Chronicles of Ara: Perdition

by Joel Eisenberg

  “But it’s not cold?”

  “Not yet.”

  “That’s hopeful, anyway.” Sidra changes course. “You were going to show me something.”

  “Yes. Yes, I was. Almost forgot.” Selu unfolds the paper and passes it to Sidra.

  She angers as she reads. “Where did you get this?”

  Selu is taken aback by her manner.

  “Is this some sort of elaborate joke?”

  “This was Marlo’s favorite poem. She kept it. It inspired her.”

  “How would you know it inspired her? How would you know?” Her anger is overwhelming. “You said you didn't speak for years.”

  “Her mother, in court—after. This is all I have of my daughter’s memory. Not even a photograph. Nothing.”

  Sidra leaves, throwing the paper to the ground. The wind carries it for a moment before it lands, face-up—

  Goddess Ode

  Selu contemplates his next words and changes course: “I didn’t meet Mr. Mann in a strip club.”

  “No? I’m shocked.” Sarcasm.

  “I wrote a thesis. Interested?”

  “Go for it.”

  “You won’t believe me.”

  “Try me.”

  Selu clears his throat. “The title was, Catching the Muse: Antiquated Truths in Post-Revisionist Antiquity.”

  “Wordy. What the hell does that mean?”

  He manages a laugh. “Meaning, the converse of almost exactly what you asked me about before. I took the view that if our truths are found in our art, then it’s almost impossible to find those truths unless we consider that many of our discoveries once had another meaning. In fact, we’re here today as a continuation of that project.”

  “And Lucius?”

  “He’s my sponsor. And my benefactor. He saw something in me during my recovery, and that’s why I’m here.”

  “Where’d you meet him?”

  “I met him at a Starbucks.”

  “Serious?”

  “Serious. And you?”

  “Long story. I need to work up to it.”

  “You do that.”

  ~~~

  Night. A campfire.

  Sidra and Selu drink coffee and talk over a dinner of stew and potatoes. Selu’s associates are near, eating in their own corner.

  “You were saying about The Little Mermaid?” Selu asks.

  “No. Why would you want to go there again? Why don’t we move on?”

  “I’m interested in what you have to say. And also, let’s say you helped me and leave it there, huh?”

  “I guess . . . I’m not comfortable, but—” He's about to object, when—“BUT . . . fair enough. I have a thing for dark folktales. I was going to say, in the original story, the mermaid died and became a ‘daughter of the air.’ ”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You’re wrong. When Hans Christian Anderson wrote the original, the prince married a princess, and the despondent mermaid was offered a knife to kill him. Instead, she returned to the sea and died by turning to froth.”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “The author revised the ending to make it more palatable. And in your version, technically she didn’t die. She became froth, like before, and awaited heaven, but anything more is what you read into it. Andersen never said she died in the first version.”

  “Anything else? I feel like I’m back in school.”

  “You opened that one. How about this? ‘Little Red Riding Hood.’ The original French Charles Perrault printed version, not the prior versions from folklore.”

  “I got this,” says Sidra. “The wolf bullshits Red Riding Hood, who’s looking for her grandmother, and he eats her.”

  “Yeah, something like that. Is that what the author said? He bullshits her?”

  “I’m translating.”

  “I see. ‘The Pied Piper’?”

  “Leads the kids to water, where most of them drown. Except for this one kid who was crippled and couldn’t keep pace.”

  “In ‘Snow White,’ the queen requests her lungs and liver for a meal. Sleeping Beauty was raped by the king and gives birth to two children as she sleeps. ‘Hansel and Gretel’—again, the French version—there’s no witch, there’s the devil, and the kids slash his wife’s throat to escape.”

  “So on and so on and so on. Don’t forget Goldilocks was shredded and eaten by the bears. In one version or another and—oh! Rumpelstiltskin. The girl so infuriates him by guessing his name that he rips himself in two.”

  “Actually, that was a later version. That author actually wanted something more gruesome.” He pauses and smiles. “Sick fuck.”

  “Now you’re speaking my language. And let’s not forget ‘Cinderella.’ In the Grimm brother’s version, the evil stepsisters try to fool the prince and cut off parts of their feet to fit into the glass slipper. Then there’s the pigeons that pluck out the eyes of the stepsisters. Good times.”

  “But did you know before Grimm the story was first told in the first Century BC? Her name wasn’t Cinderella, though. It was Rhodopis.”

  “Rhodo—? Forget it. Getting tired.”

  An associate runs over. He is panting. Sidra and Selu stand.

  “I came from the hills,” he says. “It’s Mr. Mann. Come.”

  “What happened?” Selu asks. “What's wrong?”

  “Come!”

  ~~~

  Selu scrapes and brushes a thick volume written on parchment unearthed minutes ago. Sidra photographs.

  “It’s a book!” she exults.

  “That it is,” says Selu. He turns the volume to the front. The title holds resonance:

  The Mirkwood Codex

  Selu abruptly excuses himself. “Don’t touch anything,” he says.

  This time, she does not comply. She waits until he is out of sight and is most surprised when she begins to read. This is a book of maps and symbols. Among the latter:

  ΣΗΘµαθΙσθισξ θ[αιθδησωοα ζϕξ εξλαµδγωε

  She is stricken by a wave of familiarity. It remains to be seen whether this is the codex itself.

  Maps to what?

  “Hey!”

  She tucks the book into her bag.

  “Anything?” he asks.

  “Not yet.”

  He tilts his hat and walks off without another word.

  And she heads back to work; a loosened page of some familiarity slips to the ground:

  Stunned, she watches as it hits the sand.

  And this would be the only English in the entire book? she guesses.

  “I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore,” she says quietly. She looks up in response to a shadow overtaking the glyph, followed by a squawk. A raven flies overhead, its wingspan momentarily blackening the words.

  X told me . . . no, it can’t be.

  She watches as the creature swoops for a landing.

  “Ain’t that some sh—”

  “Ms. Ghioto!” Lucius is clearly furious as he approaches from the distance. “Ms. Ghioto, take the book out of your bag, place it atop the page, and step back immediately!”

  ~~~

  Sidra has been asked by Lucius to take the evening off. She is outside and reads X’s work from her computer when Selu approaches.

  “I thought I told you not to touch anything,” he says.

  “You set me up,” she replies.

  “Reasons for everything,” he says.

  “Not admitting to anything. Nonetheless, I have a question for you.”

  “What do you find so interesting?” Selu asks.

  Sidra answers by turning her computer toward him.

  “I see. Ever meet him?”

  “Now what you makes you say that?”

  “Searle, for one. Don't be so surprised.”

  Sidra turns off her computer. “I’m not so surprised. I know you know Searle. How well do you know him?”

  “I’m leading this little excavation.”

  “
I thought—” She looks to Lucius.

  “He’s paying for it. Didn’t he tell you anything?”

  “Of course.”

  “So this is your idea of foreplay?” She is unsure how to take the comment, until he breaks into a disarming grin. “Two could play that game. Relax. I’m married.”

  “Meaning?” She can barely conceal her disappointment.

  “Meaning . . . I was going to ask you the same question.”

  “I have a boyfriend,” she lies.

  “So I hear. Anyone ever see him?”

  “What did you say?” she asks, offended.

  “Professor Searle mentioned something about you seeing somebody. Until recently.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Doesn’t matter. He’s never met him. My only concern is that your personal life won’t get in the way of what we’re trying to do.”

  “You want the truth?” she asks.

  “I’ve said to you, you can tell me anything.”

  “I don’t trust him,” she confides. “I don’t much trust anybody, if you want me to be honest about it.”

  “So,” Selu asks, “paying for your scholarship means nothing to you?” She doesn’t answer quickly enough. “Nothing? You have any idea how many people would kill for your opportunity?”

  “Means enough to get me out of New York.”

  “Have you ever tried getting help for that?”

  “Help for what?” she asks. “I don’t need any hel—”

  “Photographers are a dime a dozen, I’m sorry.” Sidra stays with her task. “You’re no better and no worse than average.”

  “I’m gonna fall for th—” She stops as Selu angrily drops his shovel. He fast approaches; she knows what’s coming. He stands a toe’s length away from her and bores into her eyes. “Bullshit,” she adds.

  “How much longer, Sid? How much longer we going to do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “Your challenge is wasteful.” She attempts to step back, but he blocks her with a forceful shove from behind her waist. “You confide in no one but me . . . you look at no one but me.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. Take a look.” Selu’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Take a look,” Sidra repeats. He slowly lifts his eyes. Sidra feels the soft exhalation of his nose and the brush of whisker as he turns his head. “This only matters is you’re successful. Not me.” Selu slackens his arm. Sidra steps away. “Because I’m just a dime-a-dozen chick.”

  “I said photographer.”

  “In my world that’s pretty much the same damn thing.” She pauses in response to a local aide. He holds a note and struggles to catch his breath. “Mr. Mann,” he gasps. “Come!” Selu and Sidra exchange curt, concerned looks. “Come!” he repeats.

  DESTINATION: NEW YORK CITY,

  MANN EXPEDITION FLIGHT

  Sidra was warned by Searle about Lucius’ predilection for a last-minute change of plans. “He has the deepest pockets of anyone I know,” he said. Indeed, yesterday’s events at the mount have serviced Searle’s words, and the group has been ordered to immediately return to New York.

  Lucius privately considers the return an emergency, though he says nothing of the sort to any of his crew. To now, he has said nothing about the mission formally ending.

  He has allowed Sidra to walk away with neither defense nor explanation. She does not know whom to trust any longer.

  “Everything okay?” queries Selu, the only crew member in which he occasionally confides.

  “Business as usual” is Lucius’ patronizing response.

  ~~~

  Sidra is proving to be an uncomfortable flyer. Uncomfortable on the flight, uncomfortable in her present circumstance. She has found a Bible onboard, and reads voraciously:

  Revelation 12 . . . and she was with child; and she cried out, being in labor and in pain to give birth. Then another sign appeared in heaven: and behold, a great red dragon having seven heads and ten horns, and on his heads were seven diadems. And his tail swept away a third of the stars of heaven and threw them to the earth. And the dragon stood before the woman who was about to give birth, so that when she gave birth he might devour her child . . .

  Today, Sidra and Selu sit together, their newly discovered common ground threatening to add gravitas to their conversations. Now, though, is not that time.

  He peeks.

  “Revelation. Didn’t take you for the type.”

  “The Bible?”

  “Didn’t think you read it,” Selu says.

  “Do you?’ Sidra asks.

  “Only when I need to be comforted from a rough flight,” he teases.

  “Bullshit,” says Sidra.

  “That’s all you have to say?” Selu asks.

  Lucius sits alone, scribbling notes longhand. He ignores the conversation.

  “No,” Sidra responds. “Fleas on bullshit.”

  “Profound. You must have been a party when you were drunk.” Selu, bored, states, “Oh, wait, you were—”

  “Is this a guy thing too? Are you so arrogant to insult me, to . . . hide your vulnerability and keep your control when we find we have something in com—”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Sidra cannot believe what she has heard. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me. Listen . . .” He motions her in. “I know what happened, we all do.”

  “Joy.”

  “No, it’s fine. We’re not going back because of you.”

  “How—”

  “I don’t. Only that he would have said something to me, that’s all.”

  “But what if he suspects something?”

  “Nothing to worry about.” He steals from X and teases: “Trust m—”

  “This is your co-pilot speaking.”

  “Saved by the bell,” says a Sidra, disgusted. They hit a small bump and she sits up.

  “Extinction beckons,” Selu teases.

  “What’s the deal with this damn turbulence?”

  The announcement continues, and Sidra quiets. “Gentlemen and . . . lady, we ask that you please excuse the disquieting chop. We’ve encountered some rough air over the Michigan border and have been cleared to change altitude; please keep your seatbelts securely fastened until the captain has turned off the signal. In the meantime, we are privileged in that all of us are making a little history today, despite the early turn back.” Lucius ignores the words. “In our cargo hold, for the Museum of Modern Art’s Library of Lost Art exhibition,” the co-pilot continues, “the collective of what you have uncovered over these past days is not necessarily one-of-a-kind, but all have been considered lost. To an extent, we can only assume that missing items from the Library of Alexandria fire have been copied. Perhaps too many to measure, perhaps not. But understand. While to some this is not an unknown, to all this is history restored—” Another bump. “We will return in a few minutes with an update.”

  “Damn it,” says Sidra. “What’s the point of saving history if we don't get back alive?”

  “Enough.” Selu’s games are over. “Enough, seriously. We’ll be fine. Your panic doesn’t help matters any, okay?”

  Sidra’s front is likewise dropped. “You sure?”

  He nods and forces a smile; she’s not convinced but is comforted by the gesture. “Remember when we spoke about the Abeyance? And I explained to you about the correction after the pause that X talks about in his work?”

  “Yes,” she responds, doing her best to refocus.

  “There is no correction,” Selu says. “X was wr—”

  Still another bump, a severe jolt, rocks the aircraft. Overhead luggage compartments snap open.

  “Selu!”

  Selu too is unnerved, but he visibly keeps his calm. “The plane is still in the air. Turbulence can be scary, but planes are built to withstand—”

  “I guess I should be used to . . . all this by n—”

  The plane loses its hydraulics. In moments, the craft rapidly descends. They all panic, not just Si
dra.

  She is the first to black out.

  Moments, thereafter, the plane goes down in a blaze.

  DESTINATION: NEW YORK CITY,

  THOMAS MCFEE FLIGHT

  As Thomas looks out his window—his typical prep for descending into the clouds, once noticed—his immediate thought when he sees the other plane is that his mind is playing tricks on him. Ten thousand (twenty thousand?) feet below and perhaps as many feet away, the smaller 747 gliding underneath appears surrounded by the now-familiar red clouds, whilst his own plane flies, for now anyway, in the midst of no such anomaly. Pure blue skies, gliding on a cushion of cotton with the occasional break from which he has spotted the other. The smaller craft is surrounded by a pulse of blood-sun that reflects off its metal and threatens to overtake its flight.

  Clouds. Below, the airport is in sight. Nothing strange, nothing of any special note.

  The weather is clear.

  He ignores the pilot, but hears, “Please fold your tray tables and move your seats to the upright position. We will be on ground in approximately twenty-seven minutes, give or take. It has been our pleasure to serve you.”

  It has also been a long flight, and Thomas has already forgotten about the other craft. He does, though, again recall his troubling reverie from a few hours ago. Not troubling in the sense of worrisome; troubling in the sense of obsession.

  He has been unable to stop thinking about the dream for any measurable period, save for a few seconds here and there. He needs to write it down. His tablet is folded; he grabs the cocktail napkins he has since crumbled and placed in the seat pouch in front of him with his can of tomato juice.

  Pen from pocket. He briefly ponders before scribbling notes, title first:

  The Rise of the Redcoat

  Upon crossing the last t, he writes as if possessed. He will spill his thoughts onto paper with full detail and fill in any gaps. He will not forget this one; it’s far too important.