“Truly an honor, Poet,” the man says. German accent. His voice is calm but his hand is shaking slightly. “I send word from Albion Ravistelle. Let go, says my Angofal, The Painter is gone, and so you should follow. Go willingly, Dr. Newirth. Save us all.” Loche watches the man’s trembling hand. The Rathinalya.
Then from some unknown place in Loche’s mind, words form. They take shape with perfect confidence and power, and they rest for a moment in the back of his throat. He feels the resolve of what he is about to say and simultaneously is shocked that it feels right.
“Save you?” he says. “Save you? It was I that made you.”
The man rushes and swings his sword to Loche’s throat. Loche raises his blade, blocks the attack and takes a backward step up. The man presses and throws to Loche’s legs. Loche again bats the advance away and moves horizontally taking a sidelong glance to see where his son and Julia are. They are still climbing, nearing the summit. More gunfire from below. Now Orathom Wis and soldiers of the Endale Gen are engaged with firearm and sword.
Diverting his attention has given his opponent equal footing. The two now are balanced on the steep incline with swords poised.
The soldier says, “Poet, you may have created me—all of us, but I will now keep you from you unmaking us.” He thrusts forward, striking Loche’s blade to the side. As he extends his arm with lighting speed, Loche feels the tip of the sword puncture his shoulder just below the left clavicle. He exhales. He tastes tin. His vision blurs to a burning red. His sword hand however, instinctually maneuvers low and swoops upward. It connects, piercing beneath the soldier’s chin and up through the top of his head. The man’s eyes darken and he collapses sidelong, rolling and tearing against the sharp stones.
Loche’s pain is intense. He presses his hand to the wound and searches for Edwin. Edwin is nearing the summit. Julia is just behind him. Loche sheathes his sword and attempts to climb to his son, now far above him. The foggy shroud of shock is closing around his vision. He plots his next step, presses, leans forward and steadies himself with his hands. Blood rains on the rock.
When he looks up again Julia and Edwin are standing still, not three meters from the summit. Crowding around the pinnacle are five more Endale Gen soldiers armed with firearms and long blades.
“Stay where you are, Dr. Newirth,” one of them says. “I send greetings from Albion Ravistelle—”
“Yes,” Loche says. “I’ve heard that already.”
The soldier raises his rifle and takes careful aim at Loche’s head.
“No!” Julia shouts, lunging toward the gunman. Two soldiers quickly restrain her and force her body to the slope.
Edwin, swivels his little body and calls, “Dad?”
Loche lowers himself to his knees and watches the hand gently squeeze the trigger.
Is it possible?
Is it possible that he hears the snap of the hammer, the explosion of the firing cap—he thinks he can hear the ammunition ring its way through the barrel, its hiss as the cool of the evening air greets it, and the shrill whistle it makes as it launches toward his head. The sound of Edwin crying for him. Could it be possible that he hears the soldier’s quiet exhale as the firearm kicks back? The sound of skittering stones to his left—quick footfalls? How could it be believable that he can hear the nauseating pop of punctured flesh, crushed bone.
And then she is there, in his arms. His wife, Helen. She has hurled herself from the pyramid edge to block the assassin’s shot. The bullet has exploded her right cheek. Blood stains her white teeth. “Our son,” she coughs. “Our son.” Her eyes flatten and freeze on the sky.
“Helen!” Loche screams.
Can he hear the air leave her lungs? Even as he watches her consciousness shut down he thinks he hears the rush of a great river. A waterfall. The roar of an ancient defense within the immortal circulatory system. He registers the raging oceanic rush of wave and wind, a white foam collects where the bullet entered. It spreads.
Loche stares, witnessing the rejuvenating powers of his wife’s blood seeking to restore her life. But the rising tidal wave of sound heightens. Its volume forces his hands to cover his ears. As he does this he looks up the slope and realizes from where the sound is emanating. Edwin.
His little boy is standing near the summit’s edge. Tears glass his sight. His arms reach helplessly toward his mother. His lips form the longing word, momma, over and over, but the only sound is the insidious rise of a towering sea scream, like a god’s mighty voice before its raised hand strikes.
Loche’s attention darts from his son, to Julia, now curled into a ball on the rocks, her mouth open and screaming—to the Endale Gen soldiers, dumbfounded, terror clawing their eyes—to those below, stopped in their fight, cowering together.
Then, silence save Edwin’s little voice. He cries one word, “Momma!”
At his word, an explosion of wind and blue light blasts the five soldiers off of the summit like brushing dust from a table. They are pitched out and hurtle down the mountainside. Edwin’s knees buckle and he sinks to the stones. The light fades. Julia crawls to him and cries, “Loche!”
Two shots are fired. George calls from below: “Run!” Rocks splinter and ricochet at Loche’s feet.
He lowers his face to Helen and kisses her forehead. White foam is closing the grisly wound. He lays her body sloping uphill and grips her hand, “Thank you, wife.”
“Loche!” Julia calls again. She is lifting Edwin up into her arms and moving. His shoulder pounds. He clambers. His fingertips bleed. More pops from below. A rattle of gunfire shatters around him.
As he gains the summit, Julia is crouched down holding Edwin. “Now what?” she cries.
Loche drops low and studies the small space. “We need only walk across and speak the Elliqui word, lonwayro.”
He takes her hand. She stands with Edwin cradled. The boy is weeping.
“Let’s go,” Loche says.
They take three steps.
Tiris Avu
November 11, this year
Upper Priest Lake, Idaho
12:48am PST
She sees it.
Wyn Avuqua.
Her heart sings the name. As the open Jeep sloshes and slides along muddied pathways, she imagines the polished white brick walls bursting up through the emerald forest veil, terraces draped with heavy ivy and flowering crimson amaranth, and the high silk banners coiling and stretching like green dragons in the air.
“We’re passing through Vifae quadrant now,” Graham tells Astrid. “Of course, you probably knew that.” She notes that his voice sounds nervous.
The four Itonalya households, she thinks as her head shakes with marvel. Vifaetiris, or House of Wings, covers the western quadrant of the city. Northernmost is the House of Mind or Keptiris—east of the Citadel is Vastiris the House of Heart, and in the South is the House of Talons, Shartiris. Wyn Avuqua means: Heaven’s Tear, and is thought to symbolize a tear of joy in the eye of Thi, the mingling of bliss and pain. The cities name represents the dynamic nature of the human condition—happiness and grief, love and hate, hope and fear—tears of joy. There are perhaps a few scholars, save the half dozen that have studied the Itonalya, that would admit Wyn Avuqua as the first inspiration to symbols such as the yin and yang or the Greek masks of comedy and tragedy. How will the world respond when they learn that the city exists? Will they believe it? Will they care?
She thinks of her Facebook news feed and how misinformation is mainlined to a meme-hungry population. Will there be an areal photograph of the site with the caption: Columbus my ass. Or, in this political climate: Let’s rethink immigration. Will it matter to anyone that a culture existed here for millenniums? A people that managed to stay hidden? Could such a fantastic thing change the way people see the world. It is certain that this discovery will alter the story of humankind. The question is if anyone will give a shit. But to Astrid, right now, all that matters is she has not been chasing a ghost.
She grins.
Partially excavated cobbled streets branch out from a crossing. She imagines the pathways back in the day, inlaid with smooth stones and outlined in moss. She sees herself wandering down into Vifaetiris to listen to the musicians and poets. The jeep jostles through a series of deep puddles. Mud spatters the windshield. Her face is misted with brown water. She wipes it away, still grinning.
But even as her attention is magnetized by the passing images of her waking dreams, her wide-eyed excitement is interspersed with looks to her driver, Graham Cremo. My word he is tall. She glances back to Molmer behind her. He smiles. Next to him, seated behind Graham, is Marcus Rearden. He appears to be uncomfortable due the lack of leg room. She smiles again, only this time because it is strangely satisfying to know that Rearden is uncomfortable.
The Jeep slithers down an embankment and pitches sideways. Graham easily corrects the direction as if he is driving on ice. He laughs. Astrid grips the door handle and her grin intensifies.
“Goddamn it!” Rearden spits from the back seat. Black, watery mud has splashed his upper body.
Astrid now stares at Graham.
“My apologies, Dr. Rearden,” he says looking into the rearview mirror. “This is a messy business. We’ll get you cleaned up when we arrive.”
To Astrid he says, “Perhaps when we get there we could play a game of Shtan.”
She smiles at him. “You’ve found a Shtan set?”
Graham laughs, “Many.”
“Shtan?” Rearden questions. “You found…” he breaks off.
Graham glances into the rearview mirror and answers, “Itonalya chess, I guess you could say. It is believed that their game of Shtan influenced chess.”
“Yes. Of course.” Rearden says.
“Do you play chess, Doctor?” Graham asks.
Rearden turns his head to the landscape. He does not answer.
Graham turns north. The Jeep clambers over a weedy bank. He points to an obvious structure jutting out from the side of a low hill. “We’re on the edge of Keptiris now. And there is Tiris Avu, House of Seeing.” He points.
A chill needles along Astrid’s neck. The citadel of Wyn Avuqua.
“I can’t imagine your excitement right now,” Graham says. “In some ways, I’m more excited for you to see this than I was when I uncovered it.”
Astrid faces the approaching stronghold—the center piece of her long career—the very fortress that has held her heart through loneliness, divorce and years of what seemed to be meaningless searching. When she turns to Graham, he is smiling at her. She can’t decide which dream has come true.
Pyramid G-1b
November 11, this year
Cairo, Egypt
7:45pm EET
A voice echoes in the black—a kind of foreboding narration accompanied by a dramatic music. “Civilizations are like islands on the ocean of barbarism,” the Vincent Price delivery resounds. “Over this one, the Sphinx has gazed and watched for five thousand years. At the foot of such mountains of stone, everything becomes minute and insignificant. Man is an insect.”
Darkness. A sharp pain pulses beneath his punctured shoulder. The air is dry and warm. Edwin is sobbing quietly beside Julia. He is slumped over and cannot seem to raise his head. She stares at him, helplessly. Loche reaches and touches Edwin’s hair. The boy’s hand grips his father’s arm. Loche looks around.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
The child is warm.
“Momma. I saw Momma—” his voice is weak.
“I know. I know. She’s okay. She’s just fine. She just fell down. She told me to tell you that she can’t wait to see you soon.”
“She’s not hurt?”
“No, not at all.”
Edwin’s breathing slows. “Those men—did I hurt them?”
“I don’t know.”
“I was scared. And then…”
Hollowed shadows well in the boy’s eyes. His skin is pale in the dark. Loche lays his palm on the boy’s forehead. It is damp with sweat. “Are you feeling okay?” Edwin doesn’t answer. His color shifts suddenly to blue and then sickly pale again. Loche blinks.
“I’m so tired, Dad.”
Tears burn and streak down. What had he just witnessed there upon Mount Pico? A blinding, blue wave of light and sound exploded from Edwin’s forehead sending a shock-wave across the summit. Their attackers were pummeled from the height. The two closest to Edwin—their bodies were blown apart—mists of blood—scattering ripped flesh. Loche’s abdomen lurches reliving it. He feels a rush of adrenaline and fear.
Loche gathers what he can from the surrounding sights.
It was just as George explained: you’ll take a step and it will be dark. You will be on pyramid G 1b. Or, on northernmost Queen Hetepheres’ tomb, under Great Khufu. Find dark on horizon—north. You go south to Menkaure—maybe fifteen hundred meters south. Loche’s eyes begin to adjust. He rises up and peers out. He quickly finds north by finding the black portion of his three-hundred and sixty degree view: the empty Egyptian desert stretching to the Mediterranean Sea. Rotating right, the bright lights of Cairo spill out to the East. Circling south he can see the length of the Giza plateau. The megalithic stone pyramids of Khufu, Khafre and Menkaure, lit in electric blue, flaming red and shimmering gold, stand like god sentinels guarding the hidden stars behind the inky night. The thudding of his wound pauses. His breathing slows at the sight. His mouth opens, but no words come.
The strange voice on the air continues to speak: “Their glory has defeated time. Three million blocks of stone, some of them weighing thirty tons…”
Then, Loche understands. Thin streams of laser light flash and blink from a high modern building centered directly east of the Sphinx. It is a laser light show for tourists—the narration, the music, the dramatic lighting. His shoulder hurts again.
“I’m scared, Dad,” Edwin murmurs.
Loche kisses his son.
“Are you almost finished with your book?” he asks suddenly.
“I—I’m still working on it. A few more pages to go.”
“Are we still writing the good stories, Dad?
“That’s all we can do,” Loche answers.
“I can’t see very good,” Edwin says.
“It is dark up here.”
“Dad, I think I did hurt those men, but I don’t know how.”
Loche searches desperately for some answer from the god curtained behind the face of his son. “Are you there? Answer me.” Loche whispers.
As if in answer, like a deluge, images flood Loche’s mind. A clear path ahead forms. He sees the capping blocks underfoot upon the Menkaure pyramid, the glitter of Cairo sprinkled across the desert, the empty expanse of dark to the West. For a moment he can feel the warm wind fluttering through his jacket from that high place. An overwhelming sense of urgency—go now—go now.
“We’ve got to move,” Loche says suddenly. He was aware that the God had spoken, though not in words. Was this Elliqui? Loche now knows exactly where he needs to be. There is no question.
He stands. His shoulder burns and he groans.
“We’ve got to bind the wound,” Julia says. Her hands are trembling.
“Can you manage, Julia? The Rathinalya—you’re shaking.”
“I must,” she says. “If I stand apart from the two of you it is easier. Your wound. Let me—”
“No. We need to get to Menkaure, there.” He points.
“Where are the three Orathom Wis that came before us?” Julia asks. Structures, low alleyways and deep pits strobe and flicker from the laser show between their position and the distant pyramid. “There’s no sign of them.”
“It doesn’t matter. If they are out there, they’ll have to find us. Let’s go. Now!”
“Shouldn’t we wait for George and Corey?”
“They know where we are going. We can’t stay here. The attack can only mean the Endale Gen know where we are.” Loche reaches down and lifts his son with his good arm. The child drapes on him lik
e a heavy garment. “Let’s go,” he says.
Translation
November 11, this year
Upper Priest Lake, Idaho
12:55am PST
“For over a millennia, it was a hill,” Graham answers. “Like a giant hand scooped soil and piled it over the higher structures. As I told you, I must have dug into this hill five or six times. But never mind, it’s here now. Of course, nearly all the discovered towers have fallen, either during the city’s final siege, or over the centuries. We’re calling them under-hill towers.” He points to three earth-moving machines. “Those things have enabled us to dig through time. And that,” he points to the upper walls of the center of the ancient city, “that we believe is the center, Tiris Avu.”
Astrid stands in the shadow of a structure that had once only existed in her imagination. Despite the backhoe parked a few feet away she can almost place her self back in time. She inhales. The scent of soil and decaying leaves. The air is chilled and still. She scans the toppled stone artifacts here and there in the mud. Several researchers are working in various positions around the outer wall. Out on the periphery surrounding the site is another group entirely. The sight of them makes her uneasy. Then, angry.
“What’s with the armed men?” she says pointing. “They look like some hired corporate security force. This is an archeological dig site, not a war zone.”
She watches Graham take his own look around. When he returns to her his smile is dark. “The discrepancy of over who owns the site,” he says quietly. “Let’s not go into it now.” Astrid nods and glances back to a black SUV.
Passing beneath the arched doorway she reads the Elliqui runes in the stone and translates three lines: For the love of man / we are the guardians of the dream / we are the Moon children. Then a phrase she’s seen many times. To defend the starlight life / defend the mortal.
The Shape of Rain Page 11
