Chronicles of Ara: Perdition

by Joel Eisenberg

“He speaks the truth, my friend,” Lucius says.

  “No risk?”

  “Not at our coordinates.”

  Selu is impressed. He sits back in his chair, pondering the possibilities.

  “Sir?” Sidra. “May I ask you—”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “I’m missing something.”

  “Convenient,” Selu shoots. This time, Sidra glares. He got her to look at him.

  All too easy, he thinks.

  “Ms. Ghioto, please,” Lucius says. “Your question. The Ghioto-Hobbins drama will wait for another day.”

  “Sir?”

  “Can either of you two be any more obvious?” No answers from either. “I didn’t think so. To your quest—”

  “My question . . .” Sidra composes herself. “I have not yet heard what we are trying to find. Are you looking for anything specifically?”

  “No, Ms. Ghioto. This area’s been picked apart for centuries. What Koloq’s team has discovered is an unknown.” Sidra nods. “Uncharted territory, he adds.”

  “Got it, sir. Thank you.”

  “Speaking of . . .” Lucius stands and raises his glass. Koloq nods in approval. “Koloq, knock yourself out. You two,” he says, pointing to Sidra and Selu, “be good.” He raises the glass higher. “To uncharted territory.”

  “To uncharted territory,” they toast.

  “Best water I’ve ever had,” Sidra says. “Ugh.”

  “Seconded,” says Selu.

  “Get used to it. You’ll be Selu’s shadow for the duration.” Before Sidra can respond, “And you all may now disperse. Make sure you get a good night’s rest tonight.”

  ~~~

  Sidra catches up to Selu as they leave the restaurant.

  “Hey?”

  He turns. “Hey? Hey back.”

  “I’ll make the effort. I won’t get in your way. Fair?”

  “Well,” Selu replies, “that, or Mr. Mann will send you on an immediate coach flight back home.”

  “I get it. Can I ask you one question?”

  “What’s that?” he asks, as he approaches his elevator.

  “How long have you been sober?” Selu rings the elevator button and the door opens.

  “Already here.” He sighs as he holds the door. He then pulls a dog tag from under his shirt and shows her. “Longer than you.” He tucks it in before she can look. He enters the elevator. As the doors close, “Yours is that one.”

  He points to the elevator across the way.

  Frustrated, she approaches. She presses the button . . . and waits.

  ALCHEMY

  ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT

  “Time to detonation?” Lucius asks.

  “T minus twenty-two,” Koloq responds.

  The team, along with two armed Egyptian guards, stand five hundred feet away from the targeted area. All wear scarves around their necks to protect against the excessively blowing sands, earplugs, goggles, and protective jackets.

  Sidra, as excited as a child, unconsciously leans closer to Selu as the count continues, which Koloq reads from his detonator’s digital display. She snaps photos as she steps. “Excuse me,” Sidra says, not meaning a word of it. He ignores her.

  “Eighteen . . . seventeen . . .” Koloq responds.

  Lucius leans out his arm, gesturing for everyone to step back. “Couple of more feet,” he says. “Mind the winds.”

  The surprise of the day, along with an unexpected chill.

  “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .”

  Sidra moves back further, still taking pictures.

  “Two . . . one!”

  The explosion lasts barely two seconds, though the force seems to strengthen the surrounding gusts. Sidra has made sure she captured the explosion, as well as the candid, immediate response of Selu.

  Once the impact has settled—

  “Well,” Sidra says, “I guess that wasn’t all that bad.”

  ~~~

  The team’s hypothesis has proven correct. The explosion has unveiled a tunnel.

  Selu explores the interior as Sidra photographs. “Don’t say anything further, please. Just keep shooting,” he says.

  The remaining team stays outside. Selu prefers it that way, at least in the beginning. Sidra’s presence itself is a hindrance, he feels, and he has said to Lucius this would be the case.

  The unknown dynamic, as it concerns the social archaeologist, is that he knows Lucius has gone after her for reason . . . he just has not been able to get a straight answer as to what exactly that reason is. A precedent has been broken, specifically, a photographer has never before followed him so early on.

  The reason for this he cannot figure.

  ~~~

  The tunnel opens to the mouth of a cave.

  The cavern is deep. Selu is convinced that further inside, its walls will tell the tale they all seek. Sidra reaches to take Selu’s free hand; though sensitive to the fact that this is her first time in such an expedition and that she just may be unnerved by the dark, he pretends he does not see the gesture.

  They turn to writing, carved on a wall. Sidra snaps:

  Selu is stunned upon translating the words. “The mystic warns . . . S’n Te . . . there seems to be something missing, an incomplete message.”

  “Who?” Sidra snaps a few more. “What language is—”

  “Save it for later. You get it all?”

  Sidra checks her camera. “Got it,” she says.

  “S’n Te . . . looking at the construct of the words, he would appear to have been a practicing alchemist, a conjurer of some sort” Selu says. “Let’s keep going. And remember, don’t say any—”

  “An alchemist? I don’t think so,” Sidra says.

  Selu stops. “What do you mean you don’t think so?”

  “If he was an alchemist, then how do you explain this?” They’ve walked a few feet farther, having found another image. This new image scraped into the cave walls shows the carving of the letter X . . . alongside a faded carving of a man with a hood, who may well be the mystic.

  “If him, the X would mean he didn’t know where he came from, wouldn’t it?”

  Selu pauses. He is unsure whether to laugh or consider her words.

  Selu doesn’t see the tiny etching below the X, the incongruous English, barely visible under the pictograph.

  Ara’s existence was recorded in the demonic language of the Dok Kalfor, the Dark Elves.

  Sidra, however, does see the words. She complies and says nothing further, takes a shot . . . and they walk on.

  A TENUOUS ACCORD

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  Upon realizing he was not yet ready to remain at home, Thomas flew back to London from New York and spent another week with Donovan Bradley.

  This was his big secret. This was his great disappearing act to Parts Unknown.

  Thomas swore to himself that he would say nothing to Denise about the return, to either, and he would say nothing whatsoever about the day he left Donovan Bradley for the final time.

  Nothing at all. It wouldn’t be worth the stress.

  ~~~

  Thomas received another unexpected present that morning, a second package from X, while napping at the airport. Thomas’ flight was delayed three hours due to inclement weather; his tablet lost its juice and he could not find his charger.

  He asked; no one had a spare, or so they said, and besides, all the outlets were in use.

  My homecoming, he rationalized. He was tempted to toss out an ego-driven “Do you know who I am?” but dismissed that thought quickly enough upon realizing that they just might.

  He purchased an armful of newspapers and trashy magazines, anything that would help keep him occupied for the next seven hours.

  Oh God …

  Thomas nodded off while waiting out the delay. Moments prior to his boarding call - a newspaper crossword in one veined hand, the back of which leaned, palm upwards, against the near-ankle-length brown moose hair coat which obscured his carry-on bri
efcase – there’s a story there, which he intends to share when feasible - he stirred and nearly awakened.

  When he finally did awake nearly an hour later, Thomas regained his senses then opened his carry-on briefcase to dump some of his purchases. Atop a stack of three yellow legal pads – all seemingly flush with notes - and some scattered other papers, and pens here and there, rested a considerably-thicker package than that he received days ago at Bradley and Son Bibliotheque. The envelope and the markings on its outside were the same. The package, assuredly, was from X and yet he had no idea how it could have possibly got there.

  He looked around first, then carefully opened the metal clasp and fingered through the papers. They all started the same:

  An Open Letter to the Media My Friend Thomas

  Thomas stood up, envelope in hand, and walked to the closest wall. He leaned, while keeping an eye on his belongings, and his fears on any interloper that may possibly be spying on him—Don Bradley, perhaps?—he is better able to contain his mounting paranoia.

  He pulled out the top letter and read silently:

  An Open Letter to the Media Thomas McFee

  My Friend,

  I’ve written god knows (that’s “god knows,” not “God knows” or “G–d knows” or any other pretense) too many ‘open letters to the media.’ In reviewing them all (great reading, by the way; may I recommend a less formal perusal during football games, masturbation, and your other more meaningful pursuits? Sort of like seeing something for the first time when you’re not really looking. Maybe you’ll get lucky with the landlady at Usher House, which honestly would have sounded a hell of a lot better than the infinitely more pretentious House of Usher . . .

  But I digress.

  I have something more to say, as usual. I’ve stopped both dating these letters and sending to the press for two reasons: the first, as I’ve come to the realization that time no longer means anything, and the second, as I got your attention and they don’t listen to me anyway.

  But you, I still hold out hope for you. You’ve shortchanged the messenger, and you haven’t yet listened, and in so doing you too have dangerously shortchanged the muse . . . but I find myself, despite my utter unwillingness to cut any of you a break, still cautiously hopeful that we can work together.

  As to the muse, the source of so many of my headaches of late, let’s for now define her for who and what she really is.

  A god.

  That’s “a” god of many, not “the” god of . . . one.

  You know what I mean.

  Being one of a species, no different than you and I as shining examples of humanity, gives me the slightest glimmer of hope, as there may be others of her nature we could convert to our side. How we get there will be up to you. Just be sure to keep an eye on the occasional Alexi papers as well. Here’s a clue. He knows that, for whatever the reason, you have stepped into another world. You may well no longer dream. Your other experiences will help us envision what else is going on out there.

  Why you? Haven’t figured that one out yet. But all tracks seem to lead to Thomas McFee. You hiding something from me, bud?

  Anyway . . .

  That’s what Matthius says, anyway.

  You make sense of his ramblings, half the battle is won right there.

  By the way? Yeah, I said hope. I would never admit to that publicly,as I’d lose any sense of urgency and can never again hope—there’s that horridly uncharacteristic word again!—to be taken seriously by anyone.

  We’ve already covered this, but in case you need remind-ing: Every myth has its basis in reality. In our world, the world in which this letter is, hopefully, being read prior to boarding your flight, a muse by the name of Ara had inspired the world. However, Ara became mortal with the young Adriel.

  Who then, is inspiring the creation now?

  Is there another? Or has the natural order already changed? If so, then what of everything that has passed before?

  Food for thought, huh, Thomas? You don’t mind that I refer to you by your first name, do you? Apologies if so.

  Well, not really.

  There indeed exists a singular basis to the muse myth, but there exists only one muse, Ara, and it is she alone who has inspired the entirety of artistic creation. The muse is corrupt-ed; she suffered a classic tragedy, and the world assumes the debt for her loss. There is an endgame to our books, our music, our film . . . our art in general.

  But Ara is more powerful, far more powerful, than the rest, as you’ve read. If you consider my words as nothing more than science fiction or fantasy, that’s your problem. If not, if there’s a shred of open-mindedness on behalf of you, my friend (associate? compadre? partner in crime?), then let’s go on, shall

  “Sir?” Thomas is startled. He stops reading and hurriedly pushes the page back into the envelope. He folds and clasps the envelope’s top. “Didn’t mean to shake you,” says the fiftyish, male flight attendant. “I believe you are the last to board.”

  Thomas peeks around the gate. No one remains. “I must have been distracted.” He notices his jacket is missing. “Where—”

  The flight attendant hands Thomas his belongings. “Mr. McFee—”

  “You know who I am?”

  “Of course. Mr. McFee, we have to board. The weather has cleared.”

  Thomas grabs his coat and his briefcase and follows the flight attendant to ticket scan.

  The flight is routine until the halfway point. Over the Atlantic is when the notables begin.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” says the pilot’s voice over the intercom, “I’m going to turn on the Fasten Seatbelts sign as the flight ahead of us is reporting some fairly sharp turbulence.” The light goes on. “We should be through the chop in ten, fifteen minutes at the outset, and may leave the sign on as we move forward. We will do whatever we can to keep you comfortable, but for now, flight attendants, please strap in as well. Thank you.”

  It isn’t even five minutes. The first jolt strikes at 4:12; Thomas looks at his watch. He had been writing and the pen in his mouth is almost swallowed.

  The pilot resumes. “Please be sure to place your tables and chairs in the upright position, and stow anything loose under your seats or your back pocket.”

  Must be more serious than he’s letting on, Thomas figures. Same as always.

  Much like a person who gets lost while driving, they tend to turn off the radio to find their way. Same here. Thomas pockets his pen.

  He sees nothing unusual when he peeks out the window. There are no clouds; nothing at all viewable save for the water underneath. He looks at the others present as the plane shakes. An older woman clasps her cross and prays. Another stands, much to the consternation of an attendant. Others have their eyes closed and still others just do as they’re doing. Thomas is familiar with hits of turbulence—when a plane flies over a new land mass, a mountain or new body of water; typically when the landscape changes, they’ll chop at the outset. He turns his head upon overhearing a dad tell his little girl, sitting two rows behind: “It’s like a rollercoaster, hon. Don’t worry. If the plane didn’t shake sometimes we wouldn’t know we were in the air.” Thomas turns and sees the father embrace his girl.

  As he turns back, he glimpses the first repercussion.

  It’s a vision—maybe?—and he doesn’t quite believe what he sees.

  As he looks out the window, Thomas notices that the blue water he had been looking at is now reddened by an incoming rush of red clouds. The clouds have appeared quite suddenly and have done so as if giving chase.

  Thomas’ first thoughts are that there may be someone in the plane that someone, or something, is trying to get to. Stupid, foolish thoughts, he believes, but thoughts nonetheless.

  He looks up and, again, around, to see if anyone is seeing what he is.

  They are not. They are all engaged in what they had been engaged in just moments ago. He turns his head; the man and the girl are no longer there. They have been replaced with another pair. T
he girl looks familiar. His daughter’s daughter, Adriel. She is with a heavily muscled, handsome, scarred man. He does not know this man, though he remembers reading something about a dragonslayer . . .

  Eron.

  He blinks, and the other two have returned.

  Thomas is taken out of his head by another sudden jolt. This time, the plane loses an engine and begins to descend.

  Amidst screaming, he again looks out the window. He figures he sees a dragon reaching upward for help and panicking.

  He looks far and sees what appears to be another figure nearby the dragon. She appears to be watching.

  How can I see that far? he asks himself.

  The sea still bleeds, he notices, as he continues to be hypnotized outside and oblivious to the world in which he presently lives—the tube.

  The other dragon and his family, meantime, appear and catch up to the plane. The father dragon wraps its body around the fuselage and the wings. The child is still on its shoulder; the mother wraps around the other side.

  They are all confused, and panicked.

  The plane, against all odds, straightens and flies without incident the rest of the way.

  When Thomas again peeks out the window, however, he sees nothing. The skies maintain their coloring.

  This was the other dragon, not Taebal. The one who could not rescue the other.

  It would have been unsafe.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot concludes, “we can’t explain it in the tower but the planes ahead of us and behind us are in trouble . . . we’re the only ones flying straight.”

  Thomas is amazed at the enigma, but he’ll take it.

  They are cleared to land at JFK. Upon landing, amidst a buzz of ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars, the passengers’ attention is rapt.

  The plane taxis to a gate, and the pilot comes on and explains what’s happened.

  “I appreciate your patience, ladies and gentlemen. Here’s what happened, what I did not want to inform you of despite warnings from the tower otherwise. We have lost three planes today, and all flights are grounded for the time being.” The passengers are aghast. “The flights are not said to be hijacked; we are not, apparently, facing another 9/11.”