The Last Guardian Rises (The Last Keeper's Daughter) (29 page)

“Ha, you did, did you?” Allerton threw back his head and laughed. “You were just a young man the last time I saw you.”

At my mother’s funeral, Hunter completed the thought.

“I keep her resting place just as it was.”

Just as it was the day we put her in the ground
. Hunter looked down at the grave marker at his feet.

“Mary loved this view. She had me put an old Adirondack chair up here. I’d see her sitting for hours looking out to sea.”

The way Allerton said his mother’s name, with warmth, affection, and a large dose of sadness, caused Hunter to look at the man anew. What secrets did his mother take to the grave? Memories of Allerton thirty years ago camping with him and showing him how to start a fire and taking him under his wing suddenly flooded back. “How have you been?” he asked.

“Great, if I felt any better it would be illegal.” The man laughed again. “I know you want to be alone, but when you’re done, come on down and see me before you leave.”

“Thank you.” Hunter hesitated. “I’m done for now.” It felt good to be with someone who knew him before he’d learned of the Other world, and who’d known his mother. “Do you have any coffee?”

Allerton started down the path, very spry for someone in his eighties. “Glad to know those Brits didn’t take the American out of you. Tea.” He spat on the ground. “Tastes like bark to me.” Still walking, he waved the cane out for a moment, indicating the land. “You have any little ones to pass this on to?”

“Not yet.”

“Get to pumping that well, boy. You won’t live forever.”

It was Hunter’s turn to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Maybe he would live forever, who knew now.

“Ah, I’m wasting my breath. Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

Hunter sprang ahead to open the garden gate for Allerton and stepped aside as he moved through. The house looked exactly as Hunter remembered it, gray weathered siding with optimistic flower boxes fastened underneath the windows.

“The blood in our veins goes back to those poor souls on the Mayflower. You have a responsibility to pass that along to another generation.”

Hunter had heard the story from his mother, how she was descended from the Hopkins family, and Mr. Allerton from the Allertons. When you’re young things have a way of flowing over your head, they are what they are and you don’t contemplate the whys or hows. Watching Allerton put the pot on to boil he thought back to the many times he’d stayed in this house. He remembered sitting on the very rug that lay on the floor now, roasting marshmallows in the fireplace while his mother sat talking to Bartholomew, as she called him. On the mantle was a picture of her, young and rosy cheeked, the wind whipping her hair about her face.

“Mary was a peach, she was. I took that picture of her the day you started first grade. She was standing looking out at the sea just like you were a few moments ago. Crying her eyes out that her baby was in school. I said something, can’t remember what now, but it made her laugh. God, what I would give to hear her laugh again.”

Hunter took the offered mug of coffee and they both sat down. “Did you know my father?”

Allerton took a sip. “I met her husband a few times, not many, but enough. He was a strange bird, even for an Englishman.”

His mother had never explained what had happened, or entertained him asking questions. It was always the same. I met your father on a trip to London. We fell in love, we got married, he died, and I took you back to his homeland. “What happened?” he asked.

“Ah.” Allerton placed the mug on the side table. “I always wondered if you’d be back to ask questions. She made me promise things, but…” He rubbed his hand against the chair arm. “What are promises now? She’s dead, he’s dead, and we’re still alive.”

“She wouldn’t talk about him and I don’t remember anything.”

“Nor should you.” He leaned his head back. “You were just a baby when he…”

“What?”

“Do you need to know the truth?”

Hunter remembered the Elder saying he was a man who could deal with the hard truths of life. “Yes,” he replied.

“Well, then. Right where you were standing is where he stepped off and dropped down onto the rocks below. I got there seconds after he’d jumped, can’t say I’ll ever forget it, no matter how much I wish I could.”

“Suicide.”

“Yep, took his own life.”

“Why?”

“Why, you’re old enough to know there are no whys. He did and that’s all that matters now,” Mr. Allerton snapped back the response, cleared his throat, and let out a long sigh. “I’m not as warm and friendly as I should be. Not many people come up here. Just the way I like it.” He returned Hunter’s gaze. “Except for you. You visit me as often as you like.”

Hunter nodded.

“He never got along up here. Plymouth is more set in its ways than most places. I think he tried, but he wasn’t like any man I’d ever met before. Liked to take walks at night. Once, I heard him walking through the woods talking with someone. My eyes were good then, even at night. I remember that the moon was full and I could just make out someone, or thing. I swear it was giant, with hair.” He coughed. “But I was sore that your mother had chosen him instead of me, and probably had a few too many drinks that night.” Allerton worked to get out of the chair.

“Here, let me help you.”

“No,” Allerton said sharply. “Thanks, but I can do it. I’m feeling the need for something a little stronger in our coffee.” The older man winked mischievously at Hunter and came back with a bottle of whiskey. He poured a good amount in his mug. “You joining me?”

“Absolutely,” Hunter responded.

“I was a fool back then. Thought I wasn’t good enough ‘cause my family wasn’t as well off as hers. Seems stupid now, but back then it meant something.”

“Was he depressed?”

“Who?” Allerton asked.

“My father.”

“Oh, yes, we were talking about him, weren’t we?” Allerton sipped his coffee. “I don’t know. He was gone all the time. I guess back to England.”

“Mother and I lived at the old house until I was sixteen and then she insisted we move to England. My father had been dead since I was a baby, so why did she move us then? Why not stay?”

Allerton slowly turned to look at him. “I don’t know. I wish I did. She came back in the end though…”

Hunter had been a teenager and not happy about the move, but no matter what tactic he’d tried she was determined to leave, and so they had. After he’d graduated from school and started work was when she’d moved back to Plymouth. He hadn’t visited her enough, hadn’t called enough, or sent enough letters. He blurted out, “I was a crappy son.”

“No. You were always a good boy.” Allerton got up again and went to the bookshelves built into the wall on either side of the mantel. “I shouldn’t have this.” He reached behind a row of books and pulled out what looked like a tarnished silver box. “It was wrong of me to dig it up. To take it, to keep it all these years, but what good would it do anyone buried in the ground?”

Hunter wanted to grab the bottle of whiskey and down it in one long swallow.  Hands trembling – Hunter wasn’t sure if it was age or fear – Allerton pressed the box towards him.

“Thank you,” he found himself saying on autopilot.

“He came after her funeral was over. You’d left, everyone had left, but I went back to sit with her again.”

“Who came?”

Allerton took his time sitting. Hunter ignored the box in his lap. “I don’t know. I was too much of a coward to go up and introduce myself. I wasn’t in my right mind after she died, and seeing him standing there didn’t do my sanity one bit of good, I’ll tell you that.”

“Please, the man?” Hunter urged.

“It was three in the morning, I know because I looked at that clock” –he pointed to the one on the mantle– “when I gave up and went back to her gravesite. I rounded the corner and there he was, standing like a statue looking down at the flowers on her grave.”

Impatient, Hunter asked, “What did he look like?”

Allerton closed his eyes. “Tall and thin, wearing a dark suit.”

Hunter couldn’t imagine what would be so unusual about that.

“It was his hair that made me think I was hallucinating. The brightest, purest white I’ve even seen. Long, flowing down past his waist. When the moonlight hit it, I swear to the almighty god above, it glowed. Hell,” he snorted. “He glowed.”

Hunter now looked down at the box. Something was engraved on the top. He wet his finger and wiped off the dust to read.
The Truth is but a secret wrapped in Myth
. The very words he’d read off the Legacy Foundation website when he was just a human detective trying to solve the murder of Walter Ayres. The Elder had left this for him, knowing that he’d be back to retrieve it. 

“I watched him bury it in the fresh turned ground of her grave. Days later I came back. I needed to prove to myself that I’d been drunk, that I hadn’t seen him. But it was there, just like he’d been there that night.”

Woodenly, Hunter asked, “Have you seen him since?”

“Nah, never again.” He took a swig of whiskey directly from the bottle and handed it to Hunter. “Did I do wrong?”

Hunter took two swigs, feeling the burn inch down his throat. “No, I’m glad you did.” He placed the bottle back. “Did you look inside?”

“Not my place.”

“Would you mind if we didn’t talk for a while? I’d just like to sit here for a bit.” Hunter felt childish saying that, but it was the truth. Or maybe truth was just what we believed at the time about the lies we’d been told. He wasn’t sure about much anymore.

“Stay forever, if you’d like. The back bedroom has fresh sheets on the bed. I’ll leave you to your thoughts.” Allerton slowly rose and without a glance back shuffled down the hall to his bedroom.

Hunter spent two days with Bartholomew – that’s what he’d insisted on being called instead of Mr. Allerton – helping him clear out his gutters, and getting the garden behind the house ready for planting. During that time Hunter thought about what he wanted.

He remembered sitting with the silver box on his lap for a long time that night before he’d opened it. As with everything involved with the Elder, the latch was hidden and difficult to find. Hunter doubted Bartholomew could have opened it if he’d tried. Inside was the unmistakable handwriting and beautiful stationery of the Elder, just like Hunter had so admired months ago in his home in London. Hunter had read the Elder’s words over and over until he knew them by heart.

“By the time you read my words I will have passed from this world. As you surely now know, the man who will retrieve this box and keep it safe for when you return is your father. Love and cherish him well.

Yes, I knew your destiny the day you came to the Legacy Foundation. Since the day you were born, you were the chosen one to carry on the birthright of Merlin. The Merlin you knew was not what you will be. He was fading, weak, and losing his war with the dark magic he’d been burdened to carry. I’ve looked down the long ribbon of time to what you will become if you choose to take up the mantle of greatness that is before you. You will see your children prosper and your children’s children. You will feel the weight of great power upon your shoulders and you will carry it wisely.

What I told you beside the banyan tree was not a lie. You are given a choice to carry the knowledge of Merlin or not. All you need do is place the amulet inside the box around your neck and you will become one and two.”

That first night after opening the box, Hunter went to bed sure that he would never wear the amulet. When he woke, he was considering it. As the day turned into night, he almost placed it around his neck. The next morning, he’d stood at lands end with the sea air filling his lungs and contemplated tossing it into the water below. Now, driving through the night along a barren stretch of interstate mere hours away from Meirta, he made his decision.

At the halfway point on his way back from Plymouth, Massachusetts, he pulled over to call Meirta and wasn’t surprised when it went straight to voicemail. She hated talking on the phone and either didn’t have it turned on or the battery had run down. “I’m on my way. Should be home in two hours. Love you.”

He’d told Bartholomew that he’d be back soon. He meant that. As he meant to rebuild his mother’s house which had been destroyed by a hurricane ten years past. Hunter and his father – it hadn’t completely sunk in that he had family – had looked over old photos of the place. He wanted it to look just like it had when his mother was alive. He wanted to take Meirta there, and one day their children. He wanted his children to know Bartholomew. They hadn’t spoken about it, Bartholomew being his father, or why his mother had lied to him. Maybe someday they would, or maybe his mother’s secret was something she’d taken to her grave.

To keep his mind from pacing over the worn paths he’d already trod, Hunter turned on the radio, choosing a news channel. He listened to the stories of the Middle East, same as usual, one side fighting another side, each demanding justice, neither willing to acknowledge their fault in the argument. Europe was swimming in a sea of debt, Africa mired in corruption, America wondering if they should outlaw Big Macs. A serious sounding newsman announced that their next segment would be uplifting and he’d be right back after the commercials.

Hunter was only half-listening when the newsman voice began talking about a Good Samaritan.

“At first glance you wouldn’t think an ex-football player, a homeless man, and a teenage mother would have much in common. But if you talk to them they’ll tell you that they were all visited by a man they call the Good Samaritan. The first reported case of this man’s good work happened to a man named Roy, who prefers to keep his last name private. Roy was a high school football standout everyone thought was destined for the pros. But an injury to his knee ended all dreams of playing under the big lights. That is, until he picked up a stranger and gave him a ride to Virginia Beach. He doesn’t remember much but he believes the man healed him. Albert Sinedomis was living underneath an overpass when he was picked up by an unknown man who took him to a diner off the interstate and bought him a hot meal. Afterwards, he recalls the man asking what he wanted. The next thing he remembers is walking up to his brother’s home and being welcomed inside. Janet Purvis was working two jobs while supporting herself and a four month old baby. She says that he came into the all night convenience store where she was working the night shift and talked to her. She remembers telling him that she’d had to drop out of school, but that she’d always dreamed of being a painter. That same night, a gallery in New York called wanting to see some of her work.