Chronicles of Ara: Perdition

by Joel Eisenberg

  She grabs her purse and flees her apartment.

  MUSEUM OF MODERN ART, MIDTOWN,

  NEW YORK CITY

  Lobby. Some of those standing on the admission line turn in response to a sudden commotion. A school bus is parked outside, its contents emptying in a hurry.

  Sidra’s freshman class, ages thirteen and fourteen, excitedly arrives from Performing Arts High School, twenty students total. The students trail their head teacher, Mr. Gallows, and follow him and Sidra into a smaller, prepared room. Mr. Gallows whispers something to Sidra; she nods as he addresses the class.

  “Ms. Ghioto will watch you for the next thirty minutes,” he says. “I need to handle some school business, and I’ll be back.”

  As the tour guide escorts the group to their seats—rows of folding chairs spaced barely a foot apart—Mr. Gallows speaks briefly to today’s host. On a wall in front of the students is a white screen. In front of and below the white screen is a podium.

  The host, a graying, fifty-plus gentleman, excuses himself from Mr. Gallows and points at his watch as he enters the room. He is classically handsome and well-dressed in a black suit. He smiles at the group as he takes his place behind the podium.

  Mr. Gallows awaits but a moment, and he leaves.

  Sidra nods to the well-dressed man, who nods back in understanding. It’s okay to begin.

  “Good morning, Ms. Ghioto, students,” he says.

  “Good morning,” they reply.

  “My name is Lucius Mann. I would first like to thank you all for coming and welcome you here today. Are you ready to see some pictures?”

  “Yes, Mr. Mann.” They’ve learned their manners well. Sidra nods approvingly.

  Lucius grabs the clicker. Screen on. Slide up:

  “Anyone?” A student raises his hand. “Yes?”

  “The Sistine Chapel.”

  “The Sistine Chapel. Very good.” The boy grins. “And do you know the artist who painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel?”

  “Michelangelo,” the same student replies.

  Sidra leans over to the smiling boy. “Good for you,” she says.

  “And what’s your name,” Mann asks.

  “Pietro.”

  “Latin?”

  “Greek, sir.”

  “Greek?” Pietro nods. “Stone. The meaning of your name is stone, did you know that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, then.” He paces the stage with a theatrical charm. “It’s no wonder you know your classics.” The class laughs. Lucius clicks another slide. “Speaking of classics . . .” An image from a familiar Disney film. Several hands are excitedly raised. “You?” he selects, pointing to a small girl.

  “Pinocchio.”

  “Exactly right.” It’s her turn to smile, and she doesn’t disappoint. Her braces reflect the sparkle of the museum lights . . . and the albino-pale of her skin. Lucius is taken aback, though he holds his surprise well. “And your name?”

  “Snow.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Snow.”

  He looks to Sidra. “Her parents named her Snow.”

  “They embraced my differences,” the girl explains, guileless.

  “Is that what your parents told you? That they embraced your difference?”

  “My differences,” she corrects.

  Sidra is discomforted by the question. She shifts in her seat and looks to the girl . . . who responds with no hesitation.

  “Your differences. Plural.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you believe them?”

  Sidra questions the tone; the conversation is taking a turn that is veering on unacceptable.

  “I didn’t ask questions.”

  “I see.” He notices Sidra’s disapproving gaze. “Thank you, Snow. Do you have a last name?”

  “Just Snow. They never told me anything else.”

  Lucius is fascinated. “Well, we all have our differences, dear.” He stares at her for a moment. She stares at him, smiling but saying nothing. Lucius doesn’t sense, he knows that this girl is something considerably more than she discloses. “But we must move on.”

  “And everywhere that Mary went her lamb was sure to go,” Snow sings. “Do you know anyone else whose skin is white as snow?”

  Lucius is stunned by the question. “Once more?”

  “You’re staring at me.”

  “Snow!” cries Sidra. She looks to Lucius, embarrassed. “She always has to be the center of attention, that one.” Lucius waves his hand to let her continue. Sidra reluctantly backs down.

  “Skin white as snow,” Snow continues, “lips red as blood, and hair black as ebony,” she quotes. “Jacob Grimm.” Lucius nods, awed. “You know no one else like me,” she concludes. “Can I ask you another question?” Impressed, he extends his arm in permission. “My parents say if my hair was red as blood, my lipstick black as ebony, and I was not albino . . . no one would pay any attention to me.”

  Lucius is entranced. “And your question?”

  “It’s a statement. I lied too. That’s not Pinocchio. Your nose is as big as his.”

  “It’s not—”

  “That’s a cartoon. Carlo Collodi wrote the real Pinocchio.”

  “Are you turning my questions around on me?”

  “Did you know the author—he was Italian, you know, like Michelangelo—executed Pinocchio in the original?”

  Lucius, stunned, looks to her teacher.

  “It wasn’t her I was concerned with,” Sidra explains, smirking.

  “I see,” Lucius responds. “My turn. I have a question for you.”

  “Okay.”

  Lucius clicks his slide control and another image appears on the screen.

  “Do you know—”

  “Adam and Eve,” Snow responds.

  “Good. Have you ever noticed, Snow,” Lucius asks, “why every visual interpretation of Adam and Eve, every image biblical like this one and otherwise, includes a portrayal of their navels?” This time, she does not answer. “Anyone else?” he asks. No one. He turns to Snow one more time. “Want to guess?”

  “Because,” she says, “we cannot recognize them any other way.”

  “What do you mean by any other way?”

  “The reality of Adam and Eve cannot be accurately described to you. Nothing personal, Mr. Mann. Your vocabulary is not as advanced as it needs to be.”

  An hour later, as the kids return to the bus with Mr. Gallows, Sidra walks to Lucius who has beckoned her aside.

  “Remarkable,” he says.

  “Thank you,” Sidra responds. “We try.”

  “I’m referring to the girl, particularly.”

  “I’d be surprised if you said otherwise.”

  “Let me ask you a question.”

  “Sir?”

  “Is this what you want to do with your life?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “And I believe this, why?”

  Sidra laughs. “Bust-ed . . .”

  He hands her his card. “When are you free to talk?” he asks.

  “You can call me anytime.”

  “For something as important as I would like to discuss with you, we would need to meet in person. So when are you free to talk?”

  “I . . . um, I’m engaged,” she lies, “and—”

  He smirks and leans into her ear. “And I’m married, happily I may add. What does that have to do with anything?”

  Sidra slinks away, working her embarrassment. “You weren’t—”

  “No.”

  “Then what were you asking me, exactly?” Her coquettish manner, the uncomfortable tilt of the head, the self-conscious on-again-off-again smile, indicate a hint of attraction, but she is unsure if she is more relieved than disappointed.

  “Business only, Ms. Ghioto.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment wins. “Can you give me a hint?”

  “How about we meet here, in the cafe, tomorrow at four?”

  “No hint?�
�

  “Please.” He walks off. “Don’t be late.”

  ~~~

  Tomorrow, 4:00 pm.

  Lucius sits in the outdoor section of the museum’s cafe, patiently sipping a cappuccino. He stands and welcomes Sidra and adjusts her chair as she sits.

  “How long have you been here?” she asks.

  “Ten minutes. I always arrive to my meetings ten minutes early for a smoke or some coffee, depending on my mood.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” He laughs. “Why not? A man in my position must maintain an edge, you see.”

  “Your position? Which is what, exactly?”

  He smiles, and sips. “I’m very rich.”

  “Really?” She tries to remain nonplussed and is mostly successful. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Now we’re talking.”

  “An edge, huh?” The waiter passes. “Excuse me?”

  The waiter stops. “What can I get for you?”

  Lucius intervenes. “I already ordered for you—from the vegan menu, before you ask. Just get a drink.”

  “How do you know?”

  “That you follow a plant-based diet. Or try to?” She chews her upper lip as he goes on. “I also know your IQ is off the charts. Your credit is as godawful as your relationship is questionable. I presume you’re lonely, which accounts for both your strength and your awkwardness around other men unless they are gay, which is why you stay downtown, safely ensconced in your mother’s building. You’re a voracious reader and an immensely talented photographer who always strives to capture the truths beneath the images you capture. Need I go on?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “One more thing. Your curiosity is insatiable, and you strive to change the world through your art. Can we agree?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. And so here we are.”

  “Here we are.”

  Lucius looks to the waiter, then back to Sidra, then to the waiter.

  “Piña colada,” she responds, defiantly.

  “Thank you.” The waiter leaves the scene with a quicker step than usual.

  Sidra watches him go, then turns back to Lucius. “This isn’t the most level playing field.”

  “No, it’s not. Rule number one,” Lucius responds. “Only disclose what you want them to know. Keep your paper trail clean, and your reputation will thrive. Never wear your vulnerabilities on your sleeve, and your odds of success increase exponentially.”

  “Hmm. Do you usually speak in lists?”

  “Constantly. Always. Sometimes even aphorisms.”

  She nods in understanding. “You haven’t left me much room there.”

  “No.”

  “Okay. I’m listening. What would you like to discuss?”

  He takes another sip of his cap. When he places the cup down, he gazes into her eyes as if testing her will. It will be a good minute before he responds.

  Finally—

  “This is what you’re going to do for me.”

  Sidra takes offense, but the meeting continues without pause. “Never wear your vulnerabilities on your sleeve.” Good advice. When she finishes her drink, she excuses herself to the lady’s room and does not return. She is furious at his assumptions, of which this was but the first, and his shadowy brand of attempted mind-control is not what she has bargained for. She cannot trust him. Besides, how would he possibly know if she was bluffing her insecurities? Is he himself in reality as vulnerable as she?

  Or, worse, what if he does know? And what if the answer to her final question is yes?

  A no-win scenario, she thinks more than once, as she jumps into her car and pulls away.

  ~~~

  The following day Sidra regrets her choice and calls him to apologize. He sees her number on his cell, immediately presumes her intention, and ignores the effort.

  Sidra lies on the couch with the television on, bending and straightening Lucius’ business card. There is no way she will sleep tonight, and so she does not try. On the screen is a PBS documentary, one that she has privately looked forward to for days:

  The Lost Demons of Religion.

  The exact subject Thomas McFee had read about earlier during the weekend. As such, Sidra has developed a sudden, uncanny, and entirely unknown connection with the writer.

  “William Peter Blatty, himself a former Jesuit, derived the idea for The Exorcist based on in part on the true-life exorcism by Jesuit priests of a fourteen-year-old Maryland boy known by the assigned name of ‘Roland Doe.’ The case remains a mystery. However, mental health professionals concluded that the boy suffered from Tourette’s or some other form of mental illness, and no demon was present.

  Based on information provided in a diary as written by Father Bishop, Roland never again suffered from his issues. Later, from separate sources who spoke to WSN on the condition of anonymity, it is said that the boy married, raised a family, and worked a long and fruitful career with the U.S. government before retiring to his native Maryland, where he remains, happy and healthy to this day.”

  However . . .

  “Great,” she says. “Why do I get the feeling someone’s trying to tell me something?”

  OPEN LETTER TO THE MEDIA

  The Greeks called it Omega. The end. So much global thought today is predicated on the beliefs and myths of those ancient Greeks.

  So why don’t you care? Is ignorance bliss? Or is my warning not Christian enough for you?

  I only deal in facts, and this whiny adolescent is very close to giving in to your apathy, but I will continue my work to prove your responsibility for this unholy mess. The other fact is the ancients, referred to generally, knew a hell of a lot more than we know now because those brave enough to make a difference weren’t afraid to appeal to their baser human nature and, in the case of the Greeks, science and math as well as their burgeoning faith.

  Collectively, the basis of my own Ten Measures of Creation.

  Sans the burgeoning faith.

  When the Beowulf documents were discovered and later validated, my research began. To those who asked, facetiously, how I came to these documents? I came to them on a tip. However, that’s neither here nor there. That’s a portal that opened long before I was born.

  Today I’m just a messenger who feels sorry for himself, which is a thing that never turns out well.

  AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION (B OF C)

  The handsome man with the dreads, black ski cap, and thick black-framed specs turns the page of the pseudo-science tabloid. He is in his mid-thirties and has been waiting, patiently skimming Shadow Science Weekly, bypassing the more sensational headlines such as The Secret of Bigfoot’s Hidden Loch and Game of Thrones: Fact or Fiction?

  The preceding letter by X has been excerpted within the article, followed by:

  A CONSPIRACY THEORIST’S

  GUIDE TO TIME’S BEGINNING

  He goes by X, and he has caused quite the stir in conspiracy circles. His message, he claims, is derived from a mathematical equation: The end of the world is imminent, and our artists are responsible. “The muse is corrupt,” he said. “There is no turning back.”

  I asked him, on a monitored phone line behind prison glass, “Do you consider yourself anti-Christian, or anti-religion?”

  “It’s not about that,” he said. “Not at all. You’ll see.”

  “Can you elab—”

  “I’ll say this for now. Understand there’s more, and I will get there time permitting. It’s about man taking his power back. Once we recognize that at one time before man’s . . . creation, human beings held considerably more power and reason than they do now. I wouldn’t be here in prison otherwise.”

  “Have you heard of Selu Hobbins?” When I asked, he didn’t respond. I asked again.

  “We never met, but Selu Hobbins is nothing but a fraud trying to get by on X’s—on my name. He has a face for television, which is why he’s beginning to get the response he’s getting.”

  “Bu
t he’s a highly accomplished archaeologist,” I said.

  “What does that matter to me?”

  “You’re not,’ I said.

  ~~~

  “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “We’re ready for you, sir.”

  “Thank you.” He quarters the newspaper and places it in his suitcase. “Watcha got?”

  The girl, a page, dressed in dutiful black and white: “I’ll take that from you.”

  He realizes she caught him stealing the paper. “Oh, of course,” he says. “My apologies.” He stands and follows her. “You have to see me with pens. I’m a regular klepto.” She smiles. “Do they ask you here not to speak to the guests unless spoken to first?”

  This time, she gives in. “You won’t tell, will you?”

  “I won’t tell.” The girl is reluctant. “I swear.”

  “Thank you Mr. Hobbins.” Her relief is palpable.

  He leans over and whispers. “Selu.”

  “Sir?”

  “Call me Selu.”

  Her smile broadens. “Thank you, Selu.”

  “It’s okay. Anyone messes with you, they mess with m—”

  “Selu?” An older gentleman, sixtyish, well-dressed, extends his arms as if for an embrace. Selu ignores the gesture.

  “That’s Mr. Hobbins, please,” he responds with a straight face.

  “Ah. Get a little success behind you, and you forget where you come from, hmm?”

  “No. I haven’t forgiven you for forgetting about me, Professor Searle, and so I have decided to omit you from my hist—”

  “Nothing personal. There are reasons for—” He cuts his sentence, seeing the page staring wearily at him. “And what’s your name, young lady?”

  “Snow.”

  “Snow?”

  “I’m an intern here.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well, Snow, it’s very nice seeing you.” He glares sharply at Selu. “And you too, despite there being two sides to every story. You of all people should—”

  “More than that, professor.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There’s far more than two sides to every story.”

  Searle looks first at the girl, then at Selu. He smirks in defense. “You are correct, of course. In that event . . . truce?”