The Shape of Rain

by Michael B. Koep

“And thus my punishment shall equal my sin,” She tells them.

  “What sin?” The House of Heart demands. “We were betrayed!”

  “Nay!” House of Wings shouts above the others, “Nay, you cannot commit this. This is madness.”

  Yafarra listens and watches the Heron. She leans her sword against the tomb. She removes her greaves, her cloak and breastplate. After a few moments the Templar voices fall silent. They watch her slowly unclasp the gorget from her white throat. When she unties her gambeson and lets it fall to her feet, she raises her face.

  When Astrid looks up there is no vaulted stone cathedral. All above are eyes. Tiny pinpricks of stars. Yafarra commands the Heron, “After you enclose me within, take my armor to the Avu. Then return, bid me farewell—and if the Heron survives this storm, come for me. But do not let them in. Do not tell the secret. I will defend the answer through eternity. The Prophecy leads to life—we cannot allow our children to bear our sins. We must save them. Gallina.”

  Heart and Wings arrange the bed. Mind and Talons raise her up and lay her down. Her sword they rest upon her breast. Each in turn touch their fingertips to her forehead.

  Gallina.

  Quantum entanglement moves faster than light.

  “Afa?”

  Cythe’s sword rises from out of the scabbard. A short sword. Its sharp edge cuts the air. Heavy. Made to hack limbs from the body. A weapon made to send Itonalya to oblivion. Astrid’s study of the weapon rises to the creature’s eyes. Pupils like two green, whirling vortexes made to devour light. To end it.

  “Afa? Mama?”

  Yafarra’s body tenses and her head raises up at the sound of the words on the air, “Afa? Mama?” She stretches, turning her face upward.

  “Mama? Mama mia?”

  The yearning and pained call pulls Astrid’s attention to see a man standing at the top of the stairs. He says again, “Afa? Mama, mama mia?” in such a way that pierces Astrid’s heart. He looks familiar to her suddenly. He is tall. Lanky. Orange, unruly hair. A face that is strangely structured. His lips are long and thin as if they were made of string. The shape of tears streak down his cheeks. Alessandro, she remembers. Alessandro the gondolier. Fausto’s friend. He draws a rapier.

  Cythe says, “George. George Eversman. What fortune. Today I not only take the mother—I shall also take the son.”

  “Mama?” George says heedless to the Devil’s taunting.

  “Iteav gzate a thebre! a thebre!” Yafarra cries. “Iteav! Iteav! Iteav!”

  The Poet and His Immortals

  November 16, this year

  Venice, Italy

  7:53 pm CEST

  Loche takes Julia’s hand. He turns his hooded face to her, “It’s time,” he says. “It is time to make an end of all of this.” He leads her from the rear of the crowd into the circle of paintings and joins the armed immortals under the lights. In passing Loche notices the hazel eyes of Leonaie, the caring brown eyes of Corey Thomas, Athelstan’s peculiar stance, Alice of Bath’s round shape, and Adam Talansman’s towering frame. And others he seems to recognize, too, despite their masks. He comes to a halt beside his father, William Greenhame. Facing the podium, Loche pulls back his hood. The Itonalya react almost simultaneously with fearful exhales of wonder seeing his choice of disguise: the Ithicsazj. The purplish-blue pallor of the face and the blood tear running along the cheek almost forces the immortals to take a step away from the Poet as if he were generating a spine tearing Rathinalya.

  William pronounces to Lynn Eastman, “May I present the Poet, Aethur. My dear son, Loche Newirth. The Poet has come!”

  Albion turns to Loche. His masked face cannot hide a sudden humility and willing obedience. “Mr. Newirth,” he says bowing his head. “Ever have you ruled the pages upon which we appear. Make for us now an end to be told over and over again, until the world believes it was we that made it new.”

  Loche says, “Protect my brother’s art. Protect the innocent. Protect each other. I have come to defend all you have done, all you will do and all they will say of you.” Loche’s sword slides from out of its umbrella casing. “Where is Marcus Rearden?”

  From behind Eastman comes a familiar voice. “Good evening, Loche,” Dr. Marcus Rearden says. “I think you may have lost control of your story.”

  The Bane of Immortality

  November 16, this year

  Venice, Italy

  7:53 pm CEST

  George Eversman’s wiry frame snaps from the top of the stairs to Cythe like a flung rubber band. Yafarra wriggles forward onto her belly and reaches for the steps above her. Astrid rolls to one side to protect her, and tries to pull her upward. At the same time she reaches a hand down to Graham. His eyes are open. The guard he had tackled is now standing and hurling his baton at George Eversman. The guard misses his target. Graham grabs the man’s ankle and trips him over the railing.

  George falls upon the Devil and they cluster into an embrace. A moment later they tumble down to the base of the stairs. George pounds his fists into Cythe’s chest and face, sending mists of blood into the air. Security guards join the fray to assist Cythe in restraining George’s seemingly mindless ferocity. They wedge the two apart.

  “The Angofal is mine,” Cythe shouts climbing to his feet, “The Chal is mine and mine alone.” The two guards let them free and cower back as if from the lashing of a whip.

  George whirls away and stands. He glances up the stairs at his mother, then back to Nicholas. His expression is something Astrid cannot quite place. It is partly blank, partly halcyon. As Cythe raises his sword and dagger in preparation for George to attack, George stands with his arms at his side, his blade point down, and his head slightly tilted. He studies his opponent with thoughtful curiosity. One moment it seems as if he is indifferent and aloof, the next, he appears to be having a kind of revelation —a quickening. The brown pools of his eyes brighten.

  “Come, Iteav,” The Devil says. “The sea calls for your head. The sea hungers for the head of your mother. Let us feed it.”

  “Tell me, Cy,” George says. “What happens after? What is there for us when we, the Itonalya, fall? When the sea takes us?”

  A peculiar gleam flashes in Cythe’s gyring irises as if the revelation of George had crossed between them. A tugging, troubling question.

  “What will existence be without you, I wonder?” smiles George. Nicholas Cythe’s mouth opens to respond but George cuts him off. “Oh, I know.” George waits. He again traces from Cythe’s feet to the top of his head. “I know, no more fear.”

  Astrid sees George move between two blinks. The speed is uncanny. He lunges forward on one leg, his body stretched out. She is certain she sees his sword swing from right to left in an elegant circle. But now, he is standing just as he was before: his arms at his sides, and his sword tip down. She blinks again.

  Cythe’s eyes are closed. The ghoulish green of his eyes is hidden. His head slips to the side and falls to his feet. His body follows.

  George looks to the security guards. They back away and flee. One of them shouts into his radio, “Mr. Cythe is down. We need back up!” As they disappear down the hall, George grabs a handful of Cythe’s hair, lifts his head and rushes up the stairs.

  When he arrives at his mother’s feet, he kneels and stares into her face. Astrid watches the reunion. She imagines wispy lines of spring green and ivory threads of light weaving and lacing together their memories, their sorrows, their years of pining for one another. The Silk, as Loche called it.

  Yafarra sits forward and throws her arms around his neck. “Mama,” George says. She cries and tells him: My baby boy is alive. Forgive me. Forgive me.

  Astrid’s eyes stream and blur watching. Graham’s hand touches her knee. “When all of this is done, we must find some time to talk.”

  “You call it. I’m there,” she says.

  Graham leans toward her and touches his forehead to hers. He says, “I came for thee, for I heard you calling.” He squeezes her tighter.
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  Yafarra continues to speak to her son in both Elliqui and English. She tells George, “You have killed the Devil—let us hope I have saved God.”

  A clamor of boots rushing toward them from the hall below silences the Queen. She looks up to Astrid and touches the Red Notebook. She says in perfect English, “Astrid—you must go. Go now. Run. Find Aethur! You must find Aethur.” The landing below fills with ten or more security guards.

  “Go, Astrid Finnley,” George says. “Do as she says. Find The Poet.”

  Graham says, “We got this. Find Loche!”

  Astrid kisses Graham’s lips, rises, vaults up the stairs and rushes to the next staircase leading to the masquerade ball.

  The Battle of the Masques

  November 16, this year

  Venice, Italy

  8:01 pm CEST

  “Gentlemen, gentle ladies,” Marcus Rearden says to the twenty or more sword bearing immortals in the center of the ballroom. “You are frightening our witnesses.” He speaks to the audience of revelers—many are still uncertain as to the drama unfolding before them, others are clustering and huddling together in fear. “Please, there is no reason to panic. The Board has assumed control. Many of you are quite cognizant of some of the fantastical elements to the endeavor before us, and some of you may still be nonbelievers. Nevertheless, I assure you, The Board and myself—the Human contingent—and, my dear peoples, you and your governments and companies will control Basil Fenn’s work from this day forward, and we will also control,” he points a finger, “Dr. Loche Newirth, Poet extraordinaire—the author of the play before you. What you are about to witness is the denouement—which I have taken great pains in crafting.

  “There in the spotlight with swords in hand are the effigies of a bygone epoch no longer needed by us. The gods of old are dead, now, so too should the guardians of that Old Law, pass away. You are here to witness, for all of Humanity, the end of the ancient immortals.”

  To The Board soldiers Rearden says, “Bring me Newirth.”

  Loche reaches for Julia’s hand. “I love you,” he says.

  She watches her fingers interlace with his. “I love you,” she tells him.

  Three handguns report to Loche’s left. Three immortals drop.

  “Close distance,” William commands. “Take their firearms.”

  Like a spreading firework, the Itonalya explode outward and cut their way into the Board’s ranks. Loche and Julia find each other’s eyes just before their swords connect with their enemies. More gunfire echoes in the hall. Several pistols clatter to the wood floor. Many hands are still attached to them.

  To Loche’s right, William disarms two soldiers. Another Board soldier behind him fires a bullet through his chest. Albion, extends a steadying hand to William and thrusts his blade through the forearm of the shooter. He then kicks forward with his right leg and breaks the man’s knee. William presses his hand to his wound and laughs companionably to Albion, “How I loathe firearms.”

  Two men roughly grasp Loche’s shoulders. He feels another set of arms seize his throat. With a sidestep, Loche stabs one soldier. Julia’s sword hacks across the face of the second. Loche twists his body and punches into the abdomen of the third. He breaks free. Julia is then pushed away, and the battle flows between them. She looks back. He reaches for her.

  William is suddenly at his side. Pain is in his voice, but joy, too. “Son, we will win this battle.” He points to another group of Itonalya entering the chamber from the eastern door. “But I believe the war shall be theirs. We are outnumbered.” A stray sword juts toward his face but misses. He bats it away and dispatches its owner. “An escape has been planned—we can move many of Basil’s works, but not all. After tonight, we will be forced to make a peace, or we shall forever be hunted.”

  Loche faces his father.

  William nods over his son’s shoulder. “Cut the head from the snake. For Edwin. For all of us. Show no mercy.”

  Turning, Loche can see Marcus Rearden on the other side of the paintings, maybe ten yards away across a storm of steel. His old mentor’s eyes are red with fury and he is trained on Loche. He carries a broadsword. Loche pushes toward him.

  But Rearden’s ardent fixation is suddenly interrupted. Loche watches the man turn away from him and affix to something near the west exit. Standing alone beside the gothic arches leading to the canal is a woman wearing a disheveled burgundy gown. Her mask is dangling from its leather strap around her neck. Purple and black bruises crowd around her terrified eyes. She is staring at Rearden. In her hand is the Red Notebook.

  She turns to the door, pulls it open and rushes out into the cold.

  When Loche swivels back to Rearden, he sees the man bashing his way to the perimeter of the battle, running toward the exit in pursuit of the woman.

  Loche finds Julia. She has already been watching him. “Go, Loche. End this!”

  The Bridges

  November 16, this year

  Venice, Italy

  8:19 pm CEST

  Get some distance, she thinks. Distance between you and that fucking bastard. Distance between the moments. Distance for some time to think. Find a place to hide. Hide out and make a plan. But where to run?

  Names rattle through her mind. Friends she had made in Venice over the years. If she could find a safe spot for an hour—a single precious hour—she could figure out what to do next. She could call Anthony—her painter friend she met on her last trip here. What about Fausto? Fausto would take her in. Can she remember the way?

  She lost her high heels a long time ago. Her bare feet are numb. Each step causes the contusions on her face to throb. Yet, the icy November night is some comfort to the pain. The brisk air invigorates. It presses her onward.

  Rearden saw her. She’s certain of it. He will come after her. Without doubt. She runs through a gauntlet of low buildings until she reaches what looks to be a bridge. Pausing beside it she can see that it runs across the canal and connects to the Santa Maria Della Salute.

  Her breath billows in heaves. Think.

  Then she sees him. Rearden is sprinting up the causeway. His confident stride bounds toward her as if he knows exactly where she is.

  Astrid bolts onto the bridge. She takes a handful of the fabric of her skirt and balls it into her fist so her legs might wheel without hinderance. Her lungs burn.

  She hears him, “Astrid! Stop! I only want to talk with you!”

  Astrid ignores him.

  “Professor! Stop.”

  When she reaches the end of the bridge, she hazards a look back. Rearden is gaining.

  She drops down off of the ramp and runs along the walkway around the southern end of the Salute. At her first opportunity she turns right. A few yards further she finds a door ajar. She bashes through it and slams it shut.

  “There you are!” a familiar voice says.

  Spinning around she sees Marcel Hruska.

  “Jesus!” she exhales.

  “Not the Messiah, no. Just me.”

  “Rearden—Rearden is—” she points—out of breath. “We’ve got to—got to—”

  He holds up a key ring. “I lifted these from Fausto—getaway insurance. Come on. Out through the in door—let’s go across the pyramid.”

  The metal door bangs open. Rearden rushes in and growls, “The Notebook, bitch!”

  Marcel pounces and lands a fist to Rearden’s chin. He throws another punch connecting with his stomach. Rearden bends forward with the blow and drops to his knees.

  “Run, Professor. I’ve got this motherfucker!”

  Astrid whirls her body toward the museum court and cuts through the archway toward the planter. Climbing, she looks back through the lamplight hoping to see Marcel. He does not come. A cry of pain screeches into the night.

  The hated sound of Rearden’s voice comes next. It echoes against the stone. “Astrid… Astrid… I will find you. I will find you…”

  She hugs the Red Notebook to her chest and takes a step across the p
lanter. She speaks the word, lonwayro.

  Astrid Finnley leaves Venice.

  The Planter #3

  November 16, this year

  Venice, Italy

  8:37 pm CEST

  As Loche runs down the ramp on the southern end of the bridge, he catches sight of Rearden just before he disappears to the right. He hears the distinct clang of a metal door slamming shut. He hurries toward it, but carefully, keeping his eyes on the several nooks and inlets in the high stone wall beside him.

  Still some distance from where Rearden vanished, he hears a scream. His heart feels a jolt of electricity. He grips the handle of his sword tighter and advances. After another twenty yards, Loche finds a door. It is shut. A black, metal security grate is latched over its top. He places his hand on the latch and lifts it silently. The grate swings without a creak. He then turns the door nob and nudges the door open so he can peer inside.

  He sees a body huddled on the cement, cradling what looks to be an injured arm. Loche pushes inside with his sword outstretched. The injured figure recoils. Loche notices a cloak and mask. But most notably, fire red hair.

  “Who are you?” Loche demands.

  The man tears his mask down to his throat. His eyes are a bright blue. “You’re—you’re wearing the death mask,” he says.

  “Who are you?” Loche says again.

  “I’m Marcel Hruska,” he answers. Loche shakes his head. The name does not register. “You’re wearing the Ithicsazj— wait…” Marcel says wincing and pulling his arm tighter to his chest. “You’re Loche Newirth. Dr. Loche Newirth.”

  “Your arm,” Loche says, “are you alright?”

  “It’s broken—Rearden broke my arm.”

  “Rearden? Where is he?”

  “You need to stop him, Dr. Newirth. He’s after Professor Finnley. He’s going to kill her. Please stop him,” Marcel pleads.

  “Where is he?”

  Marcel’s eyes point toward the museum courtyard. “The omvide! Please stop him.”