The Shape of Rain

by Michael B. Koep

  It is astonishing to recognize how belief in a supernatural god had kept these horrors alive for so many centuries. How thoughts and prayers were thought to contain a strength beyond education and personal action; how the baby steps to science were blasphemous; how women were subjugated and dehumanized; how the rich could wage war under the banner of God and the poor would die for it. Think of it.

  It is unsettling to think that in my own time many of these issues still cloud humanity’s growth. It is certain that we have made great strides against plague, war and famine. Science, individual thought and human rights have become cornerstones to the architecture of our technological age. But have things changed that much? In the twenty-first entury are we still haunted by our medieval ghosts?

  I would argue that we are haunted. Women are still striving to attain equal footing with their male counterparts. The upper classes and the elite still hold the reins of war. Plague and disease are now under the firm hand of science (save a few holistic holdouts from the organic, old world), yet instead of ubiquitous and universal health for all, illness is monetized. The racial and religious wars from the ancient world are still under the spell of vengeful, historical vendettas. Instead of famine, our foods are processed, sugar infused and addictive. Though we are educated well beyond a medieval royal, for example, we are blinded by an age where information is so available and ever-present, it has become nearly impossible to discern fact from fiction. The educated have become mistrusted and ignorance is celebrated. So like our Medieval ancestors, a unified knowledge, and faith in that collective cannon is still out of reach.

  But then there is Wyn Avuqua. If Rome was the light, Wyn Avuqua must be the sun.

  Now the moon rests on the ridge line above the western gate. As I write this, Julia lies on a cushion in what we are calling our Avu Tower apartment. Her eyes are closed. Her cloak is pulled across her body like a blanket. The fire is warm, and its light flutters into the corners and along the ceiling.

  And what a day it was. Our lively guide, Teunwa, had clothing for us to wear so that our visit through the city would not draw too much attention. For Julia he brought an insulating chemise, smooth and soft, and over that, a long woven evergreen frock with a high neck—simple, beautiful and functional. The sleeves were long and its hem rested just above her feet. He suggested that she wear her own boots for he did not anticipate anyone would notice. From a box he lifted a belt of linked metal flowers crafted to look like the heads of white and yellow daisies or deliavu as he called them. Hanging from the belt was a leather pouch. Perfect purse sized, Julia had said. To finish the ensemble Teunwa provided a body length cloak with a deep hood. Its dark green hue nearly black.

  I was given a similar cloak, a warm undershirt of some soft cotton-like material, a green billowy-sleeved long waisted tunic with wooden leaf buttons, and a muted yellow-gold waistcoat. The pants earthen-toned made of some mixture of wool and cotton. I was also given a thick belt with a leaf shaped buckle and a leather pouch. “Man-purse sized,” I said to Julia.

  As I pulled the clothes on and noted their artistry and careful making, I couldn’t help but think of William Greenhame and his fastidious and eccentric mode of dress. Between my receptionist Carol and myself, we looked forward to seeing what William would wear at each visit to my office. I remember calling him an antique shopper. I remember diagnosing him with Schizotypal Personality Disorder along with obvious Narcissistic Defenses. Now I see him quite differently. Now, he is simply an immortal man over six-hundred-years-old (recently beheaded and healed) with a knack for fashion and doing the best he can with all of it. Now, he is my father.

  Once we were dressed we joined Teunwa in the great hall for an Itonalya breakfast, which consisted of a moist flat bread, a sharp cheese and sweet huckleberries. The tea was dark—robust—almost like coffee.

  He then led us through Tiris Avu’s main gate and out beneath a frozen blue sky.

  Every few moments I would feel fear rise—the danger that surrounded us. I would fear for Edwin. Several times during the day I turned my attention back to the Avu wanting to return—to check on him—to make sure he was okay. Teunwa, sensing my dismay, would place a hand on my shoulder, “Your son is with his mother and your father, William Greenhame. Do not fear. The Queen commands, come…” Teunwa’s confident and enthusiastic tone served as a kind of balm—just enough for me to shove aside the menacing peril lurking beyond the walls. And the deeper we ventured into the City of Immortals, it seemed those periods of fear lessened. For the utopia that is Wyn Avuqua has a power I cannot fully comprehend, and an enchantment beyond my ability to describe.

  —Teunwa seats us behind him on a single horse drawn wagon.

  —Fountains. So many fountains. Basins of marble and grey stone.

  —High misty plumes of water. Waterfalls cascade from rising hill tops-from towering clusters of slate and granite.

  —Grey-blue sculptures of herons perch on arches, hunt in wide green pools, nest in column niches and along lines of carved runes.

  —Solemn marble Itonalya Sentinels hold posts at crossings.

  —Yellow-gold leaves whorl on the breeze like schools of tiny fish.

  —There is a trace of chill in the sunshine.

  —Canal traffic—oared boats made of redwood.

  —Roads are of smooth stones edged in mossy green.

  —Carts roll past drawn by stout horses.

  —We pass village squares. Clean, quaint. The smell of bread, woodsmoke and autumn leaves.

  —An unseen single voice sings a happy melody.

  —Teunwa drives our cart through Shartiris in the South.

  —The pinging hammers of the armory. Inside, the bellows dragon breathes and wafts its heat out to the road as we roll by.

  —We see long stone buildings, and training grounds, and markets with weapons, armor and banners of grey upon which are embroidered clawing talons.

  —Rising out of the earth is the Shar Temple obelisk. It shines in the morning light like a silver blade.

  —Lines of armored figures pass us bearing pikes and long swords march toward the outer walls. Stern faces both female and male.

  —We cross beneath another marble arch into Vifeatiris, the House of Wings—the western quadrant.

  —Banners of deep blue with a pair of white, wide-feathered wings slap at the high wind.

  —Architecture shifts from angular to lyrical.

  —We circle around a massive tree. The tips of its branches still fluttering yellow-gold leaves. They seem to glow against the sky. It is the largest tree I have ever seen.

  “Behold,” Our guide said, “Aldyar. The Hope Tree.” He looked up and sighed at it. “A wonder, is it not? It is believed a god fell from the sky and was caught by this tree.”

  Julia said, “A god fell here? Into the city of Immortals? Into the city of godkillers? Bad luck.”

  Teunwa laughed, “Yes, so the story goes. Bad luck one might think, but Mellithion let him live. The god was Ressca. Ressca taught us how to hope, how to feel both sorrow and joy to its fullest.” He stared at the high limbs for a long time. Finally he said, “A story for another time. Come.”

  We followed.

  —Each dwelling has the sinuous quality of a middle eastern temple or a European cathedral. Even the pathways curl and coil almost without order—and yet, the way is easily navigable.

  —There are more voices on the air raised in song.

  —Teunwa tells stories—fills in gaps—speaks incessantly. He is delighted to share.

  “These are our houses of worship,” he told us. “This is where we learn how to breathe through each day, each year, each century.” He speaks of meditation, of loving action, of unity, of harmony with the earth. “We will not die,” he tells us, “so we will nurture the earth, the people, and the places we live toward beauty and longevity. Some of us believe that your mortal kind will one day learn how to live the lives you have as opposed to your wonted desire to live for an afterlife. T
his teaching is not an easy task.”

  I noticed elderly men and women in the shops, upon balconies, walking along the paths. Children, too.

  “Mortals live here, Teunwa ?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said. “We teach them how to see beyond their curse, they teach us how to see beyond ours.”

  I saw people of all races—the world gathered. Some mortal, some immortal.

  —We cross into the northern quadrant of Keptiris, the House of Mind. Again, the heraldry changes to a long beaked heron head on a field of emerald green.

  —More fountains surge in gardens. They spill into canals.

  —Teunwa stops the cart at a high steepled long house.

  We were greeted by a tall, hazel-eyed Itonalya man and his wife. His wife appears much older, obviously mortal. Years tug at the wrinkles beside her eyes. The two are friends of Teunwa and we were invited to take food and drink.

  I watched Julia study the couple. It is easy to see that she was trying to empathize with the tragedy of love between a mortal and an Itonalya. She held my hand tighter while we listened to their stories. She tried to hide her teary eyes.

  They offered us salted meats, and warm bread and butter. Our cups were filled with a honey mead, but its sweetness was muted and replaced with a delicious hoppy finish. The flavor sensuous. After a few sips the alcohol tingled into my limbs. I was reminded of the Itonalya scotch.

  They told us about the deep libraries of Keptiris—the scribes and the scholars and the schools. They spoke of some of the most learned mortal minds that have left their homes to study here at Wyn Avuqua.

  —More soldiers cross beneath distant stone arches toward the northern gate. A faraway bell clangs.

  “They go to the watches,” the immortal man said. He then asked Teunwa. “What news from Tiris Avu? They say the Godrethion army has grown yet again. There is rumor that a truce is to be made.”

  Teunwa shook his head. “I do not know enough to tell,” he said to his friend.

  “We must not allow them to live,” the man’s face frowned angrily. “It is against all that we are. Why have we not ridden to meet them?”

  “The Queen will bring the will of Thi. She will be faithful to the old ways.”

  The man’s wife said, “What if they breach the walls. What if they…” Terror arrests her voice.

  “Do not fear, wife,” her husband said with surety, though when he looked to Teunwa, Loche thought he detected a shared shadow of doubt between them. “The Wyn Avuquain walls will shield us.”

  —Pale grey clouds throw their shadows over the western peaks. In the afternoon, we enter into the final quadrant, Vastiris, the House of Heart—banners of black with a centered white heart.

  —Here live the artists, poets, writers and musicians.

  —Here stands a coliseum, perhaps the brother to the structure in Pompeii.

  —There are workshops, storefronts, sculptures, more fountains, ale houses, tall stone turrets that Teunwa calls readeries, (structures designed specifically for writers to read their works to audiences).

  “This is where I live,” our guide told us. He points to a hill and a cluster of low timber houses—their colors match the autumn reds and golds of the season.

  For thousands of years Wyn Avuqua has prospered and remained relatively undetected by the outside world. They have dwelled in peace with both the landscape and the indigenous tribes of the region since its first stones were stacked by the First Born tribe—in a time too far back for me to grasp. As we return to the gate at Tiris Avu, Teunwa told us that members of every race, people of every age, and the Itonalya have lived and learned together here. “The only footprint of our existence here should be seen in the preservation of love, knowledge and beauty. There is no higher aim. The footprint of our city is indeed no footprint at all—it is an eye that searches eternity for our place in it.”

  I could spend the rest of my life here.

  But—

  To know the doom that awaits—the horror crouching just outside the walls. We travelers from the future know the outcome. My hand shakes as I write.

  This is one story’s ending I know…

  Where is Basil? What are we doing here?

  I hear someone coming—

  The Sun Room

  November 14, this year

  Venice, Italy

  6:22 pm CEST

  “I thought we were going to see Graham,” Astrid says. Her hands tremble. She recognizes the symbol on the control panel’s metal casing—or at least, she read about it in Loche’s Journal. Above a single lit button is an embossed crescent moon opening over a ladder. She points at it.

  Albion nods and places his hand on her shoulder. “We will visit Mr. Cremo in due time.” He notices her shaking hands. “Professor, do not be afraid. Your intuition and memory serve you. Behind this door are the works of Basil Pirrip Fenn. Behind this door is the answer you’ve longed to know your entire life: Is there a Hereafter?” He smiles. “I suppose you may be growing weary of revelation after revelation—but the answer is yes.” The smile fades, “At least for now. At least while Loche’s word remains…”

  “I—” Astrid starts. A sudden fear grips her. She imagines how Loche described the effects of Basil’s work—The Silk—infinity—madness. “I don’t want to—”

  “Please, Professor, Fausto, young Marcel, do not be afraid. You will not look upon the full face of God this evening. But you may, if you choose, peek through a parted curtain to see a blade of grass upon the fields of Elysium.”

  Astrid stares.

  “We have found a way to show Basil’s art through a kind of filter. Each painting contains what the artist called a Center. After many failed trials, we have found a way to unveil Heaven without destroying the mind of the viewer.”

  Albion presses the button three times. The elevator descends.

  “Of course, the experience is unforgettable. Disturbing for some, for others thrilling beyond measure—but without doubt, different for all. For our plight, as Loche has so aptly described, your eyes will bleed human imperfection into Paradise. However, what once caused a crippling mental break, now brings wisdom —or something near to it.”

  “My friend,” Fausto’s voice quavers, “I do not want to see what my heart tells me I should not.”

  Albion’s laugh is light, “As I have said, Fausto, do not fear. You do not have to look. You may if you wish. I bring you to the Sun Room to simply show you the truth. It is your choice to see it or to look away.”

  The elevator halts. The doors slide open. A blinding white light forces all but Albion to squint. He gestures for them to enter, “Behold, the Sun room.”

  It is just as Loche described. A round room of indeterminate size. Massive. Pillars, Roman numerals embossed into the marble floor, and around the perimeter are what looks like a thousand curtained windows. Astrid feels her skin tingle into gooseflesh. Behind each curtain is one of Basil’s paintings.

  “Over the last few days we have had a great many people viewing the Painter’s work. Those that were sick in heart and mind have found comfort and health. Others have found madness and pain. But now we have found a way to shield the viewer from any permanent harm—and we can share the truth with those who will help to reshape our dying world.”

  “The masquerade ball?” Astrid asks.

  “The masquerade ball, yes.” Albion agrees. “Our attempt at the Uffizi to share the work was shortsighted. This time we hope to elude the press as best we can, conceal the participants through an age old device: a mask. In the Grand Ballroom on the main floor we will present fifty of Basil’s works. Then we shall lead the revelers down to the Sun Room to see the wealth of the Hereafter that we have taken as our own. Our guests are the most powerful people in the world. With the aid of these political and economic leaders, we will start the motor of the world. The gathering will be the beginning to a new consciousness. A New Earth.”

  “What of the Orathom Wis?” Marcel asks. “You m
ust expect their resistance.”

  Albion waves his hand, “The Orathom Wis were the first on the invitation list. What is left of them, that is. Their resistance? It is possible, though I am of the mind they will understand our kinship is now more important than our differences. We shall come together. It is inevitable.”

  Astrid’s eyes are now adjusted to the glaring white of the space. She turns her body in a circle as she walks into the room’s center scanning the curtains covering eternity. Her body freezes when she sees one of the niche’s curtained shields parted. At a distance she sees a painting upon an easel. She quickly averts her eyes.

  “Ah,” Albion says. “The only work in the Sun Room that does not require a shroud, though, I dare say, it should. Also, the only work here that is not of Basil Fenn’s hand.”

  Astrid begins walking toward the piece. The others follow. As the black and red swirl of it sharpens, she sees the content. Upon the canvas is the depiction of a murder. Astrid easily reads who is who. The victim is Bethany Winship. The killer is Rearden. Astrid tries to look away, only to swivel back to the thing’s leering, bleeding, vicious embrace. She feels as if she’s seen the painting before, if only in her mind. Loche’s description scrolls in her memory: Twisting in hues of red and black—a monstrous, lurid smile, lips of thin blood like scars mingled with gargantuan, murderous eyes bearing down upon another face, a pale, sleeping form. Bethany Winship. Around her throat are gripping, claw-like fingers. A wounded, bleeding sunset fills the background glowering down and mirroring itself upon a still body of water. Reflecting in the water are the two figures, but instead of the foreground’s strangling embrace, the figures are intertwined and intimate—delicate and pure. The right corner of the work holds a signature—L. Newirth. And below that, the title—Marcus Rearden, Murderer.

  Astrid shakes her head and turns away.

  Albion stops beside her and continues to examine the work. “Magnificent, is it not?”