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It was a slow day today. There weren’t many guests at the pub. The air was fresh, yet mixed with a haziness brought by the rather uncommon humidity that had been looming over the region this recent fortnight. A baseball match far too gentle for Baian’s liking was playing out half-heartedly on the TV. The few patrons here were either enjoying their drinks in solitude, or burying their noses in a book or a magazine. There hadn’t been any new orders placed for a solid fifteen minutes. All in all, nothing much to report, simply another random, dull, quiet Tuesday in August.
As usual, Baian was assigned the closing shift. He started working here full-time three months ago, barely after the school year ended. The job was fairly easy, since he was fortunately equipped with sufficient bartending skills and a carefree attitude. The owner of the pub was a distant relative of Baian’s (third cousin twice removed, or something like that), a generous older gentleman, who granted him a wage 30% higher than the market equilibrium.
The pub — “The Trident”, as it was called — was a small venue, located as far away from the main street of the town as possible, and his boss obviously hated human beings — the reason why Mr. Richthofen hadn’t gone bankrupt yet remained a mystery. Surely, Baian was not Mr. Richthofen’s accountant, but the pub was definitely pouring out more money every month than the pathetic revenue they acquired. The liquor they sold here was of exceptional quality, the clientele a selected batch, at most a handful; and to Baian’s knowledge, the cook also received a higher-than-average salary.
Speaking of the cook, the guy — the teen, actually — was a wild card even fiercer than Mr. Richthofen himself. Io Iglesias was a sixteen-year-old illegal immigrant, who had gone through a plethora of torment and turmoil to move from his impoverished home country of Chile to this peaceful middle-of-nowhere borough in Saskatchewan. Io had three mouths to feed at home. His three younger siblings were all going to school, and Io was their sole guardian, despite being a minor himself. Their parents passed away in a car crash four years before, back in the city of Rancagua, and Io had been the breadwinner of the family ever since. The teenage Chilean was extremely resourceful and responsible for his age. He owned several (at least a dozen, to be precise) fake IDs, and lied to everyone except Baian about his age: people, including their employer Mr. Richthofen, were under the impression that Io was a twenty-year-old who still looked like a high schooler.
Baian had “clicked” with Io the moment they met, which was a year before, at an underground fight club. The two had a lot in common: they were both very capable street fighters; they shared an interest in martial arts, rock climbing, and heavy metal; they were unwilling to bother with dating, maintaining a social circle, or starting a family; both of them were orphans and must take care of their younger siblings. The list could go on and on. Most importantly, they felt that they had known each other for a long time. For decades, even centuries, maybe from another life.
“What kind of name is ‘Io’? I don’t believe it conforms to Spanish nomenclature,” Out of curiosity, Baian had once asked the younger Chilean, back when the latter was still working at a construction site, and Baian a Grade 11 high school student who had too much time to spare.
“No idea,” Io shrugged nonchalantly, “My folks told me it was from Greek mythology, but who knows. Speaking of which, why is your name ‘Baian’? Your family isn’t even Arabian!”
He’s got a point. Baian thought, thus didn’t pursue further. This exchange happened over dinner at Io’s place. The carbonada, the malaya, and other Chilean dishes that Io had made were absurdly delicious. Baian’s two younger brothers and Io’s three younger siblings had emptied their plates in a matter of mere seconds. The next day, Baian recommended his friend to Mr. Richthofen, who was coincidentally in search of a new cook for the pub.
“Just tell him you are twenty years old already, the same way you persuaded the foreman at the construction company. And I will teach you how to make poutine, and all those dishes people order. You will learn the ropes in no time,” Baian comforted an uncertain Io.
Hence they were here working together, Io occupying the kitchen, performing the culinary magic all on his own, Baian manning the counter, serving drinks to their treasured customers. Although the pub was held together by two minors most days, no one had actually raised an eyebrow. They didn’t have too many patrons to begin with, after all.
At half past eight, people gradually started to leave. It was summer in a high-altitude region, thus the city was nearing sunset. The guests had paid the bills, and were heading home to get a good night’s sleep. The only person now remaining seated in the lounge was who Baian and Io had been referring to as “the new guy”.
The new guy, in fact, had a name. Caça Ribeiro had popped up in town sometime during the last week of July. He was a man of short stature, possibly pathologically underweight, and looked like he was terminally ill. His age could have been anywhere between twenty and forty — sure, there weren’t any wrinkles in sight, but his eyes were no doubt those of an old man’s — The day he pushed open their door for the first time, Baian almost attempted to call and request an ambulance. His tendency to do so was only dissuaded by Caça’s surprisingly healthy appetite.
Caça had been frequenting the pub since then, always arriving at six o’clock sharp, leaving when Baian and Io were busy cleaning and wrapping up for the day around midnight, and retiring to a newly-opened motel nearby.
According to the man himself, Caça was a professional psychologist. He worked at a research facility in Lisbon, and was here in town “on a business trip”. This was a detail that made Baian couldn’t help but wonder: the closest university was at least a couple hundred kilometers away; there wasn’t exactly any “research” to do around here. Plus, Caça was really just idling all day — Baian’s youngest brother had seen him at least thrice at the local cinema in a span of ten days, buying tickets, popcorn, and soft drinks.
Io didn’t worry too much about it, though. He was almost grateful that the new guy could communicate with him in his native language. Baian knew that it was due to Io’s nostalgia, a sentiment Baian himself couldn’t quite experience or understand. The younger Iglesias kids tended to speak mainly in English with their eldest brother, whereas Baian’s own knowledge of Spanish was limited to a very colorful vocabulary of expletives, all of which courtesy of Io.
(Baian was close to native in French, though. His mother was from Québec City. He stayed there for three years of elementary school.)
Does every Portuguese person know how to speak Spanish? Baian wasn’t sure. Right now, he was happy for Io, since the Chilean had found another friend in whom he could confide. Although they knew close to nothing about the pale-looking Portuguese, they found his quick-witted sarcasm and occasional silent aloofness much endearing.
As such, Baian already thought that the day’s work had come to an end. It would probably be just him, Io, and Caça sitting at the counter for the rest of the night. While Io was putting bowls, glasses, and plates into the dishwasher in the back, Baian began to fix his friend a shot of B-52. The youthful bartender was about to do some inventory when he noticed that Caça was still obsessed with his reading. The self-proclaimed psychologist had been devoting himself to a hardcover the whole night. He hardly touched the dinner he ordered two hours ago. Whatever novel Caça was reading, it must be crazily fascinating.
“Hey, what’s that gigantic tome of a book about?” Baian asked as Io wandered out from the back, taking a seat next to Caça.
The Portuguese flipped over a page, “A prophecy,” he said, as if it had been an answer satisfactory enough to the question. Baian stared at him, awaiting further explanation. Caça sighed, “I came to this place for it. As a matter of fact, we are all here for something it entails.”
“I thought you were here in town for academic reasons,” was Baian’s bewildered reply. He couldn’t make sense of Caça’s response. Is it supposed to be a riddle? Or does it have a meaning in Portuguese, but got lost in translation? Caça speaks perfect English though, so I don’t think that’s the case. However, before Baian could raise another question, Io offered his opinion, “Wow! Señor Caça, I didn’t know you could understand ancient Greek!”
“Language learning is a lot of fun,” Caça smiled. He closed the book and put it into a backpack as Io gulped down his cocktail shot. Baian decided to postpone inventory to a different day: there were so many questions that he wanted to ask Caça. He didn’t know why, but his instincts told him that those questions had to be answered tonight. Caça, on the other hand, was once again distracted by his own thoughts, “I’ve been meaning to ask, Io, is the etymology of your name something from Greek mythology?”
Io confirmed his assumption. The Chilean teenager was suddenly invested in the topic, and inquired Caça about the story behind his name. Caça simply explained that it was a maiden with whom the god of the sky, Zeus, had a “summer fling”.
“I’d rather not elaborate,” he warned Io, “The details… aren’t pretty.”
Io, always considerate and understanding, stopped right there. Baian poured the three of them each a glass of beer, and was about to ask Caça the pile of questions he had come up with minutes ago, but was surprised to find that he now remembered not even one of them.
That’s weird. He thought to himself, wondering. Caça had already pulled out decks of poker cards from his mysterious backpack. The Portuguese had called himself a “mind magician” the first time he came to the pub, and had been showing off his card tricks since. “It’s all about perception and anticipation,” he once told Baian and Io with a knowing smirk.
The sun went down eventually. The baseball game had ended, and the 9 p.m. news appeared to be just as boring. The Canadian, the Chilean, and the Portuguese spent a good chunk of time playing magic tricks. Baian tried to recall the questions he had, but couldn’t.
At nine-fifty-five, the wind chimes rang.
In came two strangers. Baian was certain that they had never been to The Trident before. If truth be told, he had never seen them anywhere in this town. Two visitors, seemingly from abroad, the same as Caça. That was definitely rare.
The first guest who walked in was a tall, muscular man with dark skin and long, wavy silver-white hair. His facial expression was dead serious — he looked like a soldier. Walked and behaved like one, too. There must have been some legendary military experience welded into the man’s soul. Baian believed that the guy had seen at least an ocean of blood and tears.
The next person was almost the polar opposite of the first guy. He was European, and distinctly younger, maybe the same age as Io, or he could have been fifteen years old, who knew. His feature was flawlessly beautiful, a textbook exemplification of the word “androgynous”. Baian, an observant hospitality worker, could confirm this person’s gender only by the presence of his Adam’s apple. An artist with a promising future, he seemed to be.
“Good evening,” the bartender greeted politely, “May I see some form of ID?”
The military type handed over his passport without a word. Maroon-colored cover, Sri Lanka, that was a first in this pub, or this town, probably. Baian checked the birth date: Mr. Krishna Gunasekara was precisely nineteen years and one day old. The bartender handed back the passport, and voiced his congratulations, “Much appreciated. Happy belated birthday!”
The South Asian seemed to be taken aback a little. Io and Caça, halfway through their alcoholic beverages of various concentrations, simultaneously began drumming on the counter and singing the birthday song off-key. Baian could tell that Io was at least a bit drunk.
Then, all of a sudden, the teenage artist produced a flute out of nowhere, and started playing the melody of “Happy Birthday To You”. Baian watched and listened in complete amazement — his technique of the instrument was even more impressive than his looks. The song most familiar to all had become something else under his rendition. Flowers bloomed, animals gathered, stars twinkled, a forest of ancient philosophers bowed down to the truism hidden within. Could it be the music from paradise? An angel’s hymn? Io and Caça weren’t singing anymore. No one had ever expected this to happen, yet everyone was carried away.
It ended all too soon. The musician was already putting the flute back into a wooden box when Baian realized that he ought to applaud. And applaud they did, four pairs of hands clapping like their lives depended on it. Everyone was aware that the birthday song would never be the same for them ever again.
Now it was the flautist’s turn to be taken aback. “Umm… thank you? I just went with the flow,” He smiled somewhat uncertainly before giving Baian his passport. Sorrento Lenz was Austrian, and would reach the age of sixteen in a month.
“I’m afraid that we could not serve alcoholic beverages, but please do enjoy the soft drinks and the food,” Baian informed the fifteen-year-old music genius, all the while ignoring Io’s drunkenness-induced “that doesn’t matter, give him booze”.
Both the Sri Lankan and the Austrian sat down at the counter.
“This place has become very international,” Baian announced cheerfully, “We now have a Canadian, a Chilean, a Portuguese, a Sri Lankan, and an Austrian in the same room!”
They all glanced at each other. Caça was the first who tried to engage everyone in small talk. Once again, Baian had the feeling that he had known these people from way before. They were like old friends to him, comrades even, a faint hint of deja vu brewing in the air.
After everyone had learned one another’s names, Io disappeared behind the kitchen door to make poutine and smoked meat sandwiches for the newcomers. Baian poured red wine for Krishna and sparkling water for Sorrento, “I’ve been wondering. How did you guys end up here? We don’t usually have many foreigners in town.”
Neither of them really had an answer, though. Sorrento, an aspiring musician who was currently attending college (college!) in Vienna, was visiting Saskatoon this week for a classical music convention, and somehow found himself hitchhiking all the way along the SK-11 N earlier today. He was dropped off on the outskirts of the town by a trucker, then made a beeline towards the pub, and was joined by Krishna two blocks away from here.
Krishna’s story was even more fascinating (and terrifying). He was on vacation enjoying the beach in Trincomalee one second, and the next he was already boarding a flight leaving Colombo for Bombay. The third airport during to trip was Heathrow. Then Toronto. The Sri Lankan was apparently suffering from an insane amount of jet lag, and wordlessly showed them a series of boarding passes of different colors, to prove that he was indeed telling the truth. He didn’t even have a visa to legally enter the territory of Canada — yet here he was.
And Caça came here for a prophecy. Io had not been himself all day. Baian couldn’t recall any one of the questions he had a moment ago, despite sporting a near-perfect memory.
Which were all sorts of weird. Something is definitely happening. Something abnormal, supernatural. Something that might change one’s life forever.
As Io was stepping out of the kitchen, both hands full of plates, the door to the pub was pushed open again. This time, the wind chimes didn’t ring.
A man strode in, followed by two kids, a boy and a girl, who both appeared to be still in middle school. The man himself couldn’t be any older than thirty. However, compared to everything else about the man, the concept of “age” had become purely secondary.
Suffocating silence fell all over the room. The lack of sounds was deafening.
“You know why I am here,” the man looked around, and spoke with a formidability no one dared to question. It wasn’t English, or any other language Baian could have known, but miraculously, he could understand every word the man said.
The man was taller than Krishna, bearing a charisma that made people instinctively want to bow to him. Every part of his body was an instantiation of power, and danger.
Is he Aries? Mars? The God of War? Baian had the realization the moment he set eyes on the man: he would never stand a chance facing this man in a fight. The statuesque man must have been from an entirely different world, a world whose existence Baian had never even known before.
“The von Richthofen family has been our retainer for long,” The man continued, “This pub was called ‘The Trident’ for a reason. It has been established for half a century and its entire existence serves only one purpose: for us to finally assemble here tonight. By the way, you can put the plates down,” He nodded at Io.
Baian had been holding his breath since the man arrived. The girl who appeared together with him — she reminded Baian of The Little Mermaid; is she from Denmark? — walked up, and gently took the plates out of Io’s hands. She placed them onto the counter. Io, in shock and incredulity, was apparently unable to string out a response. The Little Mermaid smiled at him nevertheless.
Meanwhile, the boy who couldn’t be older than fourteen teleported (teleported?!) himself into the back of the counter, and started pouring a glassful of vodka. He was wearing a black-colored eye patch. There were scarred tissues winding all across one side of his cheek. Something about him spoke volumes, despite his quiet demeanor.
Another Scandinavian. Baian just couldn’t pinpoint where, but probably not Denmark.
And since when do fourteen-year-olds have that kind of scar as if it were a daily occurrence?
“Thank you, Thetis,” The man was polite enough, but Baian didn’t even dare to move an inch. He lowered his head as the man warned the juvenile pirate, “Isaak, don’t drink too much.”
“Just a sip, boss,” The fourteen-year-old boy named Isaak raised his glass daringly at the man, and downed it in one go. No adolescents should ever drink like that.
Isaak’s boss didn’t bother reasoning with him anymore.
“I am Sea Dragon Kanon,” was the man’s only attempt at a self-introduction. He glanced around the room one last time, and informed this miscellaneous assembly of people, “You will come with me to the bottom of the oceans tonight.”
The summer in Saskatchewan was closing to an end.
In the next twenty-four hours, Baian would forget everything about his previous life. He wouldn’t remember his younger siblings, his unfinished high school study, or the fact that he and Io had been best friends with each other. He would learn about Cosmos, about a god to whom he would swear his loyalty, about shattering matter into atoms, and about a war he had no other options but to win.
He would remember the date today, though.
Aug 11, 1986, the eve of The Grand Awakening.
The Flood of the Spring which eventually changed the world would occur in mere several months.
For Baian, and the others who gathered in the pub tonight, that sure wasn’t their “new beginning”.