Rosario and the Water of Life - part 1

Rosario and the Water of Life - part 1

I stood outside the airport in Cordoba, Spain, with the Peacock King - Mayur - and stared in disbelief at the large, curly-haired man before us. He wore a neat grey suit, his curls and facial hair freshly trimmed, and he held a fedora in one hand. My father grinned self-consciously and walked up to us.

“Hi,” he said. A big grin spread over my face, and I set down my luggage in order to throw my arms around him.

“Dad! What are you doing here?” I asked excitedly, pulling back slightly to look up at him. “How did you know we were coming?”

Stefanos smiled down at me and gently tousled my hair. “An old friend named D gave me a call,” he explained. “He told me you were headed this way, so I thought I’d come surprise you. Morgan’s here, too, but he’s sleeping. Warm weather doesn’t agree with him.”

“A bear hibernating in summer,” I said, grinning. My father laughed, then looked past me. I followed his gaze and saw Mayur, who looked disgruntled and a little left out. Releasing my father, I walked back and picked up my bags, then elbowed my companion and returned to my father. “Dad, you know the Peacock King.”

“I do indeed,” Stefanos said, offering a large hand to the shorter Indian man. “I’ll admit, I was surprised to hear you were coming.”

Mayur, quite obviously feeling more awkward than disgruntled now, shook his hand said, “It was a sudden thing, sir. Call me Mayur.”

Smiling, my father patted his shoulder and relieved me of my suitcase. He would have taken Mayur’s as well, but he only had the one, and he clung to it for dear life. Not minding a bit, Stefanos led us to his little rental car, where we stuffed our belongings into the trunk and piled in. He looked unnaturally huge in the small vehicle - the steering wheel looked like a toy in his hands.

He and Morgan had got rooms at the Hotel Los Omeyas, which is where Mayur and I had booked rooms, and I suspected that Mr. D had been eavesdropping on my phone calls. I figured I’d let it slide, but only this once.

The hotel was a charming place, and we discovered that, entirely by chance this time, our four rooms were quite close together. While Dad went to go wake Morgan up, Mayur and I went into our rooms to get settled. As I took my paint supplies out of my suitcase and looked them over to make sure they hadn’t suffered on the trip over, someone knocked on the doorframe, the door being wide open. I glanced up and was unsurprised to see Mayur there; I welcomed him with a nod and returned to my task. He walked in, almost cautiously, and sat uneasily on the edge of the bed.

“Pe- Mayur,” I said, catching myself, “what’s wrong?”

“I didn’t expect them to be here,” he said, and the strange tone to his voice made me pause.

“Well, neither did I, but you’re reacting weirdly,” I said, sitting back on my heels.

He looked away and toyed with one of the four gold rings that pierced his lower lip. “It’s just who they are,” he said. “Mostly your father.”

Curious now, I settled myself more comfortably on the floor. “What about my father?” I asked.

Pierced eyebrows raised. “You don’t know?” Mayur asked, honestly surprised.

“Obviously not,” I said wryly. “Why don’t you tell me?”

He opened his mouth to do so, only to be startled by a knock at the door. As he jumped a foot into the air in surprise, I got to my feet and made my way across the room, smiling at my father and Morgan. My father’s friend smiled back, looking slightly green, and I hugged him carefully.

“Morgan, you aren’t feeling well?” I asked.

“Nah,” he replied, grimacing. “Too warm.”

I plucked at one of his sleeves and raised an eyebrow of my own. “Probably because you’re still dressed for cold weather.”

Morgan made a face, and my father grinned. “We’ll go to a restaurant by the river, it should be cooler down there,” he said.

“That sounds good to me,” I said, and went to pick up my coat, which I’d draped over the bed. “Mayur, go close up your room, make sure your valuables are safe.”

Mayur’s eyes widened, and he hurriedly excused himself. I myself ducked down to make sure my sword was firmly tucked under the mattress of my bed. Only a few days before, Mayur, myself, and a woman named Jenny traveled the Welsh countryside on a quest to obtain a sword that belonged to Mayur’s father. We left Jenny to her own devices once the first part of the journey was over, and when we arrived at our destination, we found two swords instead of the one. I’d been surprised, but my companion had seemed to expect it, and I kept forgetting to question him about it.

Stefanos, Morgan and I left my hotel room and waited, briefly, for Mayur. Once he’d joined us, we piled into the rental car and headed for the river. We chatted along the way, though Mayur managed to get away with saying as little as possible. However, after we’d been served dinner, even he was surprised into speech by my father’s revelation.

“Mr. D is the alchemist John Dee?” I hissed, avoiding the stares of those who’d been alarmed by our sudden outburst. “Dad, John Dee lived in the 1500s.”

“He’s immortal,” my dad said, smiling.

“Mr. D has used the Philosopher’s Stone?” Mayur asked, eyes strangely intense.

“Something like that,” Morgan said brightly, obviously feeling much better. “Seeing as he’s an alchemist, it seems pretty likely, doesn’t it? Your father and I never found it ourselves - that hasn’t stopped us, of course.”

I meant to question him, but found myself interrupted by the scraping of a chair. “Please excuse me,” said the chair’s occupant, a middle-aged man wearing an ugly polo shirt, “but I thought I heard you mention the Philosopher’s Stone.” He had a faint French accent, and he flashed pearly teeth at us.

“Here he goes again,” a woman at his table said, rolling her eyes and sipping her glass of wine. “Sorry, gents and lady - this is Armand Bouchard, the French-American author. A horrible combination, if you want my opinion.”

“No one does,” Armand said amicably, and said to us, conspiratorially, “The charming lady over there is Malena Tjader. Her mother’s from this country.”

“I see,” I said, shooting my companions an amused look, and offered a hand to Armand. “Rosario Argyris. This is my father, Stephen, his friend Moore, and my friend the Peacock.”

For whatever reason, I was wary of giving this man our real names, and the others at my table picked up on it immediately. By their own reasoning, they all went along with it, much to my relief. Armand, oblivious, beamed at us and kissed my hand with clammy lips.

“Great to meet you,” he said. “Why do you call him the Peacock?”

“Because he is fantastically vain,” I replied, withdrawing my hand and offering it to Malena. She smiled with teeth colored by years of cigarette smoke, and loosely shook my hand. The only other person at the table, a Spaniard, smiled comfortably and offered his hand to me.

“Graciano Ojeda,” he said, and I shook his hand. He had a firm grip, but not crushing, and while it was friendly enough, there was an undercurrent of tension to him.

“So, the Philosopher’s Stone,” Armand said. “Are you aspiring alchemists?”

“I am,” Mayur piped up, “and Rosario is a history student.”

“Aren’t we all,” Armand said, tapping his chin in what he thought was a knowing manner; he turned to my father and Morgan. “And what do you gentlemen do?”

“Retired fishermen,” Morgan said, scratching at one of his sideburns. “Why all the interest in the Philosopher’s Stone? The Peacock here only brought it up in passing.”

“Well, you won’t believe this,” Armand said, slapping the table with the side of his palm, eyes alight with excitement. “I actually came to Cordoba in my own search for the Stone. I found a trail leading, in a very roundabout way, from Paris to this very area.”

Beside me, I felt Mayur stir with interest, and I elbowed him to tell him to keep quiet. Armand began to chatter to Dad and Morgan, and the dinner passed quickly, if not peacefully. Eventually, we went our own ways, to the relief of my party. Dad and I dropped the newly unwell Morgan off at the hotel, Mayur at the market, and returned to the river to have some time to ourselves. The rest of the evening was enjoyable, but after we picked up Mayur and returned to the hotel, I noticed for the first time that while there were weather lines on my father’s face, there were no signs of age. Underneath his facial hair, my father’s face was far too young.

Mayur gave me a knowing look, and once my father had gone to bed, I followed the Indian into his room and locked the door behind me.

“What were you going to tell me earlier?” I asked, watching him dig through his suitcase.

He pulled out his sword with its rusted blade and sat on his bed to look it over, then glanced at me. “I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now - that your father is a Painter like yourself, I mean.” I nodded slowly; the thought had entered my mind. It seemed to me that our love of painting was more than just coincidence, but beyond that, I hadn’t really thought on it. Mayur picked at a loose speck of rust on the sword’s blade, then rubbed his thumb over one of the rubies in the hilt.

“He knew my father,” he revealed, and I jumped slightly, startled. He nodded, then went on. “In fact, he helped my father once or twice. They were friends. I didn’t know him long, because he disappeared when I was seven. That’s why I thought I recognised you, back in the cave. The two of you look so similar it’s hard to believe you aren’t the same person. If you’d been born a son, you would be mistaken for twins.”

“Except that he looks older than I do,” I put in, but Mayur shook his head.

“You can’t tell with that beard and moustache of his,” he said, “but Stefanos doesn’t look a day older than you. How old are you, now?”

“Twenty-seven,” I replied, a strange, suspicious feeling growing in the back of my mind. The agitation at the base of my skull itched gently for the first time since Wales. “Why?”

“You probably stopped aging at twenty-five. Your father did, too,” Mayur said. I wasn’t sure he was telling the truth, but his eyes were more honest than I’d ever seen them.

“So you’re saying,” I said quietly, “that my father and I are eternally young?”

Mayur nodded and set the sword down on the mattress, leaning forward to look at me. “Not only that - immortal, as well. Or at least, your father is. As far as I know, you haven’t completed the ritual. If you had, you would know all this.”

In a flash, I was on the bed, grasping at the Indian’s shirt. He stared at me in surprise, and I fought the urge to shake him. “Mayur,” I said through my teeth, “what, exactly, am I?”

He continued staring for a moment, then lifted a hand and rested it on my shoulder. “You’re a Painter. Has no one told you what that means?” I shook my head, trembling in anticipation and, to a degree, fear, and he gave me a look that was hard to read. “Rosario, you can control the entire world - no, every world. You have more power than the Gods. I suppose that’s why Arawn didn’t tell you. You could erase him in the blink of an eye.”

My hands loosened their grip on the soft fabric of Mayur’s shirt, and I stared at him. He stared steadily back, and the feeling at the base of my skull increased until I could barely think. His words were insane, impossible, but every fibre of my being knew them to be true. It was overwhelming, but after a moment, my common sense began to sort it out. Mayur kept his hand on my shoulder out of concern, and after a few moments, I lifted one of my own and patted it to let him know I was all right. I sat back and took off my shoes. “So,” I said, “are my father and I the only Painters?”

Mayur nodded, watching me carefully. “Your father created the first humans and the first gods. He’s been close friends with my bloodline for countless years. As far as I know, he’s had a few other children, but none of them were Painters until you came along. However, that’s all I know about him. Anything more you’ll have to learn from him.”

I mulled over the information, and found myself comfortable with it. It was strange to think that my father was so ancient, but I got used to it surprisingly fast. “Mayur, how do you know so much about him?”

He flushed and looked away, embarassed. “He was my hero, when I was younger,” he mumbled.

I grinned at him and reached out to lightly punch his shoulder. “Mine, too,” I said.



I woke around four in the morning on Mayur’s bed, the blanket thrown over me. Confused and bleary-eyed, I sat up, and found Mayur asleep on the floor, to all appearances perfectly comfortable. I left him there, figuring I wouldn’t be strong enough to lift him, and returned to my own room. The Indian and I had stayed up late, talking, and I had discovered that, while he truly was vain, he wasn’t as horrible as I’d thought. I’d begun to think of him more as a friend than an annoyance.



At breakfast, the two of us were still tired, and drew suspicious looks from Dad and Morgan. As we headed out to see the Great Mosque of Cordoba, I meant to take my father aside, just to let him know that I’d learned about the immortality thing. However, no sooner had we exited the hotel than we bumped into the French-American from the night before. Armad Bouchard beamed at us, thrilled to run into us again, though I could tell that the feeling wasn’t mutual. Even so, I shook his hand, and he asked where we were going. I lied, telling him we were going to visit one of the gardens, just in case he wanted to find us later. It went right over his head, though, for his interest was in something completely different.

“You’re interested in the Philosopher’s Stone, right?” he asked. “I’m meeting someone in the ruins of Madinat al-Zahra who might be able to tell us where it is. Failing that, the ruins themselves are sure to be fascinating. Why don’t you follow in your car?”

I raised an eyebrow at him, exchanging glances with my companions. “Aren’t you worried we might take the information and write our own book?”

Armand dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand, laughing. “You four aren’t the writing types, I can tell,” he said brightly, and a rebellious part of my mind resolved to write one as soon as I got the chance. “And besides, even if you did, it would probably support my credibility. C’mon, I’ll even treat you to lunch later.”

In the end, we agreed, and piled into our car. Armand got into his own - he’d been in the area to visit a contact of his - and led the way.

We made good time, and got another surprise when we arrived at the ruins. Waiting for us outside her own car, smoking like a chimney, was Malena, and when she spotted us, she waved, her face clearly showing her own surprise. Once we’d climbed out of our cars and joined her, she put out her cigarette and we shook hands. “Roped you in too, did he?” she asked me, chuckling dryly, and we went to see the ruins.

No sooner had we started, however, than Graciano appeared, moving quickly, excited about something. Another Spaniard followed him, and Armand greeted them, surprised. “Graciano, I see you’ve met Alfonso Abascal. Alfonso, what’s got you so riled up?” he asked.

“We’ve found something amazing, Armand,” Alfonso said, eyes alight with glee.

“A mural,” Graciano said breathlessly, resting his hands on his knees. “Come and see, all of you! It’s a treasure, for certain.”

The Spaniards led us into a freshly excavated room, and upon entering, we immediately saw the source of excitement. There was indeed a large mural on the far wall, but it was strange, for in the exact center was illustrated an enormous, craggy face, which had closed eyes and a downturned mouth. I saw little cause for so much excitement until I stepped forward and put a hand out to the mural. When I did so, the face on the wall abruptly opened its eyes, and I heard startled gasps behind me. Malena uttered a squeak, and from the corner of my eye, I saw her put a hand to her mouth, embarassed. No one paid her any attention, though, for the face began to pull away from the wall; or perhaps the wall merely moved back. In either case, there was soon a giant crouching before us, his back supporting the ground above.

“Who comes before me?” his voice rumbled, and I realized that he spoke neither Spanish nor English.

“Does anyone know what he said?” Armand asked excitedly.

I swallowed and replied, “He wants to know who we are.” To the giant, I gave my first conscious attempt at speaking that unknown language Baba Yaga had mentioned. “My father and I are Painters. Morgan, the sailor, and Mayur, the Peacock King, are close friends. The others are acquaintances, but seem to be decent people.”

“Greatings, Painters and companions. I am the Guardian of the Water of Life,” the giant said, and I passed his words on.

Armand, in a case of selective hearing, said, “That means the Philosopher’s Stone! Ask him how to get it.”

I did so, and the giant replied, “Travel North by East. There will be a road where the stones will mock you; if you do not turn, you will succeed. If you do turn, you will become stone. Once you have passed, climb the wooded hill.”

Malena frowned. “That’s very vague,” she said. “Can he point in the exact direction?”

I asked, and the giant lifted an enormous hand from the floor, where it had been part of the ground itself. He pointed, and I thanked him. The group left the room, and as soon as we had, there was a massive cave-in. In the confusion, the lot of us slipped away to find the right road.