The Shape of Rain

by Michael B. Koep

  There is no sneaking a way up and out—inspired by his memory, Loche decides to mosh his way through. With all of his might Loche kicks his legs into the first set of shins before him. They immediately shuffle to the side and back. This movement starts a chain reaction. A moment later, the pushing and shoving spreads in both directions around the platform perimeter. At the first opportunity of an opening, Loche shoulders out, pressing like a lineman, and tunnels an opening. Once on his feet and straightening, he presses again. As he does this he is surprised to see, despite the wake his shoving had begun, not a single eye in the audience has strayed away from the duel unfolding upon the stage. Erinyes and the fates remain kneeling in their respective corners with their heads bowed. They take no notice of the riotous throng.

  William’s eyes flit from Cynthia to Loche. His acknowledgement is a subtle, instantaneous hint at a smile. Then his attention snaps back to his opponent. With a sweep of his right leg, he kicks the scotch bottle over on its side and it rolls to Julia. She grabs hold of it and glances up at William—her wounds rapidly healing now. William allows a full grin to bloom across his entire face. He jumps away from the stage. It takes a moment for Loche to understand how William manages ten, maybe fifteen paces, and how he comes to an en-guard position upon a long feasting table. Loche blinks. He walked on their heads, Loche realizes.

  In pursuit, Cynthia simply steps off of the stage and into the supporting arms of her followers. They move her across the space as if in flight, and she steps gracefully onto the table. Swords engage again ringing amid the enthralled cries of the company.

  With the duel’s change of location, the horde flow toward it as if a drain had opened on the opposite side of the enclosure.

  Loche’s focus rivets on his son. He rolls onto the stage, stands and pulls Edwin into his embrace. A yell from his left, “Hold! Hold!” Soldiers are drawing weapons. “Release the boy!”

  Before the guards reach the stairs they are assailed from behind. A long knife flashes from out of Corey’s cloak and he stealthily dispatches two of them. Loche suddenly notices more cloaked shadows garroting the others. A cowl is thrown back and Loche recognizes the Orathom Wis from the Giza Plateau, Neil. Catching Loche in acknowledgement, he cries out over the distracted throng, “The sign of eth is rising!”

  Loche squeezes Edwin to his chest and whirls toward Julia. She is on her feet. A pair of gauntleted hands grip one of her ankles. Another of the horde gains the stage and restrains her shoulders. With movements Loche can only describe as poetic, Julia breaks the arm grasping her ankle with a sweeping kick from her other foot. Simultaneously, she uses the round base of the scotch bottle to collapse the windpipe of the second foe by jabbing it like a heavy spear. Her adversaries fall away. She rushes across the stage to Loche.

  Below, Neil shoves forward, presses open a space for the two on the ground. He points to a breach that his companions are opening toward the east passage.

  “Follow Alexia, there!” Corey points.

  Alexia has carved a path to the east door with the aid of several others. In the tumult and confusion, the collective attention of the assembly has not yet detected their presence. Only the few gods near enough to see in the dim enclosure have noted something unusual—and they were subsequently cut down. By the time Alexia leads Loche, Edwin and Julia out into the cold starlight, the howling throng is still too engrossed in the unfolding duel to raise an alarm. Loche turns as he passes through the door and sees William Greenhame’s glance straying from his opponent to his son and grandson’s exit.

  “Do not tarry,” Corey shouts, “he’ll be along in time. Go!”

  “He is alone. We cannot leave him!” Loche says resisting Corey’s pull.

  “Nonsense! He is far from alone.” Corey’s reply is almost a laugh. “And do not think the old fellow doesn’t have a plan… and a canister of tear gas among other things! Move, Poet! Go!”

  As they exit a peculiar explosive pop resounds.

  Outside, Corey stops, “Loche, remove the orange coat. Hurry.”

  Loche passes the sleeping child to Julia. He drops his disguise at his feet. His bag is still slung diagonally across his chest with the umbrella clipped to the strap. He reaches to take Edwin again, checks his hold on him and nods to Corey.

  “Off we go then!” Corey says.

  Loche guesses the rescue party numbers eight or so as they pick up a steady run toward the inner ward’s gate. Just ahead, Loche sees Alexia reach into her bag. She tosses two small objects to her right and one to her left. Rummaging again she produces another mysterious object, and she holds it in her right hand—a kind of remote control. An instant later there is a series of blinding flashes, followed by ear-shattering, concussive blasts that echo into the night. The gate guards and pikemen are dumbfounded, shocked and terrified. They take no notice of the fleeing band.

  Loche feels the throbbing of his blood against his injured ear. Surrounding them on all sides now is an astonished and curious encamped army, rising to its feet in alarm.

  Just ahead of Loche is Neil. His hand drops more incendiary devices as they run. A few moments and a good number of yards later he detonates the charges in their wake. Strobing lightening-blinks flash across the landscape. Then, the oppressive pounding of several percussive explosions. To Loche it is as if a club smashes into his spine between his shoulder blades. For an instant he loses balance and stumbles. Correcting himself, with the aid of Julia, he focuses as best he can on the approaching wall, his eyes straying to the torture grounds to his left and the dead Native American hanging there.

  Alexia, the first to arrive at the encampment’s gate, surprises the keepers. Horns sound the alarm as the first two guards fall. More guards descend the towers and upper bulwarks to assist. In moments Alexia is surrounded.

  Looking up, Loche can see melees have begun on the towers beside the gate. The brief engagements end with orange surcoated men being hurled over the wall. Thereafter, the mechanism of weights and pulleys that control the doors activate.

  An opening in the wall gapes. Arrows whistle in from the dark. Alexia remains standing while several of her assailants drop away, many screaming from bolts piercing arms, legs, torsos and throats. The few that remain standing are met by the remainder of Corey’s company as they rush the gate.

  Loche is marshaled with Julia before him, “Do not pause! Run through. We will clear the path!” Corey shouts.

  Another series of charges blast from far behind. The white light flashes just as Loche passes beneath the timbered arch and out into the narrow field before the pines. In the flickering he sees a cluster of some twenty archers positioned just beyond the reach of the tower’s torchlight. His pace slows but he is shoved forward.

  “Keep going! They’re with us!” Corey shouts.

  Loche’s legs are rubber. His lungs feel as if they’ve been sliced with razors. A thundering wash of blood beats and courses through his hearing. His right foot catches upon a hidden stone and he tumbles forward. Two arms catch him and stand him back up. It is the foremost archer. His face is dark, elegant and elongated. Carved as if from stone, the features are angular and powerful. Again, Loche immediately thinks: Native American.

  A moment later, another set of hands seize him, and with gentle precision guide him and the cradled Edwin through the dark and into the trees. “We are here to help. Come, quickly,” Loche can only see the white ovals of the man’s eyes in the gloom. The two are lifted up onto the back of a rather large horse.

  “Who are—” Loche starts.

  “I am Vincale,” the man says quickly, “no more questions now.”

  Horn blasts scream from the encampment.

  Vincale presses leather reins into Loche’s right hand. “Hold the boy to your chest and let the horse—”

  “I don’t know how to ride!” Loche says.

  “Do not fear. These horses are of Wyn Avuqua. They will bear you safely.”

  Corey assists Julia onto a saddle. He then climbs o
nto another along with the rest of his company.

  “Where is William?” Loche asks. “We cannot leave him.”

  “We will not leave him,” Corey says, “but we cannot wait for him here.”

  The small band of Native Americans have now retreated under the cover of the trees and climb onto horses without saddles. Many let fly arrows back toward the gate.

  Vincale explains, “We will ride out together. Once we are within the trees we’ll divide our company to throw off pursuit.”

  “Othayr!” Vincale calls. “Gal!”

  The horse beneath Loche flexes and its muscular body lurches into the thick dark ahead. They pass through the trees like water through a fissure. The pace is swift and nearly silent. He feels the gentle puffs of his son’s breath on his neck. With one arm Loche squeezes him tighter to his chest. His other hand grips the leather rein. An unexpected smile forms. Cedar, crisp pine and the musk of damp soil mix in the air. Each step of the horse cracks open the forest floor. He inhales the aroma of moss, wet root, decaying leaves. For a brief moment he forgets the searing pain of his bleeding ear—the weight of his position in existence —the gravity of his writing—the oncoming army just over the ridge—the city of his imagination awaiting the hand of God to gouge it from the face of the Earth. In this moment, trees appear to lure him and his son into their embrace. An occasional glinting star pierces and searches beneath the dark canopy. Right now, they pass like shadows unseen.

  The forward company crosses a stream. Vincale halts and waves them north. He then turns and leads Corey, Julia and Loche along the stream into the inky black of the forest.

  A Dissertation:

  We Will Not Find Supernatural Trickery

  November 11, this year

  Upper Priest Lake, Idaho

  8:01 pm PST

  It takes thirty or so minutes for Astrid and Marcel to cross the dark grass between the trees and the rising pyramid cap. As they approach, a memory floods Astrid’s mind. She can hear one of her professors, Dr. Geoff Herzog. He compliments her.

  “Concrete, Astrid. Concrete work.” Astrid stares at the cover sheet to her dissertation lying on his desk. “You’ve based your study on reality and history and used the motifs as they should be used—myths should instruct and entertain. I particularly like the way you treat literal interpretation of miracles and supernatural claims. If only humanity as a collective would stop for a moment, take a good look at the stories and compare them to the world as we know it. Did God create it all? I mean, really?” He points to a newspaper clipping tacked to a bulletin board behind him. “Gallup survey—fifteen per cent of Americans believe we evolved through natural selection alone. Fifteen per cent? Fifteen. Sweet baby Jesus!”

  Astrid listens. Nods. Fully aware of those still caught in the snare of ancient belief. “Evolution steals our souls,” she says quietly. “No one wants that.”

  “Darwin, the soul killer,” the professor shakes his head, “the God killer.” His fingers tap the cover sheet. “Another piece I enjoyed was your use of the apple. How it served as a symbol of knowledge for both Adam and Eve, and for Newton, as well.”

  “Yes,” Astrid smiles. “Only the affect of Newton’s apple is provable. And far more useful.”

  “Well, whatever the case,” he laughs, rising to walk Astrid to the door, “I suppose we should be thankful that we no longer blame God for lightening strikes as our ancestors once surely did. It is just a matter of time before all the superstitious nonsense is weeded out. Your work, Astrid, is bridging the old and the new. You’re showing us that the belief in Thor’s hammer and his lightening was the first step to finding lightning’s true origin.”

  “We’re evolving,” Astrid agrees. “Maybe in a few years that Gallup survey will hit 50 per cent.”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Finnley.”

  “Good afternoon, Doctor.”

  Outside the door Astrid lowers her face and reads the cover sheet to her dissertation:

  The Need For

  A New Human Narrative

  presented to

  The Faculty of the Department of Mythology and

  Religious Studies at Gonzaga University

  In partial fulfillment

  Of the requirements for the degree

  PhD of Mythology and Psychology

  by

  Astrid Finnley

  August 2007

  Clive Wadden, PhD., Chair

  Geoff Herzog, PhD.

  Sharon Butterworth, PhD.

  Keywords: Greek, Sumerian, Egyptian, Jewish,

  Christian, Celtic, Itonalya, Native American:

  Mythologies, Civic Religion, Mystery

  Religion, World Civic Cults, Demeter, Dionysus,

  Yafarra, Orpheus, Wyn Avuqua.

  ABSTRACT

  Given humankind’s internal struggle against its existential demise, no time in history has witnessed the collateral damage of the conflict as acutely as the present. Diagnosed depression, anxiety and mental illness cases have reached epidemic proportions. Recent recorded suicides, nearly one million per year, point to a soul sickness within society and suggest that the old narratives humans have used to provide some meaning or hope that existence in some way matters no longer possess the power they once did. With the failing of these old narratives (ancient myths, religion, and economic and political structures), and facing the rapid evolution of technological advancement, humanity now stands at a crossroad between the old gods promising pearly gates and everlasting life versus the cold, scientific scalpel that cuts belief from reality —cuts the soul from existence itself. Somewhere in between, humanity is in need of a narrative that marries the power of the gods of lore with the evidential basis of the universe as we come to understand it. What can we discover about the supernatural, fantastical fictions of myth? How does the power and magic of ancient narrative affect us to this day? Can they be used to provide some insight into present day’s concrete, silicon reality. It was said that death would come to a mortal if he were to behold Zeus in his full glory. This dissertation proposes that we are now staring into Zeus’ eyes. Into the eye of Thi. What we see there is perhaps too much for some. But if we hold the gaze of the god king, we will not find supernatural trickery, no dead rising from the grave, immortality, no serpent tempting Eve, the Red Sea parting or the transportation from one pyramid to another. If we stare long enough we will understand that the bloody and ugly millennia from the burning bush to the Hubble telescope merely constitute the birthday of humanity’s new narrative. This new narrative will show god and its magical hand within the universe we discover around us; how stories of the fantastic have allowed us to reach for the stars —and to touch them. The magic is in the stories, alone.

  “Ready?” Marcel asks, turning and offering his hand to Astrid as she climbs the last stone to the apex.

  “Do you want me to say it, or do you want to say it?”

  “I think you should say it.” His red hair shines dully in the starlight. “You never have. You never believed. We walk across the top and you say it. Okay? You say it.”

  Astrid extends her hand to him. He takes it. She squeezes. “Remember what Eastman said? She told Rearden to walk slow and with caution.”

  “Yes. Okay.”

  All along her arms and legs rise goosebumps—as if she is staring down into frigid lake water and being encouraged to dive.

  “Say it like you mean it, Prof. You’ve got to mean the word. Elliqui. Mean it.”

  She takes her first step.

  She waits for the shock of cold.

  After she speaks the word Lonwayro, a dull but sudden light illuminates the low clouds. The face of Zeus, she thinks. The face of Zeus.

  We will not find supernatural trickery.

  The air is somehow thick. Distant engines drone. Some obstacle bars the movement of her forward leg. She tastes the sea.

  They are no longer in Idaho.

  Your Plan, Your Gift

  (A Dream)

  Date
unknown

  The Realm of Wyn Avuqua

  Loche Newirth is dreaming.

  “Are we still the storytellers, Dad? Are we still writing the good stories?”

  “Yes Edwin, we are still writing the good stories.”

  Each heartbeat floods Loche’s left ear with the rush of an ocean spindrift, and every few minutes a sharp pain jabs inward.

  A suffocating sleep.

  Dreamscape.

  Muted colors like underdeveloped film.

  Edwin grins. He twists out of Loche’s embrace and runs to the opposite end of the tower office and pauses beside a bookshelf. Some of the titles glow from the spines of hammered gold leaf. A candle flickers on a nearby shelf. The door is open and the stairway down to the living room below is dark. Helen’s portrait catches Loche’s eye. A photograph taken shortly after Edwin was born—her eyes sparkle from behind the glass and her smile is adoring.

  Loche sharpens a pencil and points his attention toward a journal entry. It reads:

  “Was this your plan, Loche? Is this your gift?”

  The gun laid heavy on the stage floor. I cowered and crawled backwards. I had killed my father’s son. I stood and backed away, crying, loathing the sight of these men huddled on the stage—blood stained swords upon the planks, a man cradling his dead son, his friend weeping beside him—all beneath a glaring spotlight.

  “Dad?” Edwin calls from across the room. Loche raises his head from the page and cannot see his son. The room has suddenly transformed into the timbered walls of his log cabin at Priest Lake. Flat grey light dusts the air. The hearth is black and cold. All around him is a chain of yellow Post It notes—and scattered books—and half finished plates of food. A pen is jutting out from the cluster of his fist. Rushing surf deafens his left ear. Red smears and splashes on the window catch his eye. Edwin appears outside looking in through the pane. His little face and wide brown eyes stare at him below the slashes of a painted word: MURDER.