Loche runs to the archway and crosses into the line of roman pillars that mark the perimeter of the ancient underground pyramid. The court is empty.
A second later, Loche is on top of the planter.
A second later he is squinting under a gravel-gray sky. His eyes sting beneath the flat daylight. Far down the ridge-line he can see a ruined city. Mud and vines claw over the half uncovered forms as if the earth was unwilling to let the sky see it. Excavation vehicles are parked near to the site. Loche knows the shape of the surrounding hills—he was just here—but that was a thousand years ago. From this very place he watched Wyn Avuqua burn in the distance. He watched the high towers fall. Now he sees the city of his imagination has been found.
There are no workers or archeologists. There are no people, save two. One is a woman in a burgundy dress carrying a red notebook about a half mile away. She runs along a carved path to the dig site. Not far behind her is Marcus Rearden. He carries a broadsword.
The Shadows Between the Bookshelves #2
November 16, this year
Upper Priest Lake, ID
11:54 am PST
“Have you any idea how long I can wait, Astrid? Any inkling at all? There is no other way out of the library. We both know that.” Rearden walks to the stone, Shtan game table at the library entrance and sits. His fingers lift the black Heron head. He scrutinizes its heft and its elegant shape. “I won’t be pursuing you into the shelves, my dear. I think it best that you join me here for some polite conversation…”
Astrid peers out from four, maybe five rows deep in the shelves. Work lights still illuminate the crystal tomb and the surrounding chamber. The tomb’s cap is still clamped in the grip of the lifting machine. It hangs over the casket. Behind her, a few lamps light distant alcoves. But the rest of the library is dark. She has the advantage in here. She knows the labyrinth. She could lose him if he would only come in after her.
“What was her name, Astrid? Sofia, was it? Your daughter’s name? What a shame to lose a child. And in such a way… a drowning. A drowning when mommy was not paying attention. When mommy was searching for something else.
“The official report was she was thrown from the bow of the boat—and you noticed too late. What a nightmare. What a horrible thing to carry. It must be maddening not having a place to put that grief, that anger. No one to blame. No one to blame but yourself.”
“Fuck you!” Astrid screams through a storm of tears, “you evil fuck!”
“Tell me what is written in the Red Notebook,” Rearden says, scanning the shelves and putting the Shtan piece down.
Astrid turns away and peers into the gloom behind her—seeking an escape—anything to stop the memories.
“You don’t seem to understand what we might do, Professor Finnley. Loche Newirth may be the Poet, but we can author, too. We have seen it happen. We have witnessed time travel. We have witnessed history change. Think of it, Professor. Why could we not turn the hands of time back to change the unfortunate events of our past? Why can we not use Newirth to rewrite our past to make sense of our present place—to assuage our guilt—our transgressions? Reverse useless, pointless tragedy?”
She hears his feet move on the stone. Peering through the shelving she cannot locate him. She finds another viewing point. He is standing facing the shelves. His hands are out as if he were inviting her into his embrace.
“Astrid,” he says, “you have chased the dead since the death of your daughter.” He turns in a circle and gestures to the magnificent chamber and library of knowledge surrounding them. “I dare say, you have found death. Death all around us. The immortals will soon be no more—and the notions of gods, afterlife and their disastrous and dangerous tomes—their misguided systems of belief will be driven from the minds and hearts of all.
“We will write our own destinies. We will correct our wrongdoings. We may even bring our missing loved ones home.
“So tell me, Professor Astrid Finnley. What has Loche written in the Red Notebook?”
Far down one of the curving rows Astrid knows there is a heart embossed into the cold stone. She imagines placing her hand down into the tear shape. Her daughter Sofia would have loved to see the hearts.
Glass shatters. A thud of two heavy things colliding sends an involuntary jolt through Astrid. She peeks. Rearden has fallen face down and is not moving. Standing over him is a phantasmic, ghoulish horror. It wears the corpse blue death mask of Wyn Avuqua. The blood tear on its cheek is in the shape of rain.
Going In With Them
November 16, this year
Upper Priest Lake, ID
12:00 pm PST
Loche Newirth wants to pretend that what has happened is not real. He wishes he had seen it coming. He recalls his mentor, friend and fellow psychologist Marcus Rearden, telling him once: “When a client of yours takes his own life, you’ll want to take your own. You’ll believe that it was your fault. And I assure you, after that, there’s no going back.”
Loche lifts the stoneware urn from beside the entrance to the tomb chamber.
“Damn you, Marcus,” he says quietly. “Damn you.”
There are three fears that every psychologist will face at some point—What if I can’t help, handle, or I go in with them?
Undeniable pleasure shoots up through Loche’s legs into his stomach, into his entire circulatory system as the stone urn explodes against Marcus Rearden’s cranium. The body falls like a wet rag.
Loche stops suddenly—squeezes his eyes shut—he breathes. He imagines a distant boat engine drone and fade away toward the thoroughfare—a cluster of birds scatter from the treetops above him—the water laps the shore. He can almost smell the winter breathing through the pines.
Loche cannot help his old friend Marcus Rearden. Loche cannot handle the grief—his baby boy Edwin—his baby boy Edwin. He cannot handle the fury. Loche will go in. Loche succumbs to madness.
He turns Rearden onto his back. He straddles his chest. His fists bash the head back and forth. It is wonderful. Almost beautiful.
The woman in the burgundy dress has appeared and is standing near.
She is watching.
She is speaking.
Loche cannot hear her.
He stops striking the face. He climbs to his feet, takes a grip of Rearden’s ankles and begins dragging him to the center of the chamber.
Rearden moans. Loche laughs lightly.
Are you almost done with your book, Dad? Edwin’s voice says.
“Almost there, Bug,” Loche says. He kneels down beside the murderer of his son and watches the scars bubble and foam. Rearden’s eyes open.
Dad, where do we go when we die?
“We go…” Loche starts, “we go to another place. Some call it Heaven.”
Will you be at Heaven when I go there?
“Yes,” Loche says, “Yes, I will find you there.”
How do you know? How do you know you’ll find me?
“Because I am The Poet. I will always find you.”
Loche draws his sword. He lifts Rearden’s right arm as if it were a fallen tree branch and extends it up. He then hacks the sword through the elbow and pulls the forearm away. Rearden’s face appears to scream. Loche does not hear him. He tosses the grisly limb into the crystal casket. He glances up to find the woman in the burgundy dress. When he finds her, he stares. She has fallen to her knees. She is mouthing words and crying. She is waving a Red Notebook.
Loche stomps his foot down upon Rearden’s rib cage four or five times. Lightening forks of pleasure stab through his senses. He positions one of Rearden’s legs so he can remove a foot. With a roundhouse, baseball swing, Rearden’s right foot separates from the ankle and flops to the floor a yard away. Loche retrieves it and tosses it into the crystal tomb.
The weight of Rearden’s body minus an arm and a foot is surprisingly heavy. Stooping, Loche lifts the writhing flesh and bashes him down into the sarcophagus.
Little black dots of fatigue haunt Lo
che’s periphery. He takes a breath. And that is when he sees an unexpected image.
Dangling before his eyes, there on a leather lace is an antique key. He studies it for a second. It confuses him. He touches his cheek and feels the hard surface of the Ithicsazj. He tears the mask off his face. He watches the key and lays his fingers upon his cheek again. The wet of Rearden’s blood from his finger tips rouses him slightly. Sound unplugs and a menacing ringing forces his eyes shut.
When he can see again, the key is still hanging there. Behind the key is the face of Julia Iris. She is speaking.
“Loche,” she cries. “No more. No more. It’s over. Come back to me. I am with you. I will always be with you.”
Loche turns and can now see the woman in the Burgundy dress—what did Marcel say her name was? Astrid? Astrid Finnley? Kneeling beside her is William Greenhame, and another man he does not recognize. He is very pale—and extremely long-limbed. One of his arms is wrapped around Astrid. His shoulder is bandaged.
“How long have you been here?” Loche asks Julia. Anger seething within him, “Rearden!” he hisses. He points at the mangled body. The white foam is working to bring him back.
Julia pulls Loche’s chin to face her. Her eyes glisten. “Loche,” she says, “Loche, read this.” She lifts the Red Notebook.
Loche lowers his eyes to the open page. He reads what is written there.
The Hand of Yafarra
November 16, this year
Upper Priest Lake, ID
12:21 pm PST
Lowering the notebook, Loche Newirth crawls to Astrid. His face is smeared with Rearden’s blood. Stained with the horror of vengeance. But beneath the scars of his fading madness, Astrid sees a man grasping for impossible answers—for a way to thank an indifferent universe for reversing its cruelty. Loche places his hand upon Astrid’s cheek.
She says, “I’m Astrid Finnley,” through gentle sobs.
“I am Loche Newirth. I am Aethur.” he says. He hands the Red Notebook back to her.
The Poet stands and grasps the hand of his muse—Julia—and rushes out of the Queen’s chamber.
Rearden moans. He spits Loche’s name.
William Greenhame and Graham Cremo assist Astrid to her feet.
Peering over the edge and into the sarcophagus she can see Rearden working out his next move. He has maneuvered his severed limb into a position to rejoin. His leg is wriggling in search of the detached foot.
He sees Astrid’s face hovering over him, notices that she is not alone and recognizes William Greenhame and Graham. Fear glazes his eyes.
Astrid flips the Red Notebook open and holds it over Rearden’s face. She says, “Loche didn’t write a word of this…” she tells him. “It is in the hand of a woman that saved God and rewrote history.”
Confusion bleeds into Rearden’s face.
“Read it. Read it and know that you failed.”
She forces the book into his face like a weapon.
Aethur—
I will exchange my child for yours.
I will sacrifice my Iteav to save the life of Thi,
the life of your son, Edwin.
He is alive, Aethur. Your son lives.
He is with his mother where your ink bled us all to life.
Go with light, Poet.
Go with light.
Astrid drops the notebook onto Rearden’s face and nods to the massive stone cap dangling on its steel cables above the tomb. She says to William and Graham, “Let’s put a lid on it.”
Where the Ink Bled
November 16, this year
Upper Priest Lake, ID
1:10 pm PST
Loche Newirth and Julia Iris crash through the brush along the lakeshore. Loche stumbles and falls. Julia pulls him up and steadies him. This happens several times. Loche has thrown off his Wyn Avuquain cloak. He feels various injuries pounding through his body as he runs. He does not feel the gashes on his knees, but he sees the blood. Sharp slashing branches scratch his face. A few more steps—another crash upon the stones.
They ford the cold water of the thoroughfare at a shallow point. They run the trail leading toward the dike.
The cabin comes into view, smoke rising from the chimney. The two stop and stare.
“You go,” Julia says. “You go. I’ll be right here. This is—this is—” she kisses his lips. “This is really happening.”
Loche smiles.
A moment later he is on the landing. He turns the handle and enters.
Books are scattered, on the table, on the bed, stacked on the kitchen counters—most of them mythological texts: Irish, Egyptian, Sumerian, Greek. Many are open with curious notes scrawled in the margins. Pages are ripped out and are tacked to the log walls. A huge map of northern Italy is laid out on the kitchen floor with more messy scribbles. There are long rows of yellow Post-it notes stuck on the wall. They stretch around the room from corner to corner, many times over. On them are names, dates, and events—all written in his hand. He tugs one down. It reads:
Lie to reveal. Lie to reveal the truth.
Another:
Basil Fenn. Artist—keeps his paintings secret. Refuses to show them. The few that have seen his paintings, have been hurt. Wounded. Killed. Gods look through them to see us. Gods look through.
Loche shakes his head. The room whirls suddenly and he pushes his palm to the wall to steady himself. His focus anchors to another note:
What is made up is real. What is real is made up.
He looks out the picture window. The glass is streaked with thin red paint strokes. He catches his reflection in the glass. The cuts on his face and forehead suddenly become more painful. Mud is smeared across his cheek and chin. But the face in the reflection is his: carved angles, grey, thoughtful eyes and short, light brown hair.
The bedroom door opens. Edwin Newirth rushes out, “Daddy,” he sings.
Loche drops to his knees and the two latch together. Helen appears in the shadow of the bedroom. “Where have you been? What took you so long?”
The scent of his little boy’s sleepy skin—his freshly shampooed hair—his little feet—the sound of his voice.
“Pancakes,” he says. “Pancakes.”
Loche lifts him into his arms and carries him outside onto the deck. The grey shoulders of the sky are breaking. A clear hole has opened like a flood of blue water.
“Julia?” he calls. He peers into the trees searching for his muse. He feels a smile forming on his lips. “Pancakes?”
Epilogue
(Summer, a year and a half later)
“Friends, what have we learned from the story we have just been told? Is it true? Did it really happen? Does it mean a Hereafter exists? Is there a race of Immortals living among you, quietly guiding the world toward another evolutionary step? Look around. We stand within the Queen’s Chamber at Tiris Avu, Wyn Avuqua. Wyn Avuqua. The city that was once a fiction, its architecture a string of words and imaginings scribbled into an ancient tome or a whispered tale to children before they drifted off to sleep and dreams has now clawed its way out of the mud and the past. It now rises around us. Its walls, doors and gateways, its sculptures, its banners caught in the evening breeze, its secret passages, great halls and libraries—its ghosts. Can you hear them?”
William Greenhame lifts his open hand and dramatically cups it behind his ear in a gesture of listening. He leans toward the audience as if to hear a secret. The room is silent. William is posed atop the sealed crystal tomb in the massive round chamber beneath the citadel. He wears a white billowy sleeved Elizabethan poet’s shirt. His knee high boots are brown. A swept hilt rapier hangs at his side. He is addressing roughly seventy VIPs—the first to experience the Wyn Avuquain Complex and Museum before its official grand opening tomorrow. They have spent the day exploring and visiting each attraction. The last stop is the lower Heron Atheneum which William is about to unveil.
“Shhh,” William hushes gently. “I can hear the voices say, ‘The past changes be
hind us just as the future will change the present. They both move. They both breathe.’” William’s presentation is compelling and delightfully entertaining. Some in the audience actually tilt their heads as if straining to hear a ghost sharing its heart.
“He’s good,” Astrid Finnley whispers, smiling.
“I think he’s found his calling,” Loche agrees. “He’ll get the job, I hope.”
Astrid chuckles quietly. “Are you kidding? He asked if he could sign a hundred year contract.”
William’s loud and sonorous stage voice startles the audience out of their enchanted state. “Behold!” he pronounces. At that moment, dazzling theatrical lighting illuminates two towering wooden doors behind William. They are closed. Their long hinges are gold and they coil across the door like filigreed vines.
“Behind these doors, friends, are the truths we have been longing to know, alternatives to the old narratives—new beliefs to believe.”
William raises an old iron key. His eyes lower down to his grandson a few paces away, standing in front of his father. The boy holds a wooden sword souvenir from the museum. On the blade Wyn Avuqua is embossed in elegant calligraphy. “Edwin Newirth, will you help me? Take this key and place it into the lock? Will you unlock the new Earth?”
Edwin steps forward then looks to his dad. Loche nods and smiles. William presses the key into the boy’s little hand. “Take this key and place it into the lock.” He moves to the door, inserts the key and twists the gears. The latch mechanism clicks. He grasps the iron handle and pulls. Light floods out of the doorway into the circular chamber. The crystal coffin glows white.
The audience lets out a collective gasp. The ancient bookshelves wind and curve back into the warmly lit library.
“Come,” William says leaping down from the tomb, taking hold of Edwin’s hand and leading the way. “Come, my friends. Within are more Good Books than you can imagine.”
The astonished audience follows after him. Before William and Edwin turn into the first curve in the Talons section, they look back and catch Loche’s eyes. Edwin raises his wooden sword. William waves, smiles, then turns his attention back to his guests and says, “What a wonder stories are. It is all we are.”
The Shape of Rain Page 44
