The Lie In Belief
November 11, this year
2 Newport Highway, Washington State
9:00am PST
And why not? What else was there to do today? She could have declined and bade these two a hearty fuck off and right now be a third into a bottle of red, soaking in a bath of Epsom salts and lavender. But something about validation and your wildest dreams had a nice ring to it. Not to mention ownership and financial security.
A light rain falls. Astrid’s stomach growls. She wonders about breakfast. The driver turns the passenger van north.
“Where are we going?”
“North to Sandpoint,” Molmer answers wrestling with removing his coat, which he manages to remove. He folds it. He exhales and offers Astrid a kind smile. “So, Professor Finnley,” he says, “what’s your story?”
“My story?”
“Yes. I know a bit about you, given our academic dealings —very little about your personal life.”
“I—”
“You’re still teaching, yes? You’re quite known for your love of mythology—but what more? Surely you’ve got a story.”
Astrid wonders. She draws a blank. Her first thought is lonely. But that is not entirely true. She has her career and the respect and acclaim it has garnered. That is, at least, something. Colleagues and students have been her primary social outlet, and she has forged what she thinks are relationships worth mentioning—but she does not mention them. She has traveled extensively, all over the world, many times. Especially over the last few years. She has heard her students express their envy when seeing her travel photos in class, or when reading her bio, or the travel logs printed in one of the university publications, or her self-published titles. She would hear her student’s marvel: there’s Professor Finnley in the crumbling terraced ruins at Machu Picchu, Prof at Easter Island, Prof studying Greek letters carved into a stone at Delphi, Prof with her hands in the soil at a dig near Carthage. Their voices were some comfort. Occasionally she traveled with students, other times with educators or archeologists and their teams, but most of the time, she was alone.
She has enjoyed treasure hunting—especially for her best friend Sadie, and her kids, Prudence and Jude (names chosen from Beatle songs, of course—Sadie and her husband being crazy Beatle fans). Much of her free time during her journeys has been spent searching for rare stones and action figures for Jude, silk scarves and old maps for Prue. The two had become increasingly dear to her over the last few years, especially since the boating accident. She has found it nice to be their crazy Aunt Astrid without having to juggle soccer, ballet and stomach flu. Jude and Prue’s mother, Sadie (another name lifted from the Beatle canon —her parents were crazy Beatle fans, too), tried to talk Astrid out of having her tubes tied. “What if you change your mind? What if one day you decide it’s time.”
Astrid’s wonted reply was, “Meh.”
Her divorce sucked. And as with most divorces, there were many parts and pieces. Certainly Astrid’s unyielding work ethic, long hours and dedication to her career played a part. Her ex, Zachary, used to say, “I always come second to your job. Second to everything.” Astrid’s seemingly endless travel schedule didn’t help either. She took Zachary along with her once to a dig near the Black Sea when they were newly married. It turned out to be a disaster. Zach, bless his heart, was impossibly slow, packed too heavy and was overly vocal about the dust, the heat and the food at the dig site. “Let’s get a nice hotel when you’re done,” he would suggest with enthusiasm—which prompted, “When will that be?” nudge. Of course there were wonderful memories, too. But most of those had been eclipsed by the insatiable appetite for her work. His take: she gave up. Her take: he doesn’t understand. There were darker things back there, too. Things shoved aside. Things that make no sense to wallow in. Their disparate interests aside, she loved him, and he loved her, but it wasn’t until she needed to tell him that she was going to get her tubes tied that the relationship broke. One afternoon a year later she entered their house to discover Zach had excavated his presence. He left a note. She put it on the refrigerator door. It is still there and it flutters at her every time the heat wafts into the room from the downstairs furnace.
“If I could change what happened, I would. Beginning again is all I can do—make a new story. I wish it was with you—Z” As she sips her coffee nearly every morning, her eyes find the message. Nearly every morning after reading it she hears her voice say, “Meh.”
“Would you like to hear about my failed marriage, or what?” she asks. Molmer’s eyebrows scrunch together. Astrid shrugs, “There’s not much to tell. I don’t like the past.”
“I doubt that very much,” Molmer replies. “Isn’t that where you reside most of the time?”
Astrid’s smile is dry, “Good try. Not in my past. You sound like my ex.”
Dr. Marcus Rearden’s voice enters the conversation. Astrid notes it is the first time he’s joined in. “Ah, the past… difficult to overcome bad memories.”
Astrid’s head tilts at the psychologist. Her eyes narrow. “I don’t think my past is any of your business.”
“Forgive me,” Rearden says. “I am well versed in human tragedy—and I understand that you’ve suffered the worst possible—”
“Molmer?” Astrid nearly spits, “what is this all about? Is there a shrink here for a reason? Because of what happened? If so, we’re done here. This is ridiculous!”
“No, no,” Molmer says apologetically. “Marcus, please. Let us stay on the subject—”
Astrid speaks over him, “Because I’ve had my share of fucking therapy—and I’m through—”
“Forgive me,” Rearden says again. “My mistake. I simply offer my sympathy.”
“Noted,” Astrid says.
“Well,” Molmer says in an attempt to lighten the mood, “the past is the past is the past. Now, Astrid, the distant past is about to come thundering into the present.”
“Let’s cut to the validation part, okay? Why Sandpoint, Idaho?”
“Please, Doctor,” Molmer says, “be patient. Because we’ve funded you for over three years, you can afford us an hour of patience. Besides, I’d hate to spoil the surprise—or at least, the opportunity of seeing your face when we arrive.”
“Arrive where?”
“Professor Finnley,” Rearden says. His voice is quiet and thoughtful. “Will you tell me about Wyn Avuqua in brief? There is much to learn, I’m sure, about this ancient city, and I know a few things from my own sources—your book I’ve not yet had the pleasure—”
Molmer says, “I’m sorry to interrupt, Doctor. Professor Finnley, I called Marcus yesterday after I had completed reading your submission.” He looks at the psychologist, “We’ve been friends for a good number of years, and I felt that his presence on this little field trip would be beneficial to both you and him.”
“How so?” Astrid asks.
“Tell me about your work,” Rearden interrupts, “and I will then tell you about mine.” He laces his fingers and lowers them to his lap.
Astrid sighs and scowls. “Wyn Avuqua in brief?” she says. “I’m sure you’ve already heard a few versions of that.”
Rearden nods. “I have. The ancient city of immortals that is said to have been founded over seven thousand years ago, maybe longer—and was destroyed by the gods sometime around 1000 AD.” He smiles and repeats, “Destroyed by the gods…”
“That’s the tale,” she agrees.
“The gods?” Rearden asks solemnly.
“The old rebellion tale, Doctor. The god, Thi gave the Wyn Avuquains immortal bodies in return for guarding Earth.”
“Guarding the Earth from what?” Rearden asks.
“From the lesser gods, the Godrethion. It was believed that these lesser gods coveted the creation of Thi: humans—particularly. Our nature. These deities interfered in human affairs —altering the creation, as it were. Immortals called them Godrethion. And despite Thi’s forbidding their coming here
, the Godrethion found ways. The Itonalya, the immortals, were Thi’s first line of defense. The Wyn Avuquain immortals at first were content with their charge—and extremely effective. But over time they felt that immortality was not enough compensation for the burden placed upon them.”
Rearden shifts in his seat and says with some incredulity, “Immortality was not enough? What greater gift could there be?”
Astrid looks absently out the window and then back to the psychologist. She wonders why this man is along for the ride. After the accident, she has had to deal with a few psychologists over the last few years. They can be so incredibly tedious. She takes a deep breath and answers. “Immortal, yes. But with the minds of human beings—of mortals—accounts of their suffering are profound—extremely moving. A greater gift would be an afterlife. The Itonalya were not allowed a life beyond their immortal mandate. Over time, they wanted to be released from their charge and so they rebelled. After the city was destroyed, Thi sent a peace offering—a prophecy.”
“A prophecy?” Rearden repeats. “How very mythical.”
“Indeed,” Astrid replies blithely.
A few moments of silence pass before Rearden asks, “What do you know of this, as you call it, prophecy? It must be of some import?” It seems to Astrid that Rearden poses the question with a kind of indifference. Midway through the asking, he turned his head and looked out the window. She feels her forehead scrunch.
“We know that it augured two brothers, a Poet and a Painter. Both of which would enable and allow gods, through the brothers’ works, to look in on us and feel the human condition—without interfering. The Itonalya would then no longer be tasked as guardians. They would be free. But that’s about all we know.”
“And how do you we know this?” Rearden says turning back to her.
“The belief has been heavily documented.”
“Documented?”
“Yes, within what little Itonalya literature we’ve uncovered. But we do not know the direct source.”
“Source?”
“The circumstances surrounding the prophecy—just when, where and how the Prophecy came into the culture.”
“I see,” Marcus says. Astrid cannot read this man.
“It’s a myth, doctor. It is meant to keep the population in line. You know, the old if you’re not happy with what you’ve been given, tough shit. If you don’t follow the rules, God will come and sack your city.” Astrid sighs. “Do you know much about myth, Dr. Rearden?” He does not answer. “Myth exists to make sense of what we can’t understand—life and after death, et cetera. And to control. That’s it. Mostly to control. An imagined construct to organize humanity—surely you must know that.”
Marcus shrugs, “So none of the stories are true?”
“Believers believe them to be true—or rather, folks you’re probably used to dealing with professionally—the delusional.”
“I see.”
A subtle wash of frustration enters her tone. Here we go again, she thinks. “Okay, let’s make this simple,” she says. “Humankind’s historical record begins with hunter gatherer bands—groups of say twelve to fifty or so moving from place to place and eating what they can scratch up. These small bands governed themselves without too much difficulty. But once a group multiplied over a hundred, rules needed to be established. It is really quite elementary. The more people, the more difficult it is to maintain order. Government, right?”
“Okay,” Rearden agrees.
“Fast forward to the agricultural revolution, a little less than 10,000 years ago, humans figured out how to grow food. With that came a farming culture—settling down in one place, villages, cooperation—the beginnings of society. Now laws are needed. A kind of government naturally rises. But the most important and powerful construct to controlling these ever growing numbers is imagined, supernatural significance. In other words, gods. Of course, the most unique and distinguishing trait among our species is the ability to communicate—not only what mushrooms are safe to eat, the best way to snare a rabbit or how to make fire, but our innate skill at spinning a tale. Fiction. Humans have always existed in both the real world and the fictional. We love a good story. And we’ve been doing that sort of thing since we wondered what the flaming ball of light in the sky might be. When societies grew, the stories to control them grew also. Humans have always existed in both the real world and the fictional.”
“There’s always two,” Rearden smiles. “You sound as if you don’t believe.”
The sparkle of snow rushing by the window pulls her attention. A trillion stars pass. “It is a myth,” she says.
“Yes,” Rearden agrees, “but there is more, isn’t there, Professor Finnley?”Astrid returns her focus to the psychologist. “You’ve discovered something that has a ring of truth? Am I correct?”
Astrid is reluctant to speak with this man. Everything about him feels like a trap. She says, “Truth in that the stories contain power—so long as a population believes in them. Immense power. Religion, nations, currency, rights… therein are my interests.” Astrid pats the manuscript in her lap. “An imagined reality and the power of belief can build monuments, cities, great pyramids. It can establish nations, racism, class structure, gender oppression, war, corporations—money. And like so many of antiquity’s monuments, Wyn Avuqua fits in. Its culture had its share of gods and beliefs—and it was a real place.”
“A real place, but its gods were not, as you say, real.”
She does not answer.
“And what of the good that these myths, as you call them, have delivered to mankind? Kindness, hope, empathy?”
Astrid sighs. “As I’ve said, if humankind’s imagined belief can build the pyramids it can certainly feed the hungry from time to time. Good works are a part of the insanity. Such altruistic character keeps society loving their imaginary gods.”
“You sound rather cynical,” Marcus says.
Astrid pauses before she speaks. “I am cynical. Knowing what I know, I too often see the lie in the center of the word belief.”
“Ah,” he smiles, “very good.” The doctor looks down at his hands in his lap and asks, “And the Wyn Avuquains—the immortals—the, what did you call them, the Gafedetrion—” A slight smile pulls at the corners of his mouth.
“Godrethion,” Astrid corrects. She studies Rearden’s expression. She does not like this man. Her intuition tells her that he is withholding something. She wants to end the conversation. But more important, she does not want to agree with him, or entertain his speculations. She has discovered something in her research she can’t explain. Something that doesn’t match with her rational mind, and it is not time to share. And she’ll be damned if she shares it with this man. Not yet, anyway. She takes a firm grip on the manuscript in her lap. Rearden notices her fingers squeezing the spine.
Rearden says, “Yes, Godrethion. So they didn’t exist either, right? They are not, real?”
“Real only to your clients, perhaps,” she quips.
Rearden smiles grimly. A stab of flame glints in his eyes. “I see. The gods are not real, but your ancient city is? So, tell me, won’t you, Professor, why hasn’t this grand city with its pillars of stone and its ancient temples been unearthed?” He glances at Molmer and then back to Astrid. “All of your research points to a place north of Priest Lake, Idaho. Have you any thoughts on how your droves of believers faithfully believe in something that hasn’t been found and you, all the while, spin a tale about evidence—when you have none?”
Astrid slides her now glaring expression from Rearden to Molmer and back again. She wants to shake her head and protest, but to do so would show Rearden that he has scored a rhetorical point. But she feels heat rise to her cheeks. The city is there somewhere, her mind screams, it must be—it has to be!
“It’s a good story,” Rearden adds. “A story almost worth believing.”
The Great Flood
November 11, this year
Terciera Island, Azores, Port
ugal
2:49pm AZOT
The weight of acceptance tips a balanced scale in Loche’s mind. He watches his little boy mop up syrup with a piece of pancake on the tip of a fork. Under the table Edwin kicks at the legs of his chair. The fuel of afternoon breakfast is already firing the engine in his body. This is my son, Loche tells himself—my Edwin. But is it? There is nothing that would prove otherwise save a barely perceptible change in the boy’s eyes. It is as if some trauma has left its mark there. Was it the fall? The estrangement of his parents? Or was there truly an eye he fell into? The same eye that Loche himself knows all too well? What ethereal, celestial character now hovers behind Edwin’s gaze? The boy lifts a bite of egg to his lips.
Both father and son still smell like the sea. Even after the hot shower, Loche can taste salt in the air around them. Edwin looks up at Loche and smiles. Yellow yolk stains the corner of his mouth. “Where’s mom?” he asks.
“She’s downstairs,” Loche answers with a smile. “How do you feel, Bug?”
“Good,” Edwin says. His voice is bright.
The last cake bite is slathered in syrup and aimed not-so-accurately at the boy’s mouth.
“Good?” Loche asks.
Edwin’s answer is a grin. A speck of flashing glitter in his eyes. There is still something there Loche cannot describe.
“We’re going to take another plane ride, Edwin.”
The boy looks up.
“Do you want to take another plane ride?”
“Sure! Where?”
“We’re going to visit a very old city called Cairo.”
“Is Mom coming?”
“I don’t know.”
“I hope she does.”
Loche places the silverware onto the empty plate, along with the napkin, and moves it to the side. “But before we leave we’re going to talk to my friend George and a few others. They want to ask you some questions about what happened this morning, okay?”
Edwin’s legs are still marching under the table. “Okay,” he replies.
“Let’s go.”
They step outside into a narrow courtyard. The near sea blasts against the cliff face. They cross the villa’s center and pass through the tall door of a long, high-peaked house. Loche follows Edwin into a sprawling wood floored hall. Monumental oil portraits line the room’s perimeter. Sitting in high-backed velvet couches and leather arm chairs are George Eversman, Julia Iris, Corey Thomas, Athelstan, Helen and several others. Leonaie Echelle’s eyes widen when Loche sees her. There are also several more men and women standing in and around the circle of furniture.
The Shape of Rain Page 6
