A Prophecy Forgotten
Chapter Two: Earth’s Future Rests On… 

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Major Davian mopped the sweat off his forehead with his bandana and crept toward a boulder that guarded the edge of a dismal, overgrown forest and overlooked what used to be a lush meadow.

The major had sea-green eyes and scraggly, brown hair, which he allowed to grow unhindered since he left on assignment six months ago. He was approaching the age when his body should have been turning soft, but years of battle and his own personal training regimen kept it hardened and strong. He was handsome (save for his nose, which had endured too many breaks, and a scar on his chin), and he tried to hide his good looks underneath a half-shaved face and a dirty, scratched uniform.

“The way a soldier’s uniform should look,” he often said.

He wore the uniform of the RSO division. It was similar to that of other cherubian warriors, but the breastplate was dark bronze instead of black, and instead of maroon and black, his kilt and tunic were interwoven with green and brown threads of various shades, making it easy for him to blend into the trees. A ring of white metal engraved with a hawk encircled the fifth finger on his right hand. The ring stood out, not because of the metal’s unique hue, but because jewelry clashed with the major’s personality. He perched behind the boulder, raised his arm, and signaled his unit to stay low and wait for further instructions. He readied his crossbow and peered over the boulder with his spyglass, scanning the meadow for signs of Morvenian troops.

Nothing.

He studied the edge of the surrounding wood. Nothing—but…wait a minute. He glanced back at the seemingly innocent rock nestled in the middle of the glen and saw two sleeping mornachts. Five yards away, another mornacht sat on guard with his bow in his lap.

Davian slapped a bloodsucker before the insect could drill into his arm and then glanced at the dull, white sun that tried to shine through the dense haze. He detested Morvenia. The sweltering air smelled like burning garbage. Smoke and brimstone rose out of the land’s fault lines and crevices, and the entire countryside reeked of mornachts and their detestable odor. He slapped yet another bloodsucker and wished for the 3,424th time that Elysia and Morvenia would agree to take a year of cease-fire so he could go home, read a couple of good scrolls, and maybe start a vegetable garden. He glanced back at the mornachts in the glen and frowned. A cease-fire would have to wait until he figured out how to sneak his unit past them.

Davian motioned for Captain Eric to join him. Eric was short for an RSO, but he worked hard to maintain his muscular build, which kept other soldiers from picking on his size. He kept his blond hair immaculately trimmed and his face clean-shaven, even while on assignment, and his eyes often searched for a good time more than they searched for mornachts. Eric happened to be Davian’s closest, most trusted friend since the moment they met in RSO training. Although Davian had always performed a step above Eric, it never seemed to affect their friendship, and Davian always assigned him to his units.

Eric extended his chestnut wings, which looked almost exactly like Davian’s, and low-hovered to the boulder. Low-hovering was flight between two and three feet above the ground, a maneuver cherubians developed when Morvenian snipers infiltrated the south after the war first broke out. The mornachts shot any cherubian they spotted in the air, forcing the cherubians to either fly from tree to tree (still extremely dangerous), walk, or ride a unicorn south of the City of Ezzer. The low-hover became the preferred method of travel in the south for soldiers without access to unicorns. It was quicker than running, but slower than normal flying or riding. It required massive amounts of strength and endurance, for any improper stop for rest would send a flyer careening into the ground. Many cherubians found low-hovering too tiring and preferred walking. Those cherubians were not in RSO, which required all of its members to maintain full mastery of the low-hover.

Davian handed Eric the spyglass. “By the bushes, near the edge of the wood,” he whispered. “Three of them. Probably infiltrators.” Infiltrators were Morvenia’s most highly trained soldiers, and Davian always tried to keep as far away from them as possible.

Eric looked through the spyglass and frowned. “Definitely infiltrators.” He returned the spyglass and crouched behind the boulder with Davian. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they were part of that lovely little party we managed to sneak around this morning.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Davian motioned to Lieutenant Marcus, a giant of a cherubian who kept his dark hair and beard as scruffy as Davian’s. Marcus towered over the tallest cherubians, and his massive frame made even the unicorns wary. Most cherubians scattered when Marcus flew near, as mice do when they see a cat, and Davian often thought that odd. One look in Marcus’s eyes would tell anyone that he was one of the kindest cherubians ever to fly through Heaven’s Realm. Despite his immense size and his kind heart, Marcus was the quickest, fiercest, most agile fighter Davian had ever known. He carried not one, but two swords, and Davian still could not tell which of his hands was dominant. Marcus’s brown and black striped wings carried him to both of them and took the spyglass.

Eric slapped a bloodsucker. “What do you think, Major?” he whispered.

“Well, I think I haven’t killed a scab in over three weeks,” Marcus whispered as he handed the spyglass back to Davian. RSOs referred to mornachts as scabs. He held out his huge hands. “These hands are just dying to wring some serious Morvenian neck.”

“Hey major? Can we have a look, too?” whispered Josephi, the youngest and most annoying of Davian’s unit.

Marcus shot Davian and Eric an evil grin. “But since I don’t have any Morvenian neck to wring…” He raised his eyebrows a few times, cracked his knuckles, and gave Josephi a hungry leer.

“Leave the runts alone, Marcus,” whispered Davian.

“Runt” was the term commissioned the officers used to refer to non-commissioned officers and guards. Davian’s unit had two: Sergeants Josephi and Corporal Snead, the unit’s lanky sniper. Josephi, the slightest of Davian’s unit, was a mapper. This was his first mission as an RSO, and he had already managed to annoy everyone in the unit including Davian, who was known for his patience with runts.

Davian frowned at Eric, who was covering his mouth to hide his laughter at Marcus, who was pretending to try to keep his out-of-control hands from wringing Josephi’s neck. Eric flashed Davian a grin—a contagious grin that showed most of his teeth. He usually reserved the grin for getting himself a date or getting out of trouble. This case was the latter, and it earned him a rare snicker from Davian. Davian regained his look of seriousness, took the spyglass, and stared at the mornachts and the surrounding area.

“Going around will take some time,” he muttered.

Eric stopped laughing and glanced back at the mornachts. “It’s only three of them. You, Snead, and I could take them out at once without any problem.”

“Risky, risky,” said Davian.

Eliminating a stray scout here and there was one thing. No Morvenian commander would miss a scout or two, but he might suspect something was amiss if three infiltrators failed to report in from duty.

Davian ducked back behind the boulder. “If we kill them, they’ll blow, and probably alert that little party we did so well to avoid this morning.”

It only took three minutes for a mornacht to completely decompose after it died, and the whole decomposition process ended with an explosion. The blast could not knock out any buildings, but it could kill anything within a two-yard radius, and anyone a good 300 yards away could hear it.

“Let’s take them out, Major. That little party is nowhere near us!”

“Patience, Eric. We don’t know where we are. An entire horde of scabs might be right over the hill over there, and if they hear explosions, they’ll swarm us immediately.”

“Major, can we look?” asked Josephi again.

Eric rolled his eyes. “You could tell Josephi to fly 200 yards up in the air for a look.”

Marcus feigned his uncontrollable hands act again. “If I can’t kill the scabs, can I at least kill him? Can I, Major?”

“No, Marcus, you can’t kill him, and that’s an order! He’s our only mapper. If we lose him, we go home.” Davian turned to Josephi. “Josephi, if you ask again, I’ll unleash Marcus!”

“Yes, sir,” said Josephi. He shrank back as Marcus faked a lunge at him.

Davian grabbed the spyglass and took another look at the mornachts. “Hold up,” he whispered to Eric and Marcus. “We’ve got company.”

“What is it?” asked Eric.

“A gnome,” whispered Davian.

“What’s a gnome doing out here?” asked Marcus.

“I don’t know,” said Davian. “He’s got either a twisted foot or a bad ankle.” He watched the gnome, who wore a burgundy cloak, limp to the mornachts and hand them a small sack of what Davian assumed were coins. He narrowed his eyes. “Looks like some of our neutral friends have decided to profit off our little insurrection.”

“Let me kill him, Major,” said Marcus, whose hands had begun to shake again.

“Tempting. Very tempting, but if anyone’s going to kill one of the double-crossers, it’s going to be—” Davian stopped mid-sentence.

The mornacht had opened the sack and was counting its contents: cherubian drekels. Why would a gnome have cherubian drekels, and why would the mornachts accept them as payment?

If he’s just a messenger, it makes sense, thought Davian.

He shook his head. Impossible—absolutely impossible.

No cherubian would ever join forces with the mornachts. The gnome probably stole the drekels. Davian pocketed his spyglass and rejoined Eric and Marcus behind the rock.

“Everything okay, Major?” asked Marcus.

“Just fine.”

“Then why is your face so white,” whispered Eric.

“Lack of sun, I suppose.”

Eric glanced at Marcus, who shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “He’s been doing that a lot lately,” Marcus whispered.

“So can we let Marcus kill them, Major?” whispered Eric.

Davian shook his head. “We go around. The gnome complicates things, and the last thing we need is every scab in this country searching for a party of five cherubians.” He signaled to Snead and Josephi and prepared to leave.

“What did you see, Captain?” Josephi whispered to Eric when they returned.

“A beautiful Morvenian woman taking a bath in a lake.”

“I didn’t know scabs came in female.”

“He’s joking, idiot,” said Snead. “Scabs don’t take baths. If they fall in water, they scream—and thank you so much, Captain, for that really disgusting word picture.”

“If you don’t want the word picture, tell Tiny not to ask for one.”

Davian crushed another bloodsucker and sighed. “Is it me, Eric, or are the rookies getting dumber?” he whispered.

“I think it’s just Josephi’s class. The official rumors say their officer in charge was a little too easy on them.”

Davian shook his head in disgust and seized his last moment of peace to think about his vegetable garden, and… No, not about her. He could not risk getting distracted enough to think about her during a mission—especially with mornachts less than a hundred yards away.

Eric snickered.

“What is it, Eric?” Davian snapped.

Eric flashed Davian his signature grin. “You think about her far too much, Major.”

“I wasn’t thinking about her.”

“You were starting to. That, or you were smiling because you were thinking up a way to torture Josephi.”

“Get in formation, Eric.”

“Yes, sir,” said Eric with a wink and another snicker.

•

On Earth, a small boy played with his toy American Hero action figures in the sandbox behind his townhouse. The boy was seven, although most adults would have guessed he was five. He wore a pair of grimy jeans with a large hole in the right knee and a new hole beginning to form in the left, and a worn black t-shirt with bleach stains on the chest. Over that hung an oversized camouflage jacket that reached to his knees. Mud covered the boy’s face—not because he had fallen in a puddle, but because he had rubbed it on to better blend into his surrounding, as he would say.

Unseen by any humans, a young cherubian guard with deep mahogany wings that folded flat against her back perched above the boy in a tree branch. Her black breastplate curved in, accentuating her waist, and the pleats in her maroon kilt unfolded more than usual as they slid over her hips. She hated her hips and envied the more slender, straighter female cherubian guards. She shivered and tried to pull the folds of her kilt over her knees as the autumn wind grabbed one of the few remaining leaves on the tree and swept it away. She ignored the honks of the cars passing on the highway just behind the house, and kept her green eyes locked on Tommy, her charge, as she pushed some loose strands of dark brown hair into her helmet. Gabriella massaged her aching wings. She huffed and tried to wave away a sparrow that kept trying to land on her shoulder.

“Why don’t we call it quits today, Tommy?” she asked.

Tommy’s woodland adventures the day before made her cadet training seem joyful, and Gabriella hoped against hope that he would be too tired to drag her through another day of hard labor. She heaved a sigh as her charge tied one of his American Hero action figures to his toy American Hero tank with light blue fishing wire.

“What are you doing, now?” she wondered aloud.

Tommy climbed on top of the garbage can with the tank in tow. “Not again, Tommy. I just can’t do it today.” Gabriella shooed the sparrow away again. “Go away,” she whispered to the bird. She pointed to Tommy. “I’m busy with him. Find yourself a branch.”

Tommy balanced on the garbage can’s lid and prepared to jump up on the nine-foot-high cement wall that separated his yard from the interstate highway. The Wailing Wall, Gabriella called it, because Tommy usually ended up wailing sometime after he climbed on top of it. The garbage can began to tip. Gabriella shooed the sparrow away again and raced toward the can.

Unfortunately, Gabriella grabbed the can a millisecond too late. Tommy’s body slammed against the wall instead of on top of it. His arms caught the wall’s edge, and he somehow managed to pull himself up while grasping the tank, complete with the poor American Hero GI, who probably would have wet himself had he been alive. Tommy regained his balance, pushed his unkempt blond hair out of his eyes, and readjusted his glasses, then pushed the tank and the GI along the top of the wall.

The sparrow landed on a branch. It looked much too pleased with itself, Gabriella thought. She glared at it, then flew above Tommy and scowled when she counted the toys she would have to push out of the way if he fell.

“Tommy, get down! You’re not supposed to be up here!” she yelled. She rarely got cross with her charge, but her wings still ached from yesterday, and she had no desire to watch Tommy endure another one of his mother’s violent tirades.

“Lieutenant O’Connell didn’t know what hit him,” Tommy said as he pushed the tank along the wall’s edge. “When he came to, he found himself tied to an enemy tank.”

The sparrow landed on Gabriella’s shoulder and began nibbling at her ear. She swatted it away again and muttered, “You’re worse than a sprite!”

The tank stopped right above the sandbox. “But the enemy underestimated Lieutenant O’Connell’s abilities,” said Tommy.

The sparrow began nibbling at Gabriella’s ear again. “Oh, nibble away,” she muttered. “I’ll deal with you after I break his next fall.”

The tank took a ninety-degree turn and rolled forward. “As the tank inches toward almost certain death, O’Connell manages to get a hand loose using his Navy SEAL training. He quickly reaches for his other hand!”

The tank’s front tracks met the edge of the wall.

“But it’s…”

The tank teetered in a balancing act with its front half-hovering over the sandbox below.

“…too…”

The tip of the tank’s turret tipped toward the sandbox.

“…late!”

Good-bye tank and Lieutenant O’Connell!

“Oouch!” yelled Gabriella. She clamped her hand to her ear. The dratted sparrow bit her!

“Bull’s eye!” yelled Tommy. He stood up and leapt off the

wall.

Gabriella somersaulted underneath Tommy, pushed a toy chopper out of his way, skidded on the ground, and crashed into the garbage can. She shook her head and wished Elysia had assigned her to a sweet little girl—one whose idea of fun included things other than explosives and heights.

The sparrow flew to a branch and cocked its head as though it was admiring its handiwork. Gabriella grabbed her bow and pulled an arrow out of her quiver. The sparrow seemed to sense its danger and wisely flew away.

“Good riddance,” Gabriella muttered, and she turned back to her charge.

Tommy scrambled to his tank, or rather, one of the many parts of what used to be his tank. “O’Connell’s unit continues to search for spare parts to send home to his mother,” Tommy said as he began searching for the late lieutenant’s tragic remains. He recovered both arms and legs, and part of the torso, but no head.

“Tommy, get in here! It’s time for dinner!” a voice called.

Tommy glanced at the house and scowled. “Coming in a minute, Mom!” he yelled. He wrinkled his nose the way he always did when he was thinking. “But Dad says a good soldier never leaves a fallen man behind,” he reminded himself. He resumed pulling apart blades of grass. “They continue to search despite warnings of the enemy approaching.”

“Tommy, now!” his mother called again.

“Tommy!” said Gabriella. “Your psychotic mother is going to come out here with that wooden spoon, and then she’s going to hit you with it, and I’m not allowed to stop that! Now get in there!”

Tommy continued his search.

“Oh, you are so stubborn!” Gabriella found the missing head and flicked it in Tommy’s direction. “There he is! Come on! Go inside!”

Tommy smiled when he saw Lieutenant O’Connell’s head. “The SEAL team has successfully recovered all the parts of their demised teammate!”

“That’s nice! Now go!”

Tommy crawled toward the ruined tank, but a pair of enemy, black high heels halted his recovery mission. He followed the heels up and saw his mother, Lorraine, a slender woman with perfectly highlighted blond hair wearing a business suit that showcased more cleavage than most offices found appropriate. Her manicured fingers were clenching a wooden spoon, and she was glaring at Tommy with what Gabriella called the “Psychotic-Glare-of-Death.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Tommy whimpered.

Too late! Lorraine grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the kitchen. “When I tell you to come, young man, I mean come!” She gave him a good whack on the behind with the spoon, dragged him inside the house, and slammed the door.

Gabriella pulled herself up with her wings and flew through the closed door. She followed Tommy and Lorraine, turning her head and closing her eyes as Lorraine continued Tommy’s punishment. The Code forbade guards from interfering with parental discipline—even if they thought the parent used too much force. Gabriella hated that part of the Code because she knew any guard would agree that Lorraine almost always used too much force.

 “…And just for that, I’m not going to let you talk to your father when he calls,” continued Lorraine.

“But, but, but, but… Mom!”

Gabriella watched Tommy’s eyes grow wide with panic. Talking to his dad was Tommy’s favorite part of the day. “Come on, Lorraine,” she said. “Give him a break.”

“No buts,” continued Lorraine. “Now go upstairs and wash up. Joe’s coming over for dinner—remember?—and he doesn’t need to see you dirty like this.”

Tommy’s shoulders dropped in defeat. Gabriella groaned. Joe was Lorraine’s most current boyfriend. Now, admittedly, Gabriella thought that Joe was a pleasant change from her last boyfriend, Vince. Vince always yelled, even when he was sober, which was rare. Joe rarely arrived drunk, but he constantly complained that Tommy was either too dirty or too hyper or too childish. Sometimes it took all of Gabriella’s self-control not to slam a door in his face.

Tommy’s face turned red and crumpled into a scowl. “I wish I lived with Dad!” he yelled.

He wrenched himself out of Lorraine’s grip and raced up the stairs into the bathroom and slammed the door. Gabriella flew in after him and found him sitting on the floor with his back against the door and his knees pulled to his chest. She perched on the floor next to him.

“Look on the bright side,” she said, “at least dinner will be good.”

Tommy sighed. “I wish I lived with Dad.”

“So do I,” said Gabriella.

Tommy finally pulled himself up and dragged his stepping stool in front of the sink. He turned on the faucet and obediently rubbed his hands under the water. Once his hands were clean, he took off his glasses and washed his face. The phone rang as he dried his hands. He cracked the door open and peaked out.

“I’m sorry, Jim,” Gabriella heard Lorraine say. “He can’t talk to you tonight. He’s being punished.”

Pause.

“He wouldn’t come to dinner when I called him.”

Pause.

“Look, Jim,” Lorraine said with a sarcastic, sweet voice that Gabriella as well as Jim’s guard, Zane, called “the tone.”

“Oh, dear,” muttered Gabriella. Lorraine only used the tone when she thought up a particularly evil way to get what she wanted.

“I don’t have time for this now,” continued Lorraine, “and you don’t want me to tell my lawyer that you refuse to let me discipline my own son, do you?” She hung up and smiled.

“You evil… evil—!” Gabriella searched for the right words. “You know he wants to talk to Tommy! You’re hurting your own son just to hurt Jim! You… you saber!”

Tommy slammed the door and sank to the floor. Gabriella flew next to her pouting charge and rested her arm on his shoulders. “It’s okay, big guy. He’ll call again tomorrow night. He always does.”

•

That evening, Gabriella perched on top of Tommy’s dresser and watched as he read his comic books in bed. Normally, she perched on Tommy’s headboard, but Tommy’s new, self-constructed army fort made up of bed sheets impeded her view. She glanced at the clock on the dresser.

“Eight o’clock, big guy,” she said. “Lights out.”

Tommy glanced at the clock and laid his comic books on his bedside table. Then he reached for the lamp and turned it off.

Gabriella smiled. Her little Tommy was such a good—hold on! Her smile turned into a frown as Tommy reached under his pillow and grabbed a flashlight. He turned it on, ducked under his covers, and continued to read.

“Obeying Lorraine would make your life a lot easier.”

Tommy looked up, startled, and he glanced around. Then he snuggled deeper under his covers.

Gabriella laughed. Cherubian voices resonated at a frequency higher than most human ears could detect. Tommy, however, had exceptional hearing for a human. Gabriella often used it to her advantage. More than once, usually as Tommy began to do something insane—such as riding his bicycle off the roof to see if he could make it across the street without hitting the ground—he would stop when he heard the inexplicable sound of Gabriella’s voice. True, she was violating the spirit of the Code, but it never specifically stated that guards could not use their voices to control their charge’s actions. Besides, she rationalized, only a few boys on Earth were as rambunctious as Tommy.

Even though Tommy usually could not hear her, Gabriella found that talking to him kept her from feeling lonely. Lorraine lost her guard long ago when she hardened. Hardening occurred when a human stopped caring about others and began to hate. It was usually irreversible, and once a human hardened, he lost his guard. Without a guard, no one could protect the human mind from the mornachts. Once a mornacht took up residence, a human had little hope of ever softening, and a mornacht-controlled human could do horrible things. Fortunately for Tommy and Gabriella, Lorraine was still mornacht free.

“Tommy, you know that Lorraine will explode if she comes in here and finds you with that flashlight,” Gabriella said, hoping he might sense what she was saying even if he could not hear it distinctly. “You think it hurts you when she hits you? Think about what it does to me to have to watch her do it.”

Tommy continued to read, and Gabriella shrugged in defeat. As much as she hated it, Subchapter S, Item Nine of the Code clearly stated, “No interfering with your charge’s actions. Only serve as a physical barrier between him and unnecessary harm.”

“All right, have it your way,” Gabriella said. “She won’t come in to say goodnight anyway—not with Joe still here.”

Gabriella’s prediction proved true. Two hours later, Tommy finally turned off his flashlight and let it fall to the floor. It rolled into the dresser and caused the lamp, which currently supported the weight of his ad hoc army fort, to tip—right over Tommy’s head—until Gabriella’s nonchalant hand steadied it.

“Not so much as a thank you, eh, Tommy?”

Gabriella smiled as Tommy drifted off into a world of American Heroes and bottle rockets. She crept to the door, nudged it open without a creak, took out her bow, and began shooting arrows down the hall at the old grandfather clock. In only a few seconds, she filled the center of the clock with twenty arrows. She retrieved the arrows and continued her target practice until the early hours of morning when she finally fell asleep alongside Tommy.

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Copyright © 2006 M. B. Weston. All rights reserved.
Revised: 02/06/09