The Flaming Sword Of Michael

Even Almighty Zeus could do nothing for me; even as I prayed,

And blessed Minerva could not impart Her wisdom to me, ever to my dismay;

And so I struggled, bound by one single thread,

The end never seemed to come, for They did not want me dead.

Oh, by the hands of the Parcae! -Deepshika

The trip to southern California had been as uneventful as expected for the two road weary sojourners. Without Lilith engaging whatever gift for finding trouble she had, they managed to avoid it fairly easily. They trained every night as they had, but it became clearer to the enigmatic little cat each night that there was little else she could teach Michael. She needed to glean what she could from the Parcae. From there it was a matter of choosing the best course of action, and getting Michael some experience against those from her plane of existence. She was already getting pre-battle butterflies. It wouldn’t be long now.

They had crossed the California border the day before. It was the middle of a dry summer, and eastern-southern California had the yellow color of an untended wheat field. The dried-out palm trees stood like rows of ancient, neglected, monolithic scarecrows. Hot and extremely thirsty, the two travelers collapsed in a small, sun-faded, blue motel with a dried-out swimming pool a few miles northeast of Los Angeles.

"Get some sleep. If we get an early enough start tomorrow, we may catch the ladies at dinner. It'll be at least as hot tomorrow as it was today, and they'll be after fish tacos and sangrias." Lilith said with a pair of lioness yawns as bookends.

"Chronic Tacos" smirked Michael.

"The Parcae are creatures of habit among other things. No training tonight. We set a grueling pace today, and have to do the same tomorrow. Get to sleep. The sooner we..."

Michael interrupted her with a redwood-sawing snore. Though she lacked the soft palate and nasal capacity of a human adult, she quickly set to adding her own wispy little hacksaw's buzz.

They slept like the dead, and woke early. They made great time, making as straight a line as possible to Orange County. Michael had to shade his eyes from the westering California summer sun as they entered Dana Point.

An hour after dusk, three old ladies sat at a four-person table on the small patio of Chronic Tacos on Capistrano Beach in Dana Point. The fourth seat was supporting a large, leather, sewing machine bag on wheels. The bag itself was only slightly less gaudily decorated than the sangria slurping old ladies.

Their attempt at blending in as Californians was at best, an over the top parody of the most lavishly festooned Floridian retirees imaginable. Gold bangles, loud primary and pastel colors, and sunglasses you could land a helicopter on, clanked and battered flat, silver, and stemware. What people perceived when looking upon them mattered less than nothing to the three immortals.

These were, to the English the Fates, to the Greeks the Moirai, to the Norse the Norns, to the Romans the Parcae. They wove the thread of life, and ended it in the matter of their choosing with a single deft flick of the Shears of Fate. They were Nona Clotho, Decima Lachesis, and the dreaded Morta Atropo. All of the immortals who still live, fear and respect them. Those that didn't are now referred to in the past tense.

Halfway through their second round of sangrias, they ordered a third. As the waiter left to ring them in, a sweaty young man followed by a little gray and white cat the sisters recognized immediately, approached the table. The sisters glanced at the smelly, sunburned young man in a passing, disinterested fashion. As one, their gaze fell upon Lilith.

Nona spoke first, "Greetings Lilith. I see you've elected to remain in small mammal form; a curious choice in this heat."

"Nona" responded the small mammal, nodding slowly with deference. "Might my young friend and I pull up a chair, and sit with you awhile?"

Decima spoke next. "Please do. We were just discussing when you might show. We had a little debate as to whether it would be this evening, or if you'd interrupt our lunch tomorrow."

Morta continued in the low, executioner's monotone she had always spoke in. "It is most impertinent that you see us at your leisure, rather than we see you at ours."

“My apologies ladies. I mean no disrespect. Let me buy your drinks to atone for my lack of manners." All four immortals silently shared a chuckle at that, knowing full well none of them had any need of money. Then, in unison, the Parcae nodded their heads towards an empty chair at a nearby table.

Michael looked down at Lilith for the first time during the exchange. She was looking up at him. She blinked twice expectantly, and he caught on slowly enough to be a bit embarrassed. He reached over and grabbed the chair. He sat down, and the cat hopped onto his lap. She sat upon him like a divorce lawyer sitting across a conference table, looking at a clear violation of the pre-nup.

"Ladies, we have much to discuss. I'm sure you're well aware of the situation at hand. Whether or not you think it's any of your concern, and whether or not you care to help us is tantamount to the very continuation of your existence."

Waving her hand and clacking the hell out her bangles, Nona said, "Yes, yes, we know. We just want to hear what it is you plan to do about it. We suspect an awful lot of long threads might be cut in the near future. Which ones? Well, that will depend on what is said at this table, what we decide, and just what this filthy mortal has to do with it."

Over the next couple of hours, and uncounted sangrias, Lilith and the old ladies had a kind of esoteric Q&A that Michael simply couldn't follow. He understood that several references were made to him, but they were unintelligible to him. Many of the questions and answers referred to sewing.

Things were said like, "The mortal's cord is thick, yes, but you've unwoven him from the tapestry. He will soon be noticed by the Cambion. If he isn't ready, it will be our job to 'save nine' as the saying goes." And questions asked like, "Has the longest thread frayed? Have you lost sight of its end? If so, would you dare cut it if need be?" There were also many nonverbal communications occurring. Nods, smiles, grimaces, and apparently very telling poker-faces were among some that Michael (feeling very human and small) could pick out.

Michael had never really had the chance to become much of a drinker, and after four hours of continual sips of sangria, he was out cold. The conversation was as well. All four immortals sat contemplating the past couple hours. Had they got what they wanted? Had they broken any of the major rules? How long would it take before one of Lilith's sisters found out about this meeting, and inevitably who the wielder of the Flaming Sword was?

After what she deemed an appropriate pause length, Lilith spoke.

"Ladies I thank you for your time, and most gracious hospitality. As you know, my sisters and their minions have already overstepped their bounds, and plan to transgress further still. Any mercies you may bestow upon myself, Michael, or our quest would be most humbly regarded as the highest of debts. I bid you all a good evening."

Lilith hopped onto Michael's lap, instantly waking the young man.

"Huh? Wha.. ..oh. Are you done?" Michael asked a tad embarrassed.

"Yes." came a withering, low rasp from Morta. "We will be watching your deeds with great interest, mortal." She rose from her seat as if lifted by the shoulders. "Your little succubus here thinks you a great champion. Your thread suggests it is possible, but you are a soft man." Her heavily bangled wrist rose, and a finger uncurled at him in silence. "You were woven into, and are of a soft time. I will not hesitate to perform my duty as I have for eternity. Heed your mistress well, and perhaps your thread will remain uncut."

The others of the Parcae rose in similar fashions. They, as one, wafted from around the table, and off the patio. The clamor of their earlier movements a distant memory. They were as silent as death. Of course they were. This narrator hopes not to have to revisit the likes of them again soon.

Michael was tired, and more than a little drunk. "I don't want to hear anything about threads, or weavings, or cutting. What the hell was that? And are we going to die, or what? No riddles!"

Lilith stole all of his bluster immediately. She had been watching the Fates depart while Michael had been growing a pair of balls, but when she looked up at him, the smile on her face was devilish.

"They don't know. They have no idea." The only thing keeping him from saying something then was the intensity of her whisper, and laser focus of her stare. "I managed to get them to reveal more than they wanted. We will defeat the Cambion, or at least the Cambion won't kill us." She stood on his leg, and put her forepaws on his chest and looked hard at him. "We are fated to meet my sisters!"

Her level of surprise and elation was making Michael uncomfortable. He asked, with more than a little concern, "Just what did you think our odds were before this little meeting?"

Nothing could ebb her excitement. "You don't want to know, human! I chose better than I thought." She popped onto the table, inwardly congratulating herself. "We go to meet my twisted little nieces and nephews tomorrow!" She dropped off the table, and headed out toward their motel. "Come on! Get some rest Michael. We won't be walking to where we're going next, but you're drunk! Ha ha!"

Michael got up like a groggy, poorly charmed snake. He shuffled the few steps needed to catch up to her. He was still very confused, tired, and pretty drunk. He gathered that his real battles were now going to come. He didn't realize that tomorrow meant tomorrow. One thing stuck in his mind like a cocklebur.

"Did I hear Morta call you a succubus?"

"You did."

"Why'd she call you that?"

"Because I am." Replied Lilith in a cheerful tone, never breaking her haughty gait.

Michael shuffled along behind as he had all along.

"Oh." was all he said.

to be continued..