The Maelstrom

did, but at least he had the decency to let Max be—not to preach or pry but to simply let him sit in this quiet space of wood and glass and stone.

When they’d finished with their work, the domovoi filed out. The chaplain followed behind, stopping only to set a lantern by Max’s feet.

“Stay as long as you like,” he said. “No need to lock up.”

Max lingered for another hour, savoring the silence and the warm glow of the yuletide candles set within the alcoves and windows. At last he rose and left the chapel, closing the door gently behind him and gazing out into the dark churchyard. Snow was still falling, the flakes settling softly onto the gravestones.

Holding the lantern, Max walked the rows of the dead, shining its light upon each headstone until he found the one for Scott McDaniels. It was a modest slab of pale granite with the proper letters and numbers chiseled into the hard stone. Kneeling, Max brushed away the snow and wiped away the bits of dirt and grass that had accumulated upon the foundation.

Rolf’s grave was easier to find. There were still flowers propped against the headstone, half-frozen roses and lilies left over from the funeral. As Max arranged them, he found a medal buried in their midst—an award the boy had won in Mr. Vincenti’s class. Polishing its surface, Max hung it around the headstone so that it dangled next to Rolf’s name.

There were no flowers at Byron Morrow’s grave. It was a small plot near the woods that ran along the churchyard’s boundary. He’d been buried next to his wife, Elaine. Her headstone was weathered, the corners worn smooth by many rains and winters. But Mr. Morrow’s was new, its edges clean and sharp as Max knelt to brush the snow away.

He had just finished when he noticed that someone was watching him.

The figure was standing in the woods, just beyond the lantern’s light. It did not move, but there was something unsettling and sinister about its quiet surveillance. Drawing the gae bolga, Max hoisted up the lantern.

“Who is that?” he hissed. “Show yourself!”

The figure glided smoothly forward, emerging from the dark wood so that the lantern shone full upon his white and smiling face.

It was Astaroth.

~ 12 ~ A Watcher in the Wood

Max stared, disbelieving, as the Demon came forward. The last time Max had seen Astaroth, he had been radiant and white—a luminous image of terrible power. Now his raiment was less glorious, more subdued. He wore a simple black robe and leaned upon the very staff he’d been carrying when he pursued Max and David in the Sidh. The Demon’s face was the same—a gleaming white mask of patrician, almost genderless beauty framed by smooth black hair that hung past his shoulders. His fathomless black eyes crinkled into cheerful slits as he spoke in his honeyed tenor.

“Now it is the time of nightThat the graves, all gaping wide,Every one lets forth his spriteIn the church-way paths to glide.“Are we communing with the dead?” he inquired pleasantly.

“I’m imagining this,” Max murmured, watching the Demon’s image grow translucent and flicker in the lantern light. “You’re not here—you’re skulking, lurking, hiding from Bram. You’re just some mischievous spirit, some watcher in the woods.”

The Demon gave a knowing smile. “I’m the watcher in all the woods,” he replied softly. “And I am here. Not in the flesh, alas, but then I can’t risk getting close to that awful blade. What a crime to craft such a weapon. You will never be free of it. You’ve made a bargain with the Morrigan, my boy, and blood is the only coin she takes.”

Frowning at the gae bolga, the Demon’s expression became thoughtful, almost melancholy.

“Dismiss your silly thoughts of violence,” he said. “When I’m in this form, we cannot harm one another. I’ve merely come to talk with you, Max, to appeal to your good senses and save you from the path you’re on.”

“Of course,” said Max scornfully. “You’re here to save me.”

“Yes, I am,” replied Astaroth. He gazed about the churchyard and the falling snow and sighed. “You and David and all the rest have done such foolish things,” he lamented. “It tries even my patience. I resurrect this beautiful world, give you a veritable Eden scrubbed clean of mankind’s mistakes, and you’re determined to throw it all away.”

Max’s face darkened. “This is your Eden? A world of war and death and fear?”

“Tut-tut,” Astaroth chided. “Where is your vision? I suppose it’s not entirely your fault—it’s the human in you. But try to have some perspective. We’re merely baby steps into a grand project, but already the old cities and governments and even memories are gone, cleared away so that a new and better world can take their place. Will death and heartbreak accompany such massive upheaval? Of course they will. When a farmer tills his fields, the ants must scatter or perish. But very soon, new life is created. The land and the ants are better for it.”

“Tell that to everyone who lost their families and their freedom.”

Astaroth sighed. He glided past to examine the headstones, stooping to read aloud several names of the deceased and how long each had lived. The Demon raised a slender eyebrow.

“Has it ever occurred to you that humans are dreadful at governing themselves?” he said. “Their lives are short but their appetites are large. It’s an almost comic recipe for greed and discontent. Most care nothing for future generations of their own kind, much less other beings and creatures. The rare specimens who strive to live in peaceful balance are quickly exploited or conquered by those who do not. They are punished for their virtue while the rest of the species cultivates and rewards its very worst traits. Moral man and immoral society, indeed!”

Chuckling, Astaroth shook his head.

“If humans are such a cancer, why not simply destroy them?” Max mused. “You have the Book of Thoth. You could strike humans from the record, make everyone fade away like everything else you’ve changed.”

With a shrug, the Demon rose and turned from the headstone.

“It is tempting,” he confessed. “It would be dishonest to pretend I have not weighed such a measure—a chance to wipe the slate clean and begin things anew, refashion the species and purge it of its lesser qualities. But I have not yet given up hope for humans. Within them exist the divine and the profane. Did you know that Isaac Newton published his Principia in the very year a sailor slaughtered the last dodo bird?”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is this. The genius who produced Principia is worth saving; the lout who bludgeoned the last of a helpless species is not. Such baffling extremes exist within mankind. Forgive me, Max, but such extremes exist within you. It’s why you intrigue me. And while it is periodically tempting to obliterate humans, I entertain the hope that they can be taught to nurture and embrace their better nature. It won’t happen overnight, but I’m optimistic that within a few centuries, we might see real progress. Perhaps we’ll see the same with you.”

“So we’re all just living in your little garden,” Max scoffed. “Some pruning here, some planting there, and wondrous things will grow.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” teased the Demon.

“People want to make decisions for themselves.”

“Oh, I know they do,” the Demon purred. “They’re just not any good at it. How could they be when they lack the necessary vision, wisdom, or patience? You curse my name, but the painful truth is that mankind was already teetering on self-destruction. Would you prefer a nuclear holocaust, laboratory plague, or technological singularity to my ascendancy? You shed tears for the fallen, but my intervention has saved humanity. A benevolent dictator is best, as Plato himself realized.”