Loche notes a collective gasp when they enter—then a sudden attempt to suppress it. Feet shuffle. A few individuals reach to a wall or the back of a chair to steady themselves.
Helen waves and blows Edwin a kiss. There is a shadow of pain in her smile. She trembles. Loche acknowledges the huge man standing just behind her: Helen’s new jailor, Talan Adamsman.
George gestures to a chair. Loche sits. Edwin climbs onto his lap.
“The Rathinalya, no?” George says to the gathering. His arms open and spread out, as does his grin.
“The boy is undoubtedly thion,” Athelstan states.
“He is Godrethion if he is upon Ae!” Another shouts.
“Nay! He is beyond such a title,” Corey says. Many nod and voice affirmation. “Much, much more. He is—he is…”
George looks at Helen. He says, “Edwin is beyond Nicolas Cythe, yes?”
Helen’s answer is accompanied by a tear. “Yes,” she says.
Outside, the ocean’s voice thunders against the walls.
“He is Thi,” George whispers.
Edwin buries his face into Loche’s chest to hide from the staring and attention.
“Menkaure,” George says. “We take you to Menkaure pyramid.”
Athelstan speaks, “Anfogal, of all places, despite augury, why Menkaure? That omvide has stolen too many of our people—”
“Silence,” George says.
“What do you mean stolen?” Helen cries staring at her son.
No one stirs.
Corey Thomas answers, “Of all pyramids, Menkaure is least known to us. Those that have ventured there have not returned.”
“And you’re sending my son there?” Helen says.
George says, “Your son transcends the unknown.” He then stands and crosses the short distance to the boy and his father. He kneels. “Little one,” he says gently. Edwin clings tighter to his father.
“Edwin,” Loche says to the boy, “George wants to ask you about your fall today. Will you let him?”
The child tilts his head slightly out of Loche’s embrace. One eye peeks through.
“Little one,” George says, “today, before you jumped into the water,” he points in the direction of the cliff, “did you hear them calling?”
Edwin doesn’t answer.
“Little one, like song… did you hear a voice calling your name?” George waits.
Edwin replies but his voice is muffled.
“I no hear you, little one,” George says. “Did you hear a voice?”
Pulling away from Loche, Edwin says, “No. No. Not in my ears.”
“No hear voice?” Loche asks.
“No.”
“But someone call you to follow, yes?” says George.
Edwin nods. Someone in the gathering whispers, “Elliqui.” George glances at Loche and then back down to Edwin. “Little one, when you fall, you find who call you?”
Edwin releases his father and sits up quickly. He leans his face close to George’s inquisitive stare and places his small hands on the immortal’s cheeks. It is a strange sight. The small boy’s expression is focused, calm and chillingly confident. George holds eye contact. Across from them, Helen rises to her feet. She is pale with terror. The others, too, are showing signs of discomfort—they fidget, murmur, flinch—as if each of the audience has suddenly come under the curling crest of a massive wave.
It is hard to breathe suddenly—movement slows and suspends as if submerged—the young boy and the immortal tethered, unmoving.
Panic invades George’s face, but he does not look away. His right arm reaches to the inside of his tweed coat and he pulls out a long-bladed knife. When he aims the tip of the dagger at Edwin’s temple, Loche lifts his foot from the floor, poises it to kick at George’s throat. But the horror in George’s face fades quickly. He lowers the dagger and his gaze to the floor.
Edwin recoils and sinks deep into Loche. George settles slowly back and sits.
“What was that?” Loche gasps.
George does not answer immediately. Instead he hides the knife and allows his lungs to drink in oxygen. He blinks. Disbelief and uncertainty crowd his face.
The others, too, appear to have been submerged and are now suddenly surfacing, breathing deeply. Helen remains on her feet, her hands cupped over her mouth. Beside her, Julia’s arms are coiled around herself—glassy, squinting eyes. Loche holds his gaze to hers.
“Now I know,” George whispers.
“What is happening?” Loche asks.
George takes another long look at the little boy. “The egg. It is true. Your son and Thi are one—” he begins to cough. “It is Thi. It is Thi.”
“What are you saying?”
“The One. The All. Edwin brings with him the end. The great deluge of myth was water—this time not water, Heaven’s legions will rain down upon mortal and Itonalya.”
Loche gapes.
George struggles to his feet and turns toward the gathered immortals. “Thi has come,” he says. “And with It,” he twists and faces Edwin, “comes the flood.” With a long look at Edwin he adds, “I have seen you before.”
The Lie In Belief #2
November 11, this year
2 Newport Highway, Idaho
9:25am PST
The van rolls north. A gentle rain falls through the grey. The conversation moves to Professor Molmer as he runs through Astrid’s research with Rearden. The main points: the uncovering of scrolls and written mythos, laws and pieces of historical record. And the Toele, the Itonalya tome. It contains the history of the so called immortals on Earth. He touches on the Itonalya language of Elliqui and how Astrid’s team has managed to translate more than any other Wyn Avuquain expert.
Rearden listens with a genuine interest, his eyes often resting upon Astrid. It makes her uncomfortable. She lifts her phone and swipes to her text screen. The thought occurs to her that she has no one to tell where she’s gone. No one waiting. She could send a note to her assistant, Marcel, to share with him the news. The text forms in her mind: validation, new funding, there’s more to do. But she hesitates. She should learn more first. But other than Marcel—no one.
Her eyes tick up from her screen to Rearden as Molmer mentions the mysterious Albion Ravistelle. Rearden still watches her. Astrid ducks back to her phone and her thumb slides to Google. She taps in Dr. Marcus Rearden.
Jackpot. Criminal psychologist. Author. Celebrity. Photos of Rearden with politicians, lawyers, judges. Famous trials—mostly macabre and grisly murder cases. Quotes. The cover of his New York Times bestselling book, Getting Away With Murder.
She taps to images—the screen fills with photos of him. She scrolls. Handsome in his own way, Astrid thinks. Especially as a young man. She notes that in his latest pictures, he looks much older than he appears now. She stops herself from looking up to make the comparison. But it is obvious that some care or weight has lifted since these recent photos. The thought of Rearden going through with some sort of cosmetic surgery to maintain his vain celebrity almost lights a mocking smile.
She taps back a screen and sees the headline, Dr. Marcus Rearden arrested for murder. Again she resists the impulse to glance up at him. The article is one of many covering the same case. Suddenly it registers. Astrid recalls hearing about it on the local news. Rearden was arrested after confessing to the murder of a woman named Bethany Winship. A picture of Bethany appears in her scrolling. She is attractive, older and altogether lovely, Astrid thinks. But Astrid notes a strange hint of sadness in the woman’s smile. She reads on. Rearden had strangled and drowned the woman in Sandpoint’s Pend Oreille Lake—during his escape, he shot two police detectives. He also shot and injured a woman named Julia Iris just before capture in Coeur d’Alene (no photograph). This was less than two weeks ago, on Halloween. Her hand clenches the book in her lap. She can feel her heart rate increase.
The latest headline, not a week old, reads: Undercover Rearden vindicated. Rearden’s protégé, Psychologist Loche
Newirth, is now wanted for murder. She scans. The article tells of how Rearden was working toward bringing the young psychologist, Loche Newirth, to justice through some rather unorthodox methods. Several other links follow, connecting Newirth to a terrorist attack at the Uffizi in Florence, Italy.
Before she can read more, she hears Rearden say, “I have so many questions.”
Astrid lowers the phone. She has her own questions regarding his recent past, but she refrains. Instead, she quickly asks, “Why are you so interested in my work, Dr. Rearden? Isn’t your calling criminal psychology, that is, when you’re not basking in the limelight as author and celebrity?”
Rearden blinks.
Something about this asshole, she thinks. She laughs lightly to give the impression that she is kidding with him.
Rearden chuckles. “So you recognize me?”
“Only because of the local news.”
He nods. “I see. Yes. A sad story, I’m afraid.”
“Sounds like it,” she says.
Molmer interjects, “Marcus’s part was helping the authorities capture Newirth.”
“A rather long story that I’m not able to speak freely about,” adds Rearden.
Astrid says, “I’m not interested in Mrs. Bethany Winship or this Newirth person—you didn’t answer the question. What is your interest in my work?”
“Ah,” Rearden sighs. “Truth is, the still-at-large Dr. Newirth will play a role eventually. But let’s suffice it to say that my interest falls in line with his interest.”
“His interest? You mean, Loche Newirth’s interest?” she asks.
“Precisely. Believe it or not, like you, Newirth is…” Rearden pauses—searching for a word, “Loche is an authority on your particular subject of interest.”
“An authority?” Astrid says dubiously.
“Indeed. He has insights that I believe would delight and shock you, Professor.”
“You believe so, do you?”
“There’s that word again,” Rearden notes with a slight squint. “After Dr. Newirth murdered Mrs. Bethany Winship, he retreated to his lake cabin and surrounded himself with numerous texts on mythology, ancient history and the like.”
Astrid says, “So you believe that by learning more about my work you can better understand Loche, and thereby find him?”
Rearden’s face slides into a hard-to-read smile. Astrid feels her stomach tense. She feels fear.
“Yes,” he answers. “There is truth enough in that. But right now, I can say no more.”
Molmer points to the approaching gate. “We’re here.”
“Where?”
“The airfield.”
“Airfield?” Astrid nearly shouts.
Molmer nods. “Yes. And Astrid, please know that I have your best interest in mind. In less than thirty minutes, you will be thanking me. And look, the sky is clearing. What happy chance. Have you ever been in a helicopter?”
Pocket Diary Entry # 2
November 11, this year
Terciera Island, Azores, Portugal
3:05pm AZOT
(Loche Newirth’s pocket diary)
Nov 11- 3:05pm
—I must find Basil. I must stop what I have begun.
—My son / my beautiful son is in danger. It is all my doing. He is with me, but he has changed…
—I can still see him, but IT is there, too.
—I cannot breathe.
In the Laps of the Gods
November 11, this year
Terciera Island, Azores, Portugal
3:05pm AZOT
It is decided. They are to leave by nightfall.
George gives a speech about the sacred artifacts now in the care of the Orathom Wis: the Poet, the boy god, the writing contained in the pages of a red spiral notebook, the Leaves of Fire. “Holy elements,” he calls them, “will deliver us. We will guard humankind. We will stay true to our mandate.” Then he adds with gravity, “But the flood has come. Gods will fight in this war. Like long ago, they will fight to keep order.”
Corey Thomas shares what he learned while in Albion Ravistelle’s confidence. From out of his jacket he unveils a small leather pouch of leaves and holds them up.
“To William Greenhame, hoy!”
Every voice echoes: “Hoy!”
Corey explains how Albion’s team, directed by Dr. Angelo Catena, has managed to take an ancient seedling from the plant, enhance it with the latest advances in genetic engineering, and grow a biological miracle. A pale fruit. Its juice as red as blood. The very tree marking the center of myth, of Eden. A true Tree of Life. Corey tells that three people have eaten of the fruit. He nods to the love of Samuel Eversman, Leonaie Eschelle. Loche’s eyes move to the beautiful woman, her hair now more brown than grey. She meets his gaze, and for a moment he thinks she is trying to say something. A tear forms below her eye.
Leonaie stands and shares how her beloved Samuel had taken her to Venice for a treatment that would make her immortal. Many times during her recounting, her words are arrested by emotion. Others in the room openly weep when she tells of her first sight when she awoke as an immortal: the beheading of her love, Samuel. When she speaks the assassin’s name, Emil Wishfeill, the very proper Leonaie spits on the floor. No one in her audience is shocked by the gesture. She hisses, “I will have him. I will have him for Samuel.” Empathy and anger cross the gathering’s collective countenance. Her voice lowers, “But I was made immortal, and I do not know what it means… I do not know how to go on without my Samuel.”
Corey places a comforting hand upon Leonaie’s shoulder. Watching her, his sorrow transforms to anger. He growls the name, “Nicolas Cythe is the second to have eaten of the fruit. The Devil now has the blood of our ancestors. The Devil is now immortal.”
Corey pauses. “The third recipient is unknown to me. I am sure we will know in due time.
“Using the fruit of the leaves, Ravistelle will repopulate the earth with immortals—with the paintings he will aim the sickness of humanity heavenward, and with the death of Loche Newirth, his story will not be overwritten.”
Helen is asked to tell what she knows. Listening to her speak, Loche wonders if she’s telling the truth. There is a subtle kindness in her voice. It is foreign, but welcome. A levelness in her tone that doesn’t appear strained or contrived. As she speaks to the gathering, her grey eyes do not stray from Edwin. Her hands are fists at her sides. She speaks slowly and carefully.
“It is true that Loche’s assassination was planned,” Helen agrees, “but there is a division in policy. Albion feels it is best to simply follow through with an assassination in order to keep Loche from writing something that would stop his war. Everyone on his council agreed except for two—Nicholas Cythe is one. He felt that killing the Poet was a mistake.” Her eyes tick to Loche. “He said that the Poet could be trained. The Poet could be made to write whatever they wanted. With the right pressure—”
The weight of many stares fall upon Loche. “I, myself can’t control the writing,” he says, “how could they?”
Helen’s eyes drift to Edwin, but she speaks to Loche, “He said that with the right pressure—he could preach to your subconscious—a way to push you and your muse into writing what they want.”
“Preach to my subconscious? That should be an interesting experiment for the psychologist in me to witness.”
Helen remains gentle but stoic. She looks at Loche, “They have ways to make you. Certainly, they can use those you love—or they can leverage innocent people, whole cities even. They can bring an entirely new meaning to terrorism, Loche. But they see such actions as barbaric. They won’t stoop to human methods unless all else has failed. No, they will begin with a weapon—a weapon that seems made just for you.” She glances toward Corey, avoiding eye contact. “The third to eat of the fruit—his name is Dr. Marcus Rearden. He is now Itonalya.” She turns back to Loche. “Albion, Cythe and Rearden have become quite the trinity. Rearden knows how to find you in the dark. He knows y
ou better than even I. It’s Rearden that wants the chance to find a way into your mind. He has been given that chance. It is almost a race between them to find you. Rearden has access to everything in Albion’s house. Everything—” she pauses. She starts again, “The paintings, Loche. He has spent some time in Basil’s Center. He knows things. He knows things…”
A stone crushes Loche’s abdomen at the thought of Rearden within the Center. His mind wrestles between the admiration he once had for his mentor, and the murderer that claimed the life of Bethany Winship. What other terrors lurk in Rearden’s past? He nods. “Rearden knows me, it’s true. But I still don’t see how he, Albion or Cythe, for that matter, can manipulate my writing. It was the Priest Lake Journal that started all of this—and though I wrote it, something not-of-this-earth made it real. It seems to me they would have to persuade that entity to cooperate. Convincing a muse or a god seems a little beyond their reach.”
Helen’s eyes move to Edwin and they shine with sudden tears. “Is it?”
Concern darkens each of the gathered faces. Edwin is warm in his arms. Loche thinks of the little boy, just days ago, walking out of the back bedroom at the Priest Lake cabin, with one bare foot, the other wore a sock—his pajamas bedraggled. “Hungry,” he had said. “Hungry, Daddy. Pancakes.” How did he come to be there? Loche still wonders. The universe had tilted somehow. A portal between the pages of a book had warped history. Imagined lives winked into existence. Reality altered and augmented from a few short sentences. And the little boy stepped out of the dark and into the fire lit cabin as Loche’s hand lifted from the last period on the page—from the puddled ink at the tip of his pen. This little boy, that has now fallen through the pupil of some seraphic specter and returned as both his son and god entwined, lies in Loche’s lap, staring out the window of the great hall.
The Shape of Rain Page 7
