2~
Perched high on Ludgate Hill, one of three ancient peaks that overlooked the sprawl of London, England, The First Temple of the Sacred Grove began as the Old St. Paul's Cathedral, which was traditionally thought to have been built over a Roman temple dedicated to Diana.
It was a visual triumph of preserved, soaring Gothic design, and, taking a page from the Christianity of the old timeline, the pagans took over the existing place of worship and repurposed it to serve their faith, deciding it to be the best place to hold court over all of Druidry. As a result, its wide churchyard was turned into an oak forest in miniature, used by white robed druids for contemplation and meditation.
Due to its role as the religious seat of the Druid world, its protection was dictated by a wall that ringed the hill's expanse, and then, in more modern times, it was, eventually, sectioned from the rest of London and became its own ecclesiastical state, so that, as Vatican City would have been, in Rome, Ludgate Hill became the home of the sovereignty of Ludgate City.
With its tight confines, space was at a premium for the administrative, governmental, archival and scholastic buildings that flanked The Temple, with the residential and commercial blocks, and private gardens for the highest priests and functionaries, taking up the space of the highest point of the hill.
In one such ornate administrative building, called the Council Conclave, an aloof Greenman was present in its main hall, having been called to a meeting there among the council members to discuss his grievance, which was seen as amusing and ridiculous to some, and downright blasphemous to the rest.
The Speaker of the Conclave, an elderly man in gleaming white and gilded robes, stood by his podium and addressed Greenman, the tone of his voice clearly indicating that he brooked insolence from no one.
"Everest Greenman," the Speaker said, his words reverberating against the meeting hall. "Two weeks ago, you came to us, from America, with a claim that was as incredible as it was unsubstantiated, the claim that you are the Everest Greenman of legend, the rescuer of our pagan faith, the so-called Undying Pagan Emperor. Do you refute this?"
"No," Greenman said, amidst skeptical grumblings in the hall.
"Bartholomew Essex, come before us." the Speaker commanded.
A mousey man in a brown suit stepped forward from his seat off to the side of the room, to stand next to Greenman.
"Bartholomew Essex, two weeks ago, when you came to us, you stated that you were a descendant of one of Greenman's closest and trusted men. Do you refute this?"
"No, sir," Bartholomew said, meekly, cowed by the drama of the hall.
The Speaker looked out before the two men. "Because of this, during those two weeks, the Council decided to test the validity of both of your cases. Genealogical records do support Essex's claim of lineage, but more than that, it's what he brought before us that prompted this meeting, today."
He glanced over to a waiting functionary, who walked to a chest on a nearby table.
"This man, Essex, produced a chest that had within it a single item," the Speaker, looking at Greenman, told him, as the functionary opened the chest and pulled out a long object. "An old sword wrapped in cloth, which he says is called The Birthright Blade. Essex said that this blade would tell the world who you are, and seat you as our Hierophant, our highest priest and true emissary of the gods."
The raucous jeers and grumbles rose in volume and length, until the Speaker ordered for quiet, and then regarded Greenman, again.
"It is because of such a boast, that you have been summoned to our august presenceā¦to be acknowledged...as our long-awaited Hierophant," he announced, his voice falling.
The hall boomed like a huge bell, as the council could hear no more of this farce, and let their feelings be known with yells, insults and outrage.
Again, the Speaker raised his voice, sounding like a peal of thunder lashing out, for order, which the assembly, reluctantly gave.
"We tested the sword, as well," he continued. "Metallurgical analysis proved that the sword did come from the late Fifteenth Century, just after the scourge of the Black Plague, and more incredible, still, DNA analysis of the blood on the blade showed and confirmed that your blood was an exact match. How did this happen?"
Greenman confidently turned to face the doubting room, and raised his voice to claim his due. "Before I left, I told my men that I would return in the future, but proof would be needed for me to claim my right to rule. Since the gods blessed me immortality, I bade one of them, an Essex, to stab me with that sword and to have him, and his children, and their children's children, to guard over it, until this very day."
The grumbles resumed, but at a lower, more thoughtful pitch, as the least skeptical among them, began to entertain the idea of their immortal champion coming back to lead them, once more.
He turned back to the Speaker, now casting him an accusatory glare, to let him know that, at that moment, the roles had been irrevocably reversed, and this Speaker would now answer to him.
"I have come to claim what I defended England and our faith for, and I've come not a moment too soon. I've seen what has happened to Druidry in my absence. The old ways are not being observed. The bond between the faithful and the gods are not bound by blood, anymore. Why?"
For the first time in the meeting, or perhaps, even in his career, the Speaker spoke softly, almost obsequiously. "Forgive me for sounding facetious, my Hierophant, but time had changed in your absence...the faith changed under the influence of divergent cultures and peace. But, there are still many, like you, like us, who long for the old ways of blood and worship."
"Then, it's a good thing that I'm here, now," said Greenman, tersely. "I'm working on something back in the States that will let them all know, traditionalists and those misguided neo-pagans, that I have not forgotten."
He rounded on the uncertain Council, and sternly commanded, "Tell the news services, tell the world, you so-called Council, that I have returned, and the old ways have returned with me!"
Through her goggles, Marcie took another glance out of the science classroom's windows. She knew that she could have seen what time it was from the clock that hung on the wall, but watching the sky grow dark in the early evening, while she sat at the cluttered table, gave a certain thrill of being caught, well after school hours.
Yet, she needed this, she felt, after being turned away like she had earlier that day. Work, even clandestine work, was her salve, her shield against the troubles of the world. It kept her focused on success, and it kept her mind from her detractors, even if they were people she called her friends.
On the table top were percolating, half-filled chemistry glassware, a fired-up Bunsen Burner, small sample boxes of raw chemicals, including specimens of Fleach's Folly Factory's discarded roller-coaster track that metallurgically matched the cheap Chinese steel from Creepy Spooky Terror Land's own tracks, dark, finely powdered mineral, and her dead counterpart's bequeathed journal, carefully guiding Marcie along on every step.
Over the lit Bunsen burner, was held a wide-bottomed flask, already partially filled with clear liquid from an earlier preparation. Wearing protective gloves, she carefully adjusted the Burner's temperature with one hand, while she raised a long-handled clip that held a test-tube filled with a clear-white liquid, in the other.
"Here goes," she whispered, breathlessly, hoping that she followed the instructions to this scientific witch's brew to the letter.
She steadily poured the fluid from the test-tube into the flask and watched.
The two chemicals agitated in the pouring, and then, a reaction occurred that turned the mixture into a transparent vapor that consumed the contents and expanded in the flask's volume.
Fearing that the vapor would dissipate as it left the neck of the glass container, Marcie put down the test-tube and holder and scanned the table for a cork to stop the leak, but what happened next, astounded her.
The heavy and open flask, still trapping some of the gas by nature of the shape of the container's bottom, began to slide up from the clamp, and impossibly, rise from over the Burner's flame. To Marcie, this was the closest thing she experienced to magic.
The secret of Super Helium, at last, was the fact that it wasn't really helium, at all. It was not a lighter-than-air gas, but something much more!
Helium had to be held in a container, for its natural buoyancy to be utilized, but this gas proved to be radically different. It didn't need buoyancy to lift a container.
Marcie's mind argued the point with her eyes. The flask shouldn't have even risen, it was far too heavy, but not only was it rising to an appreciable height over the table, it did so, even as the Super Helium was puffing out of its top.
Wanting to end this inner debate, Marcie started to piece the effect together. Instead of buoyancy, the gas dramatically altered the atomic structure of the thick glass, making the flask itself, lighter than air. Nothing else could account for it.
As she found herself staring at the bottle drifting before her, Marcie wondered if this feeling of profound incredulity was the same for the alternate Marcie, when she stumbled upon this discovery of the age.
Because that was what it was, a chemical miracle, a substance that made lighter-than-air applications for Helium completely obsolete, freeing up the dwindling natural reserves of He those other nations, at least, in the old timeline, had, so that they could fully divert them towards industrial and medical uses.
But, as the profundity of her friend's gift settled over Marcie, she stood stunned at the depth of the possibilities. This was just what scientists, like her, lived for, and she realized that it wasn't even the full scope of its potential.
For centuries, transportation had shaped the course of the Human race, from culture, to trade, to warfare. Now, aerospace technology would take a quantum leap forward with this new substance. Newer, lighter aircraft and spacecraft, built for Super Helium-vertical take-offs, would become lighter, still, and even more energy-efficient, saving taxpayers billions of dollars in propulsion fuel costs. In fact, this technology, combined with newer designs from the automotive industry could, very well, create the first American flying car in a citizen's lifetime.
None of this would have been possible if that inventive, otherworldly Marcie Fleach hadn't reached out from beyond, like some bespectacled Prometheus, and written a new chapter in this world's destiny. Marcie gave a grin of wistful pride at her friend, and swore that it was be an accomplishment that no one would dare refute.
"Yes!" Marcie shouted, in her success in replicating her personal, scientific Holy Grail.
The sound of the classroom door, suddenly opening, startled the joy right out of her, and all of the rehearsed excuses and lies as to why Marcie was still in school, scattered in her mind, like a frightened flock of birds, as someone walked into the room.
"Hi, Marcie," Suzie Chan said, waving casually to her. "I had a hunch that you'd be in here, after I heard one of the science teachers complain about missing a case of powdered stelegnite, earlier this week. Trying to make lead into gold?"
"Actually, it can be done, if you leave lead in a nuclear reactor for a long period of time," Marcie replied, thoroughly thankful that it wasn't a school employee, and that Suzie didn't notice the weightless bottle quietly bobbing against the ceiling. "Hi, Suzie. I guess being a detective runs in the family, huh?"
Suzie's face fell, almost imperceptibly, as she took a seat next to her. "It's, kind of, funny that mentioned that, because I wanted to talk to you about-"
"Yeah, I know. I heard the news," Marcie nodded, soberly. "Everybody's lost someone they knew outside of Crystal Cove, which means that-"
"Yeah. My dad is gone," Suzie finished, looking down in inner grief. "My brothers and sisters, and I always, kind of, worried that some lowlife Pop put away would go after him and get lucky. We had no idea that he'd just...disappear, one day. We don't even have a body to bury."
Understandably, Marcie's momentary celebration had to take a back seat to this, and in fact, she felt bittersweetly flattered that Suzie would come to her with her problems.
"I'm sorry, Suzie," Marcie commiserated. "Y'know, when I ran into your dad in Macau, I, sort of, saw him as a mentor, teaching me how to look at problems in new ways."
That brought a wistful smile to Suzie. "Pop liked to talk about your help on that case. We probably would have been headlining for the angels, if you hadn't stayed with him."
The thought of her misadventure in China brought a similar smile to Marcie. "Thanks. I'm glad I had the chance to work with him, one more time, a few months ago. I hadn't known him long, but he was a righteous detective, and a good man. I know you miss him a lot. I know that I do."
Just then, the ringtone of her cell phone chimed in her jacket, interrupting the mood of the moment. After she begged for Suzie's pardon, she answered it.
"Hello?"
"Marcie, it's me, Jason," the boy announced, sounding excitedly jubilant. "I did it! I did it! I'm in!"
Marcie brightened. "You hacked the head? Yes! I knew you could do it, Jason!"
"See, I powered it up, and then hooked it up to the truck's on-board computer, had it run through-"
"Time is critical, Jason," she firmly reminded him, when it sounded as though he would eat up those moments in explanation.
"Anyway, I tricked the head into going into Diagnostic Mode, and it spilled its guts, so to speak, every folder and file, plus the location of where it was sending its distress signal. It's all there!" he squeaked.
"Okay. Let me finish up, here, and then I'll come meet you!" Marcie said, excitedly. "Where are you?"
"The junkyard, but hurry, Marcie," he warned. "They're going to close in an hour."
"All right, I'll be there. Thanks, Jason!"
Marcie's exuberant expression looked as though she hadn't heard Suzie's doleful words, at all. She couldn't wait to get back on the hunt. There was so much to do and plan for. In the middle of being fired-up, like the still flaming Bunsen Burner, nearby, she took a moment to regard Suzie again, and noticed that she was looking at her, a little puzzled.
"Hacking a head?" Suzie asked, suspiciously. "Has that Jason Wyatt kid, finally, flipped?"
"No, no," Marcie shook her head. "It's just a case that we're working on. It's totally okay."
Satisfied with the lie, Suzie continued her talk. "Well, anyway, the rest of the family's been beside ourselves trying to figure out what's going on. We don't know what's doing all of this, or who, but if it is a who that's been doing this, and we don't find him, ourselves, then I was hoping, since I've been hearing around town about your reputation as a mystery-solver, that you could do something for us."
'Us?' Marcie thought in surprise. 'That could only mean...' "For The Chan Clan?" she asked, impressed. "Name it."
"Avenge our father," Suzie Chan said.
The words were so stark, that Marcie had almost no response for it. She already knew who was responsible, and was working hard to bringing Greenman to justice, but she kept the secret of that, to herself, so that she would have the satisfaction of personally bringing him down.
Still, this request, like the expression on Suzie's face, and the sound of her voice when she said it, was both unwavering and undeniable.
"A lot of good people are changed or gone because of all of this, like The Wacky Racers and Miss Gator," Marcie said, in solemn memory.
"Does that mean that you'll do it?" Suzie, quietly, pressed.
Marcie, her confidence buoyed by the good news she received over the phone, gave the girl a grim smile, and told her, "You can tell the rest of The Clan, Suzie, that it's as good as done."
