Pocket Diary Entry # l
November 11, this year
Terciera Island, Azores, Portugal
10:10 am AZOT
(Loche Newirth’s Pocket Diary)
How will it end ?
This first entry in a new pocket diary. I am a little frightened. Everything in my being tells me not to write—for who knows what will come of it? Disaster? Salvation? Nothing? But I will write. I must try to keep track of what has transpired—to somehow find the end…
—We are in the middle of the Atlantic. The Azores.
—Terciera is purple —floating lilac on the sea.
—Green plots framed in stone from my feet to the horizon.
—Edwin and I on a Vespa —his helmet is too big—he wants ice cream, I want espresso.
—Bruised clouds stumble over the Atlantic.
—A sweet pipe tobacco haze in the cafe. Tweed jackets - hats hang on pegs.
—Outside, a horse pulls a cart—an orange triangle tacked to the back. The driver wears yellow gloves.
Describe! Pay attention. Everything is extraordinary. See this world! This light! Forget the Center, the Orathom! Stay here. Stay here!!
I watch Edwin sleep. He holds the blanket to his chest with a fist. An empty, chocolate stained cup with a pink plastic spoon is abandoned on his bedside table. I should have had the Bug brush his teeth, I think. At the foot of the bed are his clothes. Grey sky is framed in the window. The furnace fan hushes the room - a lulling white noise. I set our book, The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe down next to the ice cream cup and lean my head into my hands.
Where am I? What am I?
I hold my head to keep my hands from trembling—to keep from going mad. Perhaps to keep my skull from cracking and my mind from clawing its way out. Deep breaths. Many of them. Each time I look out at the sea, I feel like something is searching for us. Something is coming.
I breathe. I think.
Focus.
We have been in the Azores for two days. We’re hiding here. I find it difficult to believe that Albion and his Order of Endale Gen, haven’t already found us. George Eversman assures me that we are safe, for a time, anyway.
What little I have seen of the Azores is beautiful. If only there was time to explore. I’m told there are nine islands in this once volcanic cluster positioned in the middle of the Atlantic. Its primary industries are agriculture, dairy farming and tourism. I wonder what it would be like to live here. Maybe one day, I will.
The Red Notebook, supposedly containing my handwritten entry, lies on the dresser. I understand that I penned it while I was in a trancelike state on the flight to where we are now. I have not read it. No one has read it. When my eyes linger on the notebook, I think I see a pale glow from under the cover—as if it contains some kind of Center. George and the remaining Orathom Wis fear that something frightening lurks within it—The Red Notebook—something that could alter a long settled past and warp a forming present. The future? Well, thankfully it still remains a mystery. So far.
Apparently, I wrote it on the eight hour flight across the Atlantic. I have no memory of this. Julia has shared her recollection: “You woke from your experience at Mel Tiris and staggered to the forward cabin—rummaged through a number of drawers until you found a pen and the red spiral notebook. You staggered through a little turbulence, bent over the counter and started writing furiously, mumbling over and over, ‘Cold, I’m so cold. Cold.’”
Cold. Perhaps I remember feeling cold. It might be that I remember the deathly chill of the October water of Priest Lake some ten days ago.
Edwin’s eyes swim beneath his lids. His breathing is soft —hair is still damp from the bath. The sweet scent of the shampoo rises from the pillow.
I think of the birds that woke us both earlier this morning. They were perched above the window on the roof. High pitched chirps and long melodic calls as the sun climbed out of the sea. Hearing the song, Edwin had rushed to the glass and peered up but could not catch a glimpse of them. Even after all that had happened over the last days, the sound of a bird and the chance of seeing it was enough to pull him out of dreams, out of sleep, onto his feet and to the glass to discover. A bird. A simple bird. And its song.
When they fluttered up and out of sight, Edwin had tumbled back to his pillow and his slumber.
I hope they sing us awake—when we do wake. After all that has happened, it seems as if nothing now can stop sleep.
A purple smear of clouds is over the sea. It is near mid day in the center of the Atlantic ocean. Cold.
I must try to rest. I will try to sleep.
The Hell Between
November 11, this year
Terciera Island, Azores, Portugal
1:20pm AZOT
Loche Newirth wakes. He stares up. The thin glowing streak from the drapes cuts the ceiling into two panels of deep grey. He is at the Orathom Wis compound in the Azores. It all comes back: Basil’s paintings in the castle tower, the death of William Greenhame and so many others, the Red Notebook—it is all his doing. It is he that brought these things to pass. His heart rate quickens. Sweat beads. Tears burn his eyes. There is no peace—nothing between the two hells of sleep and consciousness. He must do something, but what?
His breathing is heavy. He sits up and feels for Julia beside him. He then remembers her desire to take some time to herself—to process, she had said. Loche thankfully agreed knowing that he, too, needed time to himself. Though, right now, in the throes of this terrifying anxiety attack, he wishes someone would come.
He falls back into the sweat chilled sheets, and shivers through halting gasps for air. Time slows. Seconds seem to last for hours as his thoughts race—flashing fears—from Rearden murdering Beth Winship, to Edwin, to Julia, to William, to Helen, to writing the damned Journal…
He struggles to catch the words of the song Julia’s father sang to her when she was a girl. That Single Star, he thinks it was called. He searches for the first line. If only to find a single star amid the trillion sparks of eternity glittering in his head. The boy god is standing in the shadow of his mind. He looks like Edwin.
Lying beside him is his sleeping son. He is motionless save for his eyelids and the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Loche can hear the light puffs of his breathing. The empty ice cream cup lies near the bed. The clock reads 1:20pm.
Loche sits up, places his feet on the wood floor, stands and ties his robe. He walks to the window. Outside, there is a pale grey light under a dark canopy of clouds. He scratches his chin and scans the gloomy ocean horizon. He turns and stares at Edwin. Then, after a few moments he moves to the door, opens it and steps into the hallway.
He walks a short distance to a window encased boardroom with a long marble conference table and comfortable leather chairs on wheels. The ceiling-to-floor glass walls provide a stunning view of the plotted green-lands that stretch to the cliff edge, and then to the ocean maybe two-hundred meters away. Loche rolls a chair to the window and sits. The light is flat and dull. Outside there is no wind. He tries to recall the melody of Julia’s song, That Single Star. He strains to see through the overcast, wishing to see her star pulse through the grey. He squints. The heater vent blows a warm draft. He feels his eyes close as he listens to the gentle rush of air. Loche believes he sees the star—there, just there!
Then cool finger tips caress his brow.
The star, there. Just above the black silhouette of the mountain against the grey. The fingers move slowly, grazing his forehead, bringing chills to his upper arms and neck. He feels a calm settling over him. The star blinks.
“Husband,” a voice whispers into his ear and Loche vaults into consciousness again. “Breathe, Loche. Breathe.” His body freezes. Two bare arms are embracing him from behind—Helen’s arms. She is warm. For an instant, he hesitates from pulling away. Her hands now gripping his chest.
“W-what are you doing, Helen?” Loche says, startled. “How did you get in here?”
Helen
sighs. “Same way you did. The door, Loche. I came in through the door. What did you expect—through the bathroom window? And what am I doing?” She gives him a squeeze, “I’m holding my husband.”
Loche doesn’t move. The scent of her skin—the sound of her voice—his heart breaks as it did the moment he learned that she and Albion Ravistelle were lovers, partners, husband and wife. Soul mates. Loche scowls and attempts to put up a wall in his mind against Helen’s other life. Her real life. Immortal. A soldier. Deceiver. Murderer. Assassin. A woman with an agenda that he was never privy to.
And he grapples at just how and why he created her to be just what she had become. This story—this frightful power of his…
As if in answer to his thought, she says, “To think that I could be capable of such treachery, such horrors.” Her hushed breath heats the back of his neck. He can imagine her nearly perfect face—a sad smile as she whispers. “How could I do such things? Kill. Lie. Appear to be the loving, and the sometimes inconsolable, wife? Use my mind and body as emotional weapons against the very powers that move the world, the Painter and the Poet?” She pauses. Grief enters her voice. “And Albion.” She pulls Loche close. “I am not what you think I am. I am not what you have made me.” Loche remains silent. His body tenses. “I have done what was necessary. I know you can’t yet understand that.”
“What do you want, Helen?” Loche hisses through his teeth. Anger. The fear of her lessening. The familiar pattern of speech between them blurs the extreme circumstances. He pulls away and swivels his chair before he stands up.
Helen looks up at him. “Wait—”
“Please, Helen.”
Helen sits in a chair. She lets her arms drape on the rests. “I know that I’ve said some terrible things. Hurtful things. Done things that are—” she stops speaking and looks at Loche. The start of tears—she shakes her head, unable to find words.
Rain taps at the glass. Helen glances to the window then back to Loche. “W-why did you make us god killers, Loche? Why did you make me a god killer?”
Loche has no response. Helen stands up, tosses her hair behind her shoulders and faces him. Then, questions fall out of her like a sudden storm. “Loche, what have you done? Can you tell me how this has happened? Why do I feel as if there is another me out there somewhere?” She shakes her head. Again, her focus flits to the window. “How many mistakes can we make before there’s no returning?” She asked. “Is there a final number?” She looks down at her hands as she wrings them in her lap and whispers, “How will it end?”
“It is a story I wrote, Helen. A story to trap Rearden.” There is a thread of apology in his tone. “Something happened that made it—true.” He shakes his head in frustration, “I never meant—I mean—I needed to use my real life, you, Edwin, William Greenhame—so Rearden would at least begin to believe.” Loche squeezes his eyes shut and exhales angrily. “I keep hoping that I will wake up soon—that this is all a freakish nightmare.”
“To trap Rearden you risked your family,” she says. “Your wife! Your son!”
“Helen,” again he notes his apologetic tone, “the Journal’s purpose was meant to deceive my mentor—it was a lie! How could I have known the horror—known the tale would come to be? Come… true?”
Helen glares at him. “Look at what you’ve done to Edwin and me. Behold, your wife.” Helen walks toward him, closing the distance between them. She pushes one hand heavily against his sternum and presses his body against the glass wall. Her other hand raises below his chin with her sharp thumb nail poised to stab upward into his jugular. She brings her face close to his. The heat of her stare, and her strength and speed send a sudden electric chill.
“I may not have been a perfect wife to you, Loche—before you made me into what I am now. They want you dead, Loche. Do you know that yet?” Her thumb digs upward. Adrenaline floods through his body. The dagger like point draws blood. He can feel his airway pinching off. “But, Rearden… Rearden wants… he wants you… tortured. Killing you will save you. Save those that surround you…”
“Helen,” he says.
“Albion, the Endale Gen—they no longer have an interest in controlling you—they think it safer to kill you. It must be why Albion allowed me to be taken. It must be.” A storm rages in her grey eyes. “I believe that is why I’m here now.” Her gaze ticks to Loche’s cheek, to his nose, to his mouth, as if searching. “None of us knew what kind of power you were to bring. We thought you would have a craft similar to Basil. They are just now figuring out what you’ve done—and what it means. The impossibility of it. The chaos of it. You are dangerous to them, Loche. Dangerous to everyone and everything. You can change the fabric of existence through your writing. The great myths of the Oläthion prophesied your coming. Like the Painter, we thought you, the Poet, would be just another door. Turns out—” He can feel her body tense. The tip of her nail pushing in. “But Rearden—Nicholas Cythe—they will do far worse than kill you.” She meets his eyes, “Loche, we think you are a god.”
Astrid
November 11, this year
Gonzaga University, Spokane, WA
8:20 am PST
“The lost city of Wyn Avuqua, city of immortals, you say? Right up there with Atlantis, the Loch Ness Monster and Area 51. What’s next, Professor? Tell me that you’ve not uncovered Hobbiton?”
Astrid Finnley looks at her notes on the podium. Amid this horrible criticism, sweat dribbles down her neck. She hopes it doesn’t show through her blouse. And how could I be sweating now? Good God, it’s just after 7AM and I’m sweating? she thinks.
After a deep breath and a straightening of her shoulders she smiles. With an agreeable nod she offers, “Yes, of course much of this must sound well outside of the grant’s requirements, but I assure you—”
“Professor,” Chairman Chad Molmer interrupts. He flashes his irritated face to the other five members of the board. “This is not merely outside of our expectations, this is outside of sanity—and frankly, insulting! The funding given to you over the last three years was for research based on…” he pauses, wrinkles his nose at the freshly printed manuscript open before him, then hisses, “evidence.”
The woman beside him, Dr. Charlotte Tuzass, shakes her head as she flips through the pages of the book, looking for something that makes sense. She says, “We asked for a book on the evolution of ancient Sumerian, Celtic and Egyptian languages and how they are connected, not this—what you believe came before. Not some fairy story of an ancient culture of immortals that influenced language itself. What you’re proposing here—a redefining of the historical record? Wyn Avuqua?” she nearly spits, and shakes her head again. “I am stunned, Professor. Just stunned. This is crazy.”
Don’t look like a crazy woman, Astrid recalls thinking when she had readied herself in the mirror earlier that morning. She had decided to wear a conservative blue top with a rather boring, slate grey skirt—but there was a slight trace of sexy in the way it fit. Not too much. And not too much makeup either. It would be a mistake for a middle aged academic to appear too fashionable, after all, especially in front of the Washington University Grant Board. Act your age—and most importantly, dress your age. And today of all days, she needed credibility. Before leaving her bathroom she had pushed her glasses up, brushed away a lone thread at her sleeve, and studied herself. Over half of her life has been spent reading, teaching and writing about mythology—studying the stories that have shaped human behavior—the belief systems that people cling to in order to quell their fear of the unknown—their fear of death and what comes after. All of that must add up to the ability to do at least one thing well, and that’s looking like she knows her subject. Or, perhaps, hiding her own kind of crazy.
Florescent lights buzz above. There’s the sound of shuffling paper. A board member coughs. She tastes the bad, brown water coffee from the boardroom’s 1970s Mr. Coffee maker.
Astrid drops her gaze back down to her notes, clears her throat and quickly decides
to carry on with the presentation. Her finger taps the slide advance button on the laptop. Her clear and articulate professor’s voice says, “On June 29th, 1873, a magnitude 6.3 earthquake killed nearly one hundred people and did considerable damage to the city of Venice. It also uncovered a view into history that was heretofore hidden from us.” Two black and white photos appear on the screen behind her. The first is of the basilica domes of Santa Maria Della Salute in Venice. A hand-drawn red circle directs the eye to the lower foundation. The other picture is a close up of the cornerstone. Carved into the rock at the building’s base are two figures of armored men, both holding spears aimed up to a single star. Below are chiseled letters in both Latin and a rune-like script known as Elliqui.
Astrid continues, “The damage cracked away portions of stone, revealing this engraving. It is the original dedication to the Santa Maria Della Salute itself. Both the Latin—” she pauses and looks quickly up from her notes and then back down, “and Elliqui read, For the love of Man, we await the Poet, we await the Painter, until then we shall destroy the plague of gods among us. You can also see the carved insignia below of the single Eye, including the symbols for the Four Households of Wyn Avuqua: Shar, Kep, Vas and Vifae. That is, Talons, Mind, Heart and Wings.”
The board member at the far end of the panel raises up another book. The cover Astrid recognizes immediately. The man says, “Professor, really? You must have read Wyn Avuqua and the Historical Hoax, by Geoff Bilner.”
Another of the board says, “If I am not mistaken, Professor, have you not already made these claims?” He holds up copies of Astrid’s two self-published works. “Conspiracy theory meets myth. That stone inscription has long been debunked, along with hundreds of other such claims.” He pauses and looks around the room. “I got up early for this?”
The Shape of Rain Page 3
