The Shape of Rain

by Michael B. Koep

  “What do you think she means?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well if anything happens to cross your mind, you’ll share it with me.”

  Astrid does not answer.

  As they move toward the exit, Astrid notices Rearden rising from beside the man with the broken leg. He adjusts his suit coat.

  “I believe I should come along as well,” he says to Eastman.

  “Why is that, Doctor?”

  Rearden looks at Astrid. “For some reason she looked to me for help. Perhaps that is something we can use.”

  Eastman weighs the request. “Perhaps you’re right,” she agrees.

  Just as Astrid is about to protest, stretchers arrive with the second and third security team. The man with the broken leg searches the stone floor around him. “My weapon,” he says. “Where’s my weapon?”

  The Army of God

  Date unknown

  The Realm of Wyn Avuqua

  Trunks of trees along the forest path bear strange marks—rough hewn slashes as if riders had dragged their swords across the bark as they passed, like a child might clack a stick down the ribs of a picket fence. A reek of smoke and something else—something abhorrent and sour hovers in the air. Loche watches Julia stagger along the trail ahead of him. Two armored soldiers roughly shove her forward. Several more men lead the march eastward, up and through dense trees. Edwin is draped upon Loche’s back, his arms wound around his father’s neck. He is silent. Thi is silent, too.

  Behind, Etheldred follows close. Another group of some twenty or more soldiers complete the train. There is no sound save the dull thud of footfalls upon the forest floor.

  His forehead has stopped bleeding. When they were forced to move from their small fire, two men laid hold of Julia and held her down. Another tore at her clothing. Loche kicked two teeth out of one man’s head. A moment later, Loche was blinded by his own blood spilling into his eyes. Etheldred put a stop to his men’s interest in Julia and ordered all to march.

  “Forgive them,” he told Loche. “You harbor an immortal —our enemy. They know only to torture and kill them.”

  The company of soldiers move efficiently and with deliberate focus. They follow the orders of Etheldred without question. They are lean faced and keen eyed. But their similarities end there. Loche notes different armor types and styles. Some wear light leather tunics, others wear varying versions of metal plate, some more, some less. Their weapons appear to have the signatures of not one culture, but many. Loche has heard the words of at least four different languages; through some miracle, he was able to understand all of them. A select group wear Etheldred’s orange surcoat and bear dangling crosses. Yet, marching just beside is a huge man wearing furs and a leather breast plate that Loche imagines could be Viking in origin, but he cannot be certain. And next to him, a dark skinned, dark eyed soldier whose curved scimitar and filigreed armor reflects a Middle Eastern influence.

  Julia moans. Her hands are visibly shaking. From time to time she flinches and swings at some invisible threat, or raises her arms and cowers. When she loses balance, one of her captors slaps her arm, or punches at her legs to keep her moving. They jeer at her. They tell her that over the hill is a line of men waiting for her. They say she smells like flowers.

  Etheldred calls for the company to halt just as they are about to crest the hill. He motions for Loche and Julia to follow him to the top.

  As Loche gains summit and looks down, air leaves his lungs. The stench and smoke now make sense. Stretching the length of a wide valley is a crouching army of thousands—tents and pavilions, troop formations, fires, siege engines, wave upon wave of horses, men and arms. A word, as if from a dream, whispers from between his lips, “Godrethion.”

  Julia falls to her knees and cries. Setting Edwin on his feet, Loche drops to her side and pulls her close.

  Etheldred watches the three with curiosity. He then places himself between the massive host and Edwin.

  “My Lord,” he says to the little boy, “your army has come. The Army of God.” He bows low.

  The Shadows Between the Bookshelves

  November 11, this year

  Upper Priest Lake, Idaho

  2:17pm PST

  “For those of you just joining us, the target has escaped into the Citadel Tomb Atheneum, North. She is a naked woman, blond, green eyes, about six-one, physically fit, armed with an ancient broadsword—and now, from what I gather, she’s got a nine millimeter Ruger firearm.” Eastman levels her focus at the newly arrived security teams, “I know that sounds like a pumping wet dream to some of you, but let me be clear, this bitch will cut your goddamn heads off.”

  Graham interjects, “I can’t imagine she picked the gun up —she wouldn’t have any idea what it is, much less, how to use it—”

  Inclining her head toward Astrid, Eastman responds, “And according to your expert professor here, there was to be a skull-less skeleton in the tomb. I’m not taking any chances with this woman’s fortitude or adaptability. She’s survived over a thousand years in a box. Learning how to use a gun shouldn’t be a challenge.

  “The dark aisles—” she continues, “watch the corners. You are authorized to use whatever force necessary. This one is a Foamer, so do what you need to do. Bring her down.”

  Graham asks, “Foamer? Why do you call her that?”

  “A term of endearment.” Eastman smiles at the archeologist. Astrid is suddenly stunned by the perfect angles of Eastman’s face. Her crystal blue eyes are like a cool June morning. So beautiful it’s unsettling, Astrid thinks.

  “Endearment? You mean you’ve encountered an immortal before? I don’t understand—” Graham says.

  “You don’t have to understand, Graham. You’re here to do a job, and you don’t want to know mine.”

  “You must allow us to communicate with her before using force,” Astrid pleads. “Her intelligence is light years beyond—”

  “She’s right. Force is not the answer here, Eastman,” Graham says. “If you want to keep us all safe you’ll let us attempt communication.” His voice transforms into a comical and angry impression of Billy Crystal from The Princess Bride, “Or have fun storming the castle.”

  “Professor, certainly,” Eastman says. “But in the end, I will have her down. Davis, get these two some earpieces so we can all stay in contact.”

  “Will do,” Davis answers.

  An ear bud is handed to Astrid and Graham. She places it in her ear. “Don’t lose it,” he tells her. “It also sends out a tracking signal. Don’t want anyone falling down a shaft somewhere…”

  Astrid shudders.

  Eastman says, “Once inside we’ll split into two teams. Astrid and Rearden go with Davis here. Davis, you lead your team along East Wing. Stay in contact. Graham, you’ll come with me.”

  Astrid looks at Graham. He taps at his ear, “Can you hear me?” Astrid nods. “See you in a few minutes, okay?” She tries to smile and steadies herself. “Not quite what you expected?”

  “It never is,” she replies. She watches as he joins Eastman’s group. They disappear into the rows.

  The seven man team with Astrid and Rearden enter into the shadowed labyrinth. Sound is muffled. A cascade of dust particles meteor through the light of a florescent work lamp as they pass. A solitary piece of parchment flutters to the floor. The team whisper in strategic tactic talk. “Clear left—clear right—hold,” and so on. After a few minutes Astrid tunes out the military-speak and allows the images of embossed Elliqui runes upon leather book spines to enchant and transport her. Could this be a dream, she wonders.

  A musty decay is heavy in places, though Astrid finds it strangely pleasant. The smell of books, she thinks. Really old books. Her mind somersaults considering the stories calling to her from surrounding shelves. She smiles, This must be heaven.

  Questions storm through her mind. How could Yafarra have survived? This is myth—how could all of this remain hidden for so many centuries? How could
this library keep from being destroyed by time? Or destroyed when the city was sacked? What’s in these books? What fills their pages? A thousand more questions in the time it takes to walk ten steps into the twisting stacks.

  Her mind flashes to the young security officers who were injured. She shakes her head. “That didn’t have to happen,” she says quietly.

  “Professor,” Eastman’s voice fires through the ear bud. “If you have something to say, please make it worthwhile. Otherwise, cut the chatter.”

  She bites her lip then mouths the words, “Fuck off.”

  Graham puzzles, “Avu. Avu. Why Avu? Astrid?”

  “I’m working on it,” she replies.

  Aisles are curving inward now. Some cyclone up to the vaulted ceiling, three, maybe four stories above. They pass carved, hissing serpents that coil around yellowing stone columns. Faces of demons and heroes burst from walls, from terraces, from cornerstones. A grey mouse darts across the path. A spider scurries into a silken corner. The air, the dark, the winding halls feel far older than her imagination can reach. The stone tiles on the floor continued to be marked with talons.

  “How deep does this go?” she whispers.

  “So far we’ve explored only a fifty meter sized maze, roughly. But there’s more. Much more beyond,” Graham answers. “There are only a few aisles that are straight. Rows twist and curve in all directions it seems. We still have to figure out the pattern.”

  Astrid looks back and sees Rearden a few paces behind. Then she strains to see the light from the tomb chamber. It’s gone. She quickly counts how many turns they’ve made.

  “You mean the labyrinth has not yet been sorted out?” she says checking the panic in her voice.

  There’s silence for a few steps. Graham slightly apologetic, says, “Not yet. We only opened the chamber a few days ago.”

  Astrid’s feet stop. She looks down. Carved into the tile at her feet is an embossed heart the size of her two hands together.

  “Keep up,” Davis’s voice darts into her ear. “Keep moving.”

  “Wait,” Astrid says. “The Queen will know her way through this. Pursuing her is a mistake. She’ll know every turn.”

  At that moment, a piercing scream stabs into her inner ear from the tiny speaker. There is the report of gunfire far off to the right. Three cracks. “Man down! Man down!” Eastman’s voice shouts.

  Davis raises his fist up, turns and motions for his company to halt.

  “God damn!” Another security guard’s voice transmits, “She came right out of the fucking books—Ripley is down. I repeat, Ripley is down.”

  Astrid stares into the sculptured hurricane of shelves trying to determine just where Eastman’s team is. Her abdomen aches and her hands are clustered into fists. Terror claws, tearing at the cage of her ribs. She suddenly crouches, opens her palm and presses it into the embossed heart in the stone floor. It is cool. Bone dry.

  A moment later, Eastman says, “Stab wound to the upper leg. Pretty bad. I’m getting him out with two to escort.”

  Graham fires off another movie quote, “Eastman, you’re going to need a bigger boat.”

  “She could have taken his head off,” one of Eastman’s team says. “Why didn’t she?”

  Astrid replies, “She won’t kill a human unless she must. She’s alive to protect humans, or so the tales tell. But we should take this as a clear sign she doesn’t want us following her—”

  “We got a couple of shots off,” Eastman interrupts, “but she managed to disappear. She’s moving eastward.”

  Graham crackles in, his tone is frustrated, “How can you know that? Rows turn in on themselves. For all we know she might be circling back.”

  Eastman’s reply ignores the archeologist, “Davis, report.”

  Astrid raises her face to see her team leader’s head swiveling at a kind of crossroad—three connecting aisles like the base of a trident. His tone is nervous, “We’re working our way inward. No sign of target.”

  “Graham is right,” Eastman says, “it’s tough to know directions in here. But I think she may be moving to you.”

  “This library is no Dewy decimal, gridded floor plan,” Davis mutters mournfully.

  Again, Astrid tries to feel the turns she’s made, draw out the progress through the maze as if she were penciling a shape. Behind her, talons were pressed into the rock—now hearts are beneath her. Ahead Davis is struggling to choose the next direction.

  “Graham,” she says tapping her ear. Revelation blooms in her mind, “Look down. What do you see pressed into the floor?”

  A moment passes. Astrid moves to Davis and stands beside him. They both trace along through the shadowed paths.

  “Wings,” Graham answers.

  Wyn Avuquain heraldry. Four Households, each making up the body of a heron: talons, heart, wings and head. Faded depictions of the bird on ancient parchment lights in her memory. She’s seen the shape a thousand times. A profile view of a heron facing east. The library is in the shape of the bird. It suddenly makes sense. They entered at the talons and rose upward to the main body—the stones then depicted hearts. Eastman and Graham took a western route. Their tiles depict wings.

  Avu, Astrid thinks. Avu means eye. And then it is simple. If they keep moving north, the stones will show a bird’s head. In the center of that section, as in every artistic rendition she’s seen, is an eye.

  Yafarra is moving to the eye. Avu—eye.

  She opens her mouth to speak but stops short. She may have solved the riddle, but sharing it with Eastman is another thing. Graham’s Elliqui warning before they opened the tomb tingles along her shoulders. She cannot lead the Coldwater teams to Yafarra. But Graham must know. She searches the shelves, the floor, the carved serpents strangling the alabaster columns. A line of Elliqui runes carved into an archway catches her attention.

  It clearly states in icy cut symbols the sad saying, Ithic veli agtig. Why does my death delay? She points to it, knowing full well that her team leader, Davis, will have no clue as to what it means.

  “Graham,” she says, “I’m seeing an etching in the stone over here.”

  “Yes? What does it say?” he responds.

  She takes a deep breath, and lies. “Othayer rav ea ~ Yafarra gal avu iqua kep~Avu iqua~Gal yuth~Yuth.”

  Eastman’s voice is quick to respond. “Translate, Professor.”

  To Graham she had said, Escape Eastman. Yafarra goes to the bird head’s eye. Bird’s eye. Go north. North.

  “It means,” She replies to Eastman, “We are the Guardians of the Dream. We hold the doors.”

  “So what?” Eastman says.

  “We study this stuff, Eastman,” Astrid says. “Let us geek-out, okay?”

  “Graham?” Eastman asks.

  A moment passes. “I’ll be there to see it with you,” the archeologist says. “We’ll geek out together.” His voice is confident as if her meaning is clear. Astrid smiles. He continues, “The Itonalya protect us—we should protect them. There’s so much to explore, Astrid. For now all we have is a bird’s eye view. More to come.”

  Astrid nods. She turns to see Rearden staring at her. He says nothing.

  Davis reports, “No movement from our position.”

  “Okay,” Eastman crackles in the earpiece, “Keep moving.”

  Davis and his team take the corridor to the right, leading into yet another section of coiling shelves. It is getting darker.

  If there is a time, it is now, Astrid thinks. She moves slowly along with the others and, when she is able, she steps to the side, just beyond the sight of the two security officers near to her. She stops, waits a moment as they pass—pivots slowly and rushes through the nearest opening in the network of shelves. She stops. Waits. Then, strides back toward the crossroad and bounds up the center aisle.

  Her heart booms in her chest. Her eyes adjust to the dark. The last thing she hears before she tears the transmitter out of her ear and crushes it underfoot is team leader Davis, “Where
is professor Finnley?”

  The Sport of Angels

  Date unknown

  The Realm of Wyn Avuqua

  Messengers were sent to tell the host that Thi had come. Thi, ruler of the Olathion sky—maker of life, light and darkness. Thi, Lord of all gods. “Our Lord has come,” The Summoner’s High Captain, Etheldred bade them tell.

  Even before Captain Etheldred’s company had reached the army’s perimeter, horses, carts and heralds were sent to meet them. Mounted knights arrayed in similar fashion to Etheldred rode up bearing high banners and escorted them to a large horse drawn cart.

  Loche now watches the green land pass and the massive host of gods draw ever nearer. Loche holds Julia’s hand. She grips him desperately. She is pale and having difficulty staying conscious. She has not spoken or made a sound since she beheld the sprawling army. Rathinalya. Edwin sits on his lap—but there is no sign of his young son in the boy’s face. Instead, a foreign, calm curiosity is seated there. He appears fascinated and thoughtful. Etheldred sits beside him on the wagon.

  “We have arrived,” The Anglo Saxon captain says in his own tongue, but Loche can still somehow understand him. “Our brothers and sisters from across the great waters. We come from every homestead, hamlet and distant desert. Over endless seas, to destroy the City of Immortals. From armies along the coastlands from deep within the mountains, we are called. We are Thi’s army. We have come to do Its will. We are God.”

  He slaps Loche’s shoulder, “The joy! That with the sunrise on a single, fateful day, you awaken as a god. One of a legion of angels.” He motions to the armed city ahead, “All of us woke with the same memory. The knowledge! The power! We can speak beyond our own languages—our stories are shared—we feel Thi’s creation as a man, yet for the first time in our mortal lives, we know what we are somewhere deep within us—we are gods and men together.” He bows his head to Edwin. “And Thi has called upon us to destroy Wyn Avuqua.” He looks darkly upon Julia, “Destroy those that rebel against Thi’s will. And lay in ruin Wyn Avuqua and her people, we shall.”