Chronicles of Ara: Perdition

by Joel Eisenberg

  Selu reluctantly takes the hand of his former mentor. He shakes quickly and lets go just as fast.

  A door slides open, and Snow escorts Selu into a holding area, an all-white room—one white-padded swivel chair and four white walls.

  “All we need is a big black monolith in the center.”

  “Sir?”

  “Ever see 2001?” She has no idea and shakes her head, confused. “No, of course not. Never mind. Anyway, my frien—” He cuts himself off upon hearing the whoosh of the doors that are now closed behind him. Snow has done her job; she has quietly exited and he has just noticed. “Thank you,” he finishes quietly.

  “Please take the seat, Mr. Hobbins.”

  He looks for and sees the speakers, four of them barely five inches in circumference, all within circular cuts one inch from the top of each wall. “Who are you?”

  “If you sit down, I will show you.” Selu is unsure. “I won’t bite, I promise.”

  He sits in response to the weak attempt at humor. “Thank you,” says the disembodied voice. “Now look straight ahead, please.”

  “Is this a game?”

  “A game? C’mon, I know you’ve watched the show.” Selu smiles. “That’s right. It’s me.”

  “I didn’t want to assume . . .”

  Another wall opens, and a five-foot by five-foot monitor activates. On the screen, an image stutters and then presents from the chest up. A male, wearing an eerie, almost too-convincing wooden mask of classic Pinocchio, nothing at all resembling the Disney version, but distended nose inclusive, in this instance no more than five inches outward; Selu’s first reaction is he may have been going for something closer to the emotional effect of an evil clown than simply trying to disguise his identity.

  “You approve?”

  Selu laughs. “In the original, you know, that nose thing there was not as prevalent.”

  “My intern liked the mask. She picked it out this week.”

  “Well then . . . I like it too. It’s you who’s giving me the creeps, but we’ll make it work. I guess putting my best foot forward, it’s a pleasure meeting you, Empyrean.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Hobbins.”

  “Did they brief you on the rules?”

  “They told me there are no rules.”

  “None whatsoever. Pretend you’re on Meet the Press. Machine-gun quick, spontaneity is key, as that’s where truth lies. You ready?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  SOUTHERN GERMANY, SUMMER 1814

  As they tolerate the bumpy route through the mountains of southern Germany, the most difficult task remains that of Mary’s, who writes in her notebook despite the rocky elements and occasional sharp, evasive turn.

  “Carriages are not made for mountains,” she says. “And less for writing. How I look forward to returning to Lake Geneva.”

  While the picaresque narrow pathways and dank forests provide the scenery of nightmares, Mary stays fixated on her notebook.

  “Whatever are you working on?” Percy asks.

  “Scribbling is all,” says Mary. “Notes.”

  “Notes for?”

  “Just notes. A remembrance-like, maybe for something later.”

  “We are getting a journal for this escapade.”

  “No convincing necessary, Mr. Shelley.” She closes the book. “As I said, I’m scribbling. Our journal will be our journal. We must cherish it as it will cost almost everything we have, but my notes are mine and mine alone.”

  Percy stiffens his body and widens his eyes, mocking offense. “Oh, real—”

  The bump this time is greater than before. The couple look nervously at one another and hang on. The coachman slows down. “You both still together in there?” he yells?

  “Bloody and gored, but we’re survivors,” says Percy.

  The coachman tips his hat and travels on.

  They are but a mile past the southern town of Darmstadt where, overlooking the city in the Odenwald—the vicinity’s low mountain range—stands the vacant Frankenstein castle. Built in the first half of the thirteenth century by Lord Conrad II Reiz of Breuberg, the castle fell into ruins several decades prior to the Shelleys’ nighttime passage.

  Earlier in the day, the couple toured the surrounding area with students from the University of Strasbourg. In casual conversation, the topic turned to the university’s most notorious alumnus, Johann Conrad Dippel, who passed in 1734.

  Dippel was a physician by trade and a theologian. He was also an alchemist, and as such a near-mythical figure to some of the more open-minded students.

  “Alchemy is misunderstood,” said one. “The quest for immortality, for the philosopher’s stone, is not evil, or against God’s will. Johann Dippel knew that. He knew that a successful quest held the answer to mankind’s eternal mystery, and he was persecuted for it. Alchemy is light. Not dark.”

  The castle is visible through the increasing fog. Percy turns to Mary.

  “So tell me, Mary, we’ve both conversed with members of Kreis der Empfindsamen, the Darmstadt literary circle. Castle Frankenstein was used for their meetings until 1773. Have they too spoken of Johann?”

  “First I have heard of him was today. You?”

  “Once.”

  “And?”

  “And . . . I was told he did indeed discover the answer.”

  “Would if that were so. Anything else?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, keep me in suspense then—”

  “I was told he lived there. I was told he practiced his work from Castle Frankenstein.”

  PARIS, FRANCE, SUMMER 1814

  July 28.

  The notebook Mary purchases is special and not because of its unique color. The notebook is special because of what it represents: a future.

  In time the Shelleys will purchase five journal notebooks. This is the first; 20 centimeters in length and slightly over 13 inches side to side, the book was 1.3 centimeters thick with lime-green covers and a darker green leather back-strip.

  “This will be ours,” Mary said. “This is the one. If you disagree, you are playing with fire.”

  “Green?” Percy asked. “Why green?”

  “Liar!” Mary mocked offense. “You were looking at it too. I saw you!”

  “I looked.” He tried his utmost not to laugh. “Mary, I . . .” She admonished him with a flutter of her doe eyes, and he was done. “I . . . you’re impossible.”

  “You’re petulant.”

  They purchase the item here, in Paris, where they joke that they would travel to the ends of the earth to be together if that’s what it would take. They believe that love is its own insanity, and their love brought them here, far away from the madness of their native London. A new start, and something from the outside to one day maybe adapt into a travel book but, for now, a proper instrument within which to record a daily journal of their undying love.

  Mary has been sporadically ill of late with various ailments related to her head and stomach, but the present moment is a good one.

  The symbolism of their chronicles is destined to take on a life of its own, and Mary cannot wait to get started.

  The green cover caught their eye and this is how they chose to begin in earnest. Their journal would be shared as they share their heart—they would each write entries, not just one or the other.

  Which, the former Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin insisted, was the price her father’s admirer, the older poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, must pay if they were to be favored with a life together.

  “You do for me and Mary Shelley will show you the happiness that Harriet Shelley can never fathom,” Mary promised.

  ~~~

  Night. As Mary sleeps, Percy writes the journal’s initial entry.

  July 28. The night preceding this morning, all being decided — I ordered a chaise to be ready by 4 o clock. I watched until the lightning & the stars became pale. At length it was 4. I believed it is not possible that we should succeed; still there appeared to lurk
some danger even in certainty. I went. I saw her. She came to me. Yet one quarter of an hour remained. Still some arrangements must be made, & she left me for a short time. How dreadful did this time appear. It seemed that we trifled with life & hope. A few minutes past she was in my arms — we were safe. We were on our road to Dover. —

  Mary was ill as we travelled. Yet in that illness what pleasure & security did we not share! The heat made her faint — it was necessary at every stage that she should repose. I was divided between anxiety for her health & terror lest our pursuers should arrive. I reproached myself with not allowing her sufficient time to rest, with conceiving any evil so great that the slightest portion of her comfort might be sacrificed to avoid it. —

  At Dartford we took four horses that we might outstrip pursuit. We arrived at Dove before 4 o clock. Some time was necessarily exp in consideration, in dinner — in bargaining with sailors & custom house officers. At length we engaged a small boat to convey us to Calais. It was ready by six o clock.

  The evening was most beautiful. The sand slowly receded. we felt secure. There was little wind — the sails flapped in the flagging breeze. The moon rose, the night came on, & with the night a slow heavy swell and a fresher breeze which soon became so violent as to toss the boat very much . . . Mary was much affected by the sea. She could scarcely move. She lay in my arms thro the night, the little strength which remained to my own exhausted frame was all expended in keeping her head in rest on my bosom. The wind was violent & contrary. If we could not reach Calais the sailors proposed making for Boulogne. They promised only two hours sail from the shore, yet hour after hour past & we were still far distant when the moon sunk in the red & stormy horizon, & the fast flashing lightning became pale in the breaking day.

  We were proceeding slowly against the wind when suddenly a thunder squall struck the sail & the waves rushed into the boat. Even the sailors perceived that our situation was perilous, they succeeded reefing the sail, — the wind had now changed & we drove before a wind that came in violent gusts directly to Calais.

  Mary did not know our danger. She was resting on between my knees that were unable to support her. She did not speak or look. But I felt that she was there. I had time in that moment to reflect & even to reason upon death. It was rather a thing of discomfort & of disappointment than (blank) to me. We could never be separated, but in death we might not know and feel our union as now. I hope — but my hopes are not unmixed with fear for what will befall this inestimable spirit when we appear to die.

  The morning broke, the lightning died away, the violence of the wind abated. We arrived at Calais whilst Mary still slept. We drove upon the sands. Suddenly the broad sun rose over France.

  The following morning, still in Calais, before dawn. They lie in bed, neither having been able to sleep.

  “I thank you for being with me,” Mary says. “How we’ll cherish our lives together.”

  “Thank you for being with me?” Percy laughs. “Mary, really. Why so formal?”

  “Can a woman be grateful? Or must she ask her husband for permission?”

  “I have yet to decide. Taming a woman Wollstonecraft is ever a dangerous proposition.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “You do take after your mother, I hear. I accept your gratitude,” he teases. “But too I must be vigilant. One most always pays a price for immediate gratification.”

  “I am not eighteen,” she flirts. “I may be in my physical peak.”

  “Be careful, you may curse me with an early demise,” Percy jokes. “After this I have but one goal.”

  “And that is?”

  “Your mother passed away at thirty-eight. My present goal is to attain twenty-three.”

  “No promises,” she says, after kissing his cheek. “You are not a godly man, therefore—”

  “And you? You are suddenly a godly woman?”

  “Therefore,” Mary goes on, “you’re right. I may indeed curse you with an early demise as you imply I did to my mother. Your rational existence must always account for science. Unlike myself who maintains a scintilla of open-mindedness.”

  “But only a scintilla.”

  “Only a scintilla.”

  “The reward of a freethinker.”

  Her lips caress his neck. “If science dictates your passage following an evening of amorous congress, then it would follow that I am responsible.” She unbuttons his shirt. “Your survival until then will be based on my continued efforts to disrupt your heart. If you sleep and do not awaken, your immortality will be based on the words you left behind . . . and my honor of your sinful, lustful heart which beats no longer.” Mary removes Percy’s shirt as he laughs. “Or would that be your salvation?”

  “You are being mocking and playful when you are supposed to . . . arouse me,” Percy says.

  “Mother would have loved you for that,” Mary says sarcastically. “When I’m supposed to arouse you.” She pulls back and removes her own top. “Okay, then.” She then stops and stares, awaiting his reaction as her breasts are exposed by candlelight shadow, which creates images on the walls best left for a good nightmare. “How fitting. The demons have arrived. They’ve followed us.”

  Images that Percy does not pause to see, entranced as he is by the presence of his sixteen-year-old beloved, who is presently nude from the waist up. He is swift in his decision. He blows out the candle’s flame; darkness reigns.

  The night is theirs . . .

  SOHO ARTS DISTRICT, NEW YORK CITY

  Sidra awakens to a knock on her door. She’s in a grumpy mood as she tosses the blanket, and she stumbles to locate the source of the unwelcome noise. Another knock; she realizes. She looks at her clock: 12:01 pm. “Aww, damn.” She looks down and realizes it’s probably not the best idea to answer the door in panties and a cut-off T-shirt. “Hold on, please!” She climbs into oversize sweatpants and a sweatshirt and she answers the door.

  Professor Searle.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks. “Not that I’d ever turn you away.”

  “I needed to share something with you. Time is of the essence.”

  “There’s no place really to sit,” Sidra says awkwardly.

  “I’ll stand. How are you?”

  “I guess I’m as okay as I’m gonna be, professor . . . can I get you a coffee?”

  “No, no. A short visit. Five minutes.”

  “You sure? I’d offer you a drink, but I got rid of my alcohol. I’m trying my best to become a caffeine addict now.”

  “I heard. Congrat—”

  “You heard? Who told you?”

  “Not important.”

  She nods, unsure what to do with herself. “Do you mind?”

  “No.”

  Sidra sits on her couch. “So wassup, professor?” she asks.

  “Wassup? I wanted to acknowledge you is wassup.”

  “Sorry?”

  “What’s with you kids’ vernacular these days anyway?”

  “Sorry, prof. I have some things on my mind is all.”

  “Is all the more reason why I need to speak to you.”

  Which is what she worries about. In years past, whenever Searle needed to speak, there’s been an issue. But for now he stands and hands her a letter. “Congratulations?” he says.

  “What’s this?” She notices the open sliver on top. “You opened my mail?”

  “I opened your mail.”

  “Why?”

  “Unlike anyone else you may have dealt with before, I . . . um—”

  “You what, professor?”

  “I’m interested.” Searle turns his head as if he does not want his expression to be noticed. “And the letter was delivered to me. Just open it, would you please?”

  “Haven’t seen you in months, you come to my apartment with a special delivery?” Searle doesn’t respond, but she catches him flicking what seems to be a tear. “Are you getting emotional on me, professor?” As she expects, he still does not respond. “Wow . . .”
She opens the letter, and reads . . . and then jumps from her chair and spontaneously hugs him.

  He laughs as he pushes her away. “Do I have the right to get the slightest-bit teary-eyed?” he asks, again wiping an eye with his finger.

  She sits, reviewing the letter’s contents in disbelief. “Lucius contacted you?”

  “Full grant, six months. I hope you’re still interested.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” He watches her and smiles. “You have anything to do with this?” she asks, suddenly suspicious.

  “Who me?” He’s conspicuous by not answering the question. “Lucius will join you . . . and Selu Hobbins. Know him?”

  “Kinda sorta. Saw him on TV. But Lucius, ugh. The other guy, kinda cute, actual—”

  “And since . . . I may have had something to do with this, you need to stay sober. That’s your incentive, and your requirement. You’ll be monitored.”

  She’s too excited to care. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem, professor.”

  “So, you accept?”

  “Professor, I—”

  “You’re the only student of mine I’ve ever had to expel for substance abuse. The only student I’ve ever had to expel. So, you now hold verification of the full photography grant you should have taken a year ago.”

  “Scholarship sounds better.”

  “Grant, scholarship . . . you’ll be doing what you love.”

  “You don’t have to convince me. You must have worked so hard on this. You gave up so much . . . time for me, and—”

  “Thank you would be a good start.”

  She’s nearly speechless. Nearly. “Thank you, professor.” Searle nods. “Thank you so ...”

  Searle senses a tinge of regret. “And your job at Performing Arts is safe when you get back,” Sidra reassures.

  “You do take care of everything, don’t you?” She cannot stop smiling.

  He nods in consideration. “It’s a continuation of their trip from last year, to follow up on some clues regarding lost treasures from the Library of Alexandria.”

  “I see that,” she replies, reading the letter.

  “You do know, don’t you, the Library of Alexandria was dedicated to the nine muses.”