Now for the legal pad. He wasn’t going to read whatever was written there. The ravings of a lunatic weren’t going to end well for him. Best to be rid of it, part and parcel, and prepare to return to work the following day and invest himself fully in getting the weekly variance summary from Shay and formatting it to the nth degree.
He walked over to the sofa and picked up the legal pad by its spine, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger and holding it away from his body like it was a soiled diaper. He approached the kitchen wastebasket and stepped forward to step on the pedal that opened the lid hands-free. Good riddance, he thought as he let go of the legal pad. It landed on the lid. He had pulled his foot away a moment too soon. He groaned and repeated the process. Lift, step, drop the pad, and flumph onto the closed wastebasket lid.
“Why?” Marc looked heavenward and threw his arms up over his head, letting them fall to his sides.
You must learn.
Not this again, he thought. He ran to the bedroom and dove onto the mattress. He wrapped his pillow around his head and squeezed his eyes shut.
Do not fear. No harm is to come to you.
He gritted his teeth and pulled the pillow tighter.
You have brought forth the light. Why do you fear the light now?
Marc groaned. “Not listening.”
And now, so lonely, so alone. You do not have to be alone. My time has come. I can teach you.
He rolled over onto his other side.
The time for Inanna has come. You must learn. Inanna will teach you.
He tried to blot out all sensations, as best as he could, but the inside of his head roared like an angry sea: crash, wave after wave, crashing upon rocks. In his mind’s eye, he saw sand, then dirt and sand mixed together, with tropical plants and trees against a blue sky. He saw a shining ancient city, shimmering in the sun, resplendent in gold and tan hues. He saw red-caped guards standing at intervals above the towering gate, clutching spears, dressed in shining armor, staring impassively ahead.
Yes. You see Nineveh. You have found Inanna.
The mighty gates opened, leading into the city, but Marc did not enter. Instead, a shapely, olive-skinned woman with nearly black hair emerged from the entrance. Her green dress and long hair fluttered in the wind as she walked toward him, slowly but steadily.
Inanna comes to you. Will you not go to Inanna? Must Inanna come to you?
Marc took a step closer, then hesitated. He squinted in the direction of the approaching figure, which was obscured by heat waves radiating up from the land. He looked down and saw his bare feet, then realized that he was naked. He considered covering himself. On his bed, he ran his bare foot up his leg and was relieved to feel his sweat pants still in fact covered him. This was a dream, then, and yet, somehow it wasn’t. He felt as though he was in two places at once.
Come to Inanna. Come to Nineveh. You must learn.
Figuring he had the escape option of waking up if things got too strange, or turned violent, he decided to step forward to shorten the distance between the two of them. “Inanna.”
The woman was much closer now. He saw her smile, maintaining eye contact. Marc wasn’t sure if he should feel offended or relieved that she didn’t shift her focus down about two and a half feet. The woman stood before him. He looked directly into her dark eyes, rimmed with kohl. Her neck was adorned with gold. Gold earrings glowed against her hair and skin. Her lips were red and full. He reached up, and touched her shoulder, then pulled his arm back. The woman reached out and took hold of his wrist, and stepped forward, pressing against him.
You desire Inanna. Inanna is yours. There are no secrets before Nineveh. Take what you desire.
Marc sucked in his breath and felt electrical surges throughout his naked body. He held her close, feeling her, feeling the touch of her garment, feeling her hands against his bare back. Feeling himself stiffen and becoming all at once embarrassed and emboldened. He touched her chin and brought her mouth to meet his. Their breath hissed in the burning air, the sun blessing their embrace, no-one pulling them apart, no-one saying no to this. The woman kissed him back harder, passionately. She pulled back for a moment and stared intently into his eyes.
Inanna is yours. Take what you desire. This is the way of Nineveh.
Marc clutched at her dress and held fistfuls of the majestic material as he bunched it up and pulled upward, bit by bit. He felt himself press against her bare skin. He enjoyed the sensation of her naked breasts against his own bare flesh. He felt their mutual desire, their want, their need.
This is as it was. This is as it shall be. This is the way of Nineveh.
The woman smiled seductively and licked her full lips. She was his. He would have her, now, on the bare ground, consequences be damned. They would feel pleasure and pain. They would burn. They would be one. The summer heat was no match for the flames that roared within them both. Marc pressed down on her shoulders and made primal grunting sounds. She nodded, and dropped to her knees, then put her dress underneath her and laid down upon it. She was his. He would take her, now.
The woman moaned with ecstatic pleasure. Yes, he would take her now, Inanna is his. She repeated her mantra over and over, driving him into a frenzy. Yes, this is the way of Nineveh. This is as it was. This is as it shall be. Take what you desire. This—
Marc no longer heard the words. He was lost in the sensations. Lost in her touch, lost in his craving for her. He had been lonely, He had been alone. It had been so long since he felt anything like this… and nothing ever felt like this. The woman’s long dark hair flowed outward onto the dirt and patchy grasses. This was primal. This was his right. He would take all he desired. He would know the way of Nineveh.
CHAPTER 24: ASSISTED RESEARCH
Whether by accident or by design, Agnes did not attract attention. She wore no makeup or jewelry, dressed modestly and unremarkably, wore her hair plainly and without much fuss, ate sparingly, drank plain tea or water, seldom spoke unless prompted, and was only accessorized by a knit bag that contained a few items, including her spiral notebook and a student ID, which had expired well over a year ago.
Agnes almost never lied, but she wouldn’t always volunteer the truth. And as Marc had learned days before, even that wasn’t a guarantee of a reply. She cleaved to the background whenever possible.
She had told another half-truth regarding her day to day affairs. Night school was the ruse by which she left the house in the afternoon, during semesters. She used the current Van Buren school schedule to lend authenticity to her expected whereabouts on certain days.
As to why Jacqueline thought otherwise, Agnes never asked. The less Jacqueline—or anyone else—concerned herself with her day-to-day affairs, the better, she felt. Jacqueline’s ignorance of current Morris family events served her purposes.
Gracie worked at the roller rink part-time, which for all its faults, in her view, was a paying job. Her parents would drop hints every so often that perhaps she could find something more gainful, or perhaps Van Buren might offer programs that would spark her interest in continuing her education. If anyone were paying close attention, they would have seen Agnes turn extra pale at the suggestion that the two girls could attend school together, something they had only done once in their lives, when Agnes was in the sixth grade and Gracie was in first. Gracie scoffed at the suggestion, and Agnes did not voice an opinion pro or con. To her relief, the subject was dropped and migrated to talk of when Father was going to clean up his tool shed.
At present, Wednesday morning had dawned across the land, and Agnes ate her traditional breakfast of plain oatmeal, plain yogurt, and plain tea. She would glance at the kitchen clock at intervals, but otherwise sat still with her eyes closed most of the time.
Father drifted into the kitchen and gave her a puzzled look as he poured coffee into a “World’s Best Grandpa” mug. “You’re up early.”
She opened her eyes slowly and nodded. “I’ve got work today.”
“Oh,” Fa
ther said, shuffling away. “Right.”
Ten minutes later, Agnes cleared her spot at the dining table and hand-washed and dried her dishes. She put them back in their respective places around the kitchen. Then she returned to her seat and pushed the chair in gently. “Agnes the Ghost” was well-named, as she would appear and disappear around the house but leave precious little evidence that she had been there.
She moved to her favorite spot in the front room and sat. She closed her eyes, and a thin smile crossed her lips. She nodded as if in acknowledgment. Twenty minutes later, a tan 4-door hybrid sedan rolled silently toward the house, then stopped. Without comment, Agnes got up and exited the house through the front door. She gently opened the passenger side door, then just as gently pulled it closed after she took her seat inside the vehicle.
A woman dressed in a black frock with a kindly expression and hair pulled up into a tight bun was seated at the wheel. Her features were soft yet chiseled. Her appearance was matronly yet virginal. She greeted Agnes with the sort of sad smile that Agnes often wore, and Agnes returned the greeting in kind. Without speaking, the driver put the car into reverse and backed slowly and quietly out of the driveway.
The driver faced forward, only rarely looking to either side noticeably. Neither woman engaged the other in conversation. They were unified in silence, enveloped in an almost holy aura of secret knowledge. Agnes sat arrow-straight in her seat, hands clasped upon her bony lap, eyes closed.
At some point during the journey Agnes gave a small laugh, enough to show the tips of her teeth, before pursing her lips, and returning to her default state of sadness and contentment. The driver laughed as well and had a mirthful look on her face that lacked the requisite mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
After a thirty-minute drive, the car arrived at a palatial estate. It was born of Old Money, covered in vines that in the summer would bear ivy leaves, but now lay dormant, thin and brittle. A pair of colonial lamp posts marked the end of the driveway, with a wood shingle swinging from each that read from left to right UMBRA SUMUS.
No other cars were present in the driveway. The estate was rather sizable: 15 acres in total, but the boundaries of the property did not form a square or a rectangle. The lot was best described as amorphous. No signs were posted to warn against trespassing, or hunting, or any other sort of violation or encroachment. Not that the estate got many visitors, besides the animal variety—squirrels, mostly.
Agnes and the driver got out of the car and gently closed the doors behind them. They caught each other’s eye and gave a smile and nod to each other as they fell into their standard approach of walking side-by-side on the wide red-bricked walkway leading to a formidable wooden door, with an iron lion’s head centered on it with an iron ring clenched between its snarling jaws. Above the set of double doors was a chiseled motto: THOSE WHO KNOW DO NOT SPEAK; THOSE WHO SPEAK DO NOT KNOW.
Agnes and the driver stood on the front stoop and waited, arms at their sides. After a moment, the door creaked open and a distinguished, rotund bearded man who had copious salt-and-pepper hair waved his arm inwardly to invite the visitors into his home. He was dressed in a black suit complete with buttoned-down vest, with shiny dress shoes poking out from under his pant legs. He might have been wearing a bow tie, but his beard was so prodigious that it hid whatever might have been underneath, save for his white dress shirt that made its presence known around his thick neck. “Welcome,” he bellowed heartily.
The women smiled and nodded. The man waved them along into his study, where chairs were arranged before his impressive Victorian desk, covered with books, papers, framed photographs, and a grey cat, who stretched out across the right edge closest to the guest chairs. The man sat down in an elegant high-backed leather desk chair with thick padded armrests. He turned to the driver.
“Oh, ho, Bess, what’s this about a joke? Tell it to me.”
The driver grinned at Agnes, whose smile brightened up a bit as she watched the exchange.
“Agnes told it to you, did she? Well! What a pleasant surprise. And what’s that?” He leaned forward, as if straining to hear. “Why, I don’t know, Bess, what did the zero say to the eight?” The women beamed triumphantly. Their host leaned back in his seat and gave a hearty laugh. “Oh ho! ‘Nice belt!’ Clever. Very clever indeed. Well done, Agnes, splendid!”
Agnes nodded and turned a bit pink.
“Yes, yes, very clever indeed. I should remember to tell that to the countess. Always one for a clever joke, that one, oh ho, yes indeed!” Their host sighed contentedly and gave each woman a smile and wink. He surveyed the contents of his desk and found an item of interest. He picked up a tobacco pipe and held it to his lips, without lighting it. He sucked on it thoughtfully for a moment, then used it to point to the driver, Bess.
“Now then, we have much to discuss. How are your lessons progressing? Bess, has Arrienne’s instruction been of benefit to you?” He leaned forward, gesturing to be handed something. “Let’s have a look.” Bess carried a black bag that blended next to her frock. She slid her hand into the bag and produced a spiral bound notebook, neatly labeled in marker on the front cover as ARRIENNE FOUR.
The gentleman set the notebook down on the desk and flipped the cover open, then thumbed through the pages quickly until reaching a spot about a quarter of the way in. He sucked on the pipe thoughtfully and read. The grey cat stretched out and eyed Agnes expectantly. The man glanced over momentarily, then returned to his examination. “Charles wants some attention, Agnes. Behind the ears is best.”
Agnes leaned forward and reached out to touch the cat’s fuzzy head. The cat sniffed her hand while poking it with its pink nose, then assumed a regal pose. She scratched behind its ears, eliciting loud purrs, punctuated by the sound of the occasional page turning under their host’s critical eyes. At last, he closed the notebook and handed it back to Bess. “Hmmm. Yes. Perhaps something can be arranged. Not yet. But soon.”
Bess slipped the notebook back into her bag and nodded.
“And you, Agnes? I am as yet unsure of the efficacy of the instruction you are receiving from Image. May I review your progress?” He reached out across the desk, and Agnes soon placed the edge of her own notebook within his grasp. After a few more moments of review and cat scratching, the notebook was closed and returned to Agnes, who in turn returned the notebook to her knit bag.
“Hmmm. Troubling. Very troubling indeed.” The man sucked on his pipe and rocked thoughtfully in his chair. Agnes sighed and looked down at the floor. She clasped her hands together and rested them on her lap. The cat opened one eye and bared a fang, as if to demand further attentions, and expressing displeasure at the quality of service he had been provided thus far. The man pulled the pipe out of his mouth with a pop and turned to Agnes. “The candle was not yours.”
She shook her head.
“But it summoned you.”
Agnes nodded. Bess turned pale, and her eyes widened. She looked anxiously at Agnes, then at their host.
The man continued his inquiry. “And upon your arrival you assumed—incorrectly—that it was you that was summoned. You revealed things to an unprepared mind. You jeopardized everything we have been striving toward. Oh, such carelessness! That isn’t going to do, Agnes.” He looked balefully at his chastened pupil. She nodded and wiped away tears. The man shooed the cat off his desk and sucked on his pipe once more. Bess coughed.
Their host looked up with a start. “My apologies, Bess, I’ll try to keep the smoking to a minimum. I can’t help myself sometimes… it helps me think. Especially now. This is quite a conundrum. The path of right action is not clear.”
Bess smiled and signaled a forgiving gesture.
CHAPTER 25: CONTINUING EDUCATION
Marc had awakened Wednesday morning utterly and completely relaxed. He felt as though his spine had fused with the coils of his discount mattress. The pillow that had once been used to muffle sounds—to no avail, as the sounds came from inside of him—now caressed
his head. He smiled with immense satisfaction and opened his eyes. He was alone again, but not on his own anymore. He tasted Inanna on his lips. His palms felt the sensations of her flesh. The air was thick and perfumed with her foreign scent.
“Inanna,” he said to the ceiling. The ceiling did not reply.
He looked over at his alarm clock. He was running late, but with enough effort and another light commute, he had a good shot at making it to work right on time, if not a minute or two late. He smiled and closed his eyes.
He hoped to be transported again, to feel the sensation of being two places at once, and to feel her once more. Inanna. His prize. His exotic beauty from across time and space. His birthright. His possession. His. His alone. His smile widened as he writhed on the mattress, eyes closed, fingers clutching bedding. Inanna. Return to me.
Inanna did not return. He stretched out on the bed, and reached up skyward, as though to catch his prize as she fell to Earth, into his waiting arms. His heavenly angel, proof that God loved him and wanted him to be happy. Ecstasy soon gave way to agony, as his arms cried out for the touch of Inanna but felt nothing. His chest burned with the memory of her, snuggled up against him, their nakedness fully on display to the ancient walled city and any passers-by. Her hair under his chin, how satisfying it felt! He cherished the lazy pleasures of running his fingers through her hair, and from time to time bunching it up under his nose and giving a deep sniff. Marc wanted to know all of her. She was his. He would know everything. There were no secrets before Nineveh… he remembered.
His ache for her was not sated. He grew frustrated and cried out to the ceiling once more. “Inanna, I’m calling out for you! Inanna… return to me.” The ceiling did not reply. Inanna did not return. He pounded his fists on the mattress in disgust.
The Spaces Between Us Page 10
