The Shape of Rain

by Michael B. Koep

  As the melody lilts and awaits a resolve, William’s voice joins in and the two complete the melody:

  Orathom thi geth

  Fethe thi geth

  The words crash through Loche’s heart. Their spell has flooded into each of the company as well. Julia lowers her head. Vincale’s hand rises and rests upon his breast. Lornensha’s eyes close and she raises her face slightly as if the evening’s mist of sky is kissing her brow.

  An ocean rises and wells as the words wash over Loche. A missing, a longing, a need that can only be defined by the shape of rain, the weight of tears, the measure between love and endings.

  Orathom thi geth

  Fethe thi geth

  We want only rest.

  We want to go home.

  Masks On the Counter

  November 12, this year

  Venice, Italy

  11:16 am CEST

  Astrid is dreaming.

  She sits in a cold classroom. It is late February. Ice clusters in the corners of a huge plate window. She shivers. Professor Clive Wadden’s lectures. His baritone vibrates the air—the walls—the sheet of note paper beneath her fingers.

  “It is as easy as A is for Apple. A is an A. We need not make it complex. Tell me, how is the apple of the Ancients and the apple of the modern era dissimilar? How are the Egyptian pharaohs or Christ, and the Fab Four, dissimilar? All are stories. All are brands. All are icons. They are the characters of narrative despite their organic reality. An apple grows on a tree. We make a pie. Now, an apple from the Tree of Life is a different matter, of course. A taste of that apple will open your eyes to sin. Today’s apple connected to the internet will open your eyes to the modern information age—or cat memes. Pharaohs and gods preach peace and love just as the Beatles sermonized, All you need is love.”

  Hands go up. Wadden says, “Sylvia?”

  “Pharaohs were gods, the Beatles were a pop group.”

  Wadden stares at her. Waits. He then replies, “I could as easily say that the Pharaohs were a pop group and the Beatles were gods.”

  Sylvia shakes her head, “Well, no. The Pharaohs as gods managed to build pyramids—they were worshiped—”

  “And the Beatles weren’t worshiped? Come now. Beatlemania? I think both Christ and Mohammed would have been slightly jealous—John Lennon was absolutely correct on every level when he stated during an interview that the Beatles were more popular than Christ. The problem was, the Christ fearing American public had no idea of what a god looked like when they saw one. They were, and perhaps still are, expecting white-bearded ghostly fathers, galloping horses from the clouds, or rays of phantasmic light from Heaven. It is a new day. Humanism has begun to blur the supernatural branding. We’re getting too smart. Elvis, Madonna, Steve Jobs, The Beatles are emissaries sent to teach us about how we believe in stories.

  “And as far as building pyramids? Well, perhaps The Beatles did not build pyramids, but they were certainly involved in constructing something far more enduring than a megalithic structure of stones. They and their contemporaries gave us a completely new foundation to thinking—a new perspective on humanism. They helped us all to think for ourselves. To question the old tales—the old mythologies. War is out, love is in. Blind ignorance is out, searching and thought are in. They gave us the keys to our own minds—that due to thousands of years of superstition, fear, and the ignorance of bondage, were locked away in the churches and temples. They gave us the weapon that would kill god. Our minds.” He laughs. “And because we know better, we don’t regard John Lennon as a lightning throwing, all seeing, ruling from on high god. At one time, a walrus, maybe. But his brand, his symbol, his message, his place in the cosmic drama is fixed. His story, like every deity, is the same.”

  Astrid’s hand goes up.

  “Miss Finnley?”

  She says, “Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?”

  Professor Wadden smiles. “Ah, Nietzsche. He was the fifth Beatle, you know.”

  “Astrid. Astrid. Wake up.” It is Marcel. He is whispering. “Ravistelle is early. He is here. Astrid…”

  She sits up quickly. “What?”

  “Ravistelle is in the storefront,” he points to a place she has not yet seen.

  “How long have I been asleep?” Outside the day is brighter, but not by much. The silver sky leaks out an even sheen while clusters of slate clouds knuckle their way in from the ocean. She rubs the drowse from her eyes. Fausto’s desk, his web collage, his books and his new friends from the United States are hidden—curtained off from the rest of his living space. The adrenaline rushing into her bloodstream is becoming an expectation.

  Marcel stands, crosses to the curtain and peeks. “Just through the door there is Fausto’s storefront. He sent me to wake you as soon as he saw Ravistelle turn the corner.”

  “How long has he been here?”

  “Not a minute.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “No.”

  Astrid stands. “Is there a way we can see him?”

  “Probably,” Marcel says facing her. “But Fausto said we should stay in here.”

  The adrenaline converts to confidence. “I did not cross the planet to hide in a back office while Albion Ravistelle is in the house.” She slips through the curtain and moves quietly in the direction of voices.

  “Aren’t these the people that wanted you dead?” Marcel whispers, following her closely.

  She does not respond. She rushes silently to the opposite door, leans her head through and listens. She hears voices. Some laughter, someone says, “Oh, look at this one.” Astrid descends three stairs, and enters into a room of high shelves—a maze of rows. Upon the selves, lit up bright with a spectrum of color, and displayed for sale are hundreds of empty-eyed masquerade masks. Tiny white price tags dangle on strings and whirl in the warm furnace breeze. Through the rows she sees shoppers. A couple of Americans, “Honey, look at this one…” An elderly woman with her hands behind her back peruses in the far corner of the shop. Fausto is speaking quietly to a man at the front counter. The man wears a suit of deep grey. A long coat is folded over his arm. His back is to Marcel and Astrid.

  Rounding a row, careful to remain behind Ravistelle, the two position themselves within hearing. As they cross the aisle, Fausto and Astrid catch eyes. His expression is unmoved.

  “What beauty, my friend,” Albion says. He leans down to inspect the mask maker’s work. One hand hovers over the piece sitting upon the counter as if he were placing a blessing upon it. “I have never seen anything like it. Fausto, my friend, you have yet again outdone yourself.”

  Fausto appears relieved and delighted with the compliment. What might be thirty-seconds tick by when the front door opens and a quaint shop bell rings. November’s chill rushes in as the American couple and the elderly woman exit.

  “Buongiorno,” Fausto waves.

  Ravistelle continues to admire the mask. He issues a satisfied sigh every few moments. Fausto remains still, his pupils flitting to the shelves seeking for the fugitives he is hiding.

  “How is my bride’s mask coming along?”

  Fausto nods, looking tense now. Albion’s attention is still immersed in the treasure upon the counter. “It is nearly finished. It will be the perfect counterpart to your mask here, though it is beyond anything I have made before. It will be my masterwork.”

  Albion breathes out another sigh of satisfaction. “As it should be for my beloved.”

  “And how is Helen?” Fausto asks. His tone is simple and neighborly.

  “She is well. She is traveling, currently, but she will return in time to join the festivities.”

  “And your daughter, Crystal. She is well I hope.”

  “She is,” Albion replies. “She, too, is abroad with family.” He raises up and stands straight. “You will have the masks delivered to my house?”

  “I will,” Fausto says, placing a soft cut of
velvet over the mask. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

  Astrid can now see Albion Ravistelle’s profile through the shelves—a face that has haunted her dreams. His eyes are dark and complex. His posture is elegant, reverent and noble. The tone of his voice demands attention and something near worship. “I thank you,” he says.

  Then there is a shift. An expression barely perceptible in his face, the way the quality of sunlight changes as a single high altitude cloud casts a distant shadow. “There was no need for her to run, Fausto.” The mask maker does not raise his focus from the delicate process of wrapping his work. Albion says, “She must have been terrified. I know she is here.”

  Astrid is suddenly aware that she has been holding her breath. And now, her lungs thirst for oxygen. She closes her eyes and allows her lungs to drink in the air, slowly—silently.

  “I know Astrid Finnley is here, and I know you are hiding her.” Albion’s voice is quiet with both a quality of sadness and something else—something cruel, pitiless.

  The Mother of God

  1010 A.D.

  The Realm of Wyn Avuqua

  The Wyn Avuquain vanguard lead the company through pastures and recently harvested farmland to the gate. They are slow. Banners emblazoned with the Eye of Thi whorl in high breezes above the gates. Watchers from the tower, sentinels and archers cast skeptical, vigilant faces. Torches punctuate the platforms down the wall-line eastward. Glancing up Loche thinks he can see bent bows in the narrow arrow slits.

  He and Julia ride alongside Vincale.

  “Why is it that you aid us?” Loche asks.

  “You travel with immortals, do you not?” the Captain of Wyn Avuqua replies. “We know that you come from a time out of our reckoning—of that, we do not fully understand. It does not frighten us. Our kind have lived through ages of the Earth, and there is very little in life that we fear. Time we do not fear. You and yours that travel upon it, we do not fear.”

  “You have met others like us?”

  “Travelers from distant centuries? Yes, there have been a few. Some have sworn to the City and the Queen, and have joined us. They have cast off their former lives of future memory. Many have found a home here in this place, in this time—a home and sanctuary closer to their living souls than any on Endale. Wyn Avuqua is a homecoming to the itonel.” He gestures to Corey and William as an example. Both are silent and captured within a trancelike joy. Even Julia, her back pressed against him, seems airy and elevated somehow. Loche wonders if she is finally feeling some relief from the consistent Rathinalya she has been forced to endure since Edwin’s fall into the sea. Vincale smiles, “And those that become one with the City—they take up their holy burden and guard the doors against the Godrethion.” His tone darkens, “Others have been slain. Gavress,” he whispers and places his hand over his chest. “Three that I can name have retired to faraway islands away from man. So yes, there are others. Yet you are human…”

  Vincale twists in his saddle and casts a long look at Edwin. He says, “And I daresay, there have been none like…like this boy.” Edwin’s cheeks shine with a smile, and a sudden, single flash of glitter in his oval sockets. Vincale shudders looking ahead at the approaching gate. “None like he…ag, ag. Nay, I know not what this means. The Templar must know—the Queen will bring the truth of this frightening turn…”

  Templar, Queen, truth, Loche grapples. “Templar?” Loche puzzles. He turns to William. “Knights Templar?”

  “Not a whit,” William says. “The Order you are referring to is still a century or more away from forming. No, Vincale is not speaking of that Templar. The word you’re hearing is accurate enough, however, to describe the ministers of the four Wyn Avuquain households. They indeed occupy and work in the temple, Tiris Avu. The Elliqui word is Tircan. It means temple minister. I dare say that it may one day inspire the medieval Latin templaris.”

  As they near the bridge to the gate Loche asks Vincale, “How did you know to come to us—to rescue us?”

  “William Greenhame sent his summons with the Aevas. William Greenhame then entered the Godrethion horde to find you.”

  “The Aevas?”

  “The people of Earth’s heart,” Vincale replies. “This is their homeland, too. They have been here for centuries beyond count, and they are our friends, and our hosts.” As the gates open to receive them, the captain says. “But we knew of your peril before William Greenhame’s message arrived.”

  Standing just behind the threshold of the opening iron doors, a formation of men and women wait to receive the visitors. Their garments are made with heavy woven cloth of ivory white and brown. Well-fitting and shapely, the lines are cut to resemble ivy vines and leaves with elegant curves at the sleeves and mantles of green. Some wear long broad swords at their sides. But the three figures dressed in black, standing at the center of the gathering, are as anomalous to the surrounding environment as Loche himself feels. One extraordinarily large man with dark eyes and an angular face stands behind two women.

  Vincale says, “These travelers are like you, I expect. They arrived at our gates just before William Greenhame’s message. With their word and William’s summons, the Queen sent me to your aid. All three are Itonalya…” Loche feels his lungs suddenly starving for air upon seeing the trio. “One boasts a claim never before heard in any known memory of our people.”

  “What claim?” Loche asks.

  As the horses enter into the City, Vincale halts the company and nods to the receiving contingent, and then he gestures to one of the women in black.

  “She claims to be the mother of God.”

  A moment later, Edwin is crying out, “Mommy! Mommy!” William lowers him to the cobbled road and the little boy bursts toward a kneeling, arms wide, Helen Newirth.

  Covenant

  November 12, this year

  Venice, Italy

  11:36 am CEST

  “Our friendship has been long,” Albion says, turning his hard gaze from Fausto and stepping to a nearby shelf of masks. His fingers run along his chin. He examines the faces. “And I know, you have had questions. Questions. Oh, so many questions. And as I’ve said to you, all these years, answers for you—answers for you are dangerous. So very dangerous.”

  The tiny bell above the door chimes. Two large men wearing long dark grey coats enter. One turns to the window and flips the open sign to closed while the other drops the blinds.

  Light blue branches of veins appear along Fausto’s forehead. His skin pales. He glances at the shelves toward Astrid and Marcel in the shadows, and then to the two men now standing on either side of the doorway. Their faces are stern, almost angry.

  “I’ve entrusted you with my secret. And other secrets,” Ravistelle continues, “for we have known each other since you were a child, after all. And I have been with you all along. But as you might expect, I’m disappointed that you would keep secrets from me, my dear, Fausto. All that I’ve shared with you, and now you hide things from me.” His shoes tap the wood floor as he moves to inspect several framed pictures on the wall. “Perhaps it is unfair of me to expect you to carry my secrets. Unfair of me to place the weight of my secrets upon you,” he pauses, tilting his head toward Fausto, “upon you and your family.”

  Fausto quakes. “Albion—” he starts. He wets his lips. His eyes plead.

  Ravistelle raises his hand. “If I wanted to take Astrid Finnley now, I could. I know she is here somewhere.” He returns to the counter and places his palms gently upon Fausto’s hands. “Do not fear. I am willing to forgive you for hiding her from me. How could you not be filled with even more questions after watching her appear out of thin air? How could you not be filled with a desire to know more about your friend Albion Ravistelle and his long, long, long life?” He pats the back of Fausto’s hands. “I know. I know.

  “Fausto, I have something I want you to do for me.”

  Fausto opens his mouth but can only nod affirmation.

  “Good. I know Professor Finnley is afraid. Tell her
that she need not fear. She was invited, after all. Our treatment of her at the dig site was ill-managed. It is not our intention to harm her. It is our intention to include her. Now, this may be difficult for her to believe, given what she’s seen and heard. So I will now grant her that grace. As I’ve said, I could take her now, but I would rather she come to me freely.”

  Ravistelle gestures to the larger of the two men behind him. The man steps forward and produces a wooden box the size of a laptop computer. Ravistelle receives it, studies the dark mahogany grain, the subtle relief work of ivy leaves around the lid, and then sets it upon the counter. He slides it beneath Fausto’s fingers.

  “Please place this into the hands of Professor Astrid Finnley and her assistant, Marcel Red Hawk Hruska.” He drops his gaze to the box with a reverential bow, “Within is my peace offering to her—and my covenant. Once she has examined it, please ask her to join me at my house, tomorrow evening—where we shall dine and speak more of these things. You may accompany her and bring the beautiful masks you have made.”

  Ravistelle unfolds his coat. Whirls it over his shoulders and smiles. “Thank you,” he says. “Perhaps, my friend, it is time that I shared more of my life with you.”

  He turns toward Astrid hiding in the shelves. He seems to stare directly into her eyes. “Tell her, Fausto. Tell her not to fear me. Answers await her at my house.”

  The bell rings. The three men exit.

  The clock ticks beside the register. Fausto does not move save for the slight involuntary quaking of his shoulders.

  Astrid rounds the shelving row with Marcel.

  Marcel says, “Fausto? Are you alright?”

  “I have never been so afraid,” he replies. His voice is as coarse as sandpaper.

  Astrid carefully lifts Fausto’s fingers, sets them aside and slides the box toward her. She finds the lip of the lid and lifts it away. Inside she discovers a worn, brown leather bound journal. She stares at it for a moment. She looks up to both Marcel and Fausto with a question staining her expression. She digs the book out and flips open to the first page. Scribbled in bubbly, feminine letters is: