Everything has changed.
They have arrived in a desert, though here there are trees. Not many, a handful as far as the eye can see, but still, incongruously, trees. Tall and beholding of green leaf, the majestic pines cast looming shadows throughout the immediate vicinity where Ara wanders, aimlessly, with Taebal. They must have only recently arrived, as the dragon still appears strong and none the worse for wear.
In my grief the world stopped and resumed, Ara thinks. Why could I not reset and bring him back without storm, Taebal? Why must I go on alone until I figure this out?
Taebal walks on, as usual, doing his best to shut her out and becoming increasingly miserable over that inability. He pays her internal conflict no mind. Without storm? he considers. The lapse means little to the dragon as he knows she’ll waver now and then, but she will persist, regardless of blood spilt, until she is finally together with his deceased master and the only friend he has ever had.
He too misses Eron, more than she could ever know, but he knows his friend would neither want nor approve of this effort. Though their tools will hone and sharpen over many sunsets the mortals will be amiss. The control will always lie solely with the creators. The creators will influence the world, and I will influence them. The creators will be responsible for influencing end days and a return to dragon-scorched earth will be inevitable. Ara ponders as if in response. I shall peek into the Infinity Pass. I shall learn all the secrets of time and space before I incarnate as mortal and do what I must to hasten the process. Eron is validated.
Taebal and Ara pass burning embers from a nearby tree set ablaze, bereft of flame but smoking from a scattered rain. Nothing else of any consequence surrounds them, save for the Mirkwood sands and a course of muddy dunes.
And the occasional abandoned and extinguished torch.
Survivors and runners gathering wood for warmth and ash to write. I am certain of it. They are learning to replace the carving on their cave walls or dragon skins to communicate and share their secrets and stories faster. The ash will scatter like dust when used to etch, but they will find a way.
Taebal peeks in the far distance. He does not see water and so for now he feels, relatively, safe.
I will make certain they find their way, Taebal. The mortal record and their stories must be saved, for I will use them against both man and god until I get what I want.
But then, this time in response to her threats, Taebal reasons. He reasons that trees cannot be implanted in the desert. It is not possible in the absence of water. He remembers Eron’s words upon the death of the dragon’s parents, when for the first time they were face-to-face in standoff and yet the celebrated dragonslayer had no compulsion to take the easy kill:
“The gods have led you to my side,” Eron said, “and for as long as we are together your safety is assured. They work in mysterious ways, and you came to me for a greater purpose, of this I am certain.” Eron was particularly careful when he extended his arm to touch the young dragon’s snout. The dragon briefly pulled back but the gesture would be allowed. “Good. Trust your instincts, always, elsewise you will be fooled by another and risk the darkest consequence . . .”
As he considers Eron’s words, Taebal feels suddenly gullible, and increasingly unnerved. He has been reckless in his thinking, possibly jeopardizing more than his own being. He concludes that the child-like Ara has been playing tricks on him and either water is near, or the trees. Not both. Not possible.
Taebal will not allow himself to be fooled from here forward.
Ara ignores his thoughts, concentrating on her own. But when my star expires, who shall I belong to? No longer immortal, re-birthed as mortal. Perhaps I should be used to being alone until I solve this paradox? Perhaps Eron would not accept me?
On a whim, Taebal momentarily turns his head, peeking back at land just passed in response to an increasingly voluminous rumble. The trodden ground transforms first. Ice and crystal formations of various shapes and coverage break through the sand without further signal and build upward, uprooting trees. Taebal does not stop walking; from behind him to the distance in his stead, remaining trees and the sand ahead are supplanted by mountains and a lone, bubbling volcano. Gray skies turn moderately lighter and snow falls as the torches on the ground again flame.
Nothing occurring makes logical sense. No obvious pattern is present, only incongruity.
Taebal looks to Ara, who is predictably nonplussed. She has not been distracted from her path. The dragon’s takeaway is that Ara is solely responsible for these chaotic sights and sounds as a means to maintain her control.
He will not panic. These thoughts are not of his own process. The muse is remaining surprisingly transparent. Ara is allowing Taebal a rare glimpse into the future, an effort to share with a companion and forgo her loneliness.
That’s his conclusion, anyway, for lack of anything else remotely sensible.
Snow turns to hail. And then the skies clear. And then the skies turn red and threaten to imminently break and pour blood. The air smells like death.
The latter visual and aural sensations overtake his judgment, and the dragon flies toward a nearby cave to take refuge, a cave formed but seconds prior.
And they are inside. Taebal first, followed by Ara who now watches him.
The survivors write with ash, on the walls, as the muse predicted.
Another human enters, a young girl. She holds in one hand a nearly foot long object consisting of bone, a wrapped layer of thin animal hide and a supported rock constructed as a mallet; in the other a flat, pounded tablet muddy from rain that is the consistency of hardening clay. She gathers the others around and pantomimes her recent activity. This is how the tablet was formed, she illustrates, gathering an armful of clay and pounding it to the desired consistency. The clay is now solidifying. She then scrapes the soft part of the clay with the stone-end of her mallet, leaving the following image:
Taebal, however, sees this only, his eyes unable to grasp the rest in the time allotted:
He sees the circles within circles to the top right of the image, and assumes that carving to be a representation of the Mirkwood sun. The image to the left he believes is something evil—he has dreamt of such shapes before, usually prior to a horrible waking event such as the death of his parents—before this group of denizens disappears and he and Ara have returned outside.
The blood-skies have vanished, and a brilliant yellow sun has taken over. From here Taebal glimpses a history of man and man’s civilization; though he initially opined that the muse must be influencing his thoughts, he finds himself questioning his judgment when his mind abruptly flashes back to moments ago, and one specific, haunting image:
By introducing the image, he wonders if the muse may have been warning him.
He is certain only that the visualizations must be a trick. Still, as the disarming image fades, others take its place. As he walks, he sees cities rise and fall, books written, movies made, and music composed. He watches in a dizzying haze as roads are formed, cars and planes travel, and beyond even, to computers, virtual reality . . .
The skies turn red, as bloody as before, and somewhere in the heavens a red star explodes which causes a mass response of attention and panic.
A pause. And a resumption.
Teleportation and colonization of other planets, the greetings and wars of human life and other strange life forms, including mechanical men . . . advancement like the imagery that overtakes his senses—fast and uncontrol-lable—and back again.
And the idea that this all occurred prior to the final Abeyance. Why? Because the factions on these planets saw the red skies as well. Man had already colonized other planets, and the warring factions had long ago sewn their own seeds of conflict.
And the sky exploded. Ara was no more in her immortal guise.
Another pause, and then back to Mirkwood. Sands and dragons, gods and goddesses . . . Eron, a dragonslayer.
This time, his human friend, the only entity he
has ever trusted, unprovoked, slaughters Taebal’s parents. First, with a violent thrust and twist of his engraved sweord, the human guts the dragon’s father. As Taebal’s mother panics and rushes to escape, Eron climbs upon her and slashes her throat. The dragonslayer is unrepentant; he immediately turns to Taebal, his sweord overhead and poised to kill . . .
FAITH
SING SING CORRECTIONAL FACILITY
OSSINING, NEW YORK
The hole.
Charlie, back to his old routine. That would be talking to himself. No quotes this time. Only words and phrases to keep himself going, to keep himself alive.
He exercises as he speaks. Moving, always moving. Pushups, jumping jacks, sit-ups.
“The Truth shall set you free. Forward, stay forward.”
He exercises until he passes out. Usually, by the time he wakes, a plate of food is delivered to him. He’ll eat based on his mood.
“Always stay forward. They can never break you.”
He falls asleep minutes thereafter.
This time, when he hears the familiar sound of a billy club rubbing against his metal door slats, he awakens and yells, loudly, before the guard walks away:
“Tell the warden I’m ready to talk!”
~~~
Warden’s office.
Charlie is dragged inside. Again, he sits, shackled. The warden excuses the three guards escorting Charlie, who leave and stand in front of the now-closed door.
“Am I wasting my time?” the warden asks.
“There’s a group,” Charlie responds, with no pause and no reconsider-ation. “They are called ENIGMA.”
“Are you b.s.ing me?”
“No. I’m informing you. I’ve made my decision.”
The warden knows he will not be able to test Charlie. The conversation must be honest, or there will be no conversation at all.
“Why?” the warden asks.
“That’s a good question.”
“Why?” Charlie struggles with his wrist shackles. “It will never happen,” the warden says. “Your shackles are staying on. Don’t even think about it.”
“I’m not. Scratching an itch. You mind?”
“Why?”
Charlie grimaces. “You’re too quick for me, warden. I couldn’t divert you, so I guess I have to answer your ques—”
“I’m giving you a minute, Charl—”
“I believe X. Others do as well.”
“Hold a minute.” The warden removes an old 1970s tape recorder from his desk’s top drawer. “Budgets are hell. I brought this from home. You have no idea of the crap I went through to get permission. Looking at writing a book one day.” He presses Record. “Chapter One. You may continue.”
Charlie straightens as best as he can. It’s time to get serious; he clears his throat as he stares at the recorder and begins.
“ENIGMA.” He nods, unconsciously, knowing full well that once he starts he will be unable to reverse his course. “Let me tell you about ENIGMA.”
JERRY’S CLUB, CHELSEA, NEW YORK CITY
As Charlie King’s knowledge of the shadow organization ENIGMA is recorded on tape nearly forty miles away, the boy he has been imperson-ating, X, wanders into an underground tunnel just below Jerry’s Books, an indie bookseller just across the street from Singleton’s, a straight-friendly brownstone motel. The club has no name, but is informally referred to as JC (Jerry’s Club); word-of-mouth has long spread among the locals that Jerry’s “basement” contains more than just books, and new cash records have been set week to week.
While New York strip clubs are licensed for topless only, nothing more, due to alcohol restrictions, Jerry’s serves alcohol, and their dancers are fully nude. Jerry McConnell, owner of The Comedy Cellar, favors his high-powered influencers; as such, JC is the most financially sound of all his businesses. Cops and politicians receive free admission, the club has managed to remain open since 2006, and Jerry’s Club is still among the most popular retailers in town for black-market Cohibas and nonmedical marijuana.
X visits the establishment. Bookstore first.
“How much?” he asks.
“I’m sorry?” says the young girl behind the counter.
X holds his copy of My Week With Tolkien by Dr. Peter Levin, the book he had stolen from The Strand. “How much?”
The girl takes the book. “I can ask Jerry, but I can tell you there isn’t anything of value here. I never even heard of Peter Levin.”
Jerry, standing on a ladder on the opposite side of the store, overhears the name. He stops what he’s doing, holding a book in his hands, and eavesdrops.
“Can you call him, then?” X asks.
“Call who?”
“Jerry. Can you call Jerry?”
The clerk glances to Jerry, who discreetly shakes his head. X notices the man and the gesture and he catches his gaze, but Jerry turns back and fills in the shelf. “That him?”
“Who?”
“Jerry, that’s who.”
“Oh . . . Michael? No, he’s one of our clerks.” Two customers enter, a man and a woman in their late-thirties, early forties. The clerk tilts her head, and the couple follows in her direction.
“I’m looking for a dancer,” X resumes.
“You have ID?” the clerk asks. “You can’t be any older than sixteen.”
“I’m eighteen,” he lies.
“Sorry. This is a twenty-one-and-over club.”
“I’m twenty-one, then.”
“Show me your ID.”
“I have no . . .”
“I’ll look up the book,” the clerk deflects. “Give me a minute. Why don’t you go take a look around the store for now.”
He follows her direction and peruses the shelves, pretending to be preoccupied. The clerk joins Jerry, and they speak. They appear to discuss X, who glances toward them and looks away when he needs to.
The clerk casually returns to her station. X follows. “I’ll look up your book now,” she says.
“Thanks.”
A few buttons pressed on her keyboard yields the expected result. “High sale seems to be a dollar. Should I go from there?”
“Not necessary.”
She looks to Jerry, who is still on the ladder, then motions X closer with a bend of her index finger. “Who do you want to see, X?”
He pulls back, surprised. “X?” He attempts to feint, but is wholly unconvincing. “Who’s X?”
“Jerry knows you.” X backs off as Jerry steps down from his ladder to join them.
“Sorry I haven’t been more accommodating,” the owner says.
“You know me?”
“I know of you.”
“Meaning—”
“Pete Levin, God rest his soul, was an associate. When I saw his name in one of your letters, I couldn’t stop reading.”
“Associate?” asks X.
“I wrote to him when he was in prison.” X is curious. “And he wrote me back.”
“What about?” X asks.
“My business,” Jerry responds politely. “Kidding. I’ll tell you.”
“Did you speak after, or . . . ?”
“Hold on. And now that he’s no longer with us my regret is as overwhelming as my unending jealousy. You do know why he received the Beowulf assignment?”
“No idea. Seems the whole world knows now though. Was supposed to be such a secret, and the papers had a whole other story. No Tolkien . . . no Beowulf, either.”
“My mortgage was nearly three months late, I was facing foreclosure, and I pawned my late father’s high school ring for gas money. My wife took everything in our divorce, save for the house. She wanted to move away, so that much worked itself out.” X has no idea where this is headed. “He paid me,” he explains. “The assignment was mine as head of the Lit Department. I taught for only six months before all this. I had no choice but to accept his money.”
“You keep the house?”
“He saved my ass.”
“Not such a bad guy, seems
like.”
“Not at all. The rest is on me.” Dead air.
“You buy the ring back?”
“No. I believed at the time I needed to bury my past if I was going to build a future.”
“At the time?”
“Not a case of now as then.” He pauses. “I believe you. Every word. The error was mine.”
X slightly relaxes his guard. “You recognized me when I came through the door.”
“I did.”
“I never include photos in my letters.”
“No.”
“Who are you?” X asks. “No shit.”
This time Jerry ignores the direct question. “So . . . X, what can we do for you? Layla here tells me you’re looking for a dancer.”
“Not a good idea,” X advises.
“Poor choice of words?”
“Please don’t underestimate me. If I ask for a straightforward answer, don’t deflect the question like you just did.”
“I understand you found the gauntlet you were looking for.”
X is unsure how to respond. Suddenly, the slow thaw ends. “You know, I’m already fighting one losing battle—”
“Not necessarily.”
Layla is getting nervous. Jerry excuses her, and he takes her place behind the counter. He motions for X to join him.
“No, thanks.”
“No cameras. Not on the computer, ever.” Jerry follows with a flourish X is most familiar with: “Trust me.” X reluctantly stands by Jerry’s side. The owner manipulates the computer mouse and clicks. Appearing on the monitor is a photo of a young girl. “Do you know her? Did . . . you know her?”
“Her name was Marlo,” X answers, stunned. “She was killed.” He turns to Jerry. “You never answered my question.”
“I’m getting to it.” Another click of the mouse. Brikke appears on-screen.
X fingers his brow. He’s not itching; he’s frustrated. “Yeah. He killed her.”
“Yeah.” Click. A double-image appears. On the left is Jerry, standing fully clothed in a standard front shot. On the right is Jerry, nude from the waist up, his back facing the camera. An X has been carved—from his shoulder blades crossed downward to just above the buttocks—and he is scarred, identically, to Professor Searle and S’n Te, collectively representing fellow memberships within a most specific order.
Chronicles of Ara: Perdition Page 22
