The Eden Prophecy

CHAPTER 7

His name was Marko. A sullen face, a square jaw, and a large bony brow gave him the look of a giant. He was only six feet tall but thick as a tree, with hands like the paws of a bear. He was first beneath the Master and within the group he was known as the Killer, or as Cruor, the Man of Blood, for it was he who put the blades into those the Master marked. It was he who had strangled the life out of the officers from the French police force.

He would do all that the Master requested, because it was his purpose.

Today he waited at the end of the boulevard in a dilapidated shelter that had once been a bus stop and watched as a young man in ratty jeans, boots, and an oversized hoodie walked the trash-littered sidewalk toward him. Rusting cars and graffiti marked the youth’s progress — even a van that had burned in the last riots and had yet to be removed.

La Courneuve was a suburb of Paris and one of the toughest slums in Western Europe. Poor French and waves of immigrants settled here, piled in together, jobless, hopeless, soaked in the stench of despair.

The riots of 2005 had begun here after two youths hiding from police were accidentally electrocuted. Media claims pegged the riot on ethnic tensions, but Marko knew better. There were many ethnicities here, many creeds and colors. All of them shared the anger and frustration of being forgotten, hated, and ignored.

Citizens claimed police brutality on a regular basis, and the police, having been attacked and ambushed so often in La Courneuve, considered it a red zone, where entry was not recommended without heavy support.

Whatever the normal course of action might have been, the police were out in force now. As Marko watched, a small convoy of two cars and an armored SUV cruised slowly down the street. The bodies of the slain policemen had been discovered here and the French police were intent on doling out a reprisal and perhaps even making arrests.

The convoy passed the youth, who did not look up. He knew better than to eye the cops. He continued on, finally joining Marko on the scarred and weathered bench.

“You did as I asked,” Marko noted. “I am pleased. The Master is pleased.”

“The police have found the bodies.”

“Yes,” Marko said. “It was planned.”

The young man, whose name was Yousef, seemed sick at the notion.

“Why did we want them to be found?”

Marko ignored the question. “Do you feel sorry for them?”

“I hate what they do to us,” Yousef said.

“Then they got what they deserved,” Marko offered.

Yousef seemed to agree, though Marko could feel some reluctance. “Do I join you now?”

“Are you ready to give up everything?”

“What do I have left?”

“What do you have left?” Marko asked.

Yousef shook his head. “I have no father, no brother. I am French but the French call me ‘dirty Arab.’ I am not one of them.”

“You are a Muslim,” Marko noted.

“I no longer pray.”

“Why?”

Yousef seemed confused.

“Why do you not pray, Yousef?”

The young man gazed at the ground. “Allah does not answer me,” he said.

“You are on the right path,” Marko assured him.

A brief pause followed, as if Yousef were contemplating his next words.

“What about the others?” he asked.

Yousef had recruited several friends for the attack. Young men disgruntled like he was. But they did not have the zeal that he had. Marko shook his head. “The others are not worthy as you are. They will be paid and you will leave them behind. Or you will stay.”

If Marko judged the young man correctly, this part was harder. It was one thing to give up a country that did not want you, or to reject a god that did not favor you, but to leave friends behind, friends that were the only family a youth from the street had ever known, that was more difficult.

It had been the hardest part for Marko a year before, but like Yousef’s friends, Marko’s comrades did not really understand where their tyranny originated. They railed against government, the wealthy, and other perceived oppressors. They did not want their lot in life but they wanted others to change it for them.

The Master had opened Marko’s eyes to the truth, given him the chance to be free from the lies, and now Marko offered that same chance to Yousef.

“Then I will leave them,” Yousef said, staring at the ground. “They will be better off without me.”

“No,” Marko said coarsely. “It is you who will be better off. But first, there is one more task.”

Yousef looked up.

“There is a house on rue des Jardins-St.-Paul. It was the scientist’s laboratory. Go there. Bring everything you can find to us. And if anyone interferes, be ready to kill them.”

He handed the youth a folded card. On it was the address.

Yousef took it and hid it away.

Marko sensed hesitation. For a moment he wondered if the boy would follow through.

Yousef stood and almost turned to face Marko before catching himself. He checked himself and gazed out along the littered street once again. His body went still.

“You have a question,” Marko guessed. “Ask it.”

“What will you name me?” Yousef said finally.

“The Master will name you.”

“You’re the Master,” Yousef said, guessing incorrectly.

“No,” Marko said. “The Master found me. You will see him one day.”

Yousef nodded. “What will he name me?”

Marko smiled. Yousef was ready to give up the past, to let go of his given name and self and take up the destiny that waited before him.

“He will call you Scindo,” Marko said. “You are the one who divides.”

Even now the young man did not turn to him — he well understood not to look Marko in the eye — but he stood taller and the air filled his lungs. Scindo would carry a sense of pride and purpose that no name he’d been given ever had.

“Go now,” Marko said, sending the boy forth. “Do as I command.”