Chronicles of Ara: Perdition

by Joel Eisenberg

  “Not patronizing, and not meant to trick. No pun intend.”

  “Do you mean hocus-pocus magic, or supernatural magic, or—”

  “Let me come from a different direction.”

  “Please. Talk to me like I’m his age, without the smarts.”

  “I’m not trying to rub you the wrong way, Mr. Hobbins. Am I rubbing you wrong?”

  “No.”

  “I feel as though I’ve inadvertently insulted you, and if I have, I sincerely apolog—”

  “We can move on, thanks. You asked me about magic. I’m less interested in going around in circles. With all respect,” Selu says.

  “Is the concept of the muse . . . magic?”

  “Is the concept . . . the muse concept, as X explains, is supernatural. Supernatural being exactly that, unable for most to comprehend or explain within our limited capacity.”

  “There are many out there, Mr. Hobbins, many in our audience today who believe that X is dispensing magic, while you, as a social archaeologist, you’re offering science. Why do you think—”

  “My thought is this.”

  “Please tell me.”

  “My thought is even with the effort of all of his . . . what? Ten measures.”

  “Ten Measures of Creation, right,” Empyrean says.

  “Even with the thought and effort that the boy has surely put into his work, the answers are fine, but if the audience is not mathematically inclined, then there’s an element of wasting time, or banging heads against the wall.”

  “To be clear, the message is there, but the delivery system is flawed?”

  “Something like that.”

  TIMES SQUARE, NEW YORK CITY

  X pulls himself away from a storefront window displaying rows of televisions. A caption band on the bottom of all the screens exhibits the interview. He spits on the ground in disgust and tries to walk away, but he cannot.

  “Shit!”

  He turns back and continues to watch.

  DESER HOTEL, ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT

  Empyrean continues. “I hate to do this to you . . . no, really I don’t. I’m going to offer up the concept of magic in another capacity. Okay?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “You would have left already.”

  “Hmm. Maybe you’re not the clown I suspected. Jury was out, you know, until we met again,” Selu says.

  “Charmed. Are you familiar with the work of the Welsh Geoffrey of Monmouth? Of his 1136 work in particular, History of the Kings of Britain?”

  “Historia Regum Britanniae. Equally noted for his role in the development of the King Arthur legend, I may add, and . . . and, I get it now. Hence the magic?”

  “Hence the magic. You’re an intelligent man, Mr. Hobbins. You see, I don’t believe in wasting time, either.”

  “I see. So now, on live national television, I should apologize for being rash earlier?”

  “I’ll never forgive you.”

  “We’re square. I need to correct you, though, on one thing,” Selu says.

  “And that is?”

  “There’s no proof he was Welsh. His name appears on six charters in Oxford, but we’ll save that for later. What are you doing?”

  “Scribbling a note. Reminding myself to check Wikipedia. Done. What else you have?”

  “He was born in the 1100s, and all of his work seemed to have been written in Latin.”

  “And his relationship to King Arthur and . . . Merlin?” Empyrean asks.

  “Merlin. He made his first appearance in the work you mentioned. In his History of the Kings of Britain, along with his version of historical events from Britain’s settlement by Brutus to the death of Cadwallader, King of Gwynedd in the seventh century, Geoffrey claimed—”

  “Excuse me one minute.”

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  “What do you mean his version of events? Not convinced of the historical record?”

  “Are you?” Selu asks.

  “No. But I wanted to get the point across. Most historians believe much of this work to be a piece of fiction.”

  “Hence King Arthur and Merlin.”

  “Exactly. Embellished by his own fevered imagination . . . the muse, perhaps?” Empyrean asks.

  “And much further embellished in time. Whereas Geoffrey ascribed Merlin to words of an ancient text, or more than one ancient text, other writers as time went on, as you know, empowered him all the more. Merlin was to become a shape-shifter, a—”

  “A jokester, an evil mage, a tutor to Arthur, a prophet.”

  “An outcast. Wandering grief stricken and alone following Arthur’s defeat, in a forest. Merlin of the Wood.”

  “Ever wonder if Ara has a male counterpart?”

  “Again, finishing my point, he only became the wise old man figure that’s now stock on the influence of Christianity,” Selu says.

  “And what about when Ambrosius was a boy? As to that version—”

  “The legend of King Vortigern. The then-king could not build his temple, as it kept falling. Young Ambrosius told him of his vision of a red dragon and a white dragon battling under the temple’s foundation. Vortigern was the red dragon of Wales, King Pendragon of Britain was the white. The boy was right. Merlin would go on to build the temple himself. Stonehenge.”

  “And you’re not seeing any commonalities here at all to anything X is writing?”

  “What are you seeing?”

  “I’m seeing something in the Merlin legend that X should pay close attention to, if he hasn’t as of yet. I’m seeing some validation that we can indeed be the architects of our own future,” Empyrean says.

  “Let’s for now say anything’s possible, but here’s the sticking point—and this is something that X may want to examine, if he hasn’t already—in his dedication to History of the Kings, Geoffrey claims that the book is a translation of an earlier work, an ancient book in the British language, if I recall, given to him by the Archdeacon of Oxford. But most today believe that that book never actually existed. Popular thought is that the Archdeacon did furnish him with some material, such as Welsh-Latin historical record and something called De Excidio et Conquestu Britanniae, which included translations of Bardic oral tradition.”

  “And so on. So, your point?”

  “Which I was getting to,” says Selu. “Merlin was created as a composite character. In this case Merlin Ambrosius, Geoffrey’s original version, appears to have been a combination of Myrddin Wyllt, the mad prophet of Welsh legend, and Ambrosius Aurelianus, a Romano-British war leader. As the years went on, Geoffrey’s fictions became embedded in the culture and accepted as truth, until centuries later when some finally dared ask tough questions.”

  “Who would argue with him back then?”

  “Who would argue back then, exactly. But we became smarter. Most accept the work as the myth it truly is. A masterful myth, but a myth nonetheless, and based on living, breathing figures over the ages.”

  “I’m grasping.”

  “X should have better distinguished his original myths that in turn inspired the stories and the novels and so on. If Ara exists, I want to know of the myths she inspired that the artists later adapted. He’s missing a step. It wasn’t so much that Ara—whether we use her here as a metaphor or, as I do tend to believe, she really does exist—inspired the art directly. I think she inspired the myth that inspired the art. One comes before the other, and there, though he touches on it, I think he falls short.”

  “I commend you for saying something I haven’t necessarily contem-plated,” Empyrean says.

  “Well, maybe you should.”

  “I certainly will. What about the demons?”

  “In relation to—”

  “History of the Kings.”

  “Actually, he wrote the Prophetiae Merlini, translated as Prophecies of Merlin, prior to History of the Kings. He incorporated it later. In it, Geoffrey said that Merlin was the son of the devil and a servant of God.”

  “A
re you familiar with the story of Giraldus Cambrensis?”

  “I am indeed,” Selu says. “He said he once witnessed a man possessed by demons and—”

  “I have it right here, and I’ll read it to you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Giraldus said, and I quote, ‘If the evil spirits oppressed him too much, the Gospel of Saint John was placed on his bosom, when, like birds, they immediately vanished; but when the book was removed, and the History of the Britons by Geoffrey Arthur—as Geoffrey named himself—was substituted in its place, they instantly reappeared in greater numbers and remained a longer time than usual on his body and on the book’ end quote.”

  “And so there you go.”

  “There you go.”

  “You can learn a great deal about muses and demons if you look outside of your grimoires and such,” Empyrean says.

  “Seconded.”

  “So in our final segment we’re going to go back to one of your original statements.”

  “Which is?”

  “Let’s say, for argument’s sake, of course, that I do have a God Complex, and now I want to play God.”

  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, then?”

  “Maybe not. I’m told there are two things you and I have in common. You know what they are?”

  “What are they?” Selu asks.

  “Shakespeare and the Bible. I hear you’re a scholar on both.”

  “I don’t know about scholar.”

  “But before we start, promise me one thing.”

  “And that is?”

  “I want you back. I want to sign you to an exclusive. Otherwise, I’d like you back, sincerely, as I find you fascinating. Will you come back?”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Exclusively?”

  “Never.”

  “Moving right along, ladies and gentlemen, our guest here is Selu Hobbins, who apparently is not sold by my egregious brown-nosing. So, Mr. Hobbins—”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll get to Shakespeare, hopefully, during your next visit, but let’s discuss symbolism in the Bible, shall we?”

  “It’s your show.”

  “I want to discuss the book of Genesis. Specifically, I want to address the Sumerian King list, which I know you’re very familiar with, as well as the number eight.”

  “You really are trying to get on my good side.”

  “I am indeed. In that list, it is said that eight kings reigned before a great flood. The number eight also represents rebirth in the Bible, maybe not so coincidentally. Also, in Genesis chapter five, from Creation to the Great Flood, there are eight generations between Adam and Noah.”

  “Which is exactly where X seems to stop,” Selu says, “and so I begin. In much the same way as there’s an original Sumerian King list, there’s also certainly a first Bible.”

  “But—”

  “Yes?”

  “Before we go there—”

  “Can you indulge me? Can we go back to X in just a second?” Selu interrupts.

  “You’re reading my mind. Say what’s on yours.”

  “I have it on authority that X will soon release further information about the number eight as it relates to—that word again—the mythical Greek muses. To get there, X spent a good deal of time and, I assume, energy on putting together the Beowulf-Tolkien connections in one of his original documents.”

  “Letters, you mean?”

  “Documents. I won’t elaborate on it here.”

  “Documents. There’s more?” Empyrean asks.

  “I’m only going by what’s been presented to me.”

  “Maybe off air?”

  “No promises.”

  “I know of no additional documents.”

  TIMES SQUARE, NEW YORK CITY

  The boy known as X can barely take any more. He watches, but then sees the reflection of a familiar older figure, who cocks his head as if in recognition and approaches from behind on a four-wheel dolly.

  X barely has any patience left at all.

  DESER HOTEL, ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT

  “—won’t elaborate on it here, but let’s say you’re right, and the information I’m going to share with you are from his letters. I’ve studied X substantially. Let’s say there’s always the possibility, small as it is, that I’m confusing my sources.”

  “What is it?” Selu asks.

  “He theorizes that Beowulf was gifted to a king, yet all anyone can seem to agree on is that the poem was written in England.”

  “May I speak plainly?”

  “It’s your show,” Empyrean says.

  “I’m concerned that there’s considerably more to this matter than I’ve been presented with, and I’ve read everything he’s published. Or I thought I had.”

  “Putting aside my awareness of one of his theories that you may not be aware of, who’s said I’ve seen anything that you haven’?”

  “You just did. Why don’t you please explain?”

  TIMES SQUARE, NEW YORK CITY

  X’s eyes well. Selu will get the audience. Selu will get the credit by fixing X’s conclusions.

  He’s stealing everything I’ve worked so hard for.

  The man behind X lifts up his arm and tugs at his jacket. X closes his eyes, doing his best to ignore him.

  DESER HOTEL, ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT

  “Maybe off air, as you asked a second ago,” Selu says.

  “I’ll keep you to it. If there’s more information out there, from someone you yourself are validating, in a sense—”

  “In a sense—”

  “We need to talk. This is far too important, and those of us ‘in the know’ have a stark responsibility to the rest.”

  “Fine.”

  “I mean it,” Empyrean says.

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “All right. What’s next?”

  “So one would think—”

  “We’re still on X?”

  “Finishing my thought,” Selu says. “Is it possible, then, that the king Beowulf was gifted to—and as you just told me the poem may have been initially transcribed by more than one person, or written for, if X’s theory is true—was Eron’s father?”

  “I suppose . . . since, like Merlin’s ‘history,’ in quotes, the kings of Sumer in that list also blended the names and reigns of the mythic predynastic rulers.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So Eron’s father could be one of those kings. That’s your conclusion?”

  “No, not a conclusion. Just a hypothesis, assuming X is correct. The first fragment found is over four thousand years old, and—”

  “But the earth is well over four thousand years old. According to X, Eron was alive during man’s earliest days,” Empyrean states.

  “And that first found fragment was discovered in Iraq on a cuneiform tablet in the early 1900s. Well over a dozen—eighteen or nineteen at last count—have been found since, and evidence shows that they are all derived from a single account of Sumerian history.”

  “You’re saying these, then, are reproductions?”

  “I’m saying there’s an original list,” Selu says. “A complete list from which these others have been derived that has yet to be found. In that event, again assuming X’s theory . . . but I’m just repeating myself.”

  TIMES SQUARE, NEW YORK CITY

  X had thought the man was homeless. He had once performed a magic trick for him in front of a crowd to raucous applause, turning a cup of coffee into a cup of gold and silver coins.

  Once the crowd had dispersed and X walked away, the man unstrapped his legs, stood, and left the scene on his own power.

  X believed he had been made a fool of by a greater manipulator than he, and that just didn’t sit well.

  Now he remembers the man as he continues to try to ignore him.

  Better step away, if you know what’s good. Serious. Not having my best day today.

  DESER HOTEL, ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT

  “Selu . . . may
I call you Selu? I think we know each other by now—”

  “Sure.”

  “Selu, in the time we have left, let’s discuss the Sumerian list in reference to Genesis. I want you to look at this, from the first fragment. What do you see?”

  Empyrean’s image is replaced by the following:

  “Do you want me to translate for you?” Selu asks.

  “Certainly.”

  “ ‘The flood swept over the land. After the flood had swept over and kingship had descended from heaven, Kish became the seat of kingship.’ That’s about what it says, Kish being the first city following the flood to seat a king.”

  “Could Eron’s father, to the obvious question, also have ‘descended from heaven?’ ”

  “To your audience, and yourself, look, anything is possible. If we go by accepted archaeology, Sumeria—Sumer—is the location of our earliest civilization. How many records have yet to be found? History will write and rewrite itself until the end of days.”

  “Which is what X is trying to resolve.”

  “Which is what X is trying to resolve.”

  TIMES SQUARE, NEW YORK CITY

  They will listen to him but never me.

  “Hey!” X cannot take it any longer. Every muscle tenses. “HEY!” the man repeats. X turns, finally.

  “Hey, how you doin’?”

  X shrugs back his shoulders, cocks his neck side to side, spits on the man, and assaults him without warning. X grabs him by the lapels, kicks away his dolly. “Don’t ever fuck with me!” X yells. “EVER!”

  X forcibly shoves him to the ground. “HELP!” the man cries—before his head is split on the sidewalk and his teeth dangle from his mouth. “Help me . . .”

  X, sobbing, punches him uncontrollably until the man loses conscious-ness. Rights, lefts . . . he looks up only when he sees an angered crowd fast approaching. X is horrified at what he’s done, and he lets up, not knowing if the man has been killed by his hand.

  Winded and barely able to catch his breath, he grabs the man’s dolly and throws it full-force against the television, breaking it instantly.

  As the crowd gets closer, and he hears a woman on her cell calling the police, X runs. He cannot contain his panic.