5. Gift
It was a magnificent specimen, a beautiful Navajo horse, golden-coloured, black paws and mane, and a long white spot along the head. His name was Niyol.
Kurtis approached the splendid creature and patted his strong neck. The animal turned his head and, recognizing him, whinnied softly in greeting and looked forward again. He didn't even move when the man started to brush him.
Niyol was Anna's horse, a gift from her father years ago, when she'd asked to learn how to ride. "No ponies." She'd pointed out, sulking, raising a finger as a warning. "Not even a mare. That's for girls. I want a horse. A real horse."
Lara had rolled her eyes and murmured something about not putting a bloody barn in Croft manor, but following holiday season, when Anna went to spend the summer in Utah with her grandmother, she found Niyol tied to the porch.
Kurtis would never forget the girl's facial expression when seeing him for the first time.
Although Marie had doubts concerning Anna managing to control the horse with her still short stature, truth be told, Niyol was not that big back then and by the time he became really big, Anna already mastered him without hardly using the reins, guiding him often with thighs and legs. She even rode him Navajo style, without saddle, just with a blanket on him.
Niyol couldn't go to England - and the weather, in any case, would've been unpleasant for him. He lived better in the Navajo Nation, under Shilah and the tamers of wild horses' custody, always waiting for her when she returned.
Ah, watching her daughter ride, galloping across the plain, loose hair in the wind, head thrown back and laughing - absolutely liberated. "Hey, Dad! Bet your bike isn't as fast as Niyol! Come and get me!"
There were things worth living for.
The former Legionnaire caressed the animal's loin and buried his face in his soft fur, inhaling his strong smell, the smell of his childhood. As a child, he'd also ridden with the other Navajo boys. Although he was half bilagáana, they had always considered him one of them - although he used to disappear from time to time, although he'd been absent so many years.
When Niyol arrived, he'd not ridden a horse in years, preferring his immortal, unbeatable motorbike. The first time the beautiful animal had knocked him down, sending him to the ground upside down, Anna had burst out laughing and had not stopped for several days.
But truth be told, he was good at riding.
Niyol barely moved as he jumped on top of him. He was more used to Anna's slight weight, but he knew him well.
Guiding him with just his thighs, he pulled him out of the fence and led the way to the road. Then he fixed his gaze on the horizon and spurred the horse.
His name was Niyol. In diné bizaad, it means wind.
Slowly and laboriously, Marie Cornel packed the few belongings she used to carry with her when traveling. It took her much longer than expected, and at the end she stood leaning against the enormous headboard, assaulted by another sudden wave of pain.
The Diné's medicine was starting to fail. Soon, much sooner than expected, there would be nothing to relieve her.
She'd very little time left. She'd hoped to consume it calmly in her homeland, but that hope had vanished and there was no point in lamenting over it. She frowned, determined. No, even though she was in agony, she would cross the world to find out what Selma A-Jazeera had to tell her, to show her.
She wanted to see her granddaughter again – and Konstantin's remains, her long-lost love.
She wanted to know what the hell was going on between Lara and Kurtis. And he wouldn't tell her, she knew it. All that was left was to ask Lara.
Then she could leave in peace.
With a weary sigh, she closed the suitcase.
He galloped across the plain, hunched over Niyol's loin, leaving behind a trail of dust. As he passed, he saw some Navajo on the side of the road - women knitting on the porch of their houses, shepherds grazing their sheep, children playing. Everyone knew him, Hashkeh Nabaah, the half-blood son of Marie Cornel, who did not really look like a half-blood, who looked like his father, whom they had never really known. The angry warrior.
He didn't want to go back - but he had to. Staying there hiding, getting drunk to forget, was cowardly and irresponsible.
You're a coward.
She would despise him.
He spurred Niyol harder.
Even the alcohol had not taken that vision away from him. Lara sitting on the floor, staring at him, gasping, too dazed to react.
You, you...
He'd shoved her against the wall like a doll. Just a moment, a second, her lips parted in surprise, her pupils dilated by a slight, very slight spark of fear.
Fear? Of him?
How dare you.
The frightened gasp that escaped her lungs as her back slammed against the wall. Her furious, hurt glance.
How dare you.
He'd not meant to hurt her. Never. Never. He didn't. He wasn't like that.
He just wanted her to stop it.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
Make her stop laughing. Make her stop destroying him that way.
Do you ever listen to me?
He didn't want to know if Lara had asked for him – but in a way, he already knew.
He took a deep breath and grabbed hold of Niyol's reins, feeling the way he melted with him, the horse and himself joined in a single uncontrollable whirlwind, sweat running down his back, his breathing agitated. Faster. Faster.
Three months had passed, and Lady Croft wondered where on earth her daughter had gone. It seemed as if she didn't care at all about Anna.
"She's in Turkey, Grandma, with Aunt Selma." The girl replied nonchalantly, while drawing on a sheet of paper.
Lady Angeline could think of a thousand better things to do rather than waste time in Turkey with that weird dust-eater, but said nothing. At least, during those months she'd had her granddaughter all to herself, and Anna didn't seem to suffer from her mother's absence. In fact, she seemed quite used to it.
She wasn't dependent, she had to give her that. Anna was never afraid to be alone, she didn't miss her mother, nor her father, or ask about anyone. She simply lived in the present, focused on what was in front of her, then got tired and went for something else. Calm, confident, carefree.
After the first month of expulsion, Anna had returned to school with no further casualties, and no new incidents had been reported. Lady Angeline was almost afraid everything would start over, but nothing happened. Even Clarice Rochford avoided getting in Anna's way.
The old lady couldn't tell – or maybe yes, she could tell, particularly by some terrified glances the popular girl had addressed towards her granddaughter.
She just refused to overthink it.
The phone rang suddenly. As the old lady went to answer the call, Anna stretched her arm toward the Teardrop of Brahma, the damn amber boulder that had brought so many annoyances to her - even though she herself wasn't aware of the half of it - and given over to an impulse, made it spin over the polished surface of the table. Having started and abandoned several sketches, she was ready to approach the final version – or so she thought.
"Anna."
The girl looked up. Lady Croft was standing at the door, visibly upset.
"What have I done now?"
"Nothing." The old lady smiled wearily. "You must pack your things. You must go to Turkey with your mothe..."
"Yaaaaaay!" Anna burst out while jumping out of her chair like a spring and running upstairs like an elephant amidst a stampede.
Well, maybe the girl did miss her mother after all.
What annoyed Lady Croft was that Anna would be picked up and taken to Turkey by that man and... and the other one, that Indian from God-knows-what tribe.
She could hear Anna flipping in her room upstairs. Judging by the fuss, she opening drawers and closet doors like there was no tomorrow, in a few seconds her newly cleaned room would once again become a mess.
Sighing, Lady Angeline slowly climbed the stairs to help her granddaughter pack the suitcase.
Niyol had enough after a while, and gradually he began to slow down his pace until he was trotting.
Kurtis didn't force him anymore. Panting, his body soaked with sweat, he watched the sun go down on the horizon. Turning, he led the horse back toward the fence.
It was black night when he arrived to Marie's ranch, the sweat long dried and cooled on his skin. After giving the last care to the horse, he got into the shower, shaved and then stood for a while examining his bloodshot eyes, purple bags under them and sunburnt face in the mirror.
He could not show up looking like this - not before her, much less before her daughter.
No more alcohol, he told himself seriously, and as always when he decided something - except to quit smoking - he fulfilled his purpose.
He would never hurt her. He hadn't hurt her - not physically, after all. No more than before, amidst the frenzy of love, when she'd asked him with gritted teeth to be rougher with her.
No, her pride was what had been immeasurably hurt.
She would never forgive him - but he would apologize anyway.
He was ready.
There was a knock on the door.
"Go away!" Shouted Lara, sulking, not looking away from the window.
"I told you, miss, that she was fine. She just doesn't want visitors." She heard the bellhop explaining behind the door.
The voice that sounded next surprised her by both its tone and the person from which it came. "Lara Croft!" Selma Al-Jazeera's voice exploded behind the closed door. "Stop being an ass and open the damn door!"
The British explorer raised her eyebrows and turned toward the entrance - then she shrugged. "Okay, let her in." She murmured grudgingly.
She heard a clink of keys outside, and the bellhop opened the door, making way for the enraged archaeologist. "Thank you!" The Turk spat, not without some sarcasm, and waited for the employee to close the door and hear his footsteps walking down the hall. Then she advanced to the centre of the room and dropped her purse on the unmade bed.
Lara, looking back, was sitting in an armchair in front of the window, facing the Bosphorus. That hotel, small but expensive, had the best views of Istanbul.
But Selma was not there for views that she knew well since she was a child. She stared in puzzlement at her friend, who was dressed only in a silk dressing-gown whose left shoulder had slipped down, revealing her cleavage and proving she had nothing underneath. Her long, loose, scrambled hair fell in disorderly waves to her waist. At her side, on the table, trays of food were accumulated, having been barely touched.
"What the hell are you doing?" Selma shouted, raising her arms helplessly.
Lara frowned and looked at her out of the corner of her eye, as if Selma were a fly that had suddenly buzzed close to her ear. "What are you doing there, shrieking like crazy?" She mumbled. Her voice was hoarse, as if she'd spent hours yelling.
"Wow, Miss Self-Control teaching lessons." Selma growled, folding her arms. "I haven't heard from you for almost a week, locked up here, without answering the phone, without..."
"What do you want, Selma?" Lara sighed, as if she could not bear her presence. She'd looked back at the Bosphorus.
The Turkish archaeologist took two strides to the armchair next to Lara's and collapsed on it. "I get it - if you're not the absolute protagonist, you've trouble getting involved in something." She muttered under her breath, and then Lara looked at her again and raised her eyebrows. Look who tries to bite at this point, the British explorer thought. "But at least you could fake some interest in what I'm trying to do, some support on your part." Selma went on. Lara rolled her eyes and had turned back to the window when she added, "I also fought and bled for you. I was also in that damn hell, but not in person. Do you remember this, Lara?" And she lifted her blouse to the level of her breasts. There, transverse, clean, a hideous scar crossed her belly, a deep cut that had opened and deformed the muscles of the abdomen - forever.
Lara seemed to give in at last. "Of course, I remember." She swallowed slightly and shook her head, as if to ward off a bad memory. "I never forget anything."
"I'll always wear this mark." The Turk muttered with clenched teeth. "I will always be mutilated, Lara. I can't even wear a bikini like a normal woman."
"You're alive, Selma." The British explorer challenged her with her eyes. "Others didn't make it."
The archaeologist nodded, covering her belly again. "Yes, I am very grateful to be alive. But if you had some consideration for me for..."
Lara's weary sigh cut off her speech. "This has nothing to do with you, Selma."
"I get that!" She jumped in annoyance. "Why did you come, then? Why you've spent three months here in Istanbul? Why don't you go back to England, if you care so little about my plans? What have you been doing, mocking me?"
Silence.
Selma licked her lips, then let go of the bomb she was carrying. "Marie called two days ago. She's finally on her way – but she stopped at England to pick Anna up."
Lara blinked slightly and looked at her out of the corner of her eye. "Anna? What for? What does she have to do with this?"
Selma shrugged. "It's almost Christmas, right? She's not going to have classes anyway." She looked absentmindedly at her nails. "Oh! And Kurtis' coming too."
Lara's jaw clenched angrily. Got you, Selma thought.
"Alright." The Turkish woman sighed. "Enough. I'm too old for this shit." And she ran her hand through her splendid black hair, still without any greyish shade. "You had a fight with Kurtis, right?"
"That's not your bloo…"
"Of course it's my bloody business!" Selma burst out triumphantly. "You're both ruining everything, dammit! All these years playing cat and mouse. No, don't arch those eyebrows to me!" She shouted at Lara's stunned face. "Maybe you don't realize, but everyone's fed up with your…!"
"Careful, Selma." Lara's expression turned hard. "You're now treading on very thin ice."
The archaeologist sighed. "You know I'm telling you as a friend - and I really don't want to know what the hell happened... this time." She rubbed her eyes, tired. "I just want you to have some respect for me, for this moment... and for Anna. Whatever happened between you two, she doesn't deserve this…"
"Thanks for the family counselling." Lara could not contain a hint of sarcasm. "Anything else?"
Selma shot her a gaze for a moment, then inhaled deeply. "Yes. Jean Yves called a few hours ago. He's got interesting news regarding the necropolis of Al-Fayoum. Sadly," she arched her eyebrows, "since right now you don't give a damn about this…"
Lara let out a snort and rose from the chair with that characteristic grace of hers, like an antelope that suddenly unfolded its paws. Adjusting the dressing-gown over her body, she remarked, as if she hadn't heard Selma's reproach: "Did he manage to get in?"
"No. The Lux Veritatis are still blocking the passage."
Lara shrugged. I knew it. But Jean was a stubborn man. He'd been obsessed with uncovering Loanna's tomb for years...
"And here comes the bomb." Sighed the Turk, who suddenly seemed to end the conversation and got up, picking up her purse from the bed. Turning around, she met Lara's furious gaze, staring at her with a raised eyebrow.
"So?!"
"Oh, now you care..."
"Enough, Selma!" The British exploded, raising her arms. "Let it go!"
But at that point, Lara's outbursts no longer impressed her, as they had in the past. "Well, they spoke."
"What?"
"The Lux Veritatis, they have spoken."
"It can't be. Only Kurt... only a Lux Veritatis could communicate with them. They speak telepathically."
"Well, Jean and the other diggers have heard them perfectly. Telepathically, as you said."
Lara looked at her in shock. "And what did they say?"
Selma was staring at her. "I was hoping you could explain it to me, really."
"Explain what?"
The Turkish archaeologist smiled, mysterious and intrigued. "They said they will only let a single person pass." She took a deep breath, then let it go. "They're waiting for Anna Heissturm."
When Lady Croft made her way to the hallway, more uptight than usual, to welcome the other grandmother, that Sioux Indian - or whatever – she had already practiced what to respond if that woman got insolent again with her. There were things that Lady Angeline still couldn't digest, for example, her beloved granddaughter related to a tribe of Indians. Luckily, she didn't look alike to them - in that, she'd to be grateful Anna was more alike to her father than to her grandmother - that proud dark-skinned, haughty woman who acted like she was someone special, when in fact, as far as she knew, she was just a shepherd and a midwife... and better not dwell too much on that. Just to think that her granddaughter had been born to the hands of that savage made her sick…
Her heart sank as she saw the woman waiting patiently in the manor hall. Lady Angeline had to cling to the stairs' railing to not collapse.
She hadn't seen Marie Cornel in two long years, and truth be told, last time she'd seen her she was still a haughty, stocky, dominant tall woman, and even - the old lady had no problem admitting it - kinda tomboyish.
But the woman in front of her was now a weak, frail old woman who seemed to bend over herself under the weight of the enormous coloured shawl she wrapped around, but otherwise remained the same, if she ignored the tired, pained glance, and the white hair gathered in a thick braid falling over her shoulder.
Lady Angeline was too polite to ask, but Marie didn't miss the horrified glance of the English grandmother. When she noticed her sarcastic smile, the old lady controlled herself and approached elegantly towards her. "Welcome, my dear." She said in pretend greeting, and she pressed her cheek to the other woman's cheek, careful not to touch her too much. However, as she brushed her lightly with her arms, she suddenly felt her immense fragility.
There was no more time for presentations. Suddenly, an excited scream echoed on the top floor.
"Grandma!"
Marie looked up and smiled at her granddaughter, who had not noticed anything. Anna jumped on the railing and slid over it to the hall - a bad habit Lady Angeline hated and had not been able to take away from her - and without further ado, she lunged at her Navajo grandmother, wrapping her in a bear hug.
It lasted only a few moments. Suddenly, something really weird happened.
Lady Croft saw clearly how her granddaughter's body suddenly stiffened. She saw Anna raise her eyes and look at her American grandmother, who had cupped her face in her hands in a loving gesture, but that look...
... that look of absolute horror.
Anna's face was distorted in a mask of panic and the girl's fingers twitched on her grandmother's arms, staring at her with wide, startled eyes.
And suddenly she opened her mouth and let out a scream that curdled their blood.
"Anna!" Cried Lady Angeline, frightened. "What's happening?"
The girl leaned back and released Marie, who tried to hold her, but she escaped her aching hands. With another scream of horror, Anna turned and dashed out the still-open door of the manor, through which the old Navajo woman had just entered.
Kurtis was just untying the luggage of the motorbike at the entrance when he heard a shrill scream and saw his daughter darting out the manor, entering the garden maze and getting lost inside. Turning toward the doorway, he saw Marie standing there, pale and exhausted. The woman shouted a single word: "Farsee!"
"Shit." Muttered Kurtis between his teeth, and dashed off into the labyrinth after his daughter.
Open-mouthed, pale and shaken, Lady Croft had stared at the scene with a look of utter disbelief. "But..." She mumbled. "What happened?"
Pain. Defeat. Nostalgia. Loneliness.
She can't stand it anymore.
A sea of crosses. Konstantin.
Love. Tenderness. Hands that embrace, hands that heal.
Deformed bones. She collapses.
Pain. Pain. Pain.
A tomb dug in the ground.
What do you see, Kurtis?
He's not one of ours, he's bilagáana. He will make you suffer.
But I love him, Father.
A dreamcatcher swinging to the beat of a smile.
Pain. Pain. Pain.
Lara, please, it's your son… my grandson.
The earth covering the body wrapped in coloured cloths.
Lara soaked in blood, livid, raving unconscious.
Save her. You saved others. You can do this.
A little boy, blue-eyed, looking angry in the void.
Leave my mother alone.
Hashkeh Nabaah.
Windows bursting into pieces. Glass shards flying in the air.
A grown man, blue-eyed, holding a bloodstained baby in his arms.
Love. Tenderness. Her name is Anna.
Pain. Death. Blackness.
A healer came to us. Her name was Marie Cornel.
Songs in the dark.
Anna.
It means mercy.
The garden maze was one of the many curiosities Lara had added to the manor, hiding in its heart a switch that allowed to temporarily open the trophy room. It was in the centre of it, guarded by two great Tula Atlanteans that the explorer had brought back from Mexico years ago.
Anna loved the maze, considering it her personal hideout. That's why, when she wasn't found anywhere, it was known that she could be found there, although only Lara and Kurtis ventured in, despite it wasn't a complicated maze. There she also met with Kat to talk and tell secrets to each other. And there it was where she went when she felt bad, sad, or distressed - which rarely happened.
"Anna!" Kurtis shouted, quickly following the familiar path through the labyrinth. "Anna, come out!"
Silence.
The former Legionnaire sighed, gritted his teeth, and continued to move toward the centre of the maze, hoping she hadn't dodged him and escaped the other way. She was quite capable of doing it – she had done it before, when wanting to annoy both Lara and him, playing hide-and-seek or escaping some punishment.
But it wasn't that day.
Kurtis found his daughter in the centre of the maze, huddled next to one of the two Atlanteans, hidden behind the stone mass; though not so well, for he came in time to see her slipper slowly disappear behind the enormous feet of the Atlantean.
"Anna," Kurtis gasped, approaching. "You okay?"
"Go!" A shrill screech came behind the statue. "Stay away!"
The man cautiously circled the figure and found his daughter sitting on the ground, her back against the idol, and her legs folded against her chest, hugging her knees. When she saw him, she gave him a frightened look.
Kurtis crouched before her and studied her closely. She was as pale as a dead man and trembled slightly. He reached out and stroked her convulsed, intertwined hands. "It's okay." He whispered in a reassuring voice. "It's okay. Just breath."
Anna seemed to calm down at his touch, or maybe it was the tone of his voice. She took several deep breaths, as they had taught her, and slowly calmed down.
My brave girl.
"Alright." She said flatly. "I'm fine. I'm fff-f-fine." She opened her arms and stretched her legs on the ground, but she kept looking erratically from side to side.
"Anna, look at me."
She sighed and stared into her father's eyes, which were hers as well.
"What happened?" He asked, though he already knew.
"N-nothing." Kurtis raised an eyebrow. "W-well, I think I'm losing my mind." She lowered her voice and touched the scar on her forehead, confused. "That blow I got from that son of a bitch in Sri Lanka. I think he just fucked me up."
"Does it hurt?" He took her gently by the chin and moved his head from side to side - and then he saw it. The widened, huge pupils, almost devouring the blue iris. The slightly reddish eyeballs. The film of sweat on the skin. If he hadn't fully recognized those symptoms, it would just look like the child had been drugged.
"N-no." For some reason, her father's calm attitude was reassuring. Her agitation faded. "Okay, I made it. I'm better."
Kurtis sighed and sat down heavily at her side. Looking at him closely, Anna realized he didn't look good. She could not say why. He looked older, more tired. And the red eyes...
"I'm going to the hospital?" She mumbled suddenly. She hated hospitals.
"No, you're not." Kurtis rubbed his eyes.
"But I'm going nuts. Something's wrong with me…"
Suddenly she was silent and staring into the void. Her face took on a strange, mature look, as if she'd suddenly transcended. Then she turned to him. "Is Grandma Marie dying?"
Kurtis stared at her for a moment, then nodded slowly. Anna covered her mouth with her hands. "I'm sorry." He reached out and pulled a brown lock from her face. "I didn't want you to find out this way."
"What way...?" She was confused again. She looked around, frightened. Kurtis contained the urge to hug her against his chest. Don't project your fears on her. At least Lara had been right about that. He must look calm, remain calm.
Control yourself, asshole.
"You've seen and heard things, haven't you?" He ventured, keeping a firm, neutral tone. "Images. Sounds. As soon as you touched her."
"I... I..." Anna was babbling again. "Why is she dying? What's happening to me?"
"Hush. It's okay." He held her by the shoulders. "Nothing's wrong with you." Yeah, you keep telling her that, cried a sardonic, hateful voice in his mind. "You're not going nuts, okay?"
"Then what?" She gripped her head with her hands.
Slowly, Kurtis pulled them apart and back into her lap. Then he stared into her eyes.
"There's something I have to tell you."