Cryptic Spaces

by Deen Ferrell

  Willoughby was engulfed by a blinding heat as the junction collapsed. As his vision started to clear, he thought he saw for a moment a pool of dark water beyond the foot of the bed. Something massive hit against the inside wall of the room causing plaster to fall and a huge crack to appear. He heard Antonio scream. There was another voice—it was T.K!

  “Get back! You’re in no shape to fight!”

  “I won’t let you face it alone!” Antonio’s voice was weak, but firm.

  Willoughby searched the fading light. “Antonio? T.K.!”

  There was no response. A second later, the room was still. Light in the room returned to that of normal early morning sunshine. It was strangely quiet, though. Willoughby noted the tipped over coffee pot on the floor, steaming. The steam seemed thicker and more plentiful than it should have been. It seemed to be taking on a shape. He heard a hissing voice.

  “You come before me, Queen of the Desert, alone, James Arthur?” a high, female voice cackled.

  The steam suddenly solidified. It twisted to look at Willoughby as the fully formed head of a cobra. Pulling dark coils from the dark coffee seeping out onto the floor, the head reared back, opened its fanged mouth, and it struck. Willoughby screamed, throwing a pillow up to protect his face. The apparition vanished. Sydney ran up the hall.

  “Willoughby, what’s wrong?”

  “Stay out!” Willoughby screamed, not sure if the junction had completely faded. “Get away from here, Sydney! I only want H.S.!”

  A nurse hurried up behind Sydney.

  “Get the director!” Willoughby shouted at her.

  The nurse stared a moment, bewildered, then hurried off. Sydney stared, stunned and a little hurt. She took another step into the room. “Willoughby, I—”

  “Get out, Sydney!” Willoughby shouted. “Don’t give me your attitude—just listen to me for once! Is that so hard? I don’t have time right now to spell it out for you—get H.S.!”

  Sydney’s face clouded. She whirled, biting her lip, and left. Willoughby caught a glance of Dr. O’Grady, who had ambled up behind her, probably attracted by the screaming. She grabbed him by the arm and herded him before her. When the two were gone, Willoughby noted that the sound in the room had also returned to normal. He pushed to the edge of his bed, reaching with shaking feet for his slippers. He could barely get the feet in once his toes found them. He was trembling almost uncontrollably. He didn’t want to spend one more minute in this room than he had to. Pulling a pair of jeans and a t-shirt on, he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. H.S. stormed into the room.

  “What the devil, Willoughby?” the panting man said, peering around the room.

  “Yeah,” Willoughby said, pulling the shirt gingerly down over his bandages. “The devil.” He motioned toward the veranda and led H.S. out of the room.

  32

  The Requiem

  The story tumbled out of him in torrents, his voice rising and falling, words crashing against each other like waves breaking on a rocky coast. He had to get it out—not analyze or emotionalize it—just get it out. It was as if the mere act of telling what he had seen, what he felt, what he heard, might somehow free him of its implications. Perhaps he thought that by telling H.S., he would see how ridiculous it was. Zombies? Eyes that could freeze you in place? How could anyone believe such rubbish? But the telling only made it that much more real.

  He had seen with his own eyes a man appear out of nowhere and disappear to nowhere, without any doorway or technical aid visible. He had watched this same man command a white-eyed zombie beast that he had once known as the man Gates. Could these have been mere tricks of the light? Had they been delusions? When the torrent ended, he leaned on the rail, biting his lip, trying not to cry. H.S. would probably think it was all a dream—a horrible, bad dream. Only he knew it wasn’t. He knew what he saw, what he sensed. He couldn’t run away from it. He shivered, despite the growing warmth of the sun.

  H.S. watched him closely. He had listened with rapt attention. He had stood rigid by the rail, and now looked away, peering intently at the sea. When he looked back, he raised a hand and put it gently onto Willoughby’s good shoulder.

  “You’re right. This, this visit was meant to rattle you, Willoughby.”

  “Do you think the guy’s for real? What about his claim to be my, my grandfather?”

  H.S. squinted into the rising sun. A dozen yachts and sailboats were bobbing in the turquoise bay. “Something has latched onto you. It’s trying to manipulate you. I wouldn’t trust anything he said. This was bound to happen with your, your gifts. I hadn’t expected it so soon, but the man, or demon, or whatever we want to call him, understands the significance of your abilities. If you’re asking do I believe in the existence of a single devil, and do I believe this being could be the focus of all evil worship, not just the head of a stray cult, I would answer, ‘no.’ Don’t get me wrong; I believe there are many shades of dark hearts, and this, uh, creature certainly wants to frighten us. I simply believe that these kinds of creatures thrive on misinformation. Their powers, as considerable as they may be, are easily magnified by the imagination. They become greater, or more fearsome—even invincible—with the telling, until myth, and the fear myth brings, becomes their greatest weapon. Fear plays into a bully’s hand.

  “Let me tell you what I believe is more important for you to hear. I believe, Willoughby, that good always triumphs in the end. I believe order is more powerful than chaos—that light will trump darkness every time. This doesn’t mean we’ll never face moments that frighten us, that bring pain and hardship. What it means is that we find balance in the journey, that our good moments transcend those that are horrible and sad. Thus, we learn to see behind the darkness. Does that make sense to you?”

  H.S. pulled his arm away with an affectionate pat. He stepped back to the rail, leaning out over it. Willoughby gave a short nod. He waited a moment and then spoke.

  “So, what now?”

  H.S. turned back to face him. He folded his arms.

  “Willoughby, I’m not your father, but I do know a thing or two about bullies. You never beat a bully by playing his game. I would say, as hard as this may be, that you should swallow your fear for now. Don’t spend your time dwelling on what this meant, or what he meant by that. He wants you to be confused. Forget about this conversation until you can think back on it with a clear, calculating eye. In the meantime, work with me to learn more about your gift and help me find the team. Each good thing you do can only frustrate someone who wishes to use you for ill. In time, I suppose he’ll show up again. The best thing for you is to be ready.”

  Willoughby looked up fiercely. “This guy travels in time without any visible technology. He claims to be hundreds of years old and has an army of zombies at his beck and call. He’s watching me and maybe Sydney. How can I be ‘ready?’”

  “Prepare to go on the offense.”

  “This is no ordinary bully.”

  “So? The good you do doesn’t have to be ordinary either.”

  Willoughby looked out over the bay, considering. He had to admit that talking to H.S. had calmed him considerably. “That’s easy to say, but how do you just let something like this go?”

  “You fill your mind with other things—other thoughts, other projects, other duties. The mind cannot live in a void. So, fill it. You’ll know you’re ready to look back on this incident when you start to question the mechanics of why? Then, you’ll move on to how? Engage your mind in analysis and discovery. As layers of mystery are stripped away, you uncover knowledge and opportunity. An active mind is the enemy of manipulation. The more you understand, the less you fear. Let’s try it; why would this man want to frighten you?”

  “So I’d join him?”

  “Perhaps…but why the interest in the pendant? Why the talk of your ‘bloodline?’”

  Willoughby shrugged. “I don’t know. I as
ked the same question, but couldn’t get an answer.”

  “Ah! There we are! Avoidance of the question tells us what?”

  “That he didn’t want me to know the answer,” Willoughby said, “or,” he added, warming to the process, “that he didn’t completely know the answer?”

  “Whoever, or whatever this man is,” H.S. said, turning to face him again, “he has a technology far beyond what we possess. But it does not appear that he is omnipotent, hence his desire for the pendant. He has limitations—rules he must abide by. What if we discover them?”

  “Then we learn how to defeat him.”

  “Possibly,” H.S. said smiling; “very possibly.”

  Already, Willoughby was starting to feel like himself again. His mind was engaged. His muscles had stopped shaking.

  “I need to learn more about this guy. Then I can stand up to him. Then I can face him.”

  “That’s the spirit! Face him down! Only then will you be able to face yourself, which is the more important thing.” H.S. grinned, patting Willoughby again on the shoulder. “You’re not alone in this battle, Willoughby. You have a team, and, if I may say so, a good one.” He breathed in the crisp morning air before continuing.

  “You and Sydney will move to my personal yacht tonight. From there, we will begin to explore this unusual gift of yours. I think you know, Willoughby, that your visitor spoke the truth when he noted how rare your gift is. Of course he has an interest in you. When you better understand your gift, you’ll know why. You need to better understand yourself, too. If you don’t understand yourself—what you believe, who you are, what you want to do with your gift—just understanding the gift may not help you. You could be tricked into using it in ways you never intended. Knowledge is freedom, but freedom is only the beginning of wisdom. It can just as easily lead to chaos as to peace.” He pointed to Willoughby’s chest. “Here is where you will find what really matters. Not out there.” He motioned to the wide expanse of the world. “Everything out there is simply tool or distraction.”

  Willoughby pointed back to the room with a good-natured grimace. “That was a powerful distraction,” he mumbled. H.S. gave him a broad smile.

  “Yes, and many of them are. Now,” he clapped his hands together. “Did you have any breakfast? I saw the remains of your plate scattered across the floor. How about I have a piping hot breakfast brought out to us on the veranda?”

  “Thanks, but I’m not really hungry right now.” Willoughby sighed, looking out over the bay. H.S. watched him.

  “Well,” he mused. “You may be interested to know that, while I was being alerted to your needs, a certain young lady, wielding her violin like a machine gun, about trampled me to death while storming out the door. She did not seem to be a happy camper.”

  “She was pretty mad?”

  “Well, let’s just say I don’t think she’ll be playing Schubert. You know this hasn’t been easy for her either, Willoughby. I think she needs you—more, even, than she may know. For some reason, you two seem to need each other.”

  “Any idea where she went?”

  “Oh, yes,” H.S. said conspiratorially. “She seems to be spending a good deal of her time in a little cove just over that ridge.” He gave Willoughby a light pat on the back. “Now, I’ll be downstairs having a decadent feast of hot cakes and omelet and you go try to fetch her. When the two of you are packed, we’ll leave straight for the yacht together. Agreed?”

  Willoughby nodded. “Sure,” he said softly.

  H.S. gave him another light pat on the arm before leaving. Willoughby stood at the rail, peering over the capping waves, thinking of the things H.S. had said. After several long moments, he turned, eyeing the far side of the veranda. A series of narrow, protected steps led down to the ground level. He made his way to them and started down, hugging the side of the white stucco building, until the steps spilled out onto a patch of green grass. He continued along a rolling sidewalk which bordered the grass over a hill. As the hill dipped down between two rows of apartments, he saw a sliver of pinkish sand. When he reached the sand, he took off his shoes and walked around the edge of a shallow dune to the beachfront. Following the narrow stretch of beach around a gentle rise, he came to the cove. It was nestled between the apartment buildings on one side, and a curving series of cliffs on the other. The sandstone cliffs were at least 100 feet high at the crest. They fell off sharply, dipping down to the row of beachfront apartments where the sliver of beach began.

  Willoughby looked out over the sparkling water. The cove was punctuated by a half-dozen jutting rock structures. The sandy crescent of beach was maybe 60 feet long.

  He searched the sand carefully. It was deserted. He turned to note a sailboat anchored at an arched rock about 90 or so yards out to sea. He did not see Sydney. He scanned the cove again. It had taken him almost a half hour to make his way to this spot, and rivulets of sweat were pouring down his cheeks. The sand was starting to feel hot, and the water looked inviting. He waded a few feet in. That’s when he heard the sad, lilting melody of violin music. It was played in perfect sync with the crash of the waves. He squinted, shading his eyes.

  Sydney had waded about fifteen yards out and was standing by an outcropping of black volcanic rock. The water came all the way to her waist when waves came in, but sank to about her knees when they went out. She appeared to have her eyes closed, completely engrossed in her music. Willoughby stood for a long moment, listening to the spiraling tune. It seemed to crescendo as each larger wave crashed over the rock, sending bursts of spray into the air. Finally, as the music peaked, he began to wade quietly through the water toward her. He could see that Sydney was wearing jeans and a strange midnight-blue blouse that had long sleeves. He hadn’t noticed what she was wearing up in the room. He had been too concerned with getting her out—away from the danger. The sleeves flared at the ends so that they actually touched the water. Her hair was whipping in the breeze, and he could hear her bangles and bracelets jangling as she played long before he could see them. At least half a dozen necklaces were draped around her neck and he knew without asking that she wore at least one or two ankle bracelets. She held her violin high and still as the final notes of her composition echoed off of the cliff face. He had stopped about a yard or two behind her. She slowly folded her arms, hugging the violin to her chest to protect it from the waves.

  Though his jeans felt like they weighed twenty-pounds, and he was beginning to feel the exertion of the hike, Willoughby moved as quietly as he could until he came up beside her. She opened her eyes, a sad, far-off look focused on the sea’s horizon. He did not look at her, but focused his own eyes in the same direction.

  “That sounded really…final,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she answered. “It’s my requiem. Now I wait for a huge wave to come, crash over this rock, and bury me, engulfing my form and sweeping me under. I will disappear below the waves and be swept out to the heart of the lonely sea. In the fading dusk, they’ll find my violin, battered and washed up on the sand.”

  “What about you?” Willoughby said, still staring forward.

  “They will never find me. I will be consumed by my sisters of the sea.”

  “Is that…necessary?”

  “Of course. It’s a requiem. Don’t ask stupid questions.”

  “Well,” Willoughby squinted forward. “I’ll give you this. It’s dramatic.”

  Sydney cracked just the hint of a smile, though she did not change her gaze. “Yeah.”

  “Kind of depressing, though,” Willoughby added.

  “Yeah.”

  “I think a good swig of kava could do you some good about now.”

  Sydney’s stare finally broke. She lowered her head, trying not to snort as she let go a snicker. She quickly recovered. “So, you’re here to apologize?”

  “Uh, sort of,” Willoughby said. He looked over at her. “But can I d
o it back on the beach where my clothes can dry off, or do we need to stand out here all day? This water is cold.”

  “I was hoping you would say that,” Sydney admitted, breaking into a smile and turning back toward the beach. Once they reached the shore, they found a small outcrop of rock to sit on. They squeezed what water they could out of their jeans and shirts.

  “What’s that blouse?” Willoughby asked, watching Sydney carefully squeeze out the sleeves.

  “It’s a gypsy blouse—the kind wild pirates wear.”

  “Wild pirates?”

  “Well, women pirates.”

  “So, you’re a wild woman pirate now? With a violin?”

  Sydney didn’t answer. She only smiled. Willoughby got the sense that she was waiting for him to begin his apology. “That whole requiem thing was kind of dumb, you know.”

  “Oh, really?” Sydney responded. “Stupid like, ‘With your chest—I mean, in your chest—I mean, the chest all around, touching?’” She had intoned his slurred voice perfectly.

  “I said that?”

  Sydney looked at him, her eyebrows raised and her eyes sparkling. Willoughby blushed. “Well, you do remember I was sick, right?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Well,” Willoughby looked away. “I’d rather you forget that, because touching up against you, your chest and everything, it was, uh, it—”

  “Shhh…” She turned him back toward her, putting a finger to his lips. “Maybe you shouldn’t be talking right now.”

  He studied her. Her eyes were still sparkling. Her lips were spread in a slight smile. The wind tousled her hair. Did she want him to kiss her? For a moment, he panicked. He stared down at his feet. Luckily, the moment passed. “Uh,” he started. “I, I didn’t mean to yell at you. There was a reason I told you to get out of the room.”