Echoes in Eternity (The Pella Series Book 1) (44 page)

“We must collect the memory now, sir. The memory of Marcus’s final day on earth
… You will keep the memory. Give us the vision of it. We’re all capable of receiving it. All you have to do is to start thinking about it, visualize the setting and the initial incident which will stimulate the actual memory and a vision of it will flow into our minds,” Peter speaks in a baritone voice, sounding almost human.

I take a deep breath after Hailey walks through the gate. The barrier that is standing between our locations shimmers as they each walk through leaving a smoky shape behind them which slowly dissipates after they enter. Each of them encircles me. I close my eyes to take myself back to
Marcus’s last day on earth. I feel the sweaty, punishing summer heat of the desert. Not a single blade of dried deer grass is moving. The ride is long and hard. I’ve been away from my wife and babies for days in search of Marcus. Until Elissa’s horse finds us devoid of her rider. My heart sinks. This is an immortal horse. She’d never leave her rider unless Marcus sent her off.

Then I feel myself pulled into my own vision like the current in flowing water pulling me through effortlessly. I open my eyes and see all of the
Psyche
standing around me, observing what’s to come. Tension, anger, murderous rage radiates through me. Each of them takes a step back, except for Hailey. The haze is thick and heavy. My mind sorts the memory, anchoring it to me, only allowing the vision of that particular memory to come through. I slowly exhale, and walk into that dreadful day.

CHAPTER XIII

WINDS OF TIME

Alexander Aurelius Pella

The memory slowly trickles back to my mind in hazy visions, and then pours out vividly. Then voices rush in loud and clear. I can feel the
Psyche
dipping their senses and cognizance into my memory as if taking a dip in a pond as opposed to removing water from it. They’re immersing. Soon, I see all of them around me; we’re all observers of my memory. Everyone’s attention is directed towards the silhouette ahead. There are two men standing. The familiar ache stabs at my heart. Recalling a memory in a vision forces me to relive the events with the sights, scents, anxiety and even the slightest variation in weather as if I’m in the environment. The agony of knowing what will happen, and not being able to prevent it from happening is excruciating. The depths of my soul ripple with the expected but unavoidable anguish once again. The
Psyche
fully absorb the torture within me as if matching personal scars with events, dully noting what would hurt, weaken, or entice me in the face of a particular incident. This is baring your soul; it’s the worst kind of barrenness and there isn’t a thing I can do about it to hide from them. It’s the price I agreed to pay. The brewing storms prepare to show that which is about to rip my soul to shreds.

I can feel the
Psyche
feeling and observing tenderly and softly the effects of this memory on me. I can sense Hailey’s mind gently caressing me as if in a comforting gesture. But I know that motive is all too different than what she’s presenting me with right now. Visualizing a memory in such a thorough form is self-torture at best which I would have loved to avoid. The eight pairs of eyes focus on the silhouette of two men who are standing and talking with a backdrop of dawn in the middle of the desert.

I see the old Indian, and instantly I know that it’s Nieto. He’s standing regal, proud and holding his hand up to a man who is about 6’4”. Nieto’s profile can be seen and his facial features are well-worn. His figure is slim, and he’s coiled like a predator, agile, holding his hand up in a universal gesture of greeting.

“It’s been a long time. Time,” says Marcus with labored breathing, “hasn’t been kind to you old friend”.

But Nieto doesn’t even acknowledge Marcus’s remark. His eyes
are ever so alert, scanning around, looking for any approaching danger, listening for unheard sounds. Even the
Psyches
are alert. Because they can sense what Nieto senses, feel what he feels; we all can. Both the
Watchers
and the
Fallen
are close. Neither of them is friendly, and Marcus is wounded and bleeding in his human form. He won’t heal himself to prevent his angelic energy from shining like a beacon alerting others. This is the last memory I’ve been given when I held Marcus’s heart in my hand. Pain is anew no matter how hard I try to conceal it.

“
Wind to
?” Nieto simply asked Marcus.

“Not this time ol’ friend” Marcus replies
to him grimly.

“The cycle hasn’t been completed yet. She needs the sixteenth matriculation.”

“I might have an exchange.”

Nieto nods imperceptibly.

“Consequences” Nieto iterates “will be harsh and swift. Forgiveness is not granted as easily to those who defy their masters…” he trails off. “Not as long as you have. Careful! You’re close to being fallen, and your trail is getting hot.” He looks back as if he hears footsteps that aren’t there. He asks again with urgency:

“There are changes in the cycle that resonated within time, and will soon swamp this place with the
Watchers
and the
Fallen
. Even the desert has eyes and ears. The
Fallen
who have been silent for a millennia are waking up right here. And you’ve pushed your luck farther than at any other time. It’s time to pull the stakes.
Wind to
?” he insists in a lilting language.

“I’m afraid, this is it ol’ friend. Can’t use the wind, can’t jump
time
. The war is coming to my doorsteps. No one would bother with the dead or even wounded at this one. If you see me die in this body, pass me, walk over me, and if you see me wounded,” he says with just a slight pull in the corner of his mouth, “like I am today, pay no attention. I would do the same with you. Get the trail cold. Sever the ties, and start the last cycle without me.”

Nieto nods at Boreas, Elissa’s horse. “Her?” he asks questioning.

“She might provide a chance for Elissa and the babies. Make sure that it happens. If not, find a different way.”

A c
ouple of buzzards start lazily circling overhead with anticipation. They have all the time to wait, but Marcus doesn’t.

“Two approaching parties
, one of your kind and the others are the
Fallen
. Neither is friendly. Your
Nephilim
could aid you here if…”

“No!” Marcus cuts him off abruptly. It hurts him to speak. “Too risky. The ranch has to be sealed with her mark so she can come back before they attempt to reach her. Too many lives depend on it. My existence will only aid the
Fallen
. Your duty is now to my daughter.”

Nieto doesn’t argue, simply nods his acquiescence. “They’re almost here. May you have a good fight
and death in the hands of a worthy enemy,” says Nieto, “even though death is forbidden for your kind,” he adds while disappearing into the haze.

“
Or a brother,
” mutters the rancher to no one in particular.

Marcus unloads the burden off Boreas, and says “Go to your mistress girl. Go home. When the time comes, unite her with Alexander!” and without a second thought he slaps Boreas
on the rump urging her to go home. Though I’ve played this scene over in my head hundreds of times, it slices my heart open knowing the end is near. Marcus is ready for the final showdown. Boreas takes off urgently, and speeds away as Marcus turns his back to watch the stirring haze. I feel Hailey move and come closer to me, standing beside me, intently watching me, observing my reaction, trying to live through the experience through my feelings. The other
Psyche
each focus on a different aspect of the scene; two focusing on Marcus, one focusing on the surroundings, one on the fluctuations in the air, one focuses on my connection with Marcus, and the last one takes in the whole scene as a single unit. They miss nothing, not a single movement of a leaf, or a single flutter of my heart.

The air is thick on its own. Marcus hear
s the approaching Angel before he sees him. He feels the probing voice rather than hearing it:

“
Brother!
”

The horizon shimmers and moves as the dust rise
s up from the ground as if in a protest for being disturbed by a large posse running full speed, but both Marcus and I know that the dust clouds is caused by large wings. Marcus’s eyes turns into small slits, he squares his shoulders as if to get ready for a fight, pushes his feet apart, and his hands twitched above his twin Colts although he knows it won’t do him any good. It has been a long time, a very long time since he’s seen his brother who is now here to claim him. With a loud thunderous clap, a pair of feet touch the ground and unfurled large wings with a span over thirty feet slowly retract back. A shape emerges through the orange sunrise haze. Gabriel’s curly hair barely touching his wide shoulders and his tall frame blocks the rising sun. Changing shape, he appears to have a wide brim hat, with week old stubble on his face, he looks surprisingly devoid of trail dust to another traveler as if he just dropped from the sky which of course he did. I feel the immediately shifting attention of the
Psyche
to Gabriel, seeing a Watcher for the first time, but more importantly they want to see how Heaven punishes one of its own.

A dull red neckerchief is tied on Gabriel’s neck.
A dark burgundy shirt peaks under his long duster. His spurs jingled as he moves forward. Straight nose, glaring gray eyes appears as if he stares through Marcus, searching. He is towing a magnificent horse behind him. It has a white mane but black coat is dominating the horse throughout.

The words that came out of
Gabriel’s mouth are:

“Howdy stranger! Name is Gabe. Strange to find a cowboy without
a horse around here, who might you be?” he probes, almost sure of his finding.

“Any name is good here stranger. Name’s Marcus. Around here, we don’t sneak up on strangers without
making an announcement. Just might get you shot at.”

“I mean no harm
,” replies Gabe with the universal gesture of both hands up showing he has no weapons in hand. I can feel the tug Marcus feels inside. Some broken bond is looking for its mate.

Gabe speaks again: “Got some coffee going, have some biscuit or bacon to go with it?” Such words were not uncommon for a cowhand to sp
eak but something else resounds in Marcus’ head. Probing, searching, seeking, examining, and trying to make sure that he’s got the angel he’s looking for.

“My horse is stolen. Ain’t nothin’ to eat here,” responds Marcus suspiciously.

“Well, I have a pot of coffee going on the fire. It’s strong enough to grow hair on your chest, but you’re welcome to have a cup.”

“Much obliged!”

Gabe turns his back to lead the way, a show of trust, but it’s not the way of the west. Only a greenhorn would do that, or someone who is good with weapons. But there is that voice again inside Marcus’s head! That sound is in the language of the angels. All of the
Psyches
take steps forward except for Hailey. Fascinated by being so close to a Watcher, hearing the language of the angels, no one speaks it, but the word is tapping into the depths of Marcus’s mind again.