Chapter 38

The General had just finished taping his latest Vlad the Impaler article to the wall when he thought he heard a voice say:

“Edmund?”

The General stopped and listened.

Nothing. Only the silence of the cellar, only the beating of his heart in his ears. His mind was playing tricks on him, he thought, but still he listened until the throbbing in his ears subsided.

He was overtired; had been up late speaking with the Prince the night before. The Prince hadn’t shown him any visions of the young woman named Cindy Smith, and even now the General had to admit he was disappointed that the Prince seemed uninterested in her. Instead, the Prince had wanted to talk about his army; about those who would follow him through the doorway when he returned. Just like in the old days.

Yes, the Prince had been uncharacteristically nostalgic the night before; had taken the General’s hand and led him across the scorched earth—the two of them watching to- gether as scores of enemies were impaled on the battlefields, or along the roads that led to the Prince’s temple at Kutha. He even allowed the General to touch the temple doors; allowed him to push them open and gaze down into the depths of the abyss—an ever-changing whirlpool in the colors of sin; of darkness and flame and flesh and destruction. The sodomites had been there, as was the gold-coveting lawyer. All of them understanding now, all of them smiling and waiting eagerly for the Prince’s return.

And then the Prince had led the General into the stars; flew with him across space and time and into the heart of the nine and the three, that very place where the Prince had hidden himself for thousands of years—forgotten by most, but still watching and waiting for a warrior-priest to worship him again and be rewarded.

A warrior-priest like the General.

It had been a long night, the General thought as he scanned the clippings on the wall. And the Prince’s instructions had been clear: no more recruiting on West Hargett Street. But still, the General thought, the Prince did not say anything negative about the young woman named Cindy. He just did not address her, seemed to have more important things on his mind—

“Edmund?”

The General heard the voice clearly this time—a woman’s voice, unmistakable, echoing close but far away—and suddenly his heart was in his ears again.

This can’t be happening, he said to himself as he dashed from the reeducation chamber and through the darkened hallway. He stopped in the entrance to the Throne Room and stared at the Prince’s head. Nothing. No sense of calling; no flashes and sounds, no feeling of that force he so often felt when the Prince wanted to speak with him. The Prince was sleeping. The General understood this—the Prince always slept during the day—but the doorway was fresh, was always open, and now that there were others inside, perhaps—

“Edmund?” the woman’s voice called again. “Are you there, Edmund?”

The General recognized the voice immediately, and all at once his heart was filled with a mixture of both joy and terror.

Quiet! he cried out in his mind. He’ll hear you!

“Edmund, I’m afraid!”

“Mama, please!” the General whispered, and now he was Edmund Lambert again.

He rushed into the room and stood before the figure on the throne, gazing back and forth between the Prince’s head and the golden doors that he had carved for the body below it. The smell of booze and rotting flesh was stronger now, but the Prince was still asleep. No, there was no one beyond the doorway now except—

“Edmund, it’s been so long—let me see you!”

“Mama, please, you’ll ruin—”

“You don’t have to be afraid. He’s sleeping now. He doesn’t suspect—”

Mama, quiet! Edmund screamed in his mind.

“Please, Edmund. Let me see you like he does. Let me know it’s really you who has come for me. I’m so afraid!”

Anything to silence her, Edmund thought—and before he could think better of it, he saw himself reaching out for the Prince’s head.

It was the General who usually wore the Prince’s head; had many times removed the plaster skull from inside and slipped it over his face—a smell of mold and leather and sweat and blood that reminded him of the helmet Edmund wore in Iraq. It was hot and hard to breathe inside the Prince’s head. And even though the General had made a hole at the rear of the Prince’s gaping mouth through which to see, it had taken him hours of prowling the cellar before he got used to wearing it.

But all of that had been for nothing; for once the General acquired the first of the doorways, when he wore the Prince’s head it was as if he was transported to another world—a world in which the smells and heat and claustrophobia of the Prince’s head did not exist. No, there was only the doorway and the world beyond; for when the General donned the Prince’s head, he saw through the eyes of the nine and the three—those all-knowing, all-seeing eyes of the lions in the sky.

It was Edmund Lambert who first saw the lion’s head; years ago, when he was twelve, at the taxidermy shop to which his grandfather had taken him after his first deer kill. Even then, young Edmund Lambert had been fascinated by it—Leo, the shop owner called it, a monstrous African lion that had been shot on safari back in the 1930s. That too had been a message from the Prince—their first face-to-face encounter—but young Edmund Lambert had simply been too stupid to understand.

But after Edmund read Macbeth and understood he needed a head to communicate with the Prince, it was the General who broke into the taxidermy shop and brought Leo back to the Throne Room. And so only the General was allowed to wear the lion’s head, and only then in service of the Prince.

But now, it was Edmund Lambert who slipped the Prince’s visage over his face; and all at once he could feel the Prince’s power flowing through his muscles. It always felt like liquid electricity to the General; but to Edmund Lambert, the energy coursing through his veins made him feel weak and fearful—like a child sneaking into a haunted house.

Thhwummp!—a rush of brightness—and the doorway was open.

Yes, there was his mother! Clear and bright and floating with the swirling colors of sin behind her. She was dressed as she was on the day she died, at once both near and far away, but she did not call to him anymore—only dropped to her knees and cried with joy when she saw him. And there was Edmund—a finger to his lips as his other hand reached out and touched her face. A secret touch that spoke of little time but said, “Don’t worry, Mama.”

Flash-flash—a sliver flash like the strobe light at the farmhouse—and now there was someone else with them, someone helping his mother to her feet and drawing her back into the swirling colors. Another woman, dressed in white. A young woman with long black hair and a smile that looked like—Cindy Smith’s?

“Ereshkigal,” his mother said before she disappeared. “Ereshkigal will help us.”

Flash-flash and another rush—this one of darkness—and suddenly Edmund was back in the Throne Room with the lion’s head in his hands. He’d torn it from his face without realizing, and quickly fumbled it back onto the shelf. Then he bolted from the cellar—up the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door.

He kept running until he was safely inside the barn—closed the doors behind him, tore off his shirt, and fell to his knees before the mirror in the horse stall, the temple doors of Kutha rising and falling with his breaths.

He was terrified, but that was all right for now. The Prince had not awakened—would not be able to hear him in here even if he was awake. No, this doorway, the last of them all, was not yet open.

Ereshkigal, he heard his mother say in his head. Ereshki-gal will help us.

That had been unexpected—perhaps even more unexpected than hearing from his mother. He knew the latter would have to happen eventually, especially if she ever sensed him near the doorway or perhaps saw him with the Prince.

But Ereshkigal? The Prince’s beloved?

Of course, Edmund knew the story of how the Prince had raped her and taken her throne by force. And when he thought about it, the fact that Ereshkigal might want to help them made perfect sense. Perhaps that was why the Prince did not want to talk about Cindy Smith. Perhaps the Prince was keeping something from him after all.

Then again, Edmund thought, the General had been keeping something from the Prince, too—a promise he’d made long before he was anointed, but a promise nonetheless of which the Prince would surely disapprove.

But could this be a trap? Could the Prince be testing the General’s loyalty?

“The General is still loyal,” Edmund said out loud. “His loyalty is split is all; and there is no reason why this can’t be part of his reward.”

But the Prince demands ultimate devotion. You know that. There is to be no one but the Prince. He has shown you that in his visions, in the sacrifices at Kutha—

“The General made his promise before he was anointed,” Edmund said. “That is surely one of the reasons why the Prince chose him. For his loyalty.”

The voice in his head was silent, and all at once Edmund Lambert was the General again. He watched himself in the mirror until the temple doors became still. Cindy Smith? But how could she be Ereshkigal? How could she be both in this world and that world at the same time?

The General envisioned the young actress as Lady Macbeth; saw her in her spirit costume rising from beneath the stage to take her husband into Hell. The General kept replaying this scene over and over again in his mind. Could the answer have been right there in front of him all along? Was it written in the stars that he, the General, should have been the one to design and build the doorway through which he would join with Ereshkigal in the Underworld?

Something deep behind the temple doors on his chest told him yes. A parallel with his day-life, part of the equation, everything connected—but he would need to think on it. There was still much about the doorway that he had yet to understand—so much so that, oftentimes when the Prince revealed things to him in his visions, the General didn’t know what to make of them. Even after consulting with the Prince.

Of course, there would be no consulting the Prince about all this. And even though the Prince spoke to the General inside his head, he could not read the General’s thoughts unless the General wanted him to.

No, when it came to this part of the equation, the General was on his own.

But that was all right. He’d figured out how to balance other parts of the equation on his own. And so he would figure out how to balance this part on his own, too.

Eventually, a voice answered in his head.

The General smiled. He understood the concept of eventually. It had been that way from the beginning, all those years ago when he promised his mother he would save her. It had taken him almost two decades of eventually to balance that part of the equation.

But then again, the General thought, what’s a couple of decades compared to eternity?