“Is something wrong?” Astrid asks. “I was expecting the silence, flash, gone thing. Am I doing this wrong? What about the Center—isn’t that a part—”
“Silence,” Albion hisses.
Their host scans the portrait. Marcel faces the painting. “Wow,” he says scanning the work. “This Basil is good.”
“Mr. Ravistelle?” Astrid says.
Albion does not respond. Another few seconds pass. Finally he says, “Chiudi dieci.” The curtain closes.
Something has gone wrong, Astrid cannot help but think. Albion abruptly turns on his heel and starts toward the elevators. “Come,” he commands. “We will return to viewing Basil’s work tomorrow evening.”
Astrid follows. “Is there a reason I could not see—”
“It is possible our precautions have abated the work’s potency. I will say no more until we look into the matter further.”
Locked
November 14th, 1010 A.D.
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua
(late evening or early morning)
Close your eyes
Have no fear
The monster’s gone
He’s on the run and your daddy’s here
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
Beautiful boy
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
Beautiful boy
The song wakes him.
He hears his voice murmuring the words.
There is a deep indigo glow from two shoulder high openings in the circular parapet. From where he is lying, Loche sees stains on the heavy wooden door, and remembers why his fingers burn and sting. He can see where he has scrabbled with his fingernails into the wood beside the hinges; where he has torn the pads of his fingers to bloody shreds trying to claw his way free. Splinters. Cuts. Black smears and splatters on the wall, on the door, on the floor beside his face.
There is a similar pain in his throat, too. As if he has somehow swallowed a mouthful of sand. When he mumbles John Lennon’s lullaby melody, the flavor of blood and a searing pain rises. He knows it is because he has been screaming. Crying. Pleading. His voice finally broke. His body finally fell.
And yet, the door remains locked.
Before you go to sleep
Say a little prayer
Every day in every way, it’s getting better and better
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
Beautiful boy
Julia’s father had a song for his daughter. A lovely lullaby to help her fall to sleep. A single star, Loche remembers. And his own father, William, had a lullaby for his sons. The melody hauntingly similar to the one now vibrating in Loche’s throat. But William’s lyrics were different. Right now, Loche cannot catch those words. He wishes he could ask his father to sing to him now. He wishes his father could sing to Edwin.
Edwin’s face flashes into his mind and an electric jolt sears through him. He screams. He reaches for the door to dig into the hinges again. But just as his arms rise, they drop and thud to the cold stone.
And yet, the door remains locked.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
Beautiful boy
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
Beautiful boy
And then, Vincale is there. A single torch flame flutters. Shadows jitter. The immortal is crouching before him, his free hand gently touching Loche’s cheek.
“Aethur?” he says. “Poet?”
Loche sees him. He puzzles how the figure entered the small chamber without notice. He hears his own voice like stones in a paper sack.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
Beautiful boy.
Vincale speaks, but Loche is not entirely sure he hears the words. He is not entirely sure Vincale is really before him. To test his perception, Loche throws a bloodied hand toward Vincale’s face. The Captain of the Guard catches the hand with his own. Concern crowds around the immortal’s eyes. Slowly he frees Loche’s bleeding fingers.
“Aethur?” he says again. “Harken to me. If there can be any comfort in this hellish time, may I offer it? I come on two errands. First, I bring tidings from the Queen. She bade me tell you that at midday tomorrow, you will witness the death of your son from this tower, and Wyn Avuqua and the Godrethion Army shall witness both Edwin’s death and your anguish. There is no other way. It is both our mandate, Thi’s fate and our only hope of survival. This sacrifice will save our race from oblivion.”
A sound of fury gurgles from Loche’s mouth, but it is distant and weak. Paralysis. Torture. Hatred. His hand rises toward the voice. A pathetic attempt to strike. Vincale catches the bloody fist and holds it.
He says as if to himself, “The only comfort I can offer you is this: the boy will have no knowledge of what is to come. He will not feel pain. He will not feel fear. He shall wear the Death Mask—the Ithicsazj—the inside of which is coated with oils and herbs to calm, to ease, to free…” Vincale leans his face to Loche’s. “I swear to you, Aethur, Edwin will feel nothing. He will only feel light and hope.”
Loche cannot move his legs. He is sobbing. Saliva strings from his lips. Needles of wood are scattered below the hinges where his fingers have dug into the door.
Still, the door remains locked.
Out on the ocean
Sailing away
I can hardly wait
To see you come of age
But I guess we’ll both just have to be patient.
Vincale takes his eyes from Loche and lowers them to the floor. “With all of my heart—with all of my light—my soul bleeds for you, Poet. You have my pity.”
After a moment, he gently lowers Loche’s hand and lets it go. He then reaches into his cloak.
“Before we part, Aethur, I bring a gift from one of your companions. A gift from Leonaie Echelle. The Queen herself has agreed that you should have this, for I am told, Leonaie Echelle has carried it with her since her lover, the immortal Orathom Wis Samuel Lifeson was killed. I do not know the full tale, but I am told that Leonaie Echelle used this as a weapon to defend him against his assassins. I am commanded that only you are to see it.”
Vincale lays a black velvet bag beside Loche. It is just slightly larger than a thin paperback novel. Loche tilts his head at it. Dread rises from out of his gut. Adrenaline stabs light into his optic nerves. He imagines fine strings of silk coiling up from the object.
“Leonaie Echelle says it was made by your brother, the Painter. The Queen believes that it may aid you in the darkness ahead—that it may in some way assuage the sacrifices that you have authored. Galinna. Galinna, Aethur.”
Vincale rises. The door opens. Vincale exits without turning. The door shuts out the torchlight. Keys rattle securing the lock.
Before you cross the street
Take my hand
Life is what happens to you
While you’re busy making other plans.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
Beautiful boy
The black rectangle weighs almost nothing. The weight of air, perhaps. The weight of Heaven. Inside is a painting by Basil Pirrip Fenn of Sandpoint, Idaho. A curious artist. A dedicated artist. A dead artist. Inside the black bag is a door. Behind that door, Basil will be waiting.
Loche stares at the covered painting and mumbles. “Julia, I found him. He was here after all. Here in this locked cell. Here where I am no more.”
He reaches into the bag, pulls the rectangular painting out, and turns it over like a key in a lock.
A Bed and a Book
November 14, this year
Venice, Italy
7:21 pm CEST
Albion leads Astrid, Marcel and Fausto up a dark stairwell, across a long oak paneled room to another stair. He holds a lit candlestick.
“Graham Cremo?” Astrid says. Her tone is frustrated.
“No,” Albion replies. “He is resting currently. Dr. Catena believes that your reunion with Graham Cremo should wait until morning. We shall obey the good doctor.”
As
trid protests, “Mr. Ravistelle—”
Albion stops halfway up the stair forcing his guests to halt behind him. Astrid falls silent. He does not turn. “My dear Professor Finnley,” he says calmly, forebodingly, “I clearly heard my voice. Did you not hear me? No. In the morning we shall consider bringing you together with Graham Cremo.” His tone reminds Astrid of how she might respond to a haughty student: calm, firm, and nearly ready to explode. She was not prepared for the effect of the scolding. She felt like the haughty student.
He remains still for several seconds. The candle flame whispers. Finally, he begins to ascend the stairs again.
Albion opens a door to a warm, amber lit suite overlooking the canal. The spires of the basilica are framed in the window. Upon a table in the living room is an overlarge book. Its cover is aged and flaking.
“Tonight you shall sleep in my house, Professor.” He gestures to the book, “And more reading for you. As a lover of books, I believe this one will interest you greatly.”
Astrid moves to it. “It is the Toele,” her voice quaking.
“It is one of two surviving—though, given what we are learning from the dig site at Wyn Avuqua, this volume may have lost some of its value. Nevertheless, I believe it will hold your interest.”
Albion turns to Marcel, “You shall sleep in the next room. I have a few items there that will interest you, as well.”
Marcel nods.
Astrid stares at the book. Her temples ache. Her body is exhausted.
“And Fausto,” Albion starts, “I understand that you must return to your shop.”
Fausto nods meekly, “Yes. I have finishing touches to make to Helen’s mask so that it will be ready for tomorrow’s revelry.” He bows. “My other responsibility, too. I work tonight at the museum.”
“Of course,” Albion says. “One must do one’s job.” He motions for Fausto and Marcel to leave the room. “Goodnight, Astrid. Tomorrow we shall speak to Graham about what he knows of Menkaure—and where he thinks good Dr. Loche Newirth has disappeared to. Goodnight.”
When the door closes Astrid’s attention drifts from the book to the view out the window, then back to the book. She removes her long coat and lays it on the chair. She sits and leans back. She starts to cry for reasons she cannot quite put a finger on.
Moments later, she is asleep. Basil Fenn’s portrait of the homesick and lonely woman hangs in the architecture of her dreams. The body of Graham Cremo lies before her stretched out on a hospital bed. He is unconscious. His face as pale as an Ithicsazj.
Silence. Flash. Goodbye.
1010 A.D.
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua
—I’m right here, he hears his brother’s voice say.
The walls of his cell are still rough and slate gray. The floor is ice cold. Through the ports the sky is now a coat of nighttime sable. Nothing has changed. He saw the Silk. He felt the vertigo of the painting vaulting him through the Center. But his prison has not altered.
—Loche…The voice again. He turns, and sitting beside him is Basil Pirrip Fenn. You look like shit.
—Are you…Loche starts, are you really there?
—Ah, good one. Are you fucking with me? You’ve been saying that since the day we met—or the day you wrote me.
—Have I crossed over? Are we in the Orathom?
—I am, Basil answers. But you appear to be a little different than before. Tell me, what do you see?
Loche’s gaze circles.
—Stone blocks. High openings like windows. A high tower prison.
Basil nods.
—Fuck. Bummer. Not me. I am sitting just were we left off. I am watching lights from the sky strike down like lightning in the center of your old city—Wyn Avuqua. I’m still on the side of a pyramid.
—I don’t understand.
—Don’t get me started.
Basil touches Loche’s shoulder. A fountain of gentle sparks crackle along his arms to his wrists and across his back. For a moment, the floor and walls become transparent as if they were made of clear crystal. He can now see what Basil is seeing. It is the fall of the City of Immortals. It is the sight he recalls from their last meeting.
—My son, Edwin… Loche cries.
—What’s happened? Basil asks.
—My story—my art—it is taking his life.
Basil looks away.
—They are going to kill him, Basil. They are going to kill him. It is because of me. Because of what I’ve done. Because of my story.
Uncontrollable sobs heave from Loche’s heart.
Basil nods. Worry, frustration and anger battle for places in his expression.
—Of course. Of course that’s happening, he says after a moment. Every sacrifice for one’s art—in life and death. Even here—suffering has made it through the Center. If you want to know what the afterlife is facing—it is the terror you’re feeling now. Fear. There is no escaping it, yet.
—I cannot stop it, Basil. They have me locked away. Even if I could escape, I am just one man.
Purple and yellow bands of light, like coiled ribbons on the wind, surge from the sky to the city.
—There must be some reason you wanted us here, Basil. Your message for Julia—the message you left for her to find in your studio…
—What message?
Loche stares at his brother.
—You didn’t leave a message for Julia to come to this place? She said she found a message that was for her and her only… In your studio in Venice. Basil?
—Not me.
—But she… she was certain.
Basil continues to stare down the pyramid. Violet spears of light thrust down into the southern quadrant of Shartiris. Flames and smoke rise.
—I am sorry, Brother. It was not me. If I had to guess, I’d say somebody else wanted you to come here. For what, I don’t know. But there’s a reason for everything. I know that sounds fucking stupid, but there’s truth in it. You were meant to be here.
He stands and offers Loche a hand up. What should feel like sloped footing is actually the solid stone floor of his prison beneath his feet. But his sight shows him the angled line of pyramid blocks.
—And Edwin? Man, I wish I knew. All I can say is this is your story, you get to say when its over. You get to choose the ending—even if you choose for it not to end—it’s your call. From where I am, I can see how we bounce around in time and place searching for beginnings and endings, the hows and whys—but there’s no way to see the end until we are making it.
A sad smile drifts onto his lips,
—And I suggest never making an end…if you can manage it. Whatever happens, Loche, you need to own it. Get free. Find a way to remake it. You are where you are supposed to be. Edwin is where he is supposed to be.
Basil turns his face to Loche.
—I have found a way to close the Center. I found a way.
He smiles. Long dark curls frame his face.
—You were right, he continues. And I am where I am supposed to be. I can find my art from here—and only I can close the doors. Hopefully soon, I’ll have them all shut forever.
He pauses and watches a massive battering ram breech the east gate of the city.
—What that means for the afterlife, I don’t know. Maybe it means there will be no difference between where you are and where I am. I wonder if that will change things?
Loche closes his eyes. He tries to find an image of Edwin smiling.
—We are the last great mythic story, Loche. We are characters in the final myth to end all myths. Maybe after us, humankind might consider a different way of living. Who knows, with Heaven gone, maybe the idea of ending suffering might be truly worth considering. Imagine it. A new earth. A mythology for a new earth.
He touches Loche again. Again a trillion sparks tingle through his chest.
—You may say I’m a dreamer, Basil says. But I’m not the only one.
—Own it, Brother. Get free. You make the ending you want. Try to figure out wh
y your story exists in the first place. I don’t know if we’ll ever see each other again. If we do, it will be here in this strange place between a painting and the eye. Or between the pages of a book. I guess that’s where we can always meet. It’s where we always have… I’ll be right here.
Light winks out. The cold chamber is dark again save for a pale moon glow. In his hands is a rectangular canvas frame.
The image on the canvas is a self-portrait of Basil. In the dimness it is difficult to see color, but the brush strokes are fluid and painterly, almost sketched. Loche stares at the rendering and is reminded of the first time he met Basil beside Priest Lake. He stood on the beach with his hands stuffed into the pockets of a brown corduroy jacket smelling of cigarettes and patchouli. On his head was a green stocking hat. His breath steamed in the cold air. The big deep heavy.
Scribbled in the corner of the work is Basil’s signature. Loche then scans for the pinhole of light that bridges this life and the next. A stab of panic rises when he realizes that it is not there. The door had been closed. The Center on this painting is no more.
The Art that Changes Us
November 15, this year
Venice, Italy
9:35 pm CEST
Tap, tap, tap.
Astrid is startled out of a deep sleep. It takes her a few moments to recall where she is. The gothic arch of the window, the lit spires of the cathedral across the canal, the ancient book on the floor beside her chair—she shakes her head and says to herself, “In the house of Albion Ravistelle.”
Tap, tap, tap.
She rises. Her back aches. She crosses the room to the door. “Yes?” she says. “Who is it?”
“Professor?” a quiet voice whispers from the hall, “Professor Finnley? Please forgive the interruption, may we speak? My name is Howard Fenn. I am Basil Fenn’s Stepfather.”
Astrid opens the door to discover an elderly man seated in a wheelchair. A red and gold blanket is draped over his knees. A document bag hangs by its leather strap from the chair’s handles. His eyes are friendly and tired. “Please forgive my sudden visit—but I feel that our time to speak privately before tomorrow’s event will be somewhat limited—and things change so fast…” He takes a quick look from side to side. “May we speak together?” Whispering he adds, “We may not have much time.”
The Shape of Rain Page 35
