Royalty
A sneak peak into the novel "LIke Sunshine", the chapter titled, simply, Royalty.
Royalty
“...And for them she will choose a King, the last King, to have dominion over the whole of the world. And what was once shattered will be made whole, and what was disgraced will be redeemed.
...And when the last King falls, all the world will look on in despair, and Hell will rise.”
– The Sakai Prophecy
Pask rolled into the empty parking lot of the motorcycle dealership at about 10:30 PM, with his lieutenants close behind him. He pulled his bike right up to the front doors, and shut the engine off, setting the bike onto its kickstand. He climbed off, unstrapped his helmet, and rested it on the seat. He gave his compatriots a nod, and they shut down their bikes and climbed off as well, congregating around the cluster of ten motorcycles as Pask walked up to the door.
He was kind of a big guy, about six feet tall, a little over two-hundred pounds. His clean-shaven bald head glared a little by the light of the parking lot. His skin was dark, as was his beard, where it wasn’t tinged with gray. His reddish-brown leather jacket was beaten and bug splattered, and bore random patches, mostly signifying events he had attended all over the world.
The back bore one big patch. No “rockers” like one would see on the usual club bikers, signaling territories or affiliations, just one great seal. It was a big semi-circle, its flat edge at the top, its curve descending, split into two fields, checkered in red or gold, each containing a stylized figure. A red horse. A gold lioness. The logo of the Scythian Motorcycle Company. The crest was unique, not the usual rampant stylized beasts of European royalty, each figure had a subtle elegance, a realism. An eagle sat atop the crest, its claws dug into the horizontal line of the semi-circle.
The eagle meant something special. It meant that he wasn’t just a rider, or a fan of the company. Pask was a “Scythian”, part of an almost cult-like group of enthusiasts who lived and breathed Scythian motorcycles. Purists who cared little for events like Sturgis or Daytona, Scythians kept to themselves, and usually only attended exclusive events, buying up whole resorts for weeks to party, to drink and sing and ride with no outsiders allowed.
The company had been around for several decades, but had only in recent years gained such a loyal cult following. It had emerged from a small collapsed soviet semi-autonomous region near Mongolia in the early 1990’s, and struggled for a long time, until about ten years ago, when the whole operation moved to an abandoned car factory in Kentucky. Within a few years, it had become a stiff competitor in the motorcycle market, earning the nickname, “the thinking man’s Harley.”
This led to amusing little sayings and internet memes:
“The contractor rides a Harley, the mansion owner he’s working for rides a Scythian.”
“The high steel worker rides a Harley, the engineer who designed the building rides a Scythian.”
“The astronaut rides a Harley, the rocket scientist rides a Scythian.”
Pask had a personal favorite of these memes:
“The tattoo shop owner rides a Harley, the artist rides a Honda café racer, the piercing guy next door rides a Vespa, the building owner rides a Triumph, the banker who financed the shop rides a BMW, but the doctor who runs the tattoo removal and earlobe reconstruction clinic across the street… rides a Scythian.”
Their success was simple to explain: the company only made one model, with no options, only available in the same dark red and gold paint scheme as the company crest. The simple style had not changed since WWII, so the bikes didn’t have a “retro” look, they were retro. It was like being able to buy a brand new 57 Chevy. They were infinitely customizable, which fostered a booming aftermarket, and companies began to grow up around them. Soon people were waiting months for delivery, and driving thousands of miles to pick one up at the handful of dealerships.
Pask rapped on the glass doors of the motorcycle shop, only to hear someone yell from the back, “We’re closed!” Fanboys knocking at all hours was a problem for the dealership in Wichita, practically in the center of the country.
Pask rapped again, harder, and yelled something loudly in a strange tongue, which shocked even his crew, who all stopped their conversations to look. Seconds later, someone ran to the door with keys, unlocking it rapidly.
“Sorry, sir, I didn’t…” the guy at the door said, opening it wide.
He lowered his head, and looked at the floor as Pask walked in.
“It’s quite alright, think nothing of it,” Pask interrupted, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder, “I expected to get here earlier.”
The young man continued to keep his eyes lowered, and said nothing.
“So… I assume she’s in the back?” Pask asked.
“Yes. Yes sir, in the shop,” the young man said nervously. “This way.”
“I’ll find it,” Pask replied, “go on about your business. No need to make a fuss.”
“As you wish, my…, I mean, sir.” The man scampered away.
Pask quickly crossed the showroom floor, and passed through the double doors to the shop. A smell of charred flesh burnt his eyes and nose as he squinted through the wall of smoke. At the back of the shop, he closed in on the source of the smoke, a large workbench with still glowing embers spilling from it.
A motorcycle engine was pulled apart on the bench, the piston removed from the cylinder, and it was obvious that something had been hidden inside. Crumpled pieces of brown paper were scattered across the work table, now smoldering from sparks. In the middle of the table, resting on a dirty wrench, was a small piece of black rock.
The golf ball-sized chunk of dull rock seemed to glow a little in the light, as the grease and oil on the chrome wrench smoked and burned away. The stone was itself unremarkable, a dull, almost sickly black color, chipped and broken at odd angles, as if it had once been fashioned into a tool. White ash lines crisscrossed it in an obvious pattern, remnants of cordage that had been wrapped around it.
A gasp, and a hint of movement caught Pask’s attention. On the floor, next to a large shop sink, sat a middle-aged woman, her hand wrapped in a wet shop rag, her hair and clothing still smoking slightly. She looked like she had been struck by lightning.
Pask rushed over to her and knelt beside her.
“Terri, can you hear me?” he said, shaking her a little.
The woman jolted, and glared at him with bloodshot eyes. She was a very short, stocky woman, with almost no neck, dark curly hair, and a face that looked like it was probably fixed in a permanent scowl, except that her stern look changed once she recognized Pask.
“King,” she said. “The Sakai will have their King.”
Pask said nothing. He looked like he had just been slapped in the face.
“You need to rest,” Pask said. “You looked too far this time. You’re hurt pretty bad.”
“Not too far,” she replied. “I have gone where I had to go. The prophecy. It’s all true… I saw it… soon… it will all happen soon.”
She gasped, her eyes twitching. “There’s no time.”
“Are you sure?” Pask asked, a hint of fear in his voice.
“Yes, my lord,” she said. “The Sakai, a King is chosen… the stallion will rise… one who will walk… through hell… to claim his crown…”
Pask stared at the wall, taking in the gravity of the situation.
“REDEMPTION!” Terri cried, her voice cracking.
Pask crouched onto the floor, and took her into his arms. He could sense that she would not live much longer. The power of the stone had been too much for her. It was then that he saw the paper in her hand. Her last vision would be the death of her, but she had recorded as much as she could.
“You should have waited,” he said. “I was on the way.”
“I know,” she replied. “Had to… you would not have let me…”
“No. I would not,” Pask sighed.
“That is why…” she whispered. “It is you. So strong, but so kind… You are the one… our redemption…”
Pask was silent. He had been preparing for this his whole life, but never thought these things would occur during his lifetime. He fully expected to pass his title on to another, as had been the tradition for centuries, waiting for this day to arrive. And now, it was here. He had a duty to fulfill, and the fate of his people, and perhaps the whole world, to worry about now.
“I am honored. I will not let you down,” Pask said. “I will not let our people down.”
She smiled at him, as her breathing becoming shallower. A tear of blood ran down her burnt cheek. She raised a shaky hand, and pointed to the small enclosed trailer that was parked just inside the shop door.
“The King’s…” she said.
Pask knew what was in the trailer. The trailer had traveled with Terri, as it had done for years, and now the time had come. He glanced back at her, and saw the last light slip from her eyes, eyes that had seen beyond, likely as no eyes had seen for thousands of years. She had paid the price for his destiny. Pask hoped that he would not let her down.
“Api be with you, dear sister,” he said, and rested her body onto the floor. He pulled a large bandanna from his pocket, emblazoned with the Scythian logo, and placed it over her face. To most, being laid on a dirty shop floor with your face covered in an old rag would be insulting, but Terri was a master motorcycle mechanic, and more importantly, the highest of Scythians. For her, it was poetic.
Pask glanced over at the trailer. Much was to be done. Over the next few hours, he made calls, sent emails, and drank several cups of coffee. He sent his crew to the hotel to get some sleep. There would be hard riding ahead. He and Tom, the young man from the dealership, dismantled a large crate, and used it to build a pier for Terri in the yard behind the place.
Her funeral was brief but heartfelt. Pask watched her body burn down to ash, which didn’t take long, as the power of the stone had already almost consumed her.
The contents of the trailer needed little work, as Terri kept it in perfect condition. It was a motorcycle, another Scythian, like any other, but somehow not. The paint was deeper, the chrome, shinier. The engine, as Pask found, ran better, stronger than his old bike.
His crew was there to meet him at sunrise, as he shook Tom’s hand and opened the back garage door, riding the new bike out to greet the first light of morning. His crew looked on their leader and the bike for a moment, before they all climbed from their cycles and knelt before him, each one smiling like a fool. After a few moments, they were again on their feet, as they began to chant: “Pask! Pask! Pask!”
Pask humbly dismissed their glorification, and began a different chant: “Sakai! Sakai! Sakai!”
The chant was loud and proud, as his crew hugged each other and beat their chests, finally fading, only to be joined by yet another chant which sent them further into a frenzy: “King! King! King!”
Pask was quiet. He mumbled to himself through the noise, “Dear sister. The stallion will rise. Grace be with you.”
He rode out, heading east into the rising sun, the stone in his jacket pocket, the King’s bike underneath him. There was much work to do.
Tom was cleaning up the mess from the night’s occurrences. He was tired, and emotionally spent. He had only been a true Scythian for a couple of years, but he knew the weight of everything that had just happened. They had lost their leader, their seer, but the Scythians would, at long last, have their King, and the redemption they had always been promised.
In his tired stupor, however, he missed one small detail. There, on the floor near the sink, in the spot where Terri died, was a message. Terri had written down everything she had seen, mostly on the paper which Pask now had in his possession. Everything, except for the last part, which being near blind at the time, she had written completely off the paper and onto the floor. It was cryptic, words that would mean nothing to anyone, save another who had touched the stone, or possibly Pask. It read:
“… at the end, three will be lost, or all is lost.
Raven feather. Mammoth tusk. Dragon heart.
Tools of the maker.
The end is the beginning.”
Motorcycle clubs seem like a natural descendant of Scythian bands, and I love the idea of a modern interpretation of the culture through this lens. Curious to read more!