, shortly. He looked forward to it.

He trudged along the sidewalk to the end of the street, using the stair rail to the steps down to the beach, one at a time, slow. Silly, really, to take such care, but if he slipped on the ice and broke something it would delay him, and he'd waited long enough.

He labored across the mix of snow and sand, making his way to the cement groin. The beach was thankfully empty. This was a private thing. He wanted no witnesses, no well-intentioned interference.

He went to the very end of the cement construct and, without ceremony, without prayer, slowly poured Sabra's ashes out over the water.

The Goddess knows her own.  

A freezing wind from landward swirled them away from him, scattering them wide upon the lake's dark, gently surging surface.

Perfect. Sabra of the Lake, gone home again at last.

He gave a sudden painful shiver from the cold, but that was all right. Just part of the process. Life was harsh and laborious and the Otherside would be all the sweeter after his earthly strivings.

Richard put the urn carefully down and sat on the glacial cement with the wide metal edge, his long legs dangling over the chill water. It was very black in this pre-dawn dimness, hiding its mysteries well, but he would soon discover them. He faced east, patiently watching the horizon. He noticed the cold; it seemed unnaturally bitter to him, his shivering nearly constant, his teeth chattering violently. Not long. Not long...

All he had to do was wait. The sky was cooperating, free of clouds. All he had to do was wait and let the light work on him, weaken him. Even winter's pale orb was more than enough to overwhelm him, given time. He would resist it as long as possible, of course, resist until he was too wearied to sit up any longer. Then all he had to do was slip forward into the water . . . there were worse ways to die. Too weak to struggle against the acidlike burn of free flow, he would drift to the bottom and be content to stay there, welcoming death.

All he had to do was go to sleep and wait. He knew how to do that.

He breathed in the cold, cold air and held it for as long as he could, then puffed it out again, his starved lungs sucking in the fresh automatically. A little practice for what was to come. He'd hold his breath just this way down there, release, then pull in a draught of water. A painful shock at first, but he was confident in his ability to fight off the instinct to rise to the surface as he'd done before.

The horizon got lighter. He shut his eyes against the growing glare.

His bouts of shivering lessened, almost as though things were shutting down already. He'd not been out here long enough for his body temperature to drop, though. Perhaps his subconscious was being helpful.

He drowsed and smiled as the peace settled on him, smiled as the sun crept up, its deadly light saturating him.

But from the wrong direction. It seemed to be on his right, not in front of him. He blinked slowly awake and without much surprise saw Sabra sitting next to him. She was in her favorite jeans and a soft jersey the color of wheat. After all this waiting, all this silence, there she was, as though she'd turned up to take a morning walk with him.

She was a dream, of course, a last defense mechanism thrown out by his mind to talk him out of taking this path. In life he could deny her nothing, but this time, this one time he would have to refuse her.

But there is so much more yet for you to do, she whispered.

"Not without you," he said.

"Of course not. I will always be with you." Her supposedly ethereal presence had a physical effect, for he felt her grasp his hand. That was odd. "Our souls are still linked beyond all other mortal ties, you will never be without me."

"Why now?" he demanded. "Why have you not come to me before? I was in agony for you."

Her form wavered suddenly. Faded. He held his breath, for a different reason now. "Wait—don't leave!"

Gradually, she returned. Her brown eyes were sad. "That's why. Your grief blinded and deafened you to me. The peace you feel now has at last opened you up. You must go on, my Richard. You will go on."

"I cannot. The pain is gone from me only because I know I'll be with you again. The Goddess must see that and allow it."

"She sees more and farther than you have. The time has come for an ending, but not the one you think."

"What do you mean?"

"It's time for you to take the road you were denied before. You've been on such a long side-journey with me, but now the two roads are converged. As you move forward it will just happen."

"I don't understand."

"That night long ago, you gave up your original life, the original closing of your circle as a living man."

"If you'd not come to me that night, I'd have lived with defeat on my head for yielding, or I'd have died—by my own son's hand, no less."

"That would have been bad," she agreed. "But you and circumstances have changed over time."

"More than I can stomach. I will close my circle well enough in this manner. It serves." He watched the sunrise, loving the deadly heat.

I will love the coming heat, I will even love the burning.  

"No, my Richard. You will have children, and pass yourself and your memories on to them as other men do. You will help raise Michael and prepare him for his future. Dear Philip can't do it all on his own."

"Such matters are forever beyond my reach. They are not to be. That's the path I took that night."

She asked, "How long since you last fed?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. That woman in the lab . . . a long time."

Sabra smiled. A light shone from her, sweeter and more piercing than the sun. "Are you even hungry?"

He was, vaguely . . . but he would not be distracted. Today he would feed on thin, cold lake water and be glad of it.

"No, you won't. Not today or tomorrow," she said, responding to his thought with absolute certainty. She little by little shifted from sitting by his side, and hovered between him and the rising sun. She and it were of the same brightness. It was very like the glow Michael had given off on the Otherside.

Richard stood up, bathed in that loving warmth, spread his arms to it. He gloried in it until the light was too bright to bear, then shut his eyes to feel its heat pulsing upon his body.

The air was cold on his face. The chill was cleansing, like throwing open a window to sweep stale air from a sickroom. He felt like he'd never really breathed before, and gulped down great draughts of it. He waited for the flames to kindle, to overtake, to overcome him . . .

But they never came.

What was wrong?

He opened his eyes. It wasn't a dream, the sun was truly up now, and he'd stood long in its glare, long enough to summon the weakness, long enough for the fire to begin its consumption of his flesh.

But he continued unharmed.

Why?

He suddenly knew the answer. The Otherside battle. Michael holding the Grail, using its true power as it was meant to be used. It brought transformation to them all in one way or another, to a greater and lesser degree.

"It seems," he murmured, "It seems . . . I've been living in the past."

Sabra had told the truth. Ahead of him was a life he could never otherwise hoped to have. A life for himself, for Sharon, one with their children, and grandchildren . . .

It was all before him now. And Sabra would be there, too. In her own way, as ever she'd done before.

He felt laughter bubbling up within, a kind of joy so great he could burst from it, the kind of eager elation that saints spoke of in awe and gladness. He wanted to tell someone about it, anyone, even if they thought him mad.

Oh, my Richard, I know about it.

He saw a shimmering along the beach like a cloud of tiny crystals catching the sun. Laughter made visible. Dancing as though in celebration. Was it a swirling of snow particles . . . or Sabra, beckoning him to come and make a start on the new day?

No matter.

He quit his place and hurried his way back. He and Sharon had much talking to do, many plans to make. Happy plans.

A young man . . . he was only thirty-five . . .

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Framed