by Dean Kutzler
Brownstone is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to the actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Brownstone Copyright © 2016 by Dean Kutzler. 1st Kindle Edition 2016.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attn: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2016908924
Kutzler, Dean (2014-23-06). Brownstone. Kindle Edition.
For Paul, my everything…
Genesis 6:4
King James Version (KJV)
There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.
2000 B.C.E.
The Temple at Dusk…
SHE HELD IT tightly to her chest, as though her unwavering determination could fulfill her prophecy. There was a time when a mere nod of her head could send the will of men withering from her sight before the red locks of her hair fell back into place. That time has long passed, stepping aside until the day it shall reign again.
Her day.
No one saw her enter the temple, coveted under the moonless night like felt, shifting on black satin. The night breeze cool across her back as she slipped passed the entrance.
No one must see.
Once inside, she held her torch beside the iron sconce protruding from the wall and its flame burst and flickered to life. The smell of sulfur reassured her safe passage; she could not trust all the sconces to be lit. Where she needed to journey was deep within the temple and what she held was too important for her to fail.
They could not harm her, the wrongful pact had been sealed, but foul her plans they certainly could.
The passageway was dark. Her feet fell softly on the solid hewn stone, barely visible between the lengths of sconces despite her torch, as she made her way around the first turn. She stopped to relight the iron sconce there, like a beacon. The temple should be empty, but she had to be careful. It had to be done and no one could know.
Especially Him.
She hefted it closer to her chest, cradling it like a stolen newborn and thrust the torch higher as she ventured down the impossible steps. The steps her people built. The steps her people had died for, never having the privilege of their use. What He’d done to them went beyond any justification that existed in this world. Had she not been warned by the infernal source, her fate would have followed and everything would have been lost to this new world.
A world of inequality.
The steps were never-ending, like the heat of her rage. The sweat of her people has long since dried on these stones, no one left to be avenged. Their unjust fate has been hidden from the infancy of this new world. A veil of lies disguised within a deceitful beginning and set off on the heels of destruction. She could not set her plan of the ages into motion until this deed was done. She’d vowed her existence to the cause. The cause for the original beginning.
Her cause.
She finished walking down the never-ending steps, out onto a small landing made from a large block of finely hewn stone. Her face softened at the struggle her people must have had with such a quarry. The landing led down a shorter set of steps, allowing access into a room or branching off to the right, into another passageway. She gazed down that passageway and sorrow filled the perfection of her face. She no longer needed to travel down that path. She forced her gaze forward and squeezed it, yet tighter, to her chest. The memory of her people heavy with this burden she now carried. Once she’s finished, she’d never walk these corridors in this form again.
She trotted down the short set of steps with renewed purpose and entered the immense chamber. Time would be the true test for this room, but not in her time. Wasting not another second, she traversed the great expanse of the chamber to a doorway at the back. It was unfair, she thought, what she was about to do. Then rage once more bubbled up from beneath and chased the fleeting thought. How could she feel such emotion when her people had suffered such an unfair fate? Were they not innocent once, too?
She took one last look at the chamber before she drove her torch through the doorway and entered the passageway. She could not falter now. She could not blanch at the injustice she was about to serve. Sorrow may have filled her heart, but her innocence had been ripped away along with her people.
She glanced up at the hopeful seed-filled pots lining the ledge of the passage while she made her way down toward the sacred footbath. Seeds of such hope, dashed by the light of day. It wouldn’t seem possible, but darkness was their only chance. She left the pots behind along with the memories and continued down the passageway.
She could hear the trickling of the sacred footbath now. The sound as soothing on her nerves as sipping from a communal bowl filled with a strong batch of the bappir drink. She marveled at the lost ingenuity of her people in the construction of this bath. Freshwater ran continuously down from inside the temple walls, filling the stone basin at the bottom and back out, never drying up, nor ever flooding the temple.
She rested her torch alongside the clever stone chair built into the temple wall for this simple yet necessary pleasure, lest she be marked, but she would not release her charge from her grasp, not even for a mere second. For as easily as it was here it could vanish just as simply. The lengths of her struggle must not be in vain.
She gathered her pala dress around her knees and stepped into the basin. Cool, crystal-pure water splashed over her feet, then flowed from sight beneath the stone and a purifying sensation washed over her, starting from deep within and radiated throughout each perfect pore.
She gently squeezed her eyes shut and sank down into the chair, letting the sin she was about to commit wash from her soul, along with the dirt from her unlikely feet. She no longer needed to play by His rules, but tempt fate she would not. That was beyond both of their control.
She enjoyed the silky purification for as long as time would allow, still bound by the laws of this world. Her task awaited her just in the next chamber.
Stepping over the basin of the sacred footbath, she rose from the stone seat and collected her torch. As she plunged it through the doorway, the immaculate floor shimmered from the flickering flames, shadows growing both tall and short, as she gently padded on clean feet across the room to the corner.
Using the torch like a crutch, she knelt down, keeping her charge tight in her other arm, and angled the flame over the small sprout emerging from the stone floor. Its tiny leaves quivered in time with the flickering of light, and the first true smile since before her people’s fate, bloomed upon her perfect face like a desert blossom. She stared at the little sprout until her eyes grew cold and her smile wavered, then fell flat.
It was time.
She pulled down heavy on the torch, the weight of her burden intolerable, and lifted herself from the corner. It began to pulse and radiate beneath her tight grasp, knowing its lengthy fate, as she walked away from the hopeful little sprout.
The altar
was still warm, the sickeningly sweet scent of burnt flesh hung in the air, as she walked behind it. She glanced about the room to make sure no one had followed her.
Sidestepping the huge stone mural hanging above the altar, she reached up and gently depressed one of the stone blocks in the wall. It moved inward but an inch and muffled sounds of heavy stone wheels could be heard gently rolling behind the wall.
The rolling sounds ceased and the gigantic mural shifted a few feet to the right as pressure could be heard releasing from somewhere, revealing an empty space large enough for what she needed hidden from the world. Hidden, for a very long time to come.
She checked the room once more, then carefully placed the burden inside the secret space and touched the depressed stone.
As the stone raised flush with the wall, the mural slowly shifted back in place and more pressure was released.
The deed was done.
All that was left of her plan was time.
She tossed the torch into the altar and it blazed to life, flames nearly licking the stone ceiling. Once it died to a mere roar, her form appeared between the flames as she stood beneath the mural with both arms straight out from her sides.
She swung her empty palms down in front of her with a violent clap and shen-rings appeared in each. As she slowly raised them above her head her form withered, then fell to dust and the shen-rings disappeared.
Present Day
Montréal, Québec
“Clavis—no!” A black and white flash streaked across the kitchen table sending Jack’s new laptop to the edge. For a moment he thought it was safe, then a little black and white head popped up from the kitchen chair beside the teetering electronics.
“Don’t you dare,” he said, leveling his stare on the laptop. Clavis’s green eyes narrowed at Jack’s tone and the little white speck on his nose twitched.
It was a standoff. The laptop wasn’t even a week old.
Jack’s feet were glued to the floor.
Sometimes, he wanted to curse Uncle Terry for the gift of Clavis and other times he couldn’t imagine life without the little black and white ball of fur. Jack lifted his foot, half an inch, and Clavis’s eyes widened. Before his foot fell Clavis’s eyes dropped to slits as his little feline face rubbed against the sleek aluminum casing.
Jack clenched his teeth.
The laptop teetered before it hit the floor with an expensive whack.
Clavis was the sweetest little feline in Montréal. A little white spot graced his shiny black nose and Jack swore it was where an angel had kissed him—a demon angel. He’d been a going-away present from Jack’s uncle before the big move. Clavis was the classic tuxedo cat. His face was always bright, full of wonder and around his neck hung an oddly shaped, golden charm that tinkled as he padded down the stairs. His uncle had said it was a special collar and as long as he wore it he would never be lost.
Jack loved technology.
“Bad! Bad cat!” Jack yelled, snatching up the laptop.
He didn’t have time for Clavis's shenanigans this morning. He was already running late for his meeting with Monsignor Monahan at the Notre-Dame Basilica of Montréal. He’d called the church last week and made the arrangements. He was working on a piece for the Gazette and couldn’t help being drawn to the church’s beauty. Jack was agnostic, borderline atheist and he never understood what beauty had to do with religion.
Jack followed his own set of views. He didn’t tip the scales in either direction. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in a higher power or a supreme being or beings, he just wasn’t going to label the unknown and follow that path to righteousness with some old pedophile from the stone ages that the church deemed fit to preach. He respected the good deeds most churches do, but couldn’t overlook all the bad. Wars, cover-ups, scandals, etc. The list was too long to ignore.
Religion, in his opinion, was for the lost souls that needed structured guidance and the only hope for them was fear of eternal fire. It’s no wonder therapists make such good money.
“How many times do I have to tell you? Bad. The table is OFF limits, Clavis. Baaaaaaaad!”
Clavis was very special and dear to Jack. Just like the uncle that gifted him.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Clavis?” The little tuxedo terror turned his head around, sending Jack an off-put glance right down his angel specked nose, and gave him a mew of indignation.
“One more time Clavis and, and I swear—this time I mean it. One more time on this table and that will be it. No more treaties for you!” His pointer finger pointed out each syllable.
Clavis flicked his tail and winced his eyes as if to say, ‘Ah—Yeah—Okay’.
Jack inspected the laptop. It wasn’t broken anywhere externally. Good sign, very good. Glancing at his watch, he didn’t have time to fire it up to see if it still worked. It was under warranty.
He could hear himself now: It was working yesterday. I don’t know what happened to it. I went to turn it on and nothing happened. I just switched from a PC. I have deadlines to meet. I don’t have time for this. Ah, no. I didn’t drop it.
Retail sin—bad for karma.
Jack put the laptop back on the table when his cell phone rang.
“Shit!” he said, pulling at his goatee. It was the Monsignor from the church. He glanced at his watch, again. Yes, he really was late. “Hello, Monsignor? I know, I know,” he said, before the man had a chance to speak. “I’m running very late. I’m really, really sorry. I’m almost never late for an appointment, but I’ve been having a hell of a—oops, I mean a heck of a day”, he said staring in Clavis’s direction.
“That’s okay, my son.” The Monsignor said in a creepy deep baritone. “I was actually calling to see if we can reschedule for a later date. Something has come up, so I am unable to keep our appointment, my son. For today, anyhow. God does work in mysterious ways.”
Maybe a fresh new altar boy Jack fathomed, cringing before he said, “Not a problem Monsignor. I’m sorry I kept you waiting for me. When is a better time for you? I just have to say that I really appreciate you making some time for me. I’m sure you’re overloaded with church work.” Visions of an all boys’ choir standing in line, naked, at the Monsignor’s office door danced in his head.
“How about next Wednesday? Will that be good for you, my son?”
“That would be perfect, Monsignor. Same time? Noon?” He asked, shaking off the horrible pedophiliac vision. That would actually give him a little more time to work out a better angle for his story.
“May God be with you, my son,” he answered, and hung up the phone.
Odd fellow, Jack thought as he stuffed his cell back into his pocket.
Despite the new laptop, Jack was still battling a little writer’s block. He originally wanted to do a piece on the church’s artistic history. He found the church to be an awe-inspiring master piece of art. A true vision of inspiration and the further he delved into its arcane history, the more fascinating it became.
The only problem? It’s a dead-to-rights geek piece! ‘A big ole sleeper!’ as his Dad, the editor, always put it. Who wants to read an article about a church? He needed to come up with a saucier piece than that for the Gazette if he wanted any shot at that Pulitzer he’d been dreaming about. Then his father would have to recognize his worth. It would be his next biggest achievement after college; the first had been landing that gig at the Gazette without any help from dear ole dad.
He remembered the first time that he saw the Basilica in all of its majestic glory. That is where he met his ex, Calvin, for the first time. Could he call him an ex? That wasn’t the right term. What do you call someone that you are possibly, temporarily separated from, but weren’t sure?
Jack had been freshly graduated from NYU and had moved to Montréal. The Basilica was at the top of his list of must-see places. Everyone thought he was crazy for leaving New York after graduating. If you can make it there…
He was a native New Yorker that had just graduat
ed summa cum laude with a major in Journalism. His father was Chief Executive Editor for the New York Times. It seemed like a no-brainer. Let it all fall into your lap, his friends had said.
Jack needed to build his own life, his own career—emphasis on his own—without the aid of his renowned father, Mr. Franklin Elliot. Most famous for his piece, Shaken, not stirred?, which was an in-depth look at the Secret Service in correlation to real-life James Bonds of our history and culture in America, juxtaposed against foreign countries. The piece was outstanding. British dignitaries’ heads had definitely rolled on that piece.
His research went beyond the scope of idealism. He’d single-handedly found reliable anonymous informants that relayed invaluable details into the operations of the Secret Service. The piece was set to be listed number 8 in the top 100 ranking literary achievements of all times in Time Magazine in the Fall issue. It was also depicted in The New Yorker as one of their famous cartoon sketches with his father in Secret Service gear donning a spy mask while stirring a martini in one hand and shaking another in his other. His mask wore an expression of mystery.
No matter how Jack’s career would have transpired, had he stayed in NYC, he’d always be criticized as riding daddy’s coat tails. Jack needed to become his own man, on his own and in his own way. It was the most butch thing he’d ever done during his gay, adult life.
Jack recalled that day he’d met Calvin at the church while doing some initial research. The outside of the Basilica was as grand as most other churches, but the true beauty was on the inside. The double doors were immense and shaped like pointed arches, similar to that of the Pope’s hat. He’d wondered if that had been on purpose, part of the architectural design. The doors, made of rich mahogany wood, were burnished to a brilliant deep reddish-brown shine. The top part was adorned with stained glass and an ornate sconce protruded from the center in a reoccurring shape similar to the doors.
