Legacy
by Constance Cochran
eilonwy@earthlink.net

Note: This is a revised version.  Version 1.0 posted to the
castle.net archive on 6.28.96.  Date of this revision: 3.8.97.
There were a few small gaffes I wanted to fix.  The year David
Xanatos was 12 was more likely 1970 or '71 rather than 1969.
He strikes me as a character on the verge of turning 40, but not 40 yet.

       The Gargoyles and Gargoyles characters are the property
  of Buena Vista/Disney.  A particular acknowledgment goes out
  to Lydia C. Marano, who wrote "The Gathering," Shari
  Goodhartz, who wrote "Vows," and of course, Michael Reaves,
  who wrote "The Price."  The lines Petros reads are from the
  poem "Crossing the Bar" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, taken from
  The Norton Anthology of English Literature.
       A word of warning: I wanted to tell this story very
  much, but as I have never actually been to Bar Harbor, or
  even Maine itself, there was a bit of an obstacle.  So I did
  what any self-respecting writer of fan fiction would do -- I
  consulted guide books.  If any of you out there actually
  live in Bar Harbor, or have been there, please, please
  forgive any major gaffes.  Harris' Tavern and the wreck of
  *The Mermaid* are out of my own fevered imagination, as are
  any characters not originally part of the Gargoyles canon.
  As for the life of a Maine fisherman, I just winged it based
  on various authors I have read.  I hope it isn't too
  inaccurate.
       Thanks go out to several people: Nancy Brown for
  writing her beautiful fan fic piece, "No More A' Roving."
  Although I had already started writing "Legacy" when I read
  it, it certainly added welcome fuel to the fire.  As always,
  a big thank you to Batya Levin, who read this in all its
  stages and helped keep it on track.  And a hello to Laura
  and the M&M crowd -- you know who you are.  {Okay, enough
  intro.  I'll subside and have my pez now;)}
       This story doesn't really "fall" anywhere in the
  Gargoyles chronology.  It opens with a scene from "The
  Price," but really begins decades before the modern-day
  events of "Awakening" occurred.
       Hope you like it.


  Manhattan
  Winter, 1995

       Deep within Castle Wyvern in the place that used to be
  the dungeon, David Xanatos and the gargoyle faced each other
  through the yellow beams that created the bars of a cage.
       The Cauldron of Life bubbled and boiled, the purple
  liquid spinning inside its cavernous depths.  Owen stood
  nearby, ready to assist.
       Holding the remote control device in one hand, Xanatos
  called out mockingly, "Your bath is ready, Hudson."
       He pressed a button, and the steel clan robot waiting
  dormantly to the side sprang into life, its eyes glowing red
  as it marched soullessly towards Hudson's cage.
       "Listen to me, Xanatos," Hudson bellowed, a note close
  to desperation creeping into his voice.  "What you seek
  demands a heavy price."
       The glowing yellow laser bars of the cage vanished with
  a mechanical swish, and the steel clan robot grabbed Hudson,
  lifting the heavy gargoyle effortlessly into the air.
       The robot held Hudson out in front, the gargoyle's
  wrists imprisoned in a steel grasp.  "I've been alive for
  over 1100 years.  Most of my clan is dead and dust.  And I
  am a stranger in a strange land."  Legs dangling, the
  gargoyle still managed to exude wisdom and dignity.  "Demona
  and Macbeth are immortal.  Has it brought them happiness?"
       Xanatos raised the gargoyle's sword.  "Save your
  breath, Hudson.  Death and old age have their price as well.
  And it's too expensive for me."
       The robot's servos whirred, and clutching Hudson by one
  wrist, it dangled the gargoyle over the billowing purple
  steam rising from the bubbling cauldron.  Hudson began to
  grunt, kick, and struggle.
       "Relax, Hudson," Xanatos said, flipping the sword
  neatly in the air and catching it.  "Without your sword,
  you're helpless."
       *This is almost as satisfying as going up against
  Goliath,* Xanatos thought.  Soon, now, he would have the
  answers he needed.
       So subtly and swiftly Xanatos barely realized it was
  happening until it already had, Hudson reached into his belt
  and pulled out a sliver of his own stone skin.  "Sword less,
  maybe. Helpless, NEVER!"
       Hudson slashed out at the robot's eye and launched
  himself across the room with a battle cry.  Xanatos felt the
  impact of the gargoyle feet against his chest and fell, the
  wind knocked out of him.  At the same time, Hudson grabbed
  his sword.
       Vaguely, Xanatos saw Owen running to help -- but the
  gargoyle raised his sword menacingly.
       "Behave yourself, boy."
       Owen halted, uncertain.
       Feeling it was time to intervene, Xanatos slowly got to
  his feet, trying not to wince visibly.  "I underestimated
  you," he said to the gargoyle.  "Very resourceful.  Using
  your own skin as a weapon."  He rubbed his sore wrist with
  his fingers until he realized how visibly weak a gesture
  that was.   "I suppose you'll destroy the cauldron now."
       The gargoyle paused, and Xanatos again felt that
  unnerving gaze upon him.  "And why would I be doin' that?
  What you do with your life is your own affair."  He sheathed
  the sword.  "As long as it's got nothin' to do with me."
       This, he hadn't expected.  The gargoyles were always so
  busy interfering with his plans, trying to impose their
  value code onto him.
       "You're just full of surprises," Xanatos said, allowing
  a small note of amusement and admiration to creep into his
  voice.  If he wasn't careful, he might end up actually
  liking Hudson.
       Hudson turned to leave, but then stayed a moment
  longer.  "A friendly word of advice.  True immortality isn't
  about living forever, lad.  It's about what you do with the
  time you have."
       Looking at the old gargoyle, at the fierce, weathered
  face, the air of determination, experience, and
  indestructibility despite old age, he was reminded of
  someone else, someone who had been important to him, long
  ago.  Hudson's voice had the same deep timbre, even if it
  was saying words with a different meaning behind them, in a
  different accent.
       "When all your scheming is done, what will be your
  legacy, Xanatos?"
       The gargoyle turned and walked away down a stone
  corridor with his wings unfurled.  Xanatos decided he didn't
  like Hudson as much as he had thought.  Owen pulled out his
  cellular phone and hit a few numbers.  For a moment, he was
  tempted to bring the stubborn old warrior back by force, to
  have the satisfaction of seeing him restrained, defeated, at
  his mercy.
       Xanatos held out his arm, palm flat, at Owen.  "No.
  Let him go.  He's earned it."
       Owen's pale eyebrows rose in surprise behind the
  glasses, but he said nothing.

  Bar Harbor, Maine
  Summer, 1971

       With the surf around his ankles and his blue jeans
  rolled up to his knees, the boy stared down at the water
  with a focus and intent that made him seem much older than
  he really was.  In his left hand he held a metal bucket.
  When he had spotted what he was looking for beneath the
  glinting surface of the water, his eyes narrowed in triumph,
  and his right hand plunged into the water, to emerge with a
  handful of wet sand and a perfect shell.
       This one would fetch a good price.  Mottled all over in
  shades of beige and pink, almost as large as his palm, the
  small conch shell ended in a delicate swirl, the curves
  unbroken by the buffeting it had received.  He dropped the
  shell into the bucket, and it made a satisfying *clack* as
  it landed on his other finds of the morning.  Turning back
  to the rippling, cold surface of the water, the boy let out
  a snort.  *Stupid tourists...all this for free, but they
  want to buy it in a shop.*
       A high-pitched cry sounded down the shore, a small
  child shrieking in protest.  The boy turned.
       Around the curve of the wet, jagged rocks that lined
  the shore was a small group of kids.  A small girl and her
  brother, not much larger than she was, stood framed by two
  bigger boys.  One of the boys stood landward, one on the bay
  side, trapping the two smaller kids between them in the
  water.
       The little girl, a tiny, delicate, fair haired child in
  a pink sundress, was sobbing, while her brother glared at
  the other boys, his fists clenched.  He wore khaki shorts
  and a neat, plain, button-down oxford shirt -- he and his
  sister were "outlanders," summer kids, not local.
       David shrugged, and was about to turn away, when one of
  the taller kids reached out and pushed the girl in the chest
  with one finger.  She sat down abruptly into the water, the
  skirt of her dress billowing around her like pink kelp.  The
  girl's brother let out a yell and hurled himself at the
  taller boy, and they went down.
       He watched the battle, avidly curious about the
  outcome.  A lot of these summer kids couldn't fight, but he
  admired the spirit of this one.  *Definitely can't fight,*
  he thought, watching the kid's fists flail ineffectively.
  While his cohort looked on, the taller boy sat on the
  smaller boy so that he could barely keep his mouth and nose
  out of the water.  The smaller boy began to struggle more
  frantically, and the little girl ran forward and pulled the
  taller boy's hair until his cohort picked her up around the
  waist.
       Sighing, David put the bucket carefully down on a dry
  rock.  Crouching, moving quietly so he wouldn't splash, he
  made his way rapidly towards the struggle, keeping out of
  sight behind the rocks.
       "Hey!"  He yelled, standing up suddenly.
       The taller boy, startled momentarily, released his hold
  on his victim.  The summer kid raised his head out of the
  water, coughed several times, and began to wheeze
  frantically, spitting out sand.
       "Why don't you pick on someone you're own size,
  Darber?"  David said calmly, his hands hanging loose at his
  sides, ready.
       Darber grinned wickedly beneath his freckles.  He got
  up, releasing the summer kid.  "Someone like you, Xanatos?"
       "Exactly."
       David knew his face didn't look tough enough.  It was
  too round, too young -- too pretty, he always thought.  He
  hated it, and couldn't wait for the day when he could grow a
  beard.
       Darber let out a hoot and glanced at his companion, who
  still held the little girl.  "Hardly my own size, is he?"
       Darber's cohort only snickered, like the obedient
  sidekick that he was.
       "What happened here?"  David asked the summer kid, who
  stood shivering in the tide with his nice clothes sopping
  wet.
       "He took my sister's whistle" the kid replied in a low
  voice, devoid of any whining note.  "It's a genuine ship's
  whistle...my Dad's friend, he's an admiral, he gave it to
  her.  We were blowing on it when they came along.  He -- "
  the boy gestured at the cohort "-- has it in his pocket."
       "Put her down," David said coolly.
       "Make me," said the cohort.
       David moved forward, but the summer kid grabbed him
  back.  "No.  It's my sister.  You can't fight for me."
       The top of the kid's head barely reached David's
  shoulders.  But he looked wiry -- probably sailed a lot or
  something.
       "Yeah, butt out, Xanatos."  Darber gestured at his
  cohort, and the cohort dropped the little girl.
       "I don't think so.  Two against two.  That seems fair."
       Darber considered.  "School rules, no below the belt,
  winner keeps the whistle."
       David nodded.  Neither he nor the summer kid were a
  match in weight or height for Toby Darber or Gil Hampton --
  but he would make an even bet they outmatched them in
  brains.

       By the time he got home, the sky had dimmed with the
  approach of a thunderstorm and a strong wind had leapt up.
  He put the bucket of shells under the back porch, then
  climbed up the side of the house so he could sneak in
  without having to *explain* anything to his mother.
       With his feet hooked into the slats of the trellis and
  the fingers of his right hand wrapped around the edge of the
  slanted roof of his house, he raised the window of his room
  with his other hand.  A strong breeze rustled the leaves of
  the tree behind him, and he shivered in his damp, sandy t-shirt.
 Thunder rumbled through the gray sky, where a pale
  film of sunlight still showed over the hump of the mountain
  beyond the town.  The waters of the bay turned to the color
  of slate as the wind ruffled it into rills of white.  David
  stepped over the window sill and pulled himself inside,
  landing on the wood floorboards with barely a sound.  The
  room was shadowy and dim.
       A bright yellow glow flicked on, making him squint, and
  his mother stood framed in the doorway leading to the hall,
  her hand on the light switch.  She was wearing a simple
  floral dress, sneakers with no socks, and had her long, dark
  hair pulled back with a clasp.  There was a dried spot of
  paint on the skirt of the dress, and paint on her fingers;
  his mother had recently taken over an unused room upstairs
  for a studio.  Her hand left the switch and she folded her
  arms, studying him expectantly as if to say, *Well?*
       David folded his arms and stared right back.
       He looked more like his father than his mother -- in
  features, at least.  But the determined expression on mother
  and son's faces were identical.  As Allie Xanatos eyed her
  son, her expression suddenly changed, transforming from
  annoyance to concern.
       "Oh my gosh, David, what happened to your face?"  She
  hurried forward, and before David could move, took his chin
  between her fingers and tilted his head back for inspection.
  Calmly, she shook her head.  "Were you in another fight?"
       He thought he had washed off all of the blood.  David
  glanced at the mirror over the chest of drawers and saw his
  own face reflected back.  His short, dark brown hair was
  clumped with water and sand, and though his face was clean,
  there was a painfully obvious and growing bruise on his left
  eye, a raw, red patch on his cheek, and a swollen spot on
  his lower lip.
       "What happened," his mother demanded.
       "Toby Darber happened."
       "Toby Darber..." she broke off.  "That does it.  I'm
  calling that boy's mother."  She turned determinedly for the
  door but David ran forward and blocked her path.
       "Yeah, and have him and his pals jump me for being a
  tattle-tale.  Please don't, Mom."
       She considered, watching his face.  "What -- exactly --
  happened?"
       "Toby and Gil stole a whistle from a couple of
  outlander kids."
       Allie eyes her son sharply, one eyebrow going up.  "And
  you, of course, out of the goodness of your heart,
  volunteered to defend them?"
       David shrugged.  "I saw someone stronger picking on
  someone weaker.  It's cowardly and it's inefficient.
 Where's the challenge in that?"
       His mother rolled his eyes.  "I should have known.
  Well, look, you're going to catch cold in those damp
  clothes."  She opened a drawer and tossed him a clean shirt
  and a sweater.  "Get cleaned up, we're going to visit
  Grandpa Xanatos this afternoon."
       David caught the clothes, his face going cold.
       "Why bother?"  He said to his mother's retreating back.
  "He won't notice how I look or what I'm wearing.  He never
  notices anything anymore."
       Allie stopped with her hand on the doorknob, the door
  half-closed, and turned.  "Your grandfather is well aware of
  everything that goes on or is said around him.  Even if we
  can't see it.  And he loves you, and it would kill him if he
  knew you had just said that."  Her startlingly blue eyes had
  a hopeless expression in them that made David uncomfortable.
  His mother so seldom looked hopeless.


       "Hey, Dad," Petros said, sitting in the wooden chair
  next to the hospital bed.  He took his father's limp, gaunt
  hand in his large, tanned one.  "Guess what?  I had a great
  haul this week -- fattest lobsters you've ever seen."
       Ambrose never moved, just stared straight ahead, eyes
  vacant.  Next to him some medical instrument beeped steadily
  and quietly, making sure that he was still alive.
       "I wish you could have seen the sunset," Petros
  continued, as if nothing was wrong -- as if his father were
  still there with him instead of being just an empty husk of
  a person.
       David stood up against the bare, white, clean hospital
  room wall, staying apart, not wanting to come closer.  From
  this angle, if he kept his eyes on the window, he could
  pretend that his grandfather was just lying there quietly,
  not speaking, but with his eyes alive, they way they used to
  be.
       "Hi, Dad," Allie said, leaning over so her hair brushed
  Ambrose's arm.  From her shoulder bag she pulled out the
  small, framed oil painting of the bay she had been working
  on for months.  Among the other ships in the painting she
  had put in *The Poseidon,* Ambrose's old fishing boat, long
  gone by now.
       Allie held the picture in front of Ambrose's eyes.
  "I'll hang it on the wall where you can see it," she said
  softly, then set the painting down on a chair.
       Before the stroke six months ago, despite the fact that
  he was pushing seventy, Ambrose had been hearty and tanned,
  strong enough to lift bundles that made Petros gasp with
  exertion.  David remembered the camping trip last fall, the
  last camping trip Ambrose ever took his grandson on.  They'd
  driven for hours to the Adirondack mountains -- the Maine
  North Woods didn't present enough of a challenge to Ambrose.
       Standing on the summit of Mt. Marcy, with even the
  summer air cold and thin in their lungs, Ambrose was barely
  even sweating, while David was gasping for air after the
  last spurt of climbing.  Before them spread the fir-covered
  mountains, cut by lakes and glaciers, or slices of
  waterfalls cascading into gullies.  That climb had been the
  toughest thing David had ever tried to do.  He had wanted to
  give up, weighed down by a thirty-pound pack, his thighs
  aching, his breath ragged.  But Ambrose wouldn't let him
  give up.
       David made himself look at the limp shell lying on the
  hospital bed.  It just wasn't right.  There was something
  terribly perverse about a universe where that man could
  become this one.  A memory of Ambrose's face, lit by the
  flames of a campfire under the pines, flickered unbidden
  into his mind.  He could still hear the full timbre of his
  grandfather's voice telling him *If you want something in
  this life, David, you have to reach out and take it.*
       David wondered if there was anything his grandfather
  wanted any more.
       Allie turned to her son and reached out her hand.
  Reluctantly, David took it and allowed himself to be led to
  the hospital bed.  Standing between his parents, David
  remained silent.
       Petros glanced down at his son and opened his mouth to
  speak, but Allie reached out, put her fingers over his lips,
  and shook her head, flicking her eyes to David.
       "Hey, grandpa," David said softly.  His fingers went up
  to the bruise around his eye.  "I won.  The other guy looks
  even worse."
       Holding his breath, David hoped for a response, for the
  familiar glint in his grandfather's eyes, the voice saying
  "Of course you triumphed.  You are a Xanatos."
       But the man in the bed didn't respond.  David had the
  urge to grab those frail shoulders and shake him until he
  did.

       Over the mainland, the sun was beginning to set in a
  spectacular ball of fiery red and pink-streaked clouds, and
  the sky was starting to darken.  But the worn boards of the
  dock were still warm.  The sound of sloshing water and the
  conversation of his father's crew as they prepared to get
  under way diminished as David turned back to his book.  Why
  he had chosen a book on Scottish history, he couldn't say.
  He was interested in all sorts of topics, and was the light
  of the librarian's life, except that once she gave him an
  odd look when he checked out Machiavelli's *The Prince*.
       " After the Vikings sacked Castle Wyvern in 994 A.D.,
  Princess Katherine, the niece of Kenneth II, made her way to
  the sanctuary of her uncle's castle.  The loss of Wyvern was
  a blow to the MacAlpin line, but not a disaster.  Little is
  known of this niece of Kenneth's, but she is said to have
  had an advisor knowledgeable in sorcery.'"
       There was a footnote.  With the golden, dying light of
  the sun fading on the page, his eyes traveled down until he
  found it.  " Legends about this advisor and Castle Wyvern
  itself abound.  According to a local story, told over
  generations, the stone gargoyles that decorate the castle's
  ruins were once flesh and blood, and protected the castle
  from attack.  The Grimorum Arcanorum, long lost to
  historians, is rumored to contain an account set down by the
  princess' advisor, telling how the gargoyles were cursed by
  a magic spell and turned to stone.'"
       *Why is it,* David wondered, *that the footnotes are
  always more interesting than the text itself?* His mind
  seized on the image of the ruined castle and its stone
  inhabitants, and then he imagined the stone statues moving,
  fighting, swooping down on an unsuspecting invader.
       A shadow fell over the page, blocking the dying
  sunlight.
       "David, I've called you three times already.  It's time
  to be under way."
       David carefully closed the book and put it away in the
  waterproof sack he always carried with him on board.  He got
  to his feet.
       Petros rested his hand on David's shoulder as they
  walked towards *The Aurora.*  "One of these days, boy,
  you'll learn how to get her under way.  When I am too old to
  handle nets and spot the buoys, you might take over for me?"
       His voice went up, as if in a question -- but he didn't
  say it as a question, really, but as if it were an expected
  eventuality.
       It wasn't that he disliked being out on the ocean on
  his father's boat.  He loved the physicalness of it, the
  freedom, the salt tang in the air and the excitement of the
  waves.  And there was something satisfying about pulling in
  a full trap, or a squirming net bulging with fish.  It
  always astounded him that his father could actually make a
  living that way.
       But it wasn't enough.  He just couldn't see doing that
  for the rest of his life -- there were other worlds besides
  the sea that he needed to conquer.

       The weeks passed, sliding into one another the way they
  do during summer.  He liked summer the best; during the fall
  and winter, he would sit in the classroom of the small local
  school and feel like he was ready to explode with boredom if
  he couldn't get outside, be doing *something* useful.
  School was a waste of time.  Besides, he had already read on
  his own most of the books his teachers assigned.
       Sunset to sunrise, he helped his father on *The Aurora*,
  hauling in the nets, steering the boat, taking on work that
  his father's crew mistakenly thought he was too small, too
  young to do.  He managed to read some even while on board,
  although he had to quickly hide his book under a pile of
  ropes whenever his father walked by.  Petros couldn't
  understand the value of reading "dead words on a page" when
  there was what he felt to be real work waiting.  But David
  had already decided that to survive, he had to develop his
  mind as well as his physical strength.
       The fishermen of Bar Harbor lived by the cycles of the
  sun during summer.  Aching and tired but with a strange
  feeling of satisfaction, David would stand at the bow of the
  boat, watching the sun rise behind them over the horizon
  line of the Atlantic, creating a river of molten gold on the
  water, the seagulls small, winged black strokes against the
  light.
       His father seemed to work all the time, staying down by
  the docks to maintain the nets and keep *The Aurora*
  seaworthy.  Usually, it was all David could do at sunrise to
  stumble home and tumble into bed.  But after a few weeks, he
  became used to it, and wasn't quite so tired as the boat
  pulled into its mooring at dawn.
       On the weekends, and during the week once he adjusted
  to the odd hours, he was free to pursue his own ventures.

       "Mr. Perdopolis, are you trying to short change me?
  That one is worth a dollar fifty if it's worth a dime."
       The owner of the small touristy gift shop in town
  sighed as he regarded the shrewd-eyed boy who stood on the
  other side of the counter.  Spread on the glass was an array
  of seashells, none of them chipped or marred in any way.
       "Very well, David," Mr. Perdopolis pushed a bill across
  the counter.  "I'll give you seven dollars for the lot. That
  seems fair, doesn't it?  I have to make a living, you know."
       "Nine."
       David waited, fixing Mr. Perdopolis with a steady gaze.
  He knew that he mustn't look away, or appear uncertain, or
  waver.  Stare at someone long enough like that, and they
  would crumble, of this he was certain -- he'd been
  practicing.  It worked on everybody except Petros and Allie.
       The store keeper pulled four more dollars out of his
  pocket.  "Very well."
       David pocketed the cash, and shook Mr. Perdopolis'
  hand.  "A pleasure doing business with you, sir."
       As he left the shop, Mr. Perdopolis called after him,
  "You wouldn't do so well if there were any other kids on
  this island who bothered selling the shells they find!"
       *Don't be so sure,* David thought. *Competition could
  be very interesting.* Aloud, he called back, "Same time next
  week?"
       Mr. Perdopolis said a few somethings under his breath.
  "Yes, yes.  Same time next week.  Taking advantage of an old
  man," he heard the store keeper mutter.  "If I were spry
  enough to gather the shells myself..."
       David stepped outside into the blazing sunlight of
  noon.  It wasn't very hot, though.  It never got very hot in
  Maine.  The sky overhead was a deep blue, with wisps of
  clouds racing over the town.  A beautiful day -- the sort of
  day when tourists loved to be taken on tours of the island--
  for a small fee, of course.
       As he turned the corner, two tall figures leapt out in
  front of him, their shadows falling across the sidewalk to
  touch his.
       "Hey, Xanatos," Darber said, holding out a hand so
  David walked into it, and came to stop with a lurch.
       "Darber."  David stared up into the taller's boy's face
  steadily.
       Hampton stood nearby, snickering.
       "Get a good haul today, Xanatos?"  Darber made a move
  as if to grab at the pocket of David's shorts, but David
  stepped neatly to one side.
       "I can't see that it's any of your business."
       David started to walk on, but Darber reached out and
  hooked the toe of his sneaker around David's ankles.  Before
  he could stop his own momentum, David fell to his knees on
  the sidewalk.  He felt a sting on his exposed knees and his
  palms as the concrete scraped them.  Eyeing Darber's legs
  rising a foot from his eyes, David thought about hurling
  himself at them, at bringing the bigger boy crashing down.
  *And what would that prove?  Sure, you won a few weeks ago--
  but you had that summer kid, William, to help you.*  David
  knew very well that alone up against Darber and Hampton, he
  would get beaten.  Badly.  But there was one area where
  David knew he always had the edge over Darber -- physical
  force was not the answer.
       Slowly, he got to his feet, deliberately not brushing
  off his knees or hands, not even looking at them to assess
  the damage.  He counted to five until his anger cooled, then
  smiled what he thought was a crooked, knowing smile, letting
  his left eyebrow arch upwards just so.
       True to form, Darber took the bait.  "What?"  He
  demanded.
       "Oh, nothing."  David snickered.
       Darber reached out and grabbed the collar of David's
  white t-shirt, pulling him slightly off the ground so David
  had to stand on tiptoe.  "Talk, shrimp."
       David reached back and pried Darber's fingers from his
  shirt.  He tugged it down, straightening the fabric.  "Well,
  I just thought that maybe you're a pretty good fighter, but
  that a more...challenging...contest might be beyond you."
       Darber's eyes narrowed.  "Whaddya mean?"
       "Yeah," Hampton chimed in.
       "I mean, that I am smaller than you, so you do have the
  advantage in a fight.  But we can't help what size we are.
  Could you beat me in a more even contest?"
       "Are you offering me a dare, Xanatos?"
       *Not as stupid as he looks, is he?*
       "Loser admits the other has superiority.  And if I win,
  you leave me and anyone I tell you to, alone, for the rest
  of the summer."
       "But if I win..." Darber grinned wickedly.
       "If you win, I give you half of my profits from shell
  collecting for the summer from now on." *There's no need to
  tell him that if I lose, I plan to switch to some other
  means of earning money.* It was a shame, though.  The
shell-collecting had been quite lucrative.  But this was the only
  way to make sure Darber ended up with nothing.  Besides,
  David had no intention of losing.
       "Okay, Xanatos."  Darber turned and looked down the
  slope of the street, towards the waterfront.  "We walk the
  ridge-pole of Harris's.  Refuse, you lose.  Fall..."  Darber
  grinned again.
       Near the docks there was a tavern of sorts, where
  sailors and fisherman liked to stop in for a pint and some
  decent lobster and chips.  The grey, slate-covered roof
  pitched at a steep angle, but had a ridge at the point where
  a foot could fit, like a balance beam.  Kids dared each
  other a lot to walk that ridge, then reach out and touch the
  tavern's sign that swung on a beam reaching out from the end
  of the roof.  The sign was in the shape of a shark, with
  teeth actually carved out of the wood.

"Sorry, no."
       Hampton snickered.
       "What's wrong, Xanatos?"  Darber said mockingly.
  "Chicken?"
       "No.  I don't see the point of risking our necks for no
  reason.  Why not choose a dare where we have something to
  gain for the risk?"
       Darber looked at him suspiciously.  "Like what?"
       David had already thought of it from the moment Darber
  had made him fall.  "The wreck of *The Mermaid,*" he said
  simply.  He could see from Darber's face the other boy knew
  exactly what he was talking about.
       *The Mermaid* was a sailing ship belonging to a wealthy
  millionaire of the early 1900's.  He used to summer on the
  island, in one of the vast, rambling lodges that overlooked
  the ocean.  His lodge was a hotel now.  But his ship
  remained where it had sunk sixty years ago during a freak
  storm, as the sea slowly sucked it further into its grip.
  The millionaire and his family had escaped, but *The
  Mermaid* had been equipped with things like gold-plated
  faucet heads and antique brass barometers, besides which the
  missus had brought all her jewels with her.  Divers had
  pretty much picked the wreck clean, but the sea had a way of
  swallowing things up and then revealing them later.  Only
  recently some teenager had unearthed a ship's lantern that a
  museum in Bangor paid hundreds of dollars for.
       The wreck was located several hundred yards off of a
  small, rocky beach.  As David, Darber, and Hampton arrived
  there, a few younger local kids approached curiously from
  where they were playing.  The feud between David and Darber
  was well known; any time the two got together, there was
  bound to be excitement.
       David kicked off his sneakers, then perched on a rock
  where the tide rushed up around his ankles.
       "Terms?"  Darber called to him, also removing his
  shoes.
       "Winner is the one who brings back something valuable
  from the wreck.  If we both do, the more valuable object
  wins."  David turned back to Darber, and smiled.  "To the
  victor go the spoils."  He leapt from the rock, into the
  gently heaving water, and headed out for the site of the
  wreck with strong, long strokes.  He had left his t-shirt
  on; the water was cold.
       He heard a splash behind him and knew Darber was
  following.  Several hundred yards from shore, David paused,
  treading water.  He turned his head to see where he  was in
  relation to the shore, and kicked a few feet back until he
  was lined up with a large boulder that rose out of the
  water.  David turned back to the patch of water, and saw
  Darber inhale deeply and dive.
       David took several shallow gulps of air, then a longer,
  deep one, filling his lungs to their full capacity the way
  Ambrose had taught him.  Then he dove, and the water closed
  over his head.
       Kicking hard against his own buoyancy, he moved swiftly
  downward into the twilight water world.  Vision was murky
  underwater, but he could make out a long, irregular shadow
  below him.  The sunlight penetrated the water, falling in
  hazy shafts of light.  One shaft caught the jagged, broken
  top of the ship's mast.  David by-passed the sloping,
  barnacle covered surface of the deck, where Darber was
  digging around.  Everything on the ship itself was most
  likely picked clean.  The real finds would be on the surface
  of the bay floor, where the shifting tide might have
  uncovered undiscovered treasure.
       He saw Darber seize at something, look at it, then let
  it float away in disgust.  It was nothing more than a
  tarnished pewter fork.
       After several minutes, both boys had to come up for
  air.  They broke the surface a few yards away from each
  other, gasping.
       "You don't have a chance, Xanatos!"  Darber called out,
  before taking a deep breath and diving again.
       David refused to waste precious breath on Toby Darber.
  He waited until he was ready, and then followed.
       The boys continued to search for nearly half an hour,
  surfacing and diving in what soon began to feel like an
  endless rhythm.  David could feel his fingers and feet
  growing cold. But he could keep going.
       "This is going nowhere," Darber called angrily, the
  next time they surfaced.  "It's a draw, kid."  The older boy
  struck out for the shore, muttering obscenities.
       David squinted against the sun, which had been warm on
  shore but now seemed to have no warmth at all.  He went down
  for one more dive.
       This time, as he came around the stern of the ship, he
  thought he saw something glint at him from the port side..
  *Carefully, now,* he told himself.  He knew that the
  sunlight in the water could create illusions like that on
  something as ordinary as a rock.  Kicking his feet, he got
  close to the ocean floor and saw a round, metallic object
  half-submerged in sand.  Gingerly, because of the barnacles,
  he scraped some of the growth off.  In this visibility, it
  was hard to tell, but it looked like silver. Straining his
  arms, he pulled at the disk.  Slowly, with a sucking sound,
  it worked its way out of the sand.
       Behind and above him, he heard another sound, a groan
  like ice cracking on a winter lake.  Or rotten wood, giving
  way.  Startled, he turned, and saw a cross-piece of the once
  towering mast falling straight at him.
       Desperately, he let go of the silver plate and kicked
  out, but he had spotted the piece of timber too late.  He
  felt a heavy blow across his shoulders.  On land, it would
  have crushed him; under water, it was still stunning.  He
  felt his right shoulder and arm go numb.  Using his left arm
  and feet, he pushed away the timber, freeing himself.  He
  could still feel nothing in his shoulder.
       With his left hand, he snatched up his prize, and
  kicked towards the sunlight.  Surfacing, he gasped for air.
  His heart was pounding hard in his chest.  He began to
  stroke for shore with his right arm--
       And then pain, lancing, agonizing pain, laced through
  his right shoulder, along his arm, and into his fingers.  He
  had to bite his lip to keep from crying out.
       Treading water, he waited until the pain subsided
  somewhat, wondering what his next move should be.  Swimming
  to shore might be difficult.  He had to hold the silver
  plate, but he obviously couldn't stroke using his right arm.
  The best thing to do, he decided, was to hold the silver
  under his right arm, and stroke using his left.
       The shore looked very far away.  As he transferred the
  silver to his right hand, the pain ripped through him again.
  He felt a lurch of nausea, and gritted his teeth to keep
  from throwing up or passing out.  The water felt freezing,
  and his teeth began to chatter.  He had to get to shore.  He
  had to triumph.  He was a Xanatos.
       On the shore, he heard Darber yell something mocking.
  David slowly began to kick, stroking with his left arm,
  ignoring the pain in his right shoulder.
       A wave came up and slapped him in the face.  He inhaled
  salt water, coughed, and kept on going.  His own movements
  felt sluggish, and the shore was still fifty yards away.  He
  wondered, calmly, if he was going to drown.  He was having
  trouble keeping his nose and mouth above water.  *So let go
  of the silver,* a voice somewhere deep within his mind told
  him.  But he couldn't give up -- not unless he really had no
  choice.  And he wasn't done fighting yet.
       After what seemed like years, his feet touched bottom,
  and he staggered out of the water, falling to his knees on
  the warm sand of the beach.  He dropped the silver plate,
  bent over, and coughed, gasping for air.  He couldn't stop
  shivering.
       Darber stood over him.  "Well, gotta hand it to you,
  Xanatos.  You win."  David looked up and saw Darber's face,
  his mouth twisting in disgusted resignation.  "You won't be
  so lucky next time."  He and Hampton turned and stalked
  away.
       Taking a deep breath, David stood up.  The pain was
  constant now, worse than a throb.  With a helpless rage, he
  felt his legs tremble and refuse to support him, and he sank
  back down onto the sand.
       "Hey, David?"  It was William, the outlander who had
  gotten him into this mess in the first place.  "Are you
  alright?"
       William knelt beside him and reached out.  David
  twitched away.  "I'm fine."  Somehow, he would have to walk
  home, and he wasn't sure if he could.
       The outlander kid stood up.  "I think he's really
  hurt."
       Kimbal, a small local boy, jumped up from his perch on
  a sun-warmed rock.  "His father's down at the docks.  I'll
  get him."  The pint size kid raced down the shore line like
  a swift sea-bird before David could say anything.
       *Oh please oh please oh please, anyone but ~Pop.~*
       David was on his feet by the time Petros came running
  up the beach after Kimbal.
       "David?"  His father stopped, and reached out to turn
  his son to face him.
       David started to wince, and quickly fought to hide it.
  "You're hurt?"  Petros noticed David's arm limp at his side.
  His large, sun-browned hands reached out and began gently
  but briskly feeling the bones.  He wished his father would
  stop, every movement was making him feel like throwing up.
       "It's not broken," his father said, with some relief.
  His fingers traveled up to his son's shoulder.
       A small sound escaped David before he could stop it.
  He gritted his teeth, his face white.
       His father let go instantly.  "For Pete's sake, boy,"
  Petros demanded, his Mediterranean accent thicker with
  agitation.  "What have you been doing?"  His eyes went to
  the barnacle crusted silver disk lying on the sand.  The sun
  caught the silver underneath, and it gleamed.  Petros let
  out a curse under his breath.  Aloud, he said, his voice
  grim, "I see.  We'd best get you home, have the doctor look
  at you."
       His father put his arm about his son's shoulders, to
  support him.
       David pulled roughly away.  "I can walk on my own," he
  said, surly.  He bent over and picked up the silver plate
  with his left hand, and began walking up the beach.
       He hated to look weak in front of his father -- there
  was no way he could let Petros support him home.  David kept
  his head up, walking swiftly, and prayed he wouldn't pass
  out.  Behind him, he heard his father's footsteps, steady,
  keeping pace.  And part of David knew that the only reason
  he could walk home on his own now was because Petros was
  right behind him, ready to catch him if he fell.

       Allie handed her son a glass of water and two aspirin,
  sitting next to him where he lay on the couch downstairs.
       "Thank goodness it's just a sprain," she said.  "You
  could have broken your neck!"
       The doctor had come and gone.  In dry clothes, a
  blanket over him, David had to lie there, helpless in an arm
  sling, while his parents fired questions at him.  David
  sighed.  All he really wanted right then was peace and
  quiet.
       "What on earth were you doing, to injure yourself like
  that?"  His mother demanded.
       Before David could answer, his father stepped in.
  "I'll tell you what he was doing!"  His deep voice rose a
  few decibels.  At times like these, Petros Xanatos seemed
  too large for his own house.  "He was diving around *The
  Mermaid,* looking for treasure.  Pah!"  Petros glowered down
  at the silver plate, which rested on the floor on top of
  some spread out newspapers.  He turned to his son angrily.
  "Risking his fool-hardy neck for salvage.  Was it worth it,
  David?  Was it worth it for some barnacle eaten piece of
  junk?"
       "It's not junk," David answered carefully.  "Once it's
  cleaned up and I get it appraised, it could be worth one,
  maybe two hundred dollars."
       Allie's dark eyebrows went up.  "That's not too
  shabby."
       "Allie, he could have been killed!"
       "I know!"  She stood up, then glanced at her son.  "And
  he will be punished.  Petros, can we continue this
  discussion elsewhere?"
       His parents left the room.  Through the curtains of the
  front window, David could see them talking on the front
  porch.  Allie only came up to Petros's shoulder; to see him
  better, she had perched on the porch railing, while he
  leaned against a pillar next to her.
       The window was closed, so he could only catch snatches
  of the conversation -- "...too hard on him..." "...he has to
  learn...should have seen him..."
       David sighed.  He was tired of eavesdropping on his
  parents, tired of knowing the hours they spent discussing
  him.  Sometimes they acted as if he were some sort of
  curious new form of alien life that they weren't quite sure
  what to do with.
       He reached out and picked up the remote control for
  their black-and-white TV, and clicked the large power
  button.  At this time of day, most of what was on was kid
  stuff or soap operas.  But finally he found a local station
  showing the old Boris Karloff version of "Frankenstein."
  The music and dialogue drowned out the conversation on the
  porch.  David glanced over at the window, and saw his mother
  hop down from her perch.  Tenderly, carefully, like the
  maiden in the fairy tale approaching the enchanted bear,
  Allie leaned her head on Petros' shoulder.  David saw the
  stern lines of his father's face relent, and he put his arms
  around her.
       David turned back to the movie, feeling oddly at peace.

       "Maybe I shouldn't go to Bangor today," Allie said
  anxiously, regarding her son.
       It was a few days later, and he was back to normal,
  except he still had to wear the sling.  And his father had
  banned him from *The Aurora* until he was completely healed.
  Which was fine with David.  Now he had more time for his own
  pursuits.
       He rolled his eyes.  "I'll be fine, Mom."
       His mother took her sweater from the peg in the front
  hall, and opened the door.  "All right.  But you have any
  trouble with your shoulder, you call Mrs. Beadleman next
  door."
       "Stop worrying," David said with a grin.
       "Right.  Not worry about you?  And maybe the sun will
  rise in the west tomorrow."  With a chuckle, his mother
  stepped out onto the porch, and David turned to go back
  upstairs to his room.
       Settling onto a chair, he picked up the book he had
  been reading, *Legends and Ghost Stories of Scotland.* From
  outside, he heard the engine of their battered old station
  wagon roar into  life.  The car pulled out of the driveway,
  and the sound faded, leaving the quiet of a summer afternoon
  in its wake.

       He spent the later half of the afternoon sitting in the
  sun on the sea wall, his back to the ocean, watching the new
  batch of outlanders arrive at the big hotel.  A family piled
  out of a late-model Ford, the casually but nicely dressed
  parents dashing around, trying to keep their rambunctious
  three kids from getting their noses into everything.  They
  looked genial and relaxed, ready to have fun.  The perfect
  target.  David added them to his mental list of likely
  tourists to approach tomorrow.  Smirking, he wondered if he
  should have a company name.  "Xanatos Tours" had a nice ring
  to it.
       The sun began to set over the other side of the island,
  catching ablaze the clouds gathered near the horizon in
  salmon and red.  David shut his eyes, letting the glowing,
  fading light make dancing patterns on the inside of his
  lids.  His stomach rumbled, and he opened his eyes, deciding
  he had better head home for dinner.  Allie wouldn't be home
  until after dark.  That meant warmed up left-overs for David
  and his father.  It was close to eight o'clock now; he had
  timed things so Petros would have already eaten and been off
  to the docks by the time he came home to eat.  David hopped
  down from the wall, steadying himself with his good arm, and
  turned towards home.
       Sunset was fading into twilight by the time he turned
  onto his street.  The golden glow of electric light burned
  in the windows of the tree-shaded houses, and the sky
  overhead was a deep, soft purple.  A waxing crescent moon
  hung luminous above the pointed dormer windows and chimneys.
  There was, as always, a smell of sand and salt in the air.
       David stopped.  Their house should have been dark
  except for the fan light over the porch, with Allie away and
  his father out in the bay.  But all the downstairs lights
  were blazing, and the inner front door was open.  His heart
  gave a few quick, irregular beats, and he tiptoed softly up
  the porch steps and pressed his face to the screen door,
  shimmering with the electric light from within.  From the
  living room he heard low, male voices, one his father's,
  strangely quiet, the other also familiar, younger.  He
  opened the screen door.  It squeaked, announcing his
  entrance.
       As he reached the living room entranceway, the younger
  man was already turning towards the door, waiting.  It was
  Cal O'Malley, the deputy sheriff, and an old friend of the
  family's.  He was standing by the fireplace, one hand on the
  mantle, in plain clothes except for the badge on his shirt.
  Petros sat in a wooden chair nearby, his head turned away
  from David as he stared down at the floor, his shoulders
  slumped.  David had never seen his father look so defeated.
  *Why isn't he out on the boat?* he wondered.  *Grandpa...*
       "David..." Cal began.
                "No," his father said suddenly, his voice too
  deep.  "He is my son.  I will tell him."  He looked up
  tiredly, like an old man, and his brown eyes locked with his
  son's.
       And then his father told him.  How Allie's car,
  traveling homeward on a narrow mountain road, had skidded
  because of a flat tire and rolled over into a ditch.  How
  the state police had found her, barely conscious.  And how,
  before the ambulance could reach her, Allie Xanatos had
  died.


       David went numb for seventy-two hours.  Well, at least
  it felt numb.  He still got up in the morning, brushed his
  teeth, endured -- not with stoicism, because he just simply
  didn't care what happened to him -- the community matrons
  who came to bring cake for his father and patted David on
  the head, calling him "poor, poor dear boy."
       The memorial service was held at sunset.  David, stiff
  in a dark suit and tie, stood next to his father.  With
  their dark hair and almost identical dark suits, father and
  son looked very much alike.
       The dying sunlight struck the gravestones, shedding a
  yellow hue on the well-cut green grass.  Her headstone was
  simple, about two and a half feet high, of grey marble.
  "Alexandra McCrary Xanatos.  Beloved wife and mother.
  August 7, 1938-July 23, 1969."
       "Ashes to ashes and dust to dust..."
       In the distance stretched the darkly glimmering stretch
  of the bay.  A gentle wind swept across the cemetery from
  the direction of the water, rippling the grass.  As the
  minister finished the eulogy, David felt Petros put his arm
  about his shoulders.  David felt the numbness shift, like
  the tide stirring up the sandy bottom of the bay, and he
  didn't pull away.
       His father removed a neatly folded sheet of paper from
  his jacket pocket and unfolded it with one hand, never
  letting go of his son.
       "I do not know much about words," Petros said, his deep
  voice muted and quiet against the hush of the cemetery and
  the faces gathered there.  "But I knew Allie.  This was one
  of her favorite poets, and I think she would like this to be
  read now.

  Sunset and evening star,
  And one clear call for me!
  And may there be no moaning of the bar,
  When I put out to sea,

  But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
  Too full for sound and foam
  When that which drew from out the boundless deep
  Turns again home.

  Twilight and evening bell,
  And after that the dark!
  And may there be no sadness of farewell,
  When I embark..."

       Petros finished reading, folded the piece of paper, and
  put it away.  David turned and looked up at his father in
  surprise.  But his father's eyes were fixed on the sea.

       The numbness shifted, and began to melt away.
       As he and his father walked up the front steps after
  being dropped off by Cal, a dead leaf, caught by the night
  wind, swooped before him and skipped off down the sidewalk.
  David saw the dark windows of their own house, and the warm
  glow emanating from the others on their street, and
  something like a physical force struck him in the chest all
  at once.  He couldn't breath for a moment.  Then, his breath
  shallow and quick, he followed his father into the empty
  house.
       His father flicked on the front hall light.  "Are you
  hungry?"  He asked David.
       It was just like when the cross-piece of *The
  Mermaid's* mast had struck him.  He hadn't felt anything at
  first.  Until he tried to move, bringing agonizing pain.  He
  couldn't answer.  If he spoke, he knew he would start
  sobbing.  He would break down completely in front of his
  father.
       Father and son stood in the front hall, the rest of the
  house dark around them.  Petros reached out to his son.
       "David?"
       Horrified, seeing the tears blurring his vision no
  matter how hard he fought to contain them, David backed away
  from his father's outstretched hand.
       As he turned and bolted out the front door, running
  down the porch steps into the night, he heard his father
  calling his name after him...and then, in a despairing voice
  ripped by grief, for Allie.

       He had to go someplace where no one could hear him.
  David headed for the water, dark as it reflected the
  blackness of the night.  The half-moon cast a shimmering
  path across the bay.  Anger and grief bubbled up from inside
  him, and he hastily clambered out onto the jetty.
       At the outermost point, he stopped and crouched on a
  rock.  Out here, surrounded on three sides by the crash of
  the sea, he could almost believe himself to be alone,
  totally cut off from his world.  Spray struck his face,
  tasting of salt.  He was ruining the suit.  Good.
       At the top of his lungs, David yelled every obscene
  word he could think of.  And when he ran out of words, he
  made them up.  Pausing for breath, panting hard, he wiped
  the salty dampness from his face.  He remembered being in
  the water, the pain lancing through him, wondering if he was
  going to drown.
       *Allie, he could have been killed!*
       So why hadn't he drowned?
       *Because you are a fighter,* he heard Ambrose's voice
  say.
       But wasn't his mother a fighter?  Why had she died?  So
  he could live?  A trade?
       "Why?"  He screamed, and the wind carried the word
  away.  "Why didn't you take me instead?"  Who he was yelling
  at, he didn't know.  Fate, Destiny, whatever it was that
  shaped their ends...Fate was a dirty, rotten, stinking...his
  mother, her eyes bright, young and full of life, was gone,
  while in a hospital bed several miles away, his grandfather
  lived on -- if you could call it living.  Fate had allowed a
  husk of a man to live on, and took instead someone vibrant
  and needed and beautiful.
       David clenched his good hand into a fist.  He knew his
  enemies now.
       "You had your one chance at me, do you hear?"  He
  yelled.  "You won't get a second, not at me or anyone I care
  about, ever again!  I swear it!"
       Above him, the cold luminous moon continued to glint on
  the water.  She had seen grief of many kinds, in many
  different ages, but offered no comfort.

  Bar Harbor, Maine
  Spring, 1976

        With strong fingers, browned by the sun, David knelt
  on the deck of  *The Aurora* and hammered the plank into its
  place on the side of the cabin.  Setting down the hammer, he
  cast an eye over the boat.  With the coming of spring, it
  was time to see how she had weathered the winter, and to
  make any needed repairs.
       "Hey, Pop," David called to his father, who was folding
  the nets in the stern, "I think the cabin needs a new coat
  of paint."
       "Never mind the cabin," Petros called back.  "Just make
  sure the hull is ship-shape."
       David was beginning the understand the pride Petros
  took in his boat.  It was something, the way it endured
  season after season.  Now that he had graduated from high
  school, he knew that his father had great plans in mind for
  him, visions of father and son, conquering the sea together.
  Petros had been surprisingly tolerant of his part-time job
  as a busboy at the hotel, and viewed it as good, honest
  labor.  He wasn't so happy about his son's personal style.
  David wore his dark brown hair long, pulled back with a
  piece of string into a pony tail, and had the beginnings of
  a beard.  "Beatnik," his father called it.
       A footstep sounded on the dock.  A bland voice, devoid
  of any regional accent he could discern, spoke.  "You David
  Xanatos?"
       David stood up and went to the deck railing.  The boat
  rocked gently up and down on the water, bringing him
  sometimes eye-to-eye with, sometimes above, the stranger.
  He didn't seem to be much older than David, and looked as
  non-descript as his voice.  He had plain, short, dark hair
  and was squarely built, not too tall.  He wore glasses.  In
  his hands was a manilla envelope, clasps closed.
       "That depends," David said.  He vaulted easily over the
  boat railing and landed lightly on the dock.  "Who's
  asking?"
       "Special delivery for you," the stranger said.
       To David's surprise, the stranger reached out and
  handed him the manilla envelope.  Then he turned and walked
  away, hands shoved in the pockets of his slacks.
       "Hey!"  David ran after him.  "Who are you?"
       The squarely-built young man turned and fixed David
  with a stare through the glasses.  "It doesn't matter."  He
  shrugged.  "I'm just a messenger."
       Before David could say anything else, the man walked
  off the docks.  David's eyes went briefly down to the
  envelope he held in his hand, and when he looked up again,
  the stranger had vanished.
       "David, who was that?  Someone you know?"
       "No.  I never saw him before."  He turned his attention
  back to the envelope, and turned it over in his hands.
  There were no markings on it anywhere, and it was the sort
  available in every office supply store in the country.  But
  there was something weighing an ounce or two inside of it,
  something small, and when David closed his fingers around
  the envelope, he heard a crackle, like the sound of old
  parchment paper.
       Petros was watching his son suspiciously.  David
  decided to open it later, when he was alone.

       He had fit everything he would need into one duffel
  bag.  It sat now in a lump on the floor of the entryway.
  Standing alone in his room, which  seemed to echo with an
  odd emptiness, David checked to see if he had forgotten
  anything.  On the dresser was a small, grey, spiral sea
  shell.  He picked it up, weighing it in his palm.  Images,
  snatches of memories, flashed through his mind.  Feeling a
  bit like a sentimentalist, he slipped the shell into the
  pocket of his jeans.
       There was one more thing he had to do before he left.
  Shutting the door of his room behind him, David walked down
  the hall to another closed door.  It had been closed for six
  years.  David shut his eyes for a moment, let out a breath,
  and touched his fingers to the door knob.
       The musty scent of dust and the rich smell of paint
  flooded out at him.  David stepped inside and shut the door
  behind him.  It was Allie's studio, untouched, unchanged,
  since her death; neither he nor his father had been able to
  face packing her things away.  On a paint-stained table
  rested a wooden paint box, lid closed, and a jar filled with
  brushes.  There was a scrap of white paper next to the jar.
  Picking it up, David saw his mother had used it as a test
  paper.  He could actually see the brush strokes in a quickly
  rendered leaf.
       Mingled with the other smells of the room, David could
  also detect her scent, trapped in time.
       He turned abruptly for the door, and his eyes fell on a
  half-finished painting, leaning on an easel.  It was about
  two feet wide and four feet tall, and was one she had never
  mention to them.  Half-painted, and still half only
  pencilled in, was an image of Petros and David, standing
  side by side on the dock when David was about twelve years
  old.  In the background the hull of the boat was visible,
  and the name,  *The Aurora.* Both of them had small,
  contented smiles on their faces, as if they knew some great
  shared, secret joke.  Petros had his hand resting on David's
  shoulder.
       David turned, opened the door, and shut it behind him.
  He leaned against it, breathing in the fresh, cool air
  blowing in through the window at the end of the hall.  He
  wondered if his father ever went in there.  He wondered how
  his father had endured it for the past six years.
       Twitching his shoulders as if to shake off the thought,
  David went back downstairs.  His father was waiting by the
  open front door, his arms folded, his face stern.  David
  noticed the few threads of grey running through his father's
  dark hair.
       "So," Petros said, as David hefted the duffel bag.
  "Off to  find yourself' no doubt?"
       "Not exactly, father," David said coolly.  "I have no
  intention of bumming about Europe looking for myself.  I'm
  right here.  And I most certainly have a plan in mind."
       "But the family business!"  Petros unfolded his arms
  and held out his hands for emphasis.  "I was counting on
  your help this season."
       "Come on, Pop.  You know you'll be fine without me.
  Besides, you have Sam and the rest of the crew."
       "If you were even leaving to get a college
  education...why must you leave, then?"
       "It doesn't matter now.  What matters is that my future
  just found me."
       Petros followed his son out onto the porch, his mouth
  grim under his mustache.  "Does this have anything to do
  with that package you received last week?  What was in
  there?"
       David remembered opening the envelope in the privacy of
  his room and finding the ancient paper, closed with a seal
  in the image of a pyramid with a sun radiating from its
  point.  Breaking it, David had found no explanatory note
  inside, nothing except a small gold coin that had fallen out
  onto his bedspread.
       *Well, well,* he had thought. *Looks valuable.* David
  had picked it up, turning it over in his fingers.  Suddenly,
  he had paused, his fingers frozen as he stared more closely
  at the coin.
       He had recognized, from his readings, the time period
  and the place where the coin had been forged.  A creeping
  feeling had crawled up the back of his neck and made his
  scalp crinkle.
       When his son failed to answer him, Petros stopped
  following him down the walk.  When David turned back, his
  father was standing on the porch steps.
       "Good-bye, Pop," David called.  "I'll write when I get
  settled.
       His father raised his hand, palm flat, in a gesture of
  farewell.  Then his fist closed and fell to his side.

       As his son climbed into his second-hand two seater car,
  Petros turned and went back into the empty house alone.  He
  heard the car's engine spring into life, then roar away, the
  sound fading down the street until it was gone.

  Manhattan
  Summer, 1996

         The nurse handed Xanatos the tiny bundle.  Carefully,
  wonderingly, he took it.
       Alexander was awake, looking out at the world with blue
  eyes.  Most babies had blue eyes, he knew, that later
  darkened, but he had a feeling these were here to stay.
       His son's eyes found his, and their gazes locked.
  Xanatos felt the world go strangely still as his son's soul
  looked into his.  "Hello," Xanatos said softly.
       In the big canopy bed, Fox lay smiling and exhausted.
  Xanatos secured Alexander in the curve of his left arm, then
  reached down and brushed Fox's golden-red hair from her damp
  forehead.  She reached out, caught his hand, and kissed it.
       "Go on," she said.  "Go show off our beautiful son."
       Xanatos carried his son down the stone corridors of
  Castle Wyvern, and felt for a moment as if he were a part of
  some long reaching succession, thinking of all the children
  that had been born there over the centuries.  He pressed the
  down button of the elevator leading to the arboretum.
       He waited a moment, the old stones of the castle around
  him, the new life in his arms.  A remembered voice echoed
  back at him: *When all your scheming is done, what will be
  your legacy?*
       The elevator doors slid open.  He stepped inside and
  pressed a button.  After a moment of descent, the doors slid
  open again, and he saw Petros, Halcyon, Anastasia, and
  Preston Vogel gathered together.
       "You're all here. Excellent," he said loudly.
       At the sound of his voice, all four turned anxiously,
  and spotted the bundle in his arms.
       "Come and meet your new grandson," he told Petros and
  Halcyon and Anastasia.  "Alexander Fox Xanatos."


  ***THE END***
Comments welcome.