Astrid purses her lips and thinks. “Maybe.”
“Maybe? How can you say that? Maybe? After all we’ve seen already. After what you’ve seen?”
“That’s just it, Marcel,” she says. “Rearden…” A chill skitters down her neck. She shakes her head. “Rearden will take some thought—do you recall Rearden’s words in the Journal—it was a repeated motif throughout the work. He said, many times: there are always two.”
Marcel says, “Yes—Always two.”
“Correct. But perhaps Rearden’s, or rather, Loche Newirth’s words for Rearden were not entirely accurate—or complete. Loche kept referring to words and pictures. Always two. Two ways of perceiving.”
“Yes, and Loche wrote of William saying similar things, too.”
“Yes.” Astrid thinks a moment. “Instead of two, maybe the line should have been, there are always three…”
“Okay. What’s the third?”
“Well, stories can be shared with words and pictures—but what if they could be shared through experiences. In other words, I can tell you—I can show you—but what if I could attend you.”
“Attend?”
“Yes. Say for example you taste wine from an unlabeled bottle,” Astrid pours two glasses. She hands one to him. He sips. “And you tell me about its flavor, texture, its deep crimson color —almost blood-like. You describe how the spirit gets you slightly buzzed and giggle-drunk. You go on and on with your story. You even snap a picture of it for me to see. Or in this case, you raise the glass and show me. I’m quite inclined to believe everything you say. I got the words—I got the pictures. But to fully believe, or rather, to know, I must experience it for myself, yes? I must attend it.” She tips the glass up and drinks the contents in four deep pulls.
Marcel watches her. “Professor?”
She sets the glass on the counter. “And I agree. And I believe you. It is true. Good fucking wine.” She returns to the table and lifts up the Journal between them. “Now let’s say you see a ghost—or better yet, you experience one of your tribe’s elder spirits, like you’ve claimed so many times. You tell me that you swear on your Elders, and your Elder’s Elders that you experienced it—even after I suggest you may have had low blood sugar at the time, or you were stoned at the time, or maybe depressed, or tired, or some physical, organic biorhythm was squirting an overload of this or that kind of hormone or a random electrical synapse firing across your frontal lobe—you’re still telling me that you fucking saw one of your spirit guides. Okay. Fine. Then you show me a picture. And it’s a good one. Say, from your cell phone. I may be inclined to believe you—but I wouldn’t.”
“You would have to attend me,” Marcel says, nodding.
“I would have to attend you,” Astrid agrees. “Myths and belief systems are made from two things—words and pictures—very seldom from attendance in the grand scheme. We know that myths were created to establish moral values, to control masses and the like. But this…” she sets the Journal down on the table. “This is something entirely new. And with the lenses I’ve looked through all of my career, it is fucking terrifying.”
Marcel waits, his mouth slightly open.
“Let me put it to you this way,” she says, pressing her palms together. “We know now, in the twenty-first century that gods have never existed. We made them up. Humanism, history and time has taught us that.”
“Some attend such a notion,” Marcel says—a nervous smile on his lips, “But I believe gods have always existed.”
“Yes,” Astrid agrees. “I know.” She fills her glass to the rim. “And you’re not the only one, of course. But, you see, Newirtheism has just replaced belief with knowing. Belief with fact. If the twentieth century killed God and advertised it for all to see on its philosophical billboards: God Is Dead, then Newirtheism, in my mind, has just brought to life what was never really alive in the first place.”
Marcel shakes his head, “But Professor, God, or gods live within us—they—” His words fall away as he watches Astrid empty another full glass of wine into her mouth.
She slurs, “There is something missing. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.”
“Professor, after reading—I couldn’t help but wonder about my personal past. I mean—” Marcel shakes his head and he raises his hands as if he is trying to grab an imaginary idea from the air. “I mean, if I’m reading Loche’s writing correctly, and deciphering Albion’s notes—life, as we know it now, is only weeks old. I mean, everything was different before Loche fell into the Eye.” His face scrunches. “I mean, take Wyn Avuqua, for example. I’ve been fascinated with the folk tales and controversy of Wyn Avuqua since I was a kid. Since I was a kid! But if Albion’s notes are correct, it would mean that Wyn Avuqua has only truly existed for a couple of weeks—since Loche fell into the Eye and wrote it into existence. His writing changed the past? My past, too?”
Astrid feels a heavy stone drop into her stomach. “Yes,” she says. Her tone is dark. “I’ve been thinking that he created a past. And when I think hard about it, I feel this strange ache. It is difficult to describe. Like I’ve forgotten something.”
“I feel it, too. A worry, almost. A worry…”
Astrid nods. “Can you recall the first time you learned of Wyn Avuqua?”
Marcel looks out the window. His eyes shut. He takes a deep breath. “Well, yes. Of course. My grandmother told the tales of the ancient city. I must have been four or five, I guess. We lived on the Rez at the time. But—”
“But, what?” Astrid leans toward him.
“But the harder I think about it—search out details—the ache gets worse. That worry—that worry almost becomes, well, dread.” His face pales even more than his usual pale. After a moment he asks, “What does that mean, Prof?”
Astrid’s eyes stray to the wine bottle. The alcohol in her blood is now cushioning her own ache. It is impossible to work out, she thinks. Just like trying to make sense of a believer’s blind faith, or the insanity of placing an afterlife ahead of the life you’re living, or placing all of your hopes, dreams and identity upon a story—a myth.
“It seems to me that this will be a topic of discussion with Albion Ravistelle. I’m guessing he’s feeling the same kind of ache we are. But like the Journal says, it can all be true. Seams now exist in both our stories and in reality. This might cause our little arrogant self-important perspectives some distress, I think. I wonder what other godlike entity we’ll try to make up when our canonized characters of myth start doing things we would never expect. This may be the first time in human history that the entire race will attend the reality of myth and afterlife.” She considers another glass of wine. “They are real! Newirtheism. It is really happening.”
“What about Rearden, Professor?” Astrid sees the gun in Rearden’s hand. “What do you think his role in all of this is?” She hears Graham’s desperate gasp for breath.
“It is because of him, Marcel, this entire story began. He is a murderer. And he’s after something.”
“The Red Notebook?
“He got his hands on that already. But I think he’s got a score to settle with Loche.”
“What do you think is written in the Red Notebook, Professor?”
Astrid reaches for the bottle, “Life.”
“Life? What do you mean?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Pocket Diary Entry # 5
Unknown
(Loche Newirth’s pocket diary)
?
I’ve been here before. In my office tower at home-I’ve visited this place. The sensation is beyond my ability to-
WHAT I’VE WRITTEN IS LIKE MEMORY—
Templar and the Queen
1010 A.D.
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua
The time travelers take seats in a high balcony above a large auditorium within Tiris Avu. Loche tucks his pocket diary away after only scribbling a line or two and places Edwin upon his lap. William and Julia bookend father and son.
Helen and her chaperone are set apart from the others by four, tall sentinels with silver armor beneath deep green cloaks. Helen’s eyes seldom stray from her son.
“Sit and be silent,” Vincale whispers. “The Order hears news of the storm that gathers in the East.”
Below is a circular, marble chamber with rising ringlet rows of perhaps two or three hundred seats, most of which are vacant. The audience seating surrounds a large crescent shaped table gilded in heraldry and symbols. Loche recognizes the icons as the four Households of the City: talons, a heart, a set of wings and the head of a long-beaked bird. At the table are four regents (or Templar as Vincale called them), two men and two women. Each wears the vestments of their house. Within the crescent’s curve is a high round dais adorned in gold filigreed vines and leaves. The emblem of Thi’s eye is carved into it. And upon the carving is a throne. Upon the throne is a woman. She is clothed in simple white. Her hair is gold and woven into a thick braid. It drapes heavily over one shoulder.
Between the Queen’s dias and the crescent table stand two men. One is unsteady and staggers as he speaks, as if he had recently been injured. Facing the Templar he waves his hands. Fear rises in his voice. His companion is rigid, still and stoic. Both wear livery similar to the green and silver sentinels, but their cloaks are stained and weathered, and their armor is dinted and blurred with mud. Loche’s mind flashes to the gathering of the Orathom Wis to repel Albion’s attack at Mel Tiris just a few days ago. The ceremony with the drums, the prayer, the green surcoated pikemen, the strange familiarity of it all—William had said that day, “You should know—you made all of this.”
Loche’s looks at the key hanging at Julia’s throat. And it was true. Between the covers of several notebooks, once protected behind locked cabinets at his Sagle, Idaho, tower office were sketches and elaborate descriptions of the massive hall he is now sitting within: the circular fortress surrounding the hall; the city surrounding the fortress; the immortals and humans that made up its citizenry.
He studies the massive banners hanging from the high ceiling, the bright torches illuminating the circle of the chamber, and the proud sentinel pikemen at each arched door. Upon another stage positioned near the back of the chamber are four figures enclosed in a ring of different sized drums. They stand motionless and reverent. The memory of the drums at Mel Tiris sends a jolt of adrenaline through him. Against the wall to their right is a massive, semicircular hearth. A fire roars within it. In his mind, he has been here before.
Then the shouting of the wounded sentinel—angry and frightened—yanks Loche’s focus back to the Templar and Queen below.
“Ten thousand or more!” he shouts. “Do you not hear me? Ten thousand Godrethion! More arrive every day! Our southern sortie was ambushed. Some were cut to pieces. Others, along with our Aevas guides were captured. And we—” his words crack into pleading, “we were set free to tell of their fury. They are coming! Will you not listen to me? Thi hath come to punish us!” He bows his head and weeps.
The Templar of the House of Heart asks, “Your wound, Sentinel. Show us.” She extends her long arm. Her skin is dark and her wide eyes are filled with concern.
The wounded Itonalya soldier throws his cloak to the side to reveal a bloodied, bound knee. But jutting from the knotted cloth where his lower leg should be is a length of a stout tree branch. “They took my leg, Lady Roblam,” he answers simply.
“Come, come!” The House of Talons stands. He is large, bald and muscular. His shadow stretches out across the marble floor. He casts an uneasy glance into the balcony, at Loche, the boy god on his lap and Lornensha. For an instant, the bald man’s head jitters and he quickly masters himself. Ignoring the Rathinalya, Talons says, “We knew this day would come. We have prepared for it. We shall follow through with our design.”
“There was no agreed upon plan,” The House of Mind says. His voice quavering, edging toward rage. “This division between us has now been drawn to the point of destruction. Thi has awakened an army and has brought them across the sea. A shore, thus far, beyond the reach of men. Thi has set them to rage at our seeming rebellion.” He, too, searches the balcony with a darting scowl and then shakes it off.
“Seeming?” Talons mocks. “Seeming? You are the head of our body. You despise slavery beyond all of us! Come now, you know of the new awakening of our kind. You know of the changes to come…”
Mind stares at the huge man, and the long sword dangling at his side. “It is true,” he agrees, his voice controlled. “Slavery is abominable. But, as I have maintained, our freedom awaits us not through rebellion but through our loyalty to Thi’s creation—Thi’s mortal children the Ithea, like Mellithion to Endale herself. Do you not recall the great deluge? Was that not enough warning? Was it not warning enough when Elliqui—” Mind steadies his voice, “when Elliqui was taken from us. Was that enough to slow our disobedient hearts?”
The House of Wings answers, “Our sages found words to remake Elliqui, and thus words have been placed onto our tongues and into our tomes—”
“Counterfeit, Bannuelo!” he shouts at the Wings Minister. “A mere mask to what was once pure and without strain.” There are many quiet gasps from those in the surrounding audience. As if in response, Mind stares out into the ringed rows. “Some of you are too young to remember true Elliqui! Some of you will never understand how connection to Endale, and sky, and Thi, and how the quiet whispers of stars entered Itonalya thought all at once. When some of you decided to throw off your duty to your Maker, the Mighty Thi, our first injury was the falling of that high beacon of speech. Yes, our sages worked to replace it through years of bloody, blasphemous trials. What cost? Too many of us have turned away from protecting Endale and the Ithea from the stars. Too many of us want more than our promised, undying bodies. Too many of us have allowed the terrors of gods among Ithea—the plagues the Godrethion bring, the wars, the horrors. Oh Mellithion! Mellithion hides his face.”
“Maghren, Minister of the House of Mind, please harken to me,” says Bannuelo of the House of Wings. She rises and steps into the crescent between the Queen and Templar. She places her hand upon the shoulder of the injured sentinel. “How many hundreds of years have we debated this question? And through our countless debates, realizations, and compromises, as with all determinations, a verdict must be acted upon in a single moment. The moment has come. With caution have we rejected our sacred mandate. Treasonous it might one day be said. Treasonous to her Majesty’s will,” she lamely gestures to the Queen, “and most certainly to Thi above. But the spirit of our people calls for liberation from the old ways, the Old Law. Each Itonalya must make their own choice. Your House, Maghren, has continued to keep Thi’s will. Blessed be the faithful. And there are numbers within the other Households that still hold with you. Many still fulfill their duty to Thi—journey to distant lands and eliminate bridging gods from Endale, protect the Ithea, walk in the footsteps of Mellithion,” she pauses—her face sours, “and embrace their bondage, just as Mellithion always has. But as my brother, Yanreg of the House of Talons has pronounced, we, the majority that have entreated freedom and have forsworn allegiance to Thi—we have long prepared for this day. Now, right now, Thi’s army gathers at our gate. Our will must prevail over the Old Law.”
The House of Mind shouts, “The Old Law promises our freedom. The Prophecy! The Painter and Poet will herald our freedom. Thi has promised. The time is not now! Our work for humankind is not done. Not yet.”
Yanreg’s bellowing voice shouts louder, cavernous and menacing, “You speak of ancient myth, folk tales and rubbish! Whispers of the Silent Author! Whispers of madmen and long gone sages! No more children’s stories of our deliverance—the wolves of god are at the gate and you speak of prophecy.” A steely glare, quick as a flash of light, stabs out from the Yanreg, from the floor to the balcony—to Loche and his boy. Edwin shudders and turns his face into his father’s shoulder. “Dad,” he says. “Dad…” Loche holds the boy.
Ma
ghren’s face pales. His fingers touch his forehead as he turns to the Queen frustrated and incredulous. The Queen shows no expression. The House of Mind says, “And so you, Yanreg, reject our Lord’s promise. You and those that follow you choose the path of madness. You propose a parlay with the Godrethion? You will pledge peace between Immortal and god on Earth, you will allow them to do what they will on Thi’s creation, and in return for our protection we will help to shape a new world?”
Yanreg of Talons laughs, “So you have been paying attention all these years to our recommendations, Minister of Mind. Yes. Remember, the Godrethion horde has wants just as we. They, too, are slaves to Thi. And their mortality here can be managed by us. We shall grant them leave, life, fortune, power—all the horrors and delights that their borrowed fleshly shells can take, and over time, we shall create the world around them and make our own Heaven, here. Thi shall no longer reign over us.” Another sudden tremor shakes through his shoulders. He refrains from looking into the high seats.
Now Maghren laughs. Tears shape above his cheeks. “Peace? You of the House of Talons, the leader of our warring body? Peace? Do you believe what you say? Truly? You believe that Thi will not bring calamity and a fate worse than abomination?”
Yanreg’s large body looms in the torchlight. Seconds pass. Loche sees a smile ooze onto the man’s face. “You know my mind, Maghren,” he hisses.
“And you know mine,” The House of Mind growls.
Roblam of the House of Heart rises from her chair. Her dark skin is luminous in the firelight. She says, “And we now balance upon the blade—yet again between freedom and chains. The long years of debate must now be ended. Outside, a storm gathers. The army of Thi has come with wrath to chide and chasten our rightful plea. Do we ride to meet the horde and rend them from Endale, and uphold the Old Law? Show Thi that we are again servants to the will of old? Pray for forgiveness?
“Or, as the Templar Yanreg of the House of Talons has so wisely advised, do we forsake Thi, renounce our ancient summons and protect gods on earth, strike a peace, and together, god and immortal, rise against our Maker? Rule, order and create our own paradise upon these shores? It is a choice between slavery and freedom.” The House of Heart waits. Her gaze circles the chamber. When her line of sight crosses Edwin and Lornensha, Loche sees a subtle tug of worry flinch through her. The woman faces the raised dias. “I prithee, Sovereign Queen Yafarra, what is your will?”
The Shape of Rain Page 30
