The Isis Covenant

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The words emerged babbled and almost formless, the voice barely a whisper clinging to the outer edge of existence, like its owner, the frail, silver-haired patient lying on the hospital bed. Seated beside the bed, the tall blond man hit the rewind button on a digital recorder and replayed the two sentences for the fourth time.

It had been like this from the start: tiny fragments of stories in half a dozen different languages, each providing a frustrating glimpse of a larger whole. Tantalizing, but ultimately infuriating. Names whose identity had only become clear from the history books. The doctors called it multiple personality disorder and said it wasn’t unusual for a sufferer to suddenly start talking in foreign languages, even those they could never have learned. They didn’t have an explanation for it, but it happened. Only the blond man knew that something set this case apart. That was why he’d begun recording the mad ramblings of a brain on the point of self-destruct.

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