In the interest of fair disclosure, here were my observations regarding Mr. Tolkien, vis–à–vis The Silmarillion and my faithful protagonist.
1. A scarcely explored but notable theory as to why Tolkien was unable to see The Silmarillion to its completion is that he simply didn’t have “all” the answers he was looking for. He may have thought he did; who knows? Certainly not Thomas McFee, as he ignored the question entirely in “his” book. Nice job of playing it safe.
2. If The Silmarillion had been foisted upon a gullible public in Tolkien’s lifetime in a half-assed, fragmented manner, which was not this particular author’s wont, the cultural reper-cussions would have been . . . upsetting. His reputation would have suffered—imo—due to the ensuing unfavorable response. And “that” would have been problematic in the long term.
3. His other, more established work would have been re-examined. Much like anything else that becomes wildly popular, a wave of backlash would have been inevitable. The question then becomes, “How big the wave?” See Lucas, George.
So here we are.
McFee wrote a good book. Not a classic, by any definition, but an informative-enough tome for those less-critical readers, if not a bit dry. “Dry” being a euphemism for boring. Who am I kidding? To be honest, I’m somewhat ashamed of Ms. Watkins for passing muster on the new work.
Unfortunately, since he didn’t take advantage of my best intentions, McFee missed the boat on delivering anything new.
And then some.
So why does (any of) this matter?
It matters, because he came close.
Mr. McFee came very, very close—damn close—to what I call The Truth.
His book became Scarp’s biggest-seller yet, which only reinforces my thoughts as to the ignorance of the general public.
When you offer pablum, they eat pablum.
It also explains why they never believed a word I said. Because I challenged them, and they didn’t want to be challenged.
That said, I would like to introduce you—and, you know what?—only you, Ms. Denise Watkins, to my new reality. “Our” new reality.
I don’t want to be too much of a hypocrite. I said before that I had sent the last of my letters to the media. I’ll stand by that. We’ll reserve this one for you, and you alone. Therefore, when—and not if—you warn Thomas, please inform him of the following:
He’s right. It ain’t nuthin’ but a game right now. It’s a “wild goose chase” (not that I ever quite understood that one either; what do wild geese have to do with anything?), and do you know why? It’s because I’m bored. But we knew that already.
Tell your friend there that—no manipulation whatsoever (I swear!)—he could be surrounded by all the answers he seeks, all of them . . . if only he takes advantage of the opportunity you’ve no doubt already introduced.
I’m going to sign off in a moment. I’m feeling rather manic today.
Donovan Bradley is selling his business. He has no heir, which I may or may not have had something to do with. He is in his nineties, and he is surrounded by a literary record that—no hyperbole—is second in its comprehensiveness only to the Library of Alexandria. Which, need I remind you, was destroyed by a fire.
I may, or may not, have had something to do with that one too.
But let’s not delve into those questions right now. Let’s focus on the big picture.
Remember, there are reasons, there are sources, for my knowledge.
As there are reasons for everything.
Random thoughts, transitions be damned: Smarten up your boy, Ms. Watkins.
All the history, Mr. McFee, or anyone else, would ever need to turn back the clock of the universe . . . (and I do hope you enjoy my dramatic spacings, em-dashes, carefully placed parenthetical asides and ellipses, btw) is his for the accepting.
He needs to accept Bradley’s offer.
Otherwise, we will not survive another Abeyance. Every-thing that came before has already been corrected.
No more chances.
For proof, his daughter and everyone in the country that day survived. As did he.
None of them remembers anything, but they will now start asking a bunch of questions.
Because—
I’ve said it before. They are realizing of late, and Thomas is finally beginning to accept, that nothing is what it appears to be. This includes Samantha, who is certainly not who she appears to be.
The gods are done. Except for one.
He may want to ask his daughter.
I think he knows why.
If not, I’ll help him out.
Today, the world rotates as if nothing has happened. As if there were not two abeyant events within the course of a year.
That’s worrisome, don’t you think? An honest question.
(And, by the way . . . again? When I refer to “the world” I may also be talking, as I stated earlier, “metaphorically.” Maybe there’s more than one. Ever consider that, genius? May well put things in a different perspective, don’t you think? Hint. Hint. Idiot.)
I ever say publicly that I’m tired of being called a “crackpot?” Of course—though I can’t prove a thing.
Woe is me. More worrisome.
So, to conclude . . .
The best of my estimates? From today forward? Till the universe implodes? Based on my scrupulously calculated Ten Measures, as inspired by the works of Pythagoras and Lewis Carroll?
Five years.
Say “goodnight” now. It’ll be a while before we communicate again.
P.S. If either of you speaks to Donovan, may you be so kind to ask how he’s enjoying Wonderland? Many thanks.
Officer Palatnek leans back in his chair, contemplating what he has just read. He then shrinks and cross-checks his various files on X, file to file, his right index finger veritably drawing a map in his comparison of the boy’s messages.
He again enlarges the 2015 letter.
Arrested in ’14, he wouldn’t have been allowed to write this from Sing Sing in ’15 . . .
“He’d never have been allowed to send it, anyway,” he adds. After a few moments, he creates an editable copy of the document.
Once on-screen in its editable form, he gets to work.
“So, his November 6, 2014, letter opened the eyeballs, but the incident at your House of Usher pretty well cemented his crazy . . . Ms. Watkins, the next time you stage a break-in you might not want to be so clumsy.”
He scrolls to the following passage:
I must admit, by the way, that Ms. Watkins’ building does contain a fairly homey roof. I can only imagine the morally reprehensible goings-on after hours, especially on Friday nights during “Happy Hour” (which, as brilliant as I am, remains a concept I could never understand). But I digress.
And he alters:
I must admit, by the way, that Ms. Watkins’ building does contain a fairly homey roof. I can only imagine the morally reprehensible goings-on after hours these days, especially on Friday nights during “Happy Hour” (which, as brilliant as I am, I could never figure why, after my first real invite a couple of years ago, I’ve never been asked back; I thought we got on famously). But I digress.
“Now . . . what else we got?” he asks as he resumes. “If this is what I have to do, Ms. Watkins, to decipher your role in all this, I promise you my friend I don’t have a hell of a lot of shame.”
Officer Palatnek draws a deep breath, as if pondering a great decision. He then slaps his hand on his desk.
Done.
He moves the letter into an extensive file, entitled LOCUS, and turns off his computer. He is about to leave the room, however, when his FAX activates and scrolls an image.
It is a photograph. A photo that was said to have been impossible to take.
Ara.
Palatnek is shocked. He grabs the paper and looks around, to make sure no one is watching. There’s an inscription on its bottom, which he reads:
Toldja, it says. It is signed, just be
low: Sidra Ghioto, Egypt.
He folds the paper and leaves the room.
Officer Palatnek does not notice the young, alarmingly thin woman sitting on the bench outside, handcuffed and waiting for processing.
Freak.
AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
Officer Franks turns to The Editor.
“You swore to me he was coming,” the officer says. “Any misstep on this project and we’re all—”
“He’ll be here,” The Editor promises. “If there’s any reality to any of this, and I believe there is, he’ll be here.”
“He set up X? How can you be certain—”
“All done. We managed to identify his last ISP, and—”
“What does that mean? You managed to identify his last ISP.”
“We successfully bugged his last computer. His camera was on. X thinks he killed—” The door opens and closes. “Perfect timing. You don’t look any the worse for wear,” The Editor says.
Daniel approaches. He is dressed the same as before and is wholly unscathed. Daniel is looked over by Officer Franks. “No kidding,” the cop says. “You sure you took the shot? You’re not trying to bluff an officer of the law?”
“Do I look like a man who bluffs?” Daniel asks, in all seriousness. He removes a pen-like cylindrical object from his shirt pocket and hands it to The Editor. “The military’s wonderful.”
Moments pass and nothing is said. The Editor slaps him on his back. “Welcome back,” he says, breaking the silence. “Tell me, did you see them? Did you see the girl? The dragon and—”
“Eron,” he responds. “Yes.”
The Editor can barely contain himself, as Officer Franks looks on suspiciously. “Well, then. He walks to a small fridge, standing in the corner of the room, on the floor. He grabs three beers, tosses two—one to each—and keeps the other. He opens first. “To the first man in history to have glimpsed The Infinity Pass. Cheers.” They swig. “Yessir. Neil Armstrong would be proud. To ENIGMA—”
“ENIGMA.” Officer Franks replies. “I’m dying to know what you saw.”
Daniel doesn't immediately answer. He will, in time. For now, he chugs.
The Editor turns. “Franks?”
“Sir.”
“Has Charlie King been bailed yet?” Daniel pauses briefly, but keeps drinking as he awaits the answer. Franks notices the look.
“Not yet,” he says. Paperwork. “The warden is wrapping today. Tomorrow we post.”
“And your partner in crime?” Daniel interrupts. “Officer Palatnek?”
Franks faces them both. “Clueless,” he says. “Clueless. I’ll next infiltrate LOCUS, correct that . . . error. I’ll take care of Palatnek.”
“And all will be right with the world. For the minute, anyway.” The Editor chuckles. “Wonderful, gentlemen.” He finishes his beer. “Wonder-ful.”
LEGACY
EAST TALPIOT, JERUSALEM
Much to her chagrin, though she did not verbally object—she could not if she hoped to remain in Egypt—Sidra turned over her camera to Lucius, who in turn gave it to Selu.
She was told this would be a daily practice.
Lucius paid for the equipment and had the right to do anything he damn well pleased, Sidra thought. Thankfully, neither said anything about the candid photo of Selu taken during the explosion.
If she was religious, she would have prayed for as much.
The mysterious English below the second cave carving was noticed by Selu only upon his uploading of today’s photographic output. Selu roughly decoded the mysterious message when comparing and adding today’s other unveiled hieroglyphs, and determined its full meaning: The mystic S’n Te warns of the hidden Jerusalem Stone, upon which is recorded the story of Ara’s existence. The attribution of the recording was credited to the “demonic language of the Dok Kalfor,” which to Selu implied that the stone had also been hidden by the dark elves.
He informed Lucius of his conclusions, hence an immediate change of plans . . .
~~~
Selu has uncovered the Jerusalem Stone, twenty feet under the base-ment of an apartment complex. Too heavy to remove, it will be recovered later.
As he and his team continue to dig, Sidra walks to his side, snapping photos. She releases the camera, which hangs by a strap around her neck.
“I hope we find something dirty,” Sidra says.
“Is that your idea of a joke?” Selu asks.
“Yes. Not bad, huh?”
“Not bad. I have an idea for you.”
“What’s that?”
“You may not want to take your boredom out on me.” Sidra shrugs as she resumes her photographs. “You don’t know me well enough. I may up and tell Mr. Mann, and who knows what’ll happen with your assign—”
“Someone’s not handling the thin air very well. I thought you were experienced?” No answer. “And how long have you known each other? You and Lucius, I mean.” She pretends to be casual, but she’s probing. And he knows it.
“Five years,” he answers, allowing the question. “We’ve made a lot of money together.”
“So I hear. Where’d you meet?” she asks.
“At a strip club.” He pauses and stares in her direction. Sidra angrily flashes her bulb in his direction. “You warming up to me now?” Selu asks, unaffected.
She ignores him. “You want to know why we have obscenity laws in this world?”
“No, not really.”
“Then you should have thought twice before being smart around me. Obscenity laws were enacted so assholes like you, when you go too far, like you just did, would have to fly thousands of miles across the world to get your rocks off. In other words, it’s a sentence. Sort of like prison. That’s why they give jail time to people like you, so the rest of us can stay relatively safe.”
Selu smirks. “That was pretty good,” he says. “Profound in its way. How long did it take for you to memorize?”
“I wrote it. You like it?”
“I admit, but does anyone ever tell you, you have a mouth on you?”
“Always.”
~~~
Lunch.
“Mind if I ask you a serious question?” Selu asks.
“Depends on the . . .” she sighs. “Go ahead. Being a smart ass twenty-four-seven is as exhausting for me as I’m sure it is for you.”
“Not sure if that’s a compliment, but in my business we call that a starting point.” Selu takes a bite. “That’s a hell of a chip on your shoulder.”
“Old habits. I take after someone I shouldn’t take after.”
“You drink?”
Sidra's face reddens. Not quite a blush, more an acknowledgment of a carefully guarded secret. Trust. “More than I should, maybe not as much as I need to.”
“I understand. This is why I ask—unburdened secrets can change the world. A cornerstone of my work.”
“How did you—”
“Just a feeling.” He removes dog tags from under his shirt. “Over six years sober.”
She likes him. For the first time, she is beginning to trust him. “Trying to quit, but my shrink says I need a replacement behavior first. We all have our demons.”
“You’re a hell of a photographer.”
The comment takes her by surprise. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Thanks. I know.” She laughs; he watches. “The issue is, I was shooting—photos—before the drinking. I need something new.”
“I love fairy tales. But I love fairy tales as they are, not what they’ve become.”
Selu doesn’t understand. “For those of us without the benefit of being inside your head . . .”
“The Little Mermaid, for example. Ever see The Little Mermaid?”
“My daughter’s favorite.” Sidra puts her cup on the ground and rubs her hands. “You can’t tell me you’re cold,” Selu says. “It's 110 degrees out here.”
Sidra tries for nonplussed and fails. “You waited till now to tell me you have a
daughter?” He observes her reaction and awaits a further response before answering. “Tell me the truth . . . it was important for you to let me know—”
“I felt it appropriate.” Nothing more. Again, he waits.
Sidra smiles. “Not like there’s anything to look forward to, anyway.”
“She died when she was thirteen.”
“My God . . . Selu, I’m sor—”
“She had quite the imagination, that one. She loved her fairy tales.” In reflection, his voice drops and he fights emotion.
“Tell me your story,” Sidra says. “Please.”
He nods. Sidra guesses that it’s been a while since he’s shared, a gut feeling only, but an instinct she usually trusts. “I tried to drink away the pain, not only the pain of her physical loss, but the pain of not having any relationship with her for several years. But that, the drinking, only made everything worse,” Selu says. “No surprise there, I would assume.” Sidra shakes her head. “You’ve been there,” he continues.
“I have.”
“So you know.”
“In my own way.”
Selu reaches into his back pocket and removes a folded piece of paper. “I’ll get to this,” he says. “The saddest part for me? We hadn’t spoken in the last years of her life. Her mom—we weren’t married, by the way, to put it out there; I’ve never been much for rituals—blamed me for her getting sick.”
“What was wrong with her?”
“Stage four head and neck cancer.”
“So sorry.”
“Yeah. And then she developed a heart problem and was close to becoming wheelchair-bound toward the end. Because of what I do for a living, her mom blamed me for infecting her when she became pregnant. With all of my digging and exposure, she thought I had to bring back some poisonous chemicals or gases and . . . and that’s that.”
“That’s . . . quite a lot to take in.”
“Should I have given you a warning?”
“No.”
“Her body was found near a remote lake in London—no life for miles—but there were no signs of transport,” Selu says. “The bobbies said she had been impaled by a sword. The coroner performed some tests and found trace metals in her system, some of which their chemists couldn’t identify, so the findings were never considered anything more than preliminary. It’s still an open case, nearly a year later.”
Chronicles of Ara: Perdition Page 37
