The Shape of Rain

by Michael B. Koep

  “What are you doing in all of this?” Astrid asks.

  “By all means, a good question. I am attempting to remake the disaster that is the human race—grant them immortality—erase the heavens and the gods above, and start over here on this potential paradise called Earth. Such an endeavor does not come without some discomfort, I admit. But I assure you, violence is my least desired tool. Most of the heavy lifting has been done through art—words and pictures. The paintings of Basil Fenn will eliminate God. The words of Loche Newirth will enable all else.

  “But Loche’s work is troubling, I must admit.” Albion opens his palm and holds it out to Astrid. The gesture is obvious. She glances to Fausto and Marcel, then she reaches into her bag, lifts out the Journal and places it in their host’s hand. Albion studies if for a brief moment and then walks to a dark oak bureau. He lays the Journal down beside the Red Notebook. A burst of adrenaline rushes through her when she sees the Prophecy. “You three have read the Journal—so your eyes tell me. For how could your eyes ever be the same after reading such a thing? And now knowing what you know, like me, you must be filled with wonder and want of more. I know the look on your faces.

  “And behold,” he says laying his fingers on the cover of the spiral notebook. “Our author’s—or should I say, Aethur’s latest collection of scribbles. A sequel? The end of the tale?” Albion pulls his fingers away suddenly as if the cover were a hot, searing grill. Astrid judges the gesture to be overdramatic. The immortal says, “Aethur, we are learning, can change the very roads we plan for ourselves, the roads we’ve trodden and the paths that stretch out far beyond our sight.” He scowls. “To be completely transparent, Dr. Finnley and young Marcel, we are afraid of the book. We are not willing to risk all that we have endeavored to build just to be reordered, manipulated or completely effaced. We believe if it is read, change will follow—change we cannot control.”

  An attendant enters the long dining room with a tray of long stemmed wine glasses. Astrid is the first to reach for one. She takes a long drink, her gaze locked to the face of Albion Ravistelle. She is still in disbelief, still in shock—and still slightly hung over.

  The immortal raises his glass. “A toast, and a wish.” Fausto raises his. “Here is to our long years of study—and a hope that what we’ve learned will help us to determine our next step.” He drinks. Astrid and Marcel do not.

  “What step, Mr. Ravistelle?”

  “Come now, Dr. Finnley, drink. After all, you were invited. You were invited to help me, for I believe there is no one else in the world like you—no one knows what you know of our ancient roots—knows how the intersection of the past and history and myth, and now, so it seems, the simply unbelievable.”

  All four drink. The sweetness of the wine, lacy and elegant, makes Astrid want to cry.

  Albion swirls his wine and stares into its funnel. He then looks to her and asks, “Dr. Finnley, what do you think is written in Aethur’s Red Notebook? How do you think it came to be found with Yafarra? With all you’ve uncovered in your Wyn Avuquain research, what can you tell me about how Yafarra came to be entombed, how the city finally fell, the—”

  Astrid shakes her head and empties her glass, tilting back without looking away from Albion. The movement silences him.

  He chuckles. “I see. More wine then?”

  She tries to smile, but cannot find the shape in her mind. “I don’t know how to answer any of those questions, Mr. Ravistelle. With all due respect, you’re the immortal—the one that would have had centuries and centuries to uncover, study and research… Christ, you are the culture. You must know more that I know.”

  Albion nods thoughtfully. “Yes,” he agrees. “Yes. A thousand times, yes. You are correct. Why would I not know the complete history of my kind? How could I not know that the prophecy was a Red spiral Notebook, and that it would be entombed with Queen Yafarra? Of course, I should. How could such a tragic event during the cataclysm that was Wyn Avuqua’s end be overlooked by historians?” He frowns into the whirlpool of his cabernet. “Vexing. So very vexing. You see, this is again why you are such an important voice to us—and to those I represent.

  “Perhaps we should begin with this: tell me your thoughts on just why Wyn Avuqua was one day a legend—an impossible to find jewel—and the next, it is uncovered, massive and seemingly impossible to overlook.”

  A headache begins to pound. “I don’t know, Mr. Ravistelle.” She pivots to Marcel’s pleading look. She’s sure it matches her own. “The two of us made research trips there just weeks before Professor Molmer took me to the dig site.” She squints and then joggles it off. “But I—but I feel—”

  Albion moves a step closer to her and leans down, attentive and curious, “Precisely,” he breathes, “you feel. What do you feel?”

  “I feel as if something is wrong—or I feel a dread when I try to remember certain things. I feel like some of my memories are…they are… well, new… or somehow broken. I don’t know how to say it. And when I try to understand it, the feeling intensifies—it is like worry—like worrying about something you can’t control.” Marcel nods beside her. Albion’s carved countenance, handsome and thoughtful, watches her. There is nothing more for her to say. She feels a wave of nausea, and if she were to continue, she is certain that she would vomit.

  Her next words slip out in slurs. “I can’t help but place this all into a mythical context. I mean, when I try to recall my first memories of learning about Wyn Avuqua—it’s like—it’s like —like my failed marriage. I remember it being something very different than what it was—now I remember new things about it all the time.”

  Albion watches her mouth as she speaks.

  The nausea fades. Her focus sharpens. “I don’t know, Mr. Ravistelle. If Loche is the prophesied Poet, wouldn’t he pack his work with more than a plot and characters? He would indeed lace themes and metaphors into the narrative. Like, well like that quote from Herzog, ‘How might one love a story for what it is not about?’ Newirth’s work is myth. Myths have a lot of different ends, and one not to be overlooked is how we interpret our past by rewriting it to make sense of our present.” Astrid feels the wine massage her headache and ease its pressing. For the first time she holds Albion Ravistelle’s gaze with confidence. “Maybe,” she says, her voice shifting into her wonted lecture cadence, “maybe we missed the wreck and majesty of Wyn Avuqua because we never really understood it—and when we tried, we made excuses, filled in the holes with conjecture and guessing—like something in our heart of hearts felt the city was only imagined, and never truly real. Maybe I missed it because I didn’t know the difference.” She places her empty wine glass down between the Journal and the Red Notebook. “One thing is for certain,” she says to herself, “if Loche Newirth can write a city from out of nothing and into the consciousness of all of us, I for damn sure can accept that everything changes—even the past.”

  A Day In Wyn Avuqua

  1010 A.D.

  The Realm of Wyn Avuqua

  A rare sight: sunlight. It is golden. It reaches into the chamber from a high portal in the stone wall. Julia lies on Loche’s chest. His open hand rests upon her back. He can feel the bones of her spine between her shoulder blades, the gentle thud of her heartbeat and the warmth of her body stretched along his. She has slept. Deeply. This sleep has been perhaps her first relief from the torture of the Rathinalya since Edwin’s fall.

  “Awake?” Loche whispers. She does not stir. He combs his fingers through her hair.

  The fire in the hearth has faded to orange coals. The table beside is still arrayed with meats, cheeses and fruit from the night before. Loche lets his eyes drink in the ray of distant sunlight. He cannot recall the last time he has seen the sun. He cannot remember the last time he felt comfort. Julia’s soft breathing, the scent of her in the air, the soft weight of her hair lying across his skin—he had forgotten this feeling—he realizes how much he has missed the touch of a loved one.

  And today, he muse
s, is a day off. A half scowl, half smile forms at the absurdity of the thought. There is no escape from the nightmare—no turning away from the circumstance he has founded. But the Queen commands.

  Last night’s memory returns. Loche Newirth, the Poet, told his story to the Queen while Edwin and Iteav played with toys in an adjacent room. William took up the story once or twice, as did Julia and Corey. Leonaie Echelle spoke of how she came to be immortal through the efforts of her lover, Samuel Lifeson. She then recounted his tragic death at the hand of the assassin Emil Wishfeill. Helen remained silent. When the Queen asked her if she had words to add Helen replied quietly, “Not yet.”

  When Loche found no more to say, the Queen called for Iteav and the healer, Lornensha, to accompany her while she thought more on these things. She then bade Loche and his companions to take food and to rest. “Helen Newirth, you and your young son, along with William Greenhame and Talan Adamsman, will stay in this Tower. A mother should have time with her son. Like your companions, I feel you are to be trusted only in that your motherhood is true. If there is more to discover, time will show. Be with your son.” Helen’s face flushed with gratitude. The expression seemed odd seated there. “Leonaie Echelle and Corey Thomas—on the morrow, I will have questions. Please enjoy what hospitality Tiris Avu has to offer, but be prepared for my summons.

  “Loche Newirth, Poet,” Loche can almost see the Queen’s green eyes studying his face. “Tomorrow you and Julia Iris will visit Wyn Avuqua, the city you have seen only in your mind’s eye —you will explore the tear that fell from Heaven. Listen to our poets and our musicians. See our homes and our works. Maybe then, Poet, you will find a way to deliver its beauty, and its people from doom.

  “I shall now name you in the tongue of the Itonalya—I shall name you for the new world you herald by your coming here. I name you Aethur, son of William, Poet, and father of God.”

  “The sun is shining,” Julia says. “I’d forgotten what that looks like.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Loche says.

  Julia’s arms squeeze. “Are you ready to see the city?”

  “Not just yet. I’d like to hold you for a while longer.”

  “Good,” she whispers. “Good.”

  A loud knock upon the chamber door startles them both. “My Lord, Aethur?” From the stone hall shouts an enthusiastic and friendly voice, “I have come to show you my home, Wyn Avuqua. A bright day has come and our time is short. The Queen has sent me as your servant.”

  Loche rises. The air is brittle and freezing. He pulls a robe over his shoulders and opens the door to a dark eyed, dark skinned man. He wears the deep grey surcoat and green mantle like those of the Queen’s house, Tiris Avu. Upon his chest, embroidered in silver thread is the full body of a Heron. Circled around the symbol are many runes. The man is slightly shorter than Loche, but stout and seemingly immovable in both stature and his expression.

  “I bid you, good morning,” he grins. “I am Teunwa. Let us take Dellithion’s light as a sign that the storm on our borders is but a passing breeze. And while His light shines, we may feel the delights that my home has to give.”

  The Message In The Stars

  November 14, this year

  Venice, Italy

  5:42 pm CEST

  “Tell me what you see,” Albion asks. He opens the door and allows her to enter.

  Stepping through, Professor Finnley gapes. The walls, the floor and the ceiling are splattered with a spectrum of paint like a psychedelic sky of stars. Tacked upon the starry fields are hundreds of images, ranging from quick pencil sketches to torn out magazine pages and photos, to famous portraits done by master painters. There are canvases upon easels with incomplete images, scattered scribbled notes in a twig-like hand, an unmade bed, two long shelves of LP records and a turn table. Near the center of the room is a round dining table. Upon it is a half full bottle of The Macallan and three empty glasses.

  Astrid feels her breathing quicken. She glances at Fausto and Marcel. Both are awestruck and fascinated. “This is Basil’s studio,” she says to herself. “Loche Newirth wrote of it in the Journal.”

  “It is as he left it,” Albion says. “We have analyzed his process. We have studied his half-finished work. We have tried to understand why he chose to surround himself with certain photos, images and, if you will, inspirations. In truth, we have come away more confused.”

  “What are you looking for?” Astrid asks.

  “I think you know already. Do you not?” Albion smiles. “Loche Newirth.”

  Astrid feels her face frown, “You and the rest of the world, it seems.”

  “We know that Loche, Julia Iris and his son Edwin crossed over the Menkaure omvide.” Albion crosses to a section of wall and points. “What do you make of these?” Below a flurry of paint spatters are three images. One is a sketch of a woman carrying flowers. Underneath is a magazine photo of the pyramids of Giza. A line of paint points to Menkaure pyramid. Finally, there is an image of a woman carrying a pitcher.

  Astrid looks at Albion. “Elpis, Menkaure and Hebe. You should know that.”

  “Of course. Though, I must admit, we somehow missed its meaning.”

  She looks again and tries to understand. Elpis, the Greek goddess of hope. Hebe the Greek goddess of youth. Menkaure pyramid. “I don’t get it,” she says.

  “Nor did we. But now, I believe we do—cryptic though it is. It is a message to Julia Iris.” He waits. He watches Astrid puzzle. He says, “Hebe goddess of youth. Julia… Julia in Latin means youth. And Elpis goddess of hope—”

  Astrid smiles and fills in the blank, “Julia was from Hope. Hope, Idaho.”

  “Yes,” Albion says.

  “So, Basil wanted Julia, and presumedly Loche, to go to Menkaure.”

  “That’s what we believe.”

  A knot clusters tight in her head. She says, “Why?”

  Albion shakes his head.

  “So, let me see if I’m following you. You believe that Basil left a message for Julia so that she would take Loche with her across the most mysterious omvide known—an omvide in which no one has ever reportedly returned from?”

  “That’s what we believe.”

  Astrid watches the immortal’s face. She notes the carved jawline, the peppery eyebrows and the unshakeable focus. Within the countenance, however subtle, is a crease of doubt—a worry. For a moment she thinks she is simply imagining a weakness. But her gut could not be more sure.

  “You want to kill Loche Newirth. That is why you are searching for him.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind,” Albion replies. “I have vacillated over eliminating him, yes. Though, now, I must admit, I simply want to speak with him again.”

  Astrid looks at Marcel and Fausto for a burst of courage. Then to Albion she says, “Talk, huh? You want to make sure he won’t write you out of existence.”

  Albion looks into his wine. “That would be a preferable course for all involved, my dear. You included.”

  Astrid wonders a moment. The addition of you included rattles in her mind.

  “Well, if he’s crossed Menkaure, good luck with that.”

  “Yes,” Albion agrees. “It is troubling. Have you thoughts on Menkaure?”

  She shakes her head, “Not much. But there’s someone here that does.” Albion waits. “Graham Cremo is the expert.”

  “Yes,” Albion says. “Certainly part of the reason he is here.”

  “There is one thing that strikes me,”Astrid says after a beat. “From what I know of Basil Fenn, from the Journal, at least, he doesn’t seem the ancient history type.”

  “You would have been delightfully surprised at Basil’s knowledge,” Albion offers.

  “I’m sure,” Astrid agrees. “But if I’m not mistaken and my math is all wrong, wasn’t Basil dead before a single omvide formed in history? If I’m able to put together this labyrinth of Loche Newirth’s reweaving of time, Basil, before his death, had no knowledge of the power of pyram
idal travel. I mean, just like Wyn Avuqua materialized between the time of Rearden’s capture and now.”

  Albion nods slowly. “I see. And?”

  “Well, wouldn’t that mean that someone else left that message?”

  Pocket Diary Entry # 6

  November 14, 1010 A.D.

  The Realm of Wyn Avuqua

  Two hours after sundown (4:30?)

  Our city guide, the ebullient Teunwa, has finally solved the mystery of the date.

  November 14th, 1010 AD

  4:30pm (I’m guessing.)

  —

  I am reminded of lines from the movie, Gladiator—

  Marcus Aurelius: And what is Rome, Maximus ?

  Maximus: I’ve seen much of the rest of the world. It is brutal and cruel and dark, Rome is the light.

  Since my arrival here in this time, I have seen cruelty and brutal darkness. I have witnessed the human condition crushed beneath the weight of ignorance and violence. Though I’ve not ventured into this world as the character Maximus, I have read my share about life in this time in history—and I can now say, remarkably, I have lived within in it—albeit, if only for a few days.

  This is a time when surviving birth is truly a blessing. And living passed the age of seven is considered lucky. Mothers often die of infection. Winters and starvation kill entire villages. When pestilence and disease come, it is the wrath of some malevolent deity or some ontological retribution for sins. Medical remedies are ruled by the planets, spices and herbs, and the careful balance of bile, phlegm and blood. Nights are lightless and cold. Beyond the rivers, or the hills, or the walls that surround your home, there are demons and barbarians and monsters. Journeys are perilous. Water is poisonous. The ocean, if it is real, has an edge that drops off into the stars. War, murder and justice are somehow all related. And to speak out against the way of the world is to risk your life and your soul to eternal damnation, for the will of Almighty God is perfect, predetermined and beyond contestation. And though love exists, and the promise of hope, this is a dismal time in human history. It is brutal and dark and cruel.