Chronicles of Ara: Perdition

by Joel Eisenberg

  He has worked diligently toward this moment. This was no freak occurrence.

  Prophecy cannot be that much further away, X considers, followed by a wellspring of random thoughts as he calmly watches Brooklyn, New York, in full panic just feet away.

  I remember the night. Sidra was lying next to me, and I can’t say I cared all that much. It was inevitable. We both knew it, and yeah, we went all the way. I’m young, but don’t have any problems in that area. One thing led to another, and that was that. Was nice though. She don’t have problems in that area either.

  I fell asleep remembering there was no future, and so I felt as lonely as I did before we met. She was a hell of a nice diversion, let’s be real. But when the diversion ended, it was when I was sleeping that The Truth, which is found only in the deepest subconscious, first came to reveal itself upon me.

  Before the Ten Measures of Creation, before my work, was the first dream that led to my research and the beginnings of all the madness that’s followed . . .

  NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY, NEW YORK CITY

  Thomas McFee’s first webinar for aspiring writers, Catching the Muse.

  His intention is to test the waters if he ever decides to leave Denise once and for all and take a break from writing, to see if he could potentially earn another income.

  He limited his $199 webinar to two hundred students. All the students knew was a renowned author was hosting, one who rarely teaches, and the literature passed throughout college boards implied that this may be the first of a series with revolving guests. The literature was Thomas’ own and wholly of his design. He was being clever.

  The virtual class sold out in less than thirty minutes. Virtual, and deliberately mysterious, so no one would know where he was.

  ~~~

  Thomas sits in a reserved room in front of a touch-screen computer monitor. He sees the faces of his participants onscreen, but they do not see his; he manipulates the size of some of the women’s images as he goes on. Names are accessed by touching the individual image. He didn’t have the bandwidth at home to host such an event, nor the patience to advertise, nor the desire to fully yet go public; he agreed to donate half of his earnings to the library in exchange for hosting him.

  He is identified by name, but the students have no idea what he looks like.

  The session is intense, and intensive.

  “Our cultural heritage,” says Thomas, “must maintain its integrity. Shane?”

  Shane Stephenson, a student. “I understand from the webinar literature you’re a Star Wars fan?” he asks.

  “Not my best-kept secret, I must admit.”

  The class laughs, as one.

  “What about the change in our cultural heritage regarding Lucas constantly improving on his art?”

  “Now we’re talking. In ’88, he actually testified before Congress against the colorization of black-and-white films. ‘Our cultural history must not be allowed to be rewritten, unless authored by visionaries who can improve matters—’ ”

  “And the Bible, then?”

  “I saw the same doc.” They laugh again. “Star Wars made the National Film Registry, the whole deal. But he wasn’t the only one. Blade Runner, E.T., and more . . . they were all revised. Film, photography, books that are re-edited . . . something makes a cultural impact, I’ve asked this before. What happens to our history? What is real and what is not?”

  “Nothing is real, that it?”

  The tone of this virtual conversation reminded him of a prior free-for-all with Donovan Bradley.

  “Anyone can change their art,” Donovan says. “Who says art has to be static? Art belongs to the creator .”

  “Clearly not. Art belongs to the people, and the creators are simply the builders and the messengers.”

  “You think so, huh?” Donovan asks, unimpressed.

  “Clive Barker changed Nightbreed, his film based on Cabal, his novelette,” Thomas argues. “Works so much better. Who knows the work and the message better than he who created it?”

  “The people then take the message, and that’s how worlds are born,” Donovan responds.

  “Should art be censored?” asks Thomas.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Should art be censored?”

  “Je suis Charlie,” Donovan deadpans. “Where were you on 9/11?”

  “Why?” Thomas asks.

  “You talk of the holy books being literary only. The violence then was caused by a make-believe prophet.”

  “I did.”

  “No different than Holden Caulfield.”

  “Well, a religion wasn't built around Holden.”

  “Do you dismiss the question?”

  “I was lying in bed with my wife. We slept in. My phone’s voicemail went on in the other room. ‘Lizzie,’ it said, ‘I want you to know your father and brother are okay.’ I jumped up and answered, putting the caller—her sister—on speaker. ‘You didn’t hear?’ she asked. ‘No.’ Oh, God. And then she started to cry. ‘A plane went into one of the towers.’ ‘One of the towers?’ ‘The World Trade Center—put on the TV now! Call me back, but they’re okay.’ Elizabeth was already crying when I ran back and put on the television.”

  “Who is Ara?”

  Pause. “Sorry?”

  “Who is Ara?” He knows right away. “Energy. Nothing more.”

  “Who is your God?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Who is your God?”

  “He has always existed. Always. He just always was and is.”

  “Energy? That’s what quantum physics would say.”

  “I don’t know enough about it.”

  “Why he? Why not she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The webinar continues. Questions and answers come quickly. “Man is complex,” says Thomas. “Why do people go to the trouble of going to court and changing their last name? Who knows what goes on inside?”

  “And your conclusion?”

  Thomas pauses. “Nothing is as it appears.”

  “A recurring theme in your work.”

  Thomas pauses and nods in acknowledgement. “A recurring theme in my work.”

  “You write about Tolkien. Lewis. Writers.”

  “Exactly. There is reason for everything.”

  “What do writers have on the rest of the world?”

  Thomas smiles. “Insight.”

  “Are you saying that writers are crazy?”

  “How’s this. I’m crazy. Not me, personally of course—I may be worse off—but the first short story narrated by Holden Caulfield, written by J.D. Salinger upon his return from World War II.”

  “He was quite insane upon his return, wasn’t he? And then those who used the book to—”

  “You know how it works, then. The truly insane attract the curiously insane, and that’s how worlds change. The reader drinks the creator’s Kool-Aid, and—”

  “You’re fond of making fun of religion, you hateful, intolerant son of a bitch.” Thomas is about to click off, when the student follows with: “Would you feel so free if I said I’d kill you? I’ll go through you like a train going through the Siberian pass—”

  That’s when Thomas clicks off.

  It’ll be a long while before he undertakes another webinar. If or when he returns to Denise, he considers, he will have to deal with her. Today, she is not in the picture. Neither is Samantha. Though he reconciled with his daughter, now he needs time off.

  From everyone. He will not return to his old life until he is ready; at the same time he promised himself he would not be a hermit. For once, he will be in control. A typical artists’ thought, not all that far afield from that of another writer of substance . . . by the name of Mary Shelley.

  LAKE GENEVA, SWITZERLAND

  “Have you seen my book?” Mary asks.

  “What’s that, dear?” Percy inquires. They have been mule-backing through the picturesque countryside en route to Dejean’s Hotel d’Angleterre in Secheron and hav
e paused to take a break. A pregnant Claire Clairmont is with them; the mules are tied to separate trees. “From here,” Percy continues, staring at the distant sun, “another two days to paradise.”

  Mary rifles through her bag. She finds her manuscript-in-progress for History of a Six Weeks’ Tour through a Part of France, Switzerland, Germany, and Holland: with Letters Descriptive of a Sail round the Lake of Geneva, and of the Glaciers of Chamouni, she sees her journals with Percy . . .

  “Hate . . . the book was I writing.”

  “Mary, I swear to you . . .” He looks at Claire. “Claire?”

  “I do not know what you’re talking about,” Claire responds. “And I find the question you are to ask me offensive. Do you not think I presently suffer other, closer concerns?”

  Percy turns to Mary. “Mary,” says Percy, “I must say, your illnesses must be affecting your brain. You are always writing. What distinguishes this work from any oth—”

  “Percy!” she angers but quickly calms. “The work is personal . . . and not written, need I remind you, with your aid. This was to be my first novel.” She again looks through her bag. “Damn!”

  Percy walks toward Mary, as Claire turns away and looks to the inlet in the near-distance. “Here, here,” he says. “I’m sure we will find it.”

  “Are you planning to backtrack days and days and look through every nook of every area we have already passed?” Percy doesn’t answer. “I think not.” She’s disgusted with herself and heads back to the mule. “I’m feeling feverish. Please, let’s go.”

  “Mary,” says Percy, in an attempt to soothe her, “I promise you, we will look for—”

  “Please make no promises you cannot keep . . . and help me up, would you?”

  Percy sighs. As he helps Mary atop her mule, Claire turns back and approaches hers. Percy glances her way. She appears to him suddenly quite worried, maybe even . . . guilt-ridden?

  He unties his own mule and says nothing further.

  BRADLEIGH BOOKS AND EPHEMERA

  GENEVA, SWITZERLAND

  David reads from Hate, Mary’s missing book. Though an incomplete work, he is entranced. He runs his hands over the ink, then his fingers over every word.

  Flash.

  Two centuries later, Donovan Bradley is overtaken by a fire within his London antiquarian bookshop, Bradley and Son Bibliotheque.

  Flash.

  A writer, Thomas McFee, is consoled by his publisher, Denise Watkins, in her office over coffee.

  “I barely knew him,” he says. “In some ways I felt closer to him than my own . . .” his voice drops.

  “Talk,” says Denise, in a rare moment of warmth. “For a change, I’m listening.”

  Thomas carefully chooses his words. “I’ve never said this to anyone . . . about anyone,” he admits, “not even Elizabeth. In her last days I’d lie and tell her, ‘You’re going to be free of pain; you’re going to a better place.’ Me of all people, that lame cliché.” Denise maintains a game face. “With Donovan, considering his legacy, considering how . . . generous he was to me.”

  “He was becoming the father you never had?”

  “Can I finish?” Thomas asks. His publisher extends her hand as if she’s granting permission. “We had a conversation once, about Frankenstein of all things. He knew his days were numbered, and we were talking about eternal life. Denise, c’mon, I’ve known him for a couple of months.”

  “So what? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? He was becoming the fath—”

  At that, Thomas stands. He is not offended, but he lifts his coffee mug as in a toast and abruptly walks out of the room.

  Denise curses herself as he closes the door.

  Flash.

  David’s eyes are closed, his hand continuing to run over the pages . . .

  Flash.

  Mary, Percy, and Claire arrive in Bradleigh Books and Ephemera. As Mary and Percy peruse the aisles, Claire has a private conversation with David. She hands him a manuscript, along with a black silk glove. Neither Percy nor Mary notice anything.

  Flash.

  Dr. Polidori enters Bradleigh Books and Ephemera and purchases the volume of ghost stories.

  Flash.

  David is startled at the sound of the door chime. He is, in fact, easily startled whenever he is thusly exercised within his gift of prescience and, without warning, interrupted. He quickly hides Mary’s book atop a book of grimoires, as a new customer enters.

  “Hello,” David says.

  The visitor nods his head, but otherwise says nothing as he walks inside and looks for books. He is very large, wearing an overcoat and a hat, seemingly to protect himself from the elements. His hair is long and scraggly, his face scarred, lined and bearded.

  It takes a moment for David to recognize the man, and once he does he is immediately uncomfortable.

  Brikke.

  LAKE GENEVA, SWITZERLAND

  On a stroll, Mary and Percy encounter Dr. Polidori, who has introduced himself to Percy. Mary intercedes.

  “You may call me Mary Shelley.”

  “But you are not married?” Polidori asks.

  “You rascal,” Percy says with a smile.

  “Perhaps,” Polidori answers. “Perhaps not. But Lord Byron has informed me of your former affairs with William Godwin, your ongoing debts . . . financially not my care, but I have read your work and you have earned my respect.”

  “Then why do you account for such staid tradition?” asks Percy. “Besides,” he says, “we have eloped, if you must know.”

  “Eloped? So what has prevented you from marrying?”

  “It’s . . . complicated.”

  “I see. Complicated I understand. Where is Claire? Is she nearby?”

  “I am here, sir.” Claire enters the fray. “Lord Byron is on his way.”

  Polidori smiles and places his hand on Claire’s stomach. “Kicking. The child of Lord Byron and Claire Clairmont will be a strong child indeed.” He watches as Mary grins like a child.

  “Percy and I still cannot believe it,” Mary says. “She only recently told us. Such a great secret.”

  “Have I told you I am Lord Byron’s personal physician?” asks Dr. Polidori.

  “You said nothing of the sort.” Mary turns to Claire. “Why did you not tell us Lord Byron keeps such charming company?”

  “Byron, I am afraid, has lost all interest in me, and before we left we had not spoken as frequently as we should. He was, however, very much looking forward to meeting Percy, and my baby needs a father, and so I . . . I may have had a hand in manipulating this gathering.”

  “Manip—” Mary starts.

  “There are no coincidences,” Claire answers, as she rubs her belly. “There are reasons for everything, Mary.”

  “And . . .” Polidori interrupts, “as Claire has no doubt told you, we have been vacationing nearby and are staying at the Villa Diodati, just overlooking Lake Leman. Mrs. Shelley, are you all right?”

  “A tad shy is all. Lord Bryon may be the finest poet there is.”

  “Mary!” cries Percy, mockingly.

  “With the possible exclusion of present company, that is?” Mary says, turning to him.

  “Thank you,” says Percy, approvingly. “I must say, you are very fleet—”

  “And I understand, my dear, that you are close by?”

  “We,” Percy intercedes, “are staying at the Maison Chapuis, not quite a ten-minute walk from the Diodati.”

  “Well then,” Polidori says.

  Mary turns to Dr. Polidori. “How wonderful,” she says. “I’m near-breathless. When shall we meet? I would love to say hello.”

  “Why don’t you do so now?”

  Lord Byron arrives, on horseback. He is followed by three escorts, also on horses.

  “Lady Mary Shelley, Percy Shelley . . . may I finally introduce to you, Lord Byron.”

  He nods at Claire in acknowledgement, then quickly takes the hand of Mary and kisses it. “Charmed,” he says. Lord B
yron turns to Percy. “I understand we, sir, have a great deal in common. I confess to looking forward knowing you.”

  “And I you,” says Percy. “Kind sir, the wonders of Switzerland await the anarchy of great men.”

  MAISON CHAPUIS, LAKE GENEVA, SWITZERLAND

  One week later.

  Mary rocks William’s cradle, as her father had rocked Mary’s so many years before. As with all those years ago, in the winter of 1797, a parent kisses a child on the forehead. Now, the scion is a parent, and the cycle continues.

  “It is my fondest wish for you to be a difference-maker,” she says. “Like my mother and father before me.” The baby, William, is fast-asleep. She turns to the bed behind her. Percy lies, snoring heavily. She turns back to their child; neither he nor Percy has heard a word of Mary’s hushed whispers. “I hope one day,” Mary resumes, “you appreciate the care we had taken to name you. I hope you appreciate your grandfather.” Mary chokes emotion. “I hope you appreciate your grandfather . . . and your father do I . . . I would expect that they would both know if you think otherwise.” Mary hears Percy shifting in bed; she pauses for a moment and this time does not look at him. She feels comforted by his snores and adjusts the boy’s blanket before joining her husband. “And I wish, equally upon second thought, that you do not suffer one iota of the storms and the heartbreak as the rest of us Godwins and Shelleys . . . your sacred promise to me when you’re old enough.” She kisses him and joins Percy, who has awakened.

  “Sacred enlightenment?” he asks.

  “That is not what I said.”

  “Serial enlightenment, for an ever-restless and inquisitive mind?”

  “You tease me?”

  “What did you say?”

  “What I said . . . no matter. I am encouraged that Rousseau stayed here. Voltaire stayed here. These grounds are sacred.”

  “I see, Mary. And—”

  “Enlightening, yes?”

  “Good night, Mary.” He adjusts his position. “You know, we do have a maid here. You should allow Elize to do some of the heavy lifting around here, while you feed your mind and maybe even have some fun.”

  “Percy, I—”