Chronicles of Ara: Perdition

by Joel Eisenberg

  And he writes . . .

  I wanted to be read a story. I had family once. A real family.

  THOUGH HE HAS BEEN DEAD SEVERAL YEARS, Papa Jim turns the page. AS I SAT WITH HIM, I WAS A CHILD AGAIN, BUT NOT.

  I vaguely recall his scent, LAVENDER.

  AND THEN A QUAKE AND—

  My dog leaned against us, and I was awake yet way too comfortable to move her. I dreamed . . .

  ANOTHER QUAKE.

  We had an event, a party, at publisher Forry Ackerman’s house. Forry was an inspiration forever, before he died in 2008 . . . but why? Surely there was more behind the monsters. (Why was I always so interested in all this? Tolkien, horror, science fiction, fantasy? Why the pull to be a writer? Why this? Why that? Why a thousand whys?)

  Famous Monsters, the magazine Forry published, was my fave magazine for many years. I would take over his estate. I borrowed my mom’s minibike to ride. (I doubt that my mom, who I barely knew, ever owned a minibike.) Just such a weird evening. We got home, had some company. Left the crowd and spent time in my office alone, closed the door. Most were Elizabeth’s family anyway. I noticed my computer seemed to have a virus in it. It would not start, yet I saw only saw writing, in code. The same format as that Tolkien once wrote in the dirt. Horizontal. Vertical. Diagonal. Everyone’s phone and the other computers in the house, as I went from room to room—the same.

  We were tapped! Surely this was the new 9/11, we all thought. Cyber-terrorism.

  Left house, and the world was upside down. I was with Elizabeth. Stopped by KCET, a former PBS station in Southern California, now a Church of Scientology (another sci-fi writer, natch) that I only saw once. We were on minibikes . . . yet only strange men (and women?) in helmets were there. Military. Very dark night as soon as we left the comfort of our house, and we were unable to return.

  We were all separated. PRISONERS. Elizabeth and I were asked to go to a place, which we thought was a river, full of water. THERE WE WERE TOLD WHOEVER. We managed to hold on to the front, like in a pool. Then, a beautiful military woman gave us hats. Elizabeth was taken away from me and just left. THE WOMAN LIED. She didn’t seem to care. I was congratulated and got a blue hat. I was a freer version of everyone.

  BUT I WANTED A RED HAT. I WOULD DO ANYTHING TO GET ON THE SIDE I WANTED.

  I managed to escape, somehow. I walked into a shopping mall area. Someone was opening a glass door. I pressed a button, removed my hat so no one would notice, and did the same. I saw outside—a vast city. It was pouring. I had an option to sneak outside. I saw everyone was walking backwards. This was not earth. I said, “I loved you” and I cried because I missed her so much.

  I stepped outside and heard Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You and I cried and cried because I missed Elizabeth so much.

  And then I heard, “The muse dreams too, but only in red like the blood of spirit.” Was I dreaming the dream of the muse?

  There was a hardcover book about our adventures called Rise of the Redcoat. The author was Elizabeth.

  The word Plaxe comes to mind, and I don’t know why, either.

  X can have his dragon.

  MIRKWOOD

  Armed guards are strapped in front of the cargo hold. When the plane goes down in a fiery, smoky haze, she has no idea where she is. Neither when she walks away, uninjured, awaiting a fuselage explosion that, beyond any sense of logic, does not come. She knows only that she is very much alive, while the rest have likely passed.

  Selu . . .

  And she realizes she has no time to mourn. She will do so later.

  Plumes of sand raise from a mild wind; as she looks into the distance, all she sees is expanse. Greenland, trees, a vast ocean and, quite far away . . . a castle.

  The water . . . the water wasn’t there before. The thought is a knee-jerk response to her new surroundings. She is unsure of her impulsive consideration, specifically. Before when? Or, is the water not there at all? She has no idea how she knows, but she does, that despite her questions she is assured she is not dreaming. This is real time. She does not question herself, as Sidra Ghioto has always trusted her instincts. She is alive. That realization will suffice for now.

  My camera. She reaches for her camera, which is still in her possession, still in her carry bag, which she realizes has remained strapped to her shoulder. She retrieves the device, sets her timer for panoramic view, tests a sample shot—check—then holds the camera with her arms extended and shoots her surroundings.

  A dragon swoops overhead. Taebal. Sidra looks up in response to a sudden wind and clap and watches, slack-jawed, as the monster soars over the raging ocean. Her photographer’s instincts take over, and she shoots. As if in response, the weather abruptly turns to a cabal of lightning and thunder. Sidra raises her arms overhead and affixes her viewer on the dragon, shooting automatically in intervals of one second.

  A bolt of lightning hits his wing, and Taebal struggles to stay airborne. Sidra’s attention and lens remain focused on the dragon. She is only mildly surprised at her clear-headedness and lack of panic till now—no idea why. She cannot believe her luck; that much is certain.

  The Bermuda Triangle maybe? Don’t recall from any itinerary, but if I ever get back home I could tell them these were the first-ever photos from inside the Bermuda Triangle. That’ll sell.

  She continues to shoot, until the dragon fades into an incoming fog.

  Drums.

  Beating drums, dozens, perhaps hundreds, in tandem. In terrible pain, Taebal maintains air and flies toward the source, somewhere in the vicinity of the castle’s remains. He can no longer feel his right wing nor can he see through the blinding downpour. Between bursts of thunder and lightning, however, he can still hear . . . the drums.

  And he is stricken again. On his back. The area smokes for a brief second before he loses his strength and altitude altogether and the water below comes ever-closer.

  As Taebal falls, Sidra reluctantly takes refuge inside the plane. She will not look at the bodies and the plane will soon fill with water, but a wing is buried in what’s now mud and the open emergency door is easy-access. She scrambles to an unoccupied area in the plane’s back and curls up in a seated position, grasping her knees. Her eye catches a glimpse, though, of the mangled, bloody corpse of the pilot. Sidra scoots back. Reality hits hard, and she breaks down, crying and shaking uncontrollably like she once did as a little girl of eleven, during a most memorable day when Daddy woke her from a very pleasant dream to tell her that Mommy’s plane “went down” and there was only one survivor.

  But it wasn’t Mommy.

  Now, like then, Sidra closes her eyes. Now, like then, Sidra opens her eyes and envisions herself as that same little girl—before the tragedy. The first tragedy.

  Sitting in front of her in the same position, close enough to reach out and touch, is Sidra’s younger self. Her younger self, whom Professor Searle had once named Adriel . . . who once was known by a far more threatening moniker:

  Ara.

  The drums continue. The storm has passed.

  The castle that had once belonged to Eron’s father, the first king of Mirkwood, has been rebuilt for function but not redesigned. To an unaware observer, a view from the outside would showcase a structure of some sure importance, but one that appears to have been lifted from a previous collapse with little effort. However, there are no unaware observers in Mirkwood, as the former kingship had been known by all and the castle’s locale had remained in place. No effort has been made to hide prior fire damage, and disintegration remains a constant under inclement weather. In time, these war wounds will be disguised or otherwise hidden, but for now, they serve as an omnipresent reminder of the land’s volatile economy. The palace is functional, and that is all. The present appearance represents a kingdom in new dawn, one that must continually rebuild pending battles and victories sure to come and continually affixed with the light of fresh conquest.

  “To everything a new beginning,” S’n Te once said to t
he old king, when tasked with creating the weapon that would ultimately take the life of the king’s only child. “I’m warning you, however, the weapon you expect will fulfill your order and appear most formidable . . . but nothing is as it appears.”

  ~~~

  Rows of drummers bang their instruments—mallets upon animal hides of varying thickness and integrity. The active drums are ceremonial and wholly intended to prevent interlopers from interfering with current proceedings.

  The beat will alter slightly in the event of a breach, a signal to those inside that security has been compromised.

  Inside, a gathering. A new coronation.

  Several dozen fully armed and armored swordsmen bear witness. “Today, we have crowned a new king.” Matthius Alexi stretches his arm in introduction. The new ruler enters the hall in full metallic battle gear, save for the red helmet that he holds tucked under his arm. He sits in what is left of the old king’s throne.

  His face is obscured by shadow, though is clearly darker than Alexi’s. His words are eagerly awaited.

  “I accept this election,” he says. “I warned them.” He ponders his words. “I warned them as tasked, and they didn’t listen. I have returned here, to the Infinity Pass and now, to ensure our survival. Ara must be defeated at all costs, once and for all!”

  His words are overtaken by a collective “HERE!”

  “Here . . . we are safe here. The muse cannot see here.” S’n Te watches helplessly, standing apart from those gathered, dressed in his usual attire. He is noticed by no one. “My new mystic shall be my eyes and ears.” He extends his hand to Matthius. S’n Te is particularly intrigued. “He shall be yours and obey the laws of the courts.”

  The assemblage turns in response to a clang of metal footsteps, coming close. As if on cue, Eron enters, in full gear but for the helmet that he holds tucked under his arm. Eron’s face is as it once was prior to his demise. Rugged, scarcely scarred.

  X holds up his arm, signaling for quiet. “The Over-dweller has been . . . rebuilt. He could be touched, he could be polished. I was assured he could reclaim his soul, and as such he is now weaponized. He shall target Ara, who must be turned, or he shall take his revenge upon her as her sisters assume the new hierarchy and our lives will become a tragedy of enslavement. We must not give way to a future where we lose our world, our people, in the process.”

  “And Taebal?”

  “The dragon has disappeared. For good.”

  Taebal, under water, loses consciousness. As he floats, a small object is introduced by the current and bounces from his snout. The object is three inches in height, a white-ish gray furry novelty attached to a quarter-inch metal hold.

  Samantha McFee’s rabbit's foot drags across his face . . . until over-taken and carried away by an incoming wave.

  The minions cheer, as the new king of Mirkwood, X, officially assumes the throne and Matthius Alexi hurriedly walks off, down a stairwell-in-progress, into the bowels that once hosted a mystic and soon will entrap a pawn who has fallen deep into a rabbit hole.

  Matthius quickly transcribes the new record into dragon flesh. He turns . . . to the others present. They are numerous—men, women, children. The castle’s bowels have been transformed into a library of the like that one day Alexandria will attempt to replicate.

  Volumes upon volumes, documents on parchment, stories carved into stone . . .

  Prior recordings from the first king are continued under Matthius’ supervision.

  Two scribes, senior twin men, both fully bald with white eyelashes, create their own stories in a vast adjoining hall.

  A scriptorium.

  X arrives downstairs. He walks by, observing the goings-on. He whispers to Matthius, who points to the two men. X in turn wanders over to the writers and peeks at their titles:

  The Chronicles of Ara

  The Lost Chronicles of Ara

  They pause and look up to X. “Carry on,” the boy-king says. “Matthius Alexi, walk with me.” Matthius arises and follows X, up the stairwell and outside.

  Satisfied, the two scribes turn back to their work . . . and calamity hits. An explosion rocks the palace, immediately burying the works and trapping the scribes inside.

  X and Matthius, who stand outside side by side, watch as the castle is besieged by a new enemy.

  ~~~

  And Sidra, the sole survivor of the airplane crash, walks onward, on her own power, having suffered nary a scratch.

  She sees someone in the distance.

  “Yes!” she says, her strength increasing. “YES!” She paces, quicker. No hallucinogens today, thank God. He appears to be speaking with someone else, whom she cannot see. Yet despite her concerns, she flails her arms in hope and desperation. As she gets closer, her suspicions are confirmed. No one stands in his company. He is, assuredly, alone. She glimpses his hands first and then his face through a now-partial helmet. He is dark-skinned, black; in her haze, of that much she is certain. She is alarmed that he appears to be talking to no one but himself, as he is the only person present.

  And she understands he may well be her only hope for survival.

  He speaks . . . and stops upon seeing her. Their eyes meet for but a moment; he then turns away from her as if interrupted and resumes his conversation. She slows her pace.

  And she watches helplessly as he and his castle are besieged, as he appears to grab his throat before ripping off his helmet and, from behind.

  And then she feels her stomach. The bump. A baby bump. Sidra is with child. She flashes to her son.

  The child. Bands of dragons.

  From the skies behind the castle, a great red dragon of seven heads and ten horns swoops below the sparse clouds. His size is immeasurable, perhaps as tall from ground to stars with his neck fully extended and feet on the Mirkwood sands. Though the entirety of his form cannot be contained by the human eye, as the dragon swoops and flails on his way from heavens to ground, he takes stars along with him, which become asteroids and crash into the earth, threatening to destroy the world. A third of the visible stars seems to fall in his great sweep, leaving behind a swath of red sky, and Sidra is immediately reminded—

  The Bible.

  Somewhere, the mystic knows that Ara has foreseen this. The Bible was written as a literary work.

  Indeed, the dragon wears seven diadems—seven crowns—on each head, precisely as scripture had written. He lands and bends before Sidra, whose stomach is now swelled in proportions to labor.

  He may well devour her child upon birth, and she is well aware.

  In the meantime, other stars crash, and the goddess, Ara, will soon be joined by others, and . . .

  Ara—human, older.

  The rabbit’s foot resumes its course then enters a tunnel. Under the core of the sea is yet another portal, a tunnel of sorts that directly leads to . . . another sea. And underneath the second sea?

  The entirety of the buried planet once known as earth.

  BRADLEY AND SON BIBLIOTHEQUE, SUMMER 2016

  On the morning of the end of the world . . .

  The hand that reaches for the ground is near-skinless and can barely extend to reach the dropped parchment. It is a burnt hand, scarred and reddened with barely covered bone, but the old man has been through his share of hardship in his time, and a fire, such as one that took the life of a loved one, was naught but an inconvenience, a gate to what he really wanted, which was a final escape from his sadness. He was so tired of the games, so utterly over putting on the old game face, when all he wanted was to go fishing with the one he so dearly loved but could never see again. For as long as he remained, that is.

  He kept the newspaper story in his window, since the tragedy happened as a reminder of his authentic goal.

  Life is a mask. There is nothing honest about it.

  He should not have survived. Not for any logical reason or motive. The boy died under similar circumstances, why couldn’t he? He planned to die. When he collapsed and the fire happened, he was c
onscious for another minute or so; he had a smile on his face for the first time since the writer left London and the farewell that was surprisingly poignant. They would be friends, if informal, and he looked upon the younger man for the time they were together as not a replacement but a bandage. Healing happened there, however temporary.

  As the clock ticked to the time of the young writer’s departure, the old man was reminded that he planned to join his son and willfully give up the mortal coil and whatever went from there went from there but, as usual, things just didn’t go as smoothly as hoped.

  I can’t even get that right, he frets. Not even the heart attack I hoped for. It was just a blackout. My sugar again, lucky me.

  He retrieves the page and barely manages to return to his feet when he sees the robed figure standing feet away, casting a shadow on his barely there form. The figure stands next to an old chair, which Donovan does not recall being there a minute ago.

  Donovan thought the visitor was a bird at first. He was positive it was a bird at first.

  “I had no choice but to save you,” S’n Te confirms before asked. “We have work to do.”

  Considering all that has passed, the old man discounts the obvious supernatural queries. He’ll wait for that confirmation. “And what would that be?” Donovan Bradley wearily asks.

  S’n Te shape-shifts to raven-form. Donovan was correct. “Lead me to Ara’s father,” the mystic states.

  Donovan sighs. He is not surprised. “I cannot. The life’s work . . . the collection was destroyed.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “You speak in riddles.”

  “Donovan Bradley, you are familiar with the plight of Matthius Alexi?”

  “To an extent.”

  “You are aware that he too lost something of great personal significance?” A tired, battered Donovan looks away from the mystic, tears welling. He knows what’s coming next. “I am asking you for the same that Ara’s father asked of him. Lead me to where I need to be, and you will be reunited with your boy.”