The Shape of Rain

by Michael B. Koep

  He spits. “The Itonalya! Murderers. Now we know who they are. Thi has shown us. Now is the time for our revenge. Murderers, killers—god killers. Look,” Loche sees the perimeter gate opening for their entry. Horns blast. Cheers resonate from behind the timber barriers. “This army knows the horrors they’ve committed. We shall not allow a single Immortal to survive.”

  As the cart clatters within the wooden battlements, Loche feels the weight of many eyes upon him. The clamor of shouting voices and cheers rises as they enter. Underneath the noise, Loche hears a woeful baying—a horrible cry of pain.

  Etheldred says, “I will now take you to our Summoner and General. She comes from my island over the sea. She is great beyond my ability to tell. Of the lore of gods and our new awakening, she is the teacher. She knows the path between life here and the Hereafter. Unlike any of this host, she has been here before.”

  “Dad?” Edwin says.

  When Loche turns he discovers the source of the writhing scream. At first he is not able to discern what he is seeing but he instinctively reaches to his son, covering his eyes and pulls him into his embrace.

  Surrounded by a large number of jeering soldiers is an elevated platform upon which, lying flat and restrained, is a naked man. Leather straps secure a small, black iron cage to his abdomen. Just beside the platform, an ebony robed soldier is stoking a bright fire. A bellows pushes out walls of heat. A thick metal rod is pulled from the red coals. It glows pink in the cool, grey morning. The robed man lifts the rod and rests its incandescent end atop the iron cage. The ring of soldiers let out a frenzy of shouts and cheers.

  The restrained man’s mournful cry rises above the din.

  Loche squints when he thinks he sees movement within the black cage. As he focuses, two dark shapes are scurrying and scrabbling against the iron bars. A moment later he notes pools of blood streaming to the edges of the platform.

  Loche feels a hand slap upon his turned shoulder. When he turns, Etheldred is grinning.

  “Oh, worry not, Julia, immortal,” He says to her. “This is not that poor Itonalya’s first time. He cannot die in this manner. But we shall place him beneath the rodents again before midday. His suffering is joy to us. Perhaps you will provide us with such pleasure, if my master wills it.”

  Another scream. Loche holds both Julia and Edwin tighter to him. Swiveling back, he sees within the iron cage two slate grey, frenetic rats struggling to escape the glowing metal rod just above them. The heat forces the ravenous creatures to claw and burrow down through the man’s abdomen. A white foam clumps and piles beside his wriggling form. His screams turn to moans.

  “Make it stop!” Julia cries suddenly.

  Helpless, Loche lets his eyes flit from the torture, to Julia, to his son and halt upon Etheldred. He studies the madness spreading across the man’s face. He sees a semblance of humankind, but a missing aspect that he cannot pinpoint, as if the man is devoid of life force—or the knowledge of love. It is as if Etheldred lacks the conditions that light a human from within. Loche feels a sudden shock as he considers the notion that Etheldred lacks what he can only name a soul.

  The wagon stops beside three large pavilions.

  “And now,” Etheldred says, standing. “Now we shall have counsel with my Lord.”

  At that moment, two men seize Julia from beside the cart’s railing. They yank her down by one arm and a handful of her hair to the muddied path. From behind, two men pull Edwin away from Loche. As he feels his son’s hands let go, he turns. Etheldred’s gloved fist lands three vicious blows to the side of his head. Loche falls back. “You befriend an immortal, you are our enemy,” Etheldred growls. Julia begins to cry out. Edwin is now high up on the guard’s shoulders and steadily moving away deeper into the massive encampment. A train of soldiers gather and follow cheering and calling out to the little boy. Loche reaches toward his son. Edwin looks back. Another crippling blow blurs Loche’s eyesight.

  “Edwin!” he coughs.

  Amid the fury of sound, Loche hears the tortured immortal cry out again.

  “This sound on the wind,” Etheldred is almost singing as he leans down to Loche’s slumped body, “will be the sound of all of Wyn Avuqua in the coming days. Slaying the enemies of God is the sport of angels. Our Lord has commanded, and we shall obey.”

  Heart

  November 11, this year

  Upper Priest Lake, Idaho

  2:45pm PST

  Hearts. Still, only hearts under her running feet. Every few minutes she halts, stoops and lets her fingers trace the outline of the symbol embossed in the rock. Of course there is the chance she could be running in a circle, but her gut tells her that she has managed to keep a steady course northward without too many backtrack moments. The imprint of a bird’s head should appear soon—it must.

  She’s heard her name called out. Several orders to return or to stop where she is. Eastman had yelled: “It’s more dangerous in there than you’re ready for, Professor. Stop!” When the muffled calls started, including Professor Cremo’s name, she felt her decisiveness was not completely foolish. He’s slipped away, too, she thinks.

  Life-sized sculptures of Itonalya warriors, royalty, and other characters out of the city’s own mythologies frighten her to a halt at a corner. The first image she sees in the dim light is a magnificent stone effigy of a maiden holding a long spear—a flowing marble cape draped over her shoulders. Upon her shield is the Eye of Thi. Astrid stares at this masterpiece of ancient sculpture for what feels like a full minute without breathing before she decides the maiden is not Yafarra.

  At another stop, a massive work of carved marble depicts the first Guardian of Earth, Mellithion with his sword raised to the heavens and the beautiful Endale in his embrace. The massive bulk of the god Chalshaf and his wounded, bleeding eye tower over them both. The drama of it elicits a tear. She stands at the scene dumbfounded—almost forgetting the danger surrounding her. Reluctantly, she looks to the floor again and follows the hearts.

  She is within a story. She is a part of her dreams.

  Passing beneath an archway she discovers what she had been waiting for. She stoops low to make sure. She pulls her cell phone from her pocket and touches the screen—risking its light to insure her guess is correct. The stone tile imprint now depicts a heron’s head. She feels the embossed shape. In the center is a raised bump. An eye. Glancing at the cell phone she sees that a message from her assistant Marcel has somehow made its way to her: I’m on my way! Save some discoveries for me. She feels a sudden but fleeting relief. She tucks the phone back into her pocket.

  Just north of the archway is a half circle of entrance rows —five separate pathways. She pauses and searches for any sign that might provide a signpost toward the Avu.

  When she hears voices not far behind her, she bolts straight ahead into the center aisle. The shelves seem to welcome her.

  There are new light sources. Above, the vaulted ceiling is pale green. Stepping out into a round room, like a clearing in a forest, she looks up. She supposes the illumination is reflected sunlight from hidden surface openings in the upper architecture. It is not bright, but it is enough to navigate by.

  A half hour? A full hour? A full day? She wonders how long she’s been alone threading the labyrinth. Thoughts scatter from the danger, to another standing sculpture, to the stacks of books, to the joy of being here—here and now.

  After another series of direction choices, she stops at the end of a long, narrow path. Beneath the greenish glow is a hemisphere of stone rising from the tiled floor, perhaps eight feet high. It glows like the frosted quartz of Yafarra’s tomb. Astrid can see a host of sculpted figures, Itonalya sentinels, positioned in a semicircle around the dome. She crouches. She watches the room for movement. Looking down, she slides her foot to the side. There is a stone carved head. The eye must be near. She’s made it. But now what?

  Several thoughts now crowd for attention. Should she simply call to Yafarra? Should she ask for permission t
o enter the chamber? What about clothes? Should she remove her coat and offer it to the naked Queen?

  “Is that you?” a voice whispers from the shadows just a few feet from her.

  “Graham?” Astrid whispers back. She scans for him.

  He coughs. She sees his lanky shape dim against one of the sculptures. A welcome surge of relief eases the muscles in her shoulders. She takes a step into the chamber and then freezes when Graham cries, “Wait. Stop.”

  A sculpture has one hand clamped upon his shoulder, the other aims a sword into his cervical spine from behind. The sculpture is not a sculpture; it is Yafarra.

  “Ag shivcy,” Astrid says. She raises her hands.

  “Astrid?” Queen Yafarra asks.

  “Lit,” Astrid says.

  Astrid is too far away and it is too dim for her to see the Queen’s expression. A moment passes. Down some impossible pathway behind, she can hear security team chatter. Eastman is near.

  Astrid lets out a flurry of Elliqui. She tells Yafarra that Graham is a friend, that the enemy is coming, and if there is a way to escape, they must do so now.

  Yafarra’s response carries a trace of fear. She asks how long she’s been entombed.

  There are sounds of boots on stone.

  The answer, “Over a thousand years,” evokes a pained inhale from Yafarra.

  She releases Graham and lowers her weapon. Graham takes a step away and turns slowly. Yafarra stumbles toward the ancient sentinels. In the gloom, her bullet wound and the streaks of blood down her body are black. And there’s something else—some kind of white liquid or foam. Astrid and Graham watch her free hand gently touch the faces of the sculptures as she passes them. Even in the faint light, her tears glitter. She mutters a stream of phrases, most of which Astrid cannot translate. But two names she repeats over and over.

  “Aethur,” she mourns. “Iteav. Aethur, Iteav.”

  After she slides her hand along the brow of the last sculptured sentinel, there is a faint cracking sound. The quartz dome trembles, arcs back and opens, revealing a stairway into the deep.

  “Veli,” Yafarra gestures for Graham and Astrid to descend. She lifts the wood tenesh from the floor beside the widening fissure.

  She calls out—her eyes pointed over Astrid’s shoulder, “Itonalya! Veli! Veli!”

  Marcus Rearden appears beside Astrid. Adrenaline pumps through her body. Her breath leaves her.

  “I followed you,” he says passing her.

  “Veli!” Yafarra hisses.

  “They aren’t far behind,” he adds.

  Astrid counts the beats of her heart, watching Rearden join Graham and Yafarra at the next yawning rabbit hole. She cannot yet determine the threat Rearden poses, and the shock of his being a stride behind her in the dark is like a nail dragged along her spine. But what choice now?

  A moment later she is standing beside Graham. He takes her hand.

  “After you, Rearden,” Astrid whispers.

  Marcus descends.

  “Gal,” Yafarra says.

  The crystal dome closes over them. Astrid Finnley enters into the bird’s eye of the Tiris Avu library holding the hand of Graham Cremo.

  Still, she thinks, following hearts.

  Insulting the Sun God

  Date unknown

  The Realm of Wyn Avuqua

  Loche buttons Edwin’s coat. The boy’s eyes track snowflakes descending to the grey grass. “How many are there, Dad?” he asks. Loche smiles. He snugs the collar a little tighter and scrunches the stocking cap on the boy’s head.

  “Too many to count,” Loche answers.

  “More than a hundred?”

  “Yes.”

  “More than fifty hundred?”

  “Yes.”

  Edwin’s feet begin to dance a bit. “Hurry, Dad.”

  “Okay,” Loche says, “half a second. You need to bundle up before you go—it’s cold out there.”

  “I will count them all,” Edwin says.

  Loche looks out the window.

  He feels his eyes widen.

  There is falling snow. But now each snowflake slows and stops. They hover as if attached to gentle strands of silk dangling from the grey-black afternoon sky. Fear injects adrenaline into his bloodstream.

  Edwin begins to laugh. “Now they will be easier to count.” The little boy’s laughter intensifies.

  It is the laughter that wakes him. Or it could also be the stunning pulses of pain from his left ear. His vision blurs and then sharpens to see two lightly armored guards clicking the flashlight from his bag on and off again. Each time it illuminates, there is a sigh of wonder and then they laugh in suppressed hysterics. After a few seconds studying the two men, Loche struggles to return to where he left off.

  His last memory was watching Julia and Edwin being wrestled away from him while the air filled with cheers of adulation, and cries of agony and pain.

  Throbs of pressure keep a kind of sickening beat to the chuckling guards. In the torchlight Loche sees his bag upon a low table, its leather strap hanging down and touching the dirt floor. There is little else in the enclosure. Three knee-high stumps surround what looks to be a small ring of stones for a fire where a dull smolder of coals glows. Cold starlight flickers through an opening in the high peak of the canvas above. Loche’s arm is outstretched on the moist soil. He can feel some kind of fabric beneath his body, and below that, he guesses, is a bed-shaped pile of pine needles and leaves. His feet, legs and chest are chilled and prickling as if a fever is kindling in him. There is no sign of Edwin or Julia. Tears rise. But then to his great surprise, his fear lessens when he sees his umbrella handle jutting out from beside his bag.

  He wonders why his possessions were not confiscated when Edwin and Julia were taken. Perhaps the bag was overlooked due to the excitement of the One God’s presence among them. That weighty reality might very well be enough to miss other things.

  The guard snapping the light on and off hands the mysterious item to his companion, and then reaches to the long, black object. He raises it and examines the fine, soft material of the closed umbrella. Tipping it upward he studies the handle. The other guard leans in and eyes the thing with interest. He clicks the flashlight and aims the beam to get a better look.

  Loche lifts up on one elbow and rises as quietly as he can. Once to his knees he lays his palms on his face feeling for the cuts that need stitching. He’s relieved to feel nothing too bad. A hardened gash is scabbed over above his left eye. When he moves his hand to his ear he feels a wound that is still wet to the touch. The sting of it forces a wincing hiss from his lips.

  The two guards spin around at the sound.

  The Anglo Saxon sounds again, yet meaning forms easily in Loche’s head, “Ah, alive and awake,” one of them says.

  “Where is the boy and the woman?” Loche demands.

  The guards do not answer. They regard Loche’s condition with a kind of piteous scorn and turn back to the strange fabric stick.

  “The boy and woman?” he repeats. They ignore him.

  Loche assesses the room once again. To gain the exit he must pass the guards. They stand between him and the wood framed door. He scans the lower hem of the tent. It is bordered by heavy logs. There is no lifting the canvas wall and rolling out. He must go through the door. The guards take no notice when he raises one knee and sets a foot on the ground.

  As he lifts himself to his feet, one of the soldiers turns and says, “Sit. And stay sitting.”

  The man is holding the umbrella by the metal tipped end. The other pushes his hand beneath the ribbed fabric and tries to push up to open it. It doesn’t budge.

  “You’re doing that wrong,” Loche offers, nodding to the umbrella.

  The two look at each other, the mysterious object and then Loche. “It is an umbrella,” Loche tells them. “An umbrella.”

  “Umbrella?” one repeats.

  “Yes,” Loche says. “May I show you?” Loche holds his hand out.

  The two
exchange glances again.

  “It keeps you dry in the rain—and it keeps the sun—”

  “We know that, you fool!” the one holding it says. “How does it open?”

  “There is a hidden latch,” Loche says, gesturing for them to hand it over.

  With another survey of his condition, and apparently assessing Loche could do no harm, the guard hands the umbrella over. Loche’s thumb finds the release button and is about to press it when he pauses.

  “We should not open an umbrella inside,” Loche says, his focus ticking from the guards to the door.

  “Why?” one asks.

  Loche answers, “It is bad luck.”

  One guard laughs. The other says, “It will be bad luck for you to delay. Open it.”

  “Very well,” Loche says.

  There is a slight click and the spring loaded shade opens out with a puff of air. From behind the umbrella, Loche cannot see their faces, nor can they see him—but he can hear their laughter.

  “Again,” one says.

  Loche pulls the halter ring down and the umbrella closes. He thumbs the release and it wafts open again. The guards laugh. Loche closes it saying, “One should only open an umbrella outside—this is bad luck.”

  “Again,” they say in unison this time.

  This time there are two clicks. The first releases the hinge pin for the shade to open. The fabric widens and flutters taught. Loche hears them laugh again as they disappear from view. The next click comes from the twisting of the handle. A quick singing of metal rings as Loche draws the razor sharp rapier blade from the umbrella pole. With one whirling movement, the umbrella shade pulls away to the left while the outstretched sword follows in its wake. The blade slices through each of their throats in succession. They drop soundlessly to the ground.

  Bird’s Eye

  November 11, this year

  Upper Priest Lake, Idaho

  3:20pm PST

  The Queen’s luminous skin, a mere blur in the dark, is all Astrid can see ahead. She’s lost count of the number of steps. Over a hundred. Maybe two hundred. The passageway has been a consistent slope downward with no turns. She can feel the smooth rock walls if she stretches her arms out wide. So far, there’s been no openings or doors. Graham is close behind. Rearden is somewhere back there, too. She can hear him whisper to himself every few paces. She thinks she hears him repeating the name Loche, and someone called Nicholas—but mostly the sound of his voice reminds her of a snake’s hiss. She feels her feet shuffle a little quicker. The pale light of Yafarra feels safer than the slithering of Rearden at her heels.