Chronicles of Ara: Perdition

by Joel Eisenberg

“You been following me?” X doesn’t answer. “Have you been following me?”

  “Seriously? I’m a fucking Peeping Tom . . . Searle mentioned you to me once too.” Sidra stands to leave.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” she says turning to go.

  “How am I supposed to pay for this?” X asks.

  “Your problem.” She leaves. X smiles as the door closes, and watches out the window as she paces hurriedly across the street. “And from here you’ll lead me to Matthius . . . who’s about as dead as I am.” He watches her ass on the way out. “Thank you.”

  ~~~

  Sidra returns home and finds a package at her front door. Five clipped-together sheets of paper, all neatly typed, atop a six-inch thick loose leaf binder. On the binder’s cover, scrawled in red and signed by X, she reads: Project Ara excerpts. Written under his signature is the following: P.S. And to think, they say I trust no one . . .

  “Son of a bitch played me,” Sidra says. “He really is a writer.”

  A yellow sticky note is affixed to the top of the clipped pages, its message written in pen:

  If you think my writing is worthless,

  let me know and I promise to leave you alone.

  I have my reasons.

  This begins my history, then.

  I have much to say.

  P.S. Just in case you lost the note.

  X had already prepared something for her days ago; he was inspired when he saw her for the first time in the apartment window. He wrote her something meant for her eyes only; the beginnings of a novel, based in part on his life. She would be in it too, he promised, “but not until later.” The character names, he said, including hers would be replaced at a future date so “any resemblance to persons living or dead would be really coincidental.”

  Sidra hurriedly enters her apartment, drops her keys on the hardwood floor, and rushes to her top desk drawer. She fumbles for a moment, then removes the beginnings of X’s story. It’s been about two years since she’s read it, but today it holds particular resonance.

  He should have reached his dreams too, by now.

  And so, she reads . . .

  Pen to paper, and from here, I bleed. A bastardization of something Hemingway once said, as I once mentioned to a friend who found my enthusiasm tiresome. As these pages are reviewed and analyzed, remember this opening. It’s history. Not historic; this isn’t about ego. History. If I presented to you that the entirety of man’s artistic process, from inspiration to product, has been recorded and bound within a collection known as The Chronicles of Ara, would you call me crazy? Two notes: I use the word bound correctly, and much of what is included therein has not yet been created. Are you confused yet? What if I followed with this: There is an endgame to our collective entertainment? Thought so.

  The most soulful of all pursuits (“art”) by definition can never be considered innocuous. Light or dark, visionary ex-pression through creation and invention begets influence, and influence begets direction and dissonance. The rest will come together soon enough.

  At the moment I’ll only imply that I have been tasked to record the Chronicles in full, as that’s a whole other ball of wax. Detailing issues related to multiverses and other cosmic anomalies as I begin this opus will only serve to confuse you more. Best that we all focus on the contents of this current volume for now, of which I am, make no mistake, your storyteller.

  The muse visited me in a dream. She inspired this endeavor, and I trust I had no say in the matter. I’ve always wanted to write. I mean, I’ve always wanted to be a novelist. A New York novelist. A successful New York novelist. Better. A successful New York novelist with women issues and family issues and respect so I could get my mind off myself for a change. I’d still agonize or I wouldn’t be me, of course, but I’d also have other problems to worry about. Best intentions . . .

  But I lacked the confidence, and now I’m obligated to see this through. I cannot otherwise explain, but such was the impact of my reverie that, truthfully, when I dwell on the matter I’m not so sure I was dreaming after all. It’s as if she paused the world just long enough to show me the way, then left me to my own devices to finish the rest of the job in a manner befitting those I needed to convince.

  You.

  The personal volumes that are forthcoming, of which this is the first or second - I haven't yet decided - will seemingly explore all the usual tropes and omniscient narrative flourishes of just another science fiction or fantasy allegory, and yet . . . this is nothing of the sort. Understand this: I’m a truther. Always have been. I have no time to waste, especially now, and frankly, as I’ve learned, neither do you. Believe me, I wish I could have left this Pandora’s Box alone. I agonize over this ordeal, because the real narrator of this goodie bag is the smartest kid in the room and he immediately realized what he had to do. Why me? No idea.

  Regardless, we’ll begin with the events of the following morning. I am en route to my mentor’s office, overwhelmed with a keen responsibility to warn you all . . .

  Monday.

  His greatest hope is that the world doesn’t have to fall with him. His concern, which is larger, is that the world doesn’t have to fall with him. If this martyr-tale begins to play out the way he expects, based on one particularly troublesome dream and little else, surely he will be blinded to any other outcome: He will go down; of this much he is convinced. Still, in the end, after all the mess and despite his authorial ambitions, among the survivors nobody will have any idea who he was, really, nor what made him tick.

  Assuming, that is, that there are any survivors. When his dreams are as vivid as they were last night, they are usually prophetic. He’s just never had a dream like this before. All of this he ponders as he forcibly opens the swinging glass doors that lead to a smallish corridor that hosts the office of his mentor, a former college professor, who has been patiently waiting at his desk. Behind the desk stands a single bookshelf lined with history books and inches-high ceramic knickknacks; across from the desk is a lone folding chair where the student, a prodigy, slips his knapsack to the floor and slumps.

  He wears a gray sweatshirt, a Yankees cap, and a hood that nearly covers his face.

  “Take off the hoodie. Who are you hiding from?” the professor asks.

  The student complies. He is African American, early teens. “Right word, there.”

  “Hiding?”

  “That’s it. I gotta get used to it. You’ll see in a few minutes.”

  “Guess so. Well, you made it, anyway,” the older man says. “From your demeanor, I’m sure this will be diverting—”

  “Sorry in advance,” is the disingenuous response.

  Inside of the next thirty minutes, over Danish and coffee, the student will effectively decode the mysteries of life, death, and the nature of the universe while “confidentially” relaying the content of his dream to the only person in this world he has ever trusted.

  “I saw it all,” he says. “A history of the world’s creativity and its influence from the outside looking in, in the span of 114 seconds give or take. I know this experience was no accident. It was as if the sun, the moon, and the stars all froze, revolutions ceased, and I was supposed to observe in my own time and catch up for a very specific reason, and—”

  “It’s been a half hour, and you’re repeating yourself,” says the increasingly weary professor. “I’ve listened, and I haven’t said a word. May I interject?”

  “Not yet. I’m not through.”

  The professor’s mind wanders as his student goes on. He considers that they are intellectual peers, and that he is always there for his protégé when the young prodigy needs to talk, which is fairly frequently. Today, though, his student is spilling his soul unlike ever before. These are hardly the simple issues of puberty and related teenage stress. The professor is troubled by today’s session, though he tries his damnedest to deflect his concerns. He’s troubled because, despite the information dump, he knows his charge is holding back.

&n
bsp; “Okay. You win,” he says. “Write the rest then.”

  The student feigns surprise. “What?”

  “Honestly, I don’t care to listen anymore. Write the dream so I can read and analyze it in my own time.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you got for me?”

  “No. One more thing. Do yourself a favor. Take minimal credit in the beginning. Use the word we where you can when you present any conclusions.”

  “Why?”

  “Because God only knows what goes on in that prodigious mind of yours when you’re not conscious. Trust me. This is me having your back.”

  “But if I write a great novel from this inspiration,” he tests, “maybe more would listen, and—”

  “Then I think you should start with a letter to the media,” the professor facetiously offers.

  The student mulls it over. “You know,” he says, “I can get behind that.”

  “I wasn’t serious.”

  “Clearly. But I like it. They’ll all laugh at me as a certifiable lunatic if I take all the credit, I get it, but if I keep it going at least I’ll get noticed early.”

  “How long have I pleaded with you to write something creative?”

  “It wasn’t the right time. She’s led me otherwise.”

  “Who?” the professor asks.

  “The muse.”

  “I see.”

  “Think about it, would you? And don’t take it personally. What better way to analyze the purpose of creativity than to be guided by its root?” He notices the professor’s stoic expression. “Just not interested anymore?”

  “On the contrary. I’m awed. I’m not sure I’ve kept up, but I will say, historically this type of fiction sells very well from my understanding.”

  “You’re dead wrong,” the student responds, taking some offense.

  “Am I?”

  “There’s nothing fiction about it. That’s the point, professor.” He’s losing his patience. “And remember, this dream encompassed lifetimes. More than lifetimes.”

  “And that’s where you lose me.”

  “What’s so difficult?”

  “I’m not convinced this type of time crunch is possible from the way you describe it,” his mentor replies. “Even in dreaming. Maybe you dreamt that too?”

  “So, all that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. That it, professor?”

  “Why do you quote Poe? I’m asking a sincere question.”

  “Because you don’t believe me. Of all people. Who are you to tell me what’s possible and what’s not?”

  “I’m the only person in this world you trust, that’s who. Forget it. Explain that writing bit to me once more.”

  The student’s old insecurities return to the fore. “My only concern is who’d want to read me? They all think I’m just another street kid with issues.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No one knows who you are. May we proceed?”

  “You know something? As I think about it . . . maybe that’s why one of the main players in the dream was a successful contemporary novelist. Lives in Manhattan, and—”

  “You?”

  “I’m there too, but this guy was over six-foot and white.” The student smirks. “Then there were all those others too, from way back. Tolkien, Lewis Carroll, Mary Shelley, Poe. You see, it’s exactly what I was sayin’. I checked my phone for a text just before I fell asleep. When I clicked off and I saw the time display, it read 2:34. Next thing I know—”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “About writing the dream, specifically. Just tell me again about the dream.”

  The student nods. “Right. It was all a blur at first. But in that blur were images. I was going backwards, from modern day to the beginning. To images of art from thousands of years ago.”

  “How do you know? The thousands of years?”

  “I just know, that’s all. Okay?” His mentor shrugs. “And then, everything slowed, and I was in the time of dragons, dragonslayers, mystics, the muse—”

  “That’s it. The muse. Again. Just one? In Greek mythology there were nine.”

  “Who said anything about Greek mythology?” The professor doesn’t answer. “No, one only. And that’s just it, as if every myth is based in reality, and I accidentally stepped into that reality.”

  “Why accidentally? Why not—”

  “Would you please let me finish?” The professor holds up his hands in submission. “And that’s where it began,” the student explains. “With the muse. It’s as if I was there, and she’s manipulated me to write this book and . . . what are you doing?”

  The professor scribbles on scratch paper. “I’m going to speak to the doctor about you for another prescription.” He looks up. “She manipulated you? Come on. You want to know what’s getting me? That you’re usually one of my more level-headed troublemakers.”

  “Why aren’t you letting me finish?”

  “Don’t know if I care to anymore.”

  “What are you so afraid of?” He’s suspicious but elects not to wait for an answer. “So . . . I make every effort to escape, because I’m now in the middle of an explosion. The sky’s red, and it isn’t rain or hail that’s falling. It’s blood. It’s ephemera. I want out. I manage to shake myself awake. I regroup and check the cell again, thinking I slept through the night and must’ve missed my text. Not two minutes passed, I swear to you. The time just turned 2:36 and . . . you still don’t believe me.”

  “I never said that,” the professor replies, as he watches his student swipe his knapsack from the floor and stand in anger. He does not stop him.

  “Then you don’t want to believe me and you can’t be honest and tell me why.” The bait is not taken. “You haven’t even asked.” Not a word. “This isn’t worth it.”

  “I say do what you need to and let the chips—” The student slams the door upon exiting. Once his charge is judged to be safely out of range, the professor mutters, “You know exactly what I’m afraid of.”

  Later that night, the student slept on a nearby rooftop and, once awakened, jotted some notes. The notes evolved into several months of legitimate research, which finally led to his writing in earnest.

  His plan was this. He would indeed publicly unveil a letter first, something truthful based on his research but sensationally composed to capture the media’s attention. The dream was to be authored based on his recall, its strands of inconsistency pronounced but promising to coalesce. He would incorporate everything he’s learned since and emphasize the most pivotal, secretive nature of what he’s uncovered about his duplicitous mentor for whom he no longer gives a damn.

  And then he would, finally, bleed . . .

  As she joins her keys and sits cross-legged on her floor, she ponders the events of the last few weeks. The news reports. His open letters to the media.

  His warnings.

  Who are you? Sidra thinks.

  She unconsciously rocks her head, up and down as if in affirmation, upon reaching an inescapable conclusion: Only you can get close to him now, Searle said. He’s exposing our history, he’s dangerous. He’s rewriting our history, and I’m going to have to kill him for it.

  She takes out a white three-ring binder reading “Project Ara” on its cover. She opens the binder and reads a typed note.

  This she will continue on the plane.

  Egypt. Tomorrow.

  More shit to drag. Oh lucky day.

  ROOT

  An Open Letter to the Media

  Here is where I may lose you, if I haven’t already (pretty sick, huh?; without admitting anything I’m implying that if my words are incomprehensible, then my writing skills are not up to task).

  The preceding Shelley affair? The deal at the lake as written, where Mary says she doesn’t want their entire life’s history exposed to the world, and Percy says she’s unlike her more honest father in that regard?

  Fiction. Utter bullshit. I ma
de it up. Get the picture?

  Also, Claire was with them during their trips, but her presence does not always work dramatically . . .

  Here’s the deal. Allow me to argue that if the names of Percy Bysshe and Mary Shelley had not passed into legend, and these two were simply another average couple who, like most of the rest of the world have dealt not with the trails of fame and remained safely anonymous till death did them part, we would know nothing about them.

  Nothing at all. They would be just names on gravestones in a cemetery, and those stones over time, upon which those names are inscribed, would also fade to nothing.

  And those who existed under those names, for all intents and purposes, never did.

  To the second part (and BTW I had to decipher all this before I derived my Measures and I don’t do drugs; spend an hour in my head, why don’t you?).

  So let’s say I’m a storyteller. It is my job to memorialize (another myth, as time changes everything but The Truth) stories on paper from the oral tradition, or to create from scratch. And if the names and locations of my stories, having been read from generation to generation are shared over and over again by friends and acquaintances, and then by their children’s children, and many are inspired, then guess what?

  I created a new reality, and what happens from there is anyone’s guess.

  So let’s run with the concept of this new reality. We all know by now how the best (and sometimes not) of science fiction inspires new inventions that challenge and change the world. We all know how the ability to edit photography can create a false sense of history.

  SOHO ARTS DISTRICT, NEW YORK CITY

  For the first time since his passing, Sidra steps into the late Matthius Alexi’s apartment. She reached out to Denise for permission to sort through Matthius’ limited effects and was honest in her request.

  “There are some things I may want to hold on to,” Sidra said. “I promise to toss whatever is left and to clean the apartment right afterward.”