“Lately though,” she continued, “I think that fate and choice are both sketchy. Both are a gamble. It’s all in the interior weather,” she gestured to her heart. “Sometimes I’m really good at controlling my life, and other times I feel like I’m lost at sea. Luckily, I like both the knowing and the unknown. The gamble is accepting which you’re most comfortable with at any given moment. Everyday is like throwing dice. But whether you get something good or something bad, it always leads to growth. Once you stop rolling, you stop growing. Right? You’ve got to keep taking chances.” She laughed, “Wine. Don’t get me started.”
I was intrigued. “As far as a significant other in your life— have you stopped rolling the dice for that?”
She studied my face and grinned. “That sounded awfully doctor-like, Loche.”
“No, no. I’m sorry. Please—I’m interested, not as a doctor. Believe me, I’m not analyzing you. Sometimes my tone just goes there. It comes with the trade. I mean, is love—the right man— just something that you believe will come along?
“I don’t think you can roll the dice for love. At least not a lasting love. You’ve got to choose to make it last,” she answered, then added, “and as I said, you can never know what will influence that choosing.”
“But you must decide to take the chance—the gamble— first, right? Can you roll for fate?”
She set her glass down and reached into a small box on the coffee table. From it she pulled a coin. “Well, I don’t know, let’s see,” she said holding the coin up. “Best two out of three. You call it in the air. If you lose, you leave right now, and call me again when you’ve sorted out all the things you’re up against right now.” She pointed to the door with a wide grin. “If you win,” she held the quarter up to her eye and pierced me with the other. “You kiss me.”
I felt the heat of blood rush to my head, and I knew that she saw it. She waited and watched. I must have looked ridiculous. I couldn’t tell if she was toying with me. She said simply, “Can you roll for fate? Call it in the air.”
The coin glinted as it tumbled upward. “Heads,” I called. She snatched it and nimbly slapped it down on her forearm. Playfully, she lowered her head down to peak underneath her palm. Then she showed me and remained silent. It was tails.
Again the coin plinked off of her thumb. “Heads,” I called again. When she uncovered the coin, she smiled, “Heads it is. One and one.”
She flipped the coin again. I reached out suddenly and grabbed it in the air. “What if you just kissed me,” I said, “without flipping a coin?”
With a delicate grin she reached out with her long fingers and gently pried the quarter from my hand, “Fate is a funny thing,” she said, “if you aren’t willing to roll, you stop growing, right?”
The quarter flipped up and down again. She caught it and held it against her arm. “Heads,” I whispered.
“You were supposed to call it in the air,” she whispered back.
I didn’t answer. I just stared at her hand over the coin.
Again, she lowered her head down with her focus on me. She tilted her hand playfully back and peered under. A frown came over her face. She then sat up straight again with the coin still hidden. “Fate has it,” she muttered.
She lifted her arm up toward my face and revealed the coin. Tails.
I stared at the coin, willing it to flip over. My entire being was prepared to reach for her and pull her to me. I sighed quietly and raised my eyes. She sat there staring at me with a thin trace of a smile.
“Fate has it,” I said quietly. My hand reached to her arm and pulled the coin away. I laid it on my palm and covered the wound that was now beginning to heal there. I stared at it. Ravistelle’s single eye, magnified by the shard of glass that he had held, flashed through my mind—then his words, But fate, it seems, tends to play tricks on us. Sometimes it has its own plan.
When I had tried to cheat fate, tried to seize the glass of water, the glass shattered—my world shattered. I closed my fingers around the coin and squeezed. I was resolute. I stood up and started for the door.
But I never made it.
I heard the coin hit the floor and roll away. I had dropped to my knees, my hands gripping Julia’s waist pulling her into my body. Her fingers clasped behind my head. She knelt and pressed her lips to mine.
There was no more Center, no Heaven or Hell. And if there were Angels peeking through some inexplicable window beyond, they turned away in torment, and then back again, lamenting their fate, hiding their eyes, and longing for what they could not have—love, with a future unknown.
It wasn’t until dawn that we spoke. She was laying in my arms with her back against me beneath a thick blanket in the middle of her living room. We were awake, warm and watching the rain fall through the window.
“How did you know?” I asked quietly.
She responded by cuddling closer into me.
“I had hoped this would happen,” I admitted, “but I wouldn’t have believed that you felt the same way.”
“You had some help, I think,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
She craned her neck and looked back at me. “Basil really likes you. Isn’t it because of him that you came to see me?”
I kissed her. “Partly. Ever since the first time I saw you, I knew that—”
“I felt it,” she said.
“This is really happening, isn’t it?”
“You’re making it happen. Do you remember the first time we met?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“You had a look on your face that I’ll never forget. A look like you were fighting something—something that you thought you could control, but couldn’t. It’s hard to describe really. You were very guarded. After you left, Basil told me all about you.” She turned her face away. “He said that you were brothers, and you had just recently found each other. He told me, ‘Julia, if there was ever a man I could see you with, it would be Loche.’ From that day on I entertained the thought, but you were married. I’m not the type to break up a marriage. So, I waited. And here you are. Fate. The way you looked at me that morning—like I said, I felt it.”
“That obvious?”
“Scandalous.”
“And I thought I had some control over my expressions.”
Julia rolled over and faced me. “But what now?” She asked.
“Well,” I replied with a faint grin, “the coin toss was tails, and I have to leave and sort out all the things I’m up against. It seems that then I can call you.”
“What’s going on, Loche?” Her tone was serious now.
I hesitated, considering a reply. “I feel that it’s better that you only know so much—”
“Well, we’ve got that nailed. You’re in trouble with this case against you concerning Beth Winship. You took a trip with the family to Italy. Your wife is cheating on you. Basil has a big art deal going on. And you are back in Idaho laying naked on the living room floor with me. What do I know? Not too much.”
I nodded. “Strange isn’t it?”
“I like strange, but I like clarity, as well.”
“As I’d said before, I don’t want to involve you—it could be dangerous, so I—”
“Dangerous?” she asked with wide, excited eyes. “What’s dangerous? You need to let me in. Why are you so guarded?”
“Julia, listen to me, and please trust me. I need to clear some things up before I can tell you everything. This deal that Basil has happening overseas is one reason I came to see you.”
I sat up and reached over to my jacket that was strewn on the floor amid other articles of clothing. From the pocket I pulled the envelope that Basil had given me.
She tore it open, unfolded the paper and read silently. She smiled once or twice as her eyes traced down the page. Then her focus grew solemn. When she was finished she folded the letter, placed it back into the envelope and sat up gathering the blanket around her. “Come with me,” she said.
> As I stood and dressed, I glanced up through the window. Samuel’s face startled me. He raised his arm and pointed to the watch on his wrist. I shot my eyes toward Julia to insure that she had not seen him. When I looked back he was gone.
In the back of the attic was a rectangular wood box, nailed shut. It was leaning against the wall. “There it is,” Julia said.
A wave of anxiety rushed through me at the sight. The recent events of my life flashed through my mind, and I steadied myself by reaching over to Julia and touching her shoulder.
“I need to see it,” I said.
“I know.”
Julia handed me a flathead screwdriver and a hammer. Turning toward the stairs she said, “I’ll make some coffee.”
Getting the box open was not as difficult as moving it. I had heaved it over on its side with great effort thinking that there must be something more inside than just a painting. It weighed at least fifty pounds.
On my knees, I pried the lid off and set it aside. Within was a rectangle of black fabric covered in plastic. I tore the plastic away and struggled to lift the painting up so I could pull the shroud off. The painting had the heft of sheet metal. Once I had it in a position to view it I crouched back and prepared myself. All I needed to do was lift the cloth.
“Here we go again,” I muttered. A gentle pull and the shroud slid off.
The terror of it swept over me. Two figures were silhouetted at a long shoreline. The painted sky was a stunning blood red, or was it pale blue, corpse blue? Flitting across the image I could sense the Center in my periphery, and I struggled to keep it there. What I noticed, however, was something different from Basil’s other works. The paint was moving as if some invisible hand manipulated the colors and lines before my eyes. I shuddered at the sight. Then it captured me. The Center yanked me into the abyss.
What I saw there I will not write in this journal.
I was hyperventilating. I rolled to the side and felt the cold wood planks of the attic floor. White streaks flashed across my retinas like lightning in a black sky. My lungs begged for air.
Slowly my muscles relaxed, and my chest began rising and falling in longer, steadier waves. From the floor I grabbed hold of the black fabric and tossed it over the terrible scene.
My ears thrummed with a low rumble—a vibrating hum, like the sound of water pressure squeezing against my ear drums. The sound of a sinking ship through dim waters. I heaved my arms against the floor and sat up. The room was spinning.
Of the few paintings I had seen of Basil’s, this was the most powerful. I was alright, I could still breathe, I could still feel, and, I thought, I could still reason. Barely.
Tilting the shrouded painting back into the box I attempted to shake off what I had seen. I tapped the nails back into the lid and closed the painting inside. I now understood its weight.
“Are you okay,” Julia said as I entered the kitchen. She moved to me quickly, “You look pale.”
“I’m fine. Coffee will help. Must be jet lag.”
“Sit down.” She pulled a chair away from the table and helped me ease into it.
“The painting must be moved, and it must be moved today. Now.”
“Why?” Her voice sounded frightened.
“It’s best that it’s out of your hands.”
She nodded determinedly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’ve got to go. I need to visit my friend, Marcus Rearden.”
“Why do I know that name?” she asked.
“He’s a psychologist, writer, pretty well-known—anyway, I think he may be the only one that can help me.” I stood and pulled her into my arms. “I’ve got to go.”
“When will I see you again?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
Outside the day had turned darker.
“Ah,” I said nodding out the window, “just what we needed.”
“Typical,” Julia said. “It won’t last, though.”
“I want you to have something,” I said. I reached into my coat pocket. From it I pulled the antique key to my office tower. I laid it into her hand and closed her fingers over it. “This opens my most guarded door.”
Julia kissed me.
“It’s arranged.” Greenhame’s voice over the cell phone was breaking up as I navigated the curves south to Sandpoint. “The showing will be in Florence. We must return tonight.”
“I need more time—” I protested.
“Loche, you’re out of time. Ravistelle has invited some of the most powerful people in the world to this private showing. All of the Orathom Wis have been summoned to keep it from happening. You will come with us.”
I glared at the road ahead and leaned on the accelerator. Their black sedan in the rearview mirror mimicked my speed with mocking dexterity.
“I thought I was here to figure out my place in all of this,” I reminded.
“Indeed you are, but there has been a change of plans and we cannot leave you here without protection. A plane is waiting for us.” There was a pause, and then he added, “Any poetic revelations last night?” There was a hint of mirth in his voice.
“Julia is a private matter,” I growled.
“Ah,” Greenhame chuckled. “Well, you can be sure that we turned a blind eye when things began to get a bit intimate. Tell me,” the humor in his voice faded, “are you in love?”
Samuel’s voice in the background, thick with an Italian accent, “A poet must have a muse.”
“Yes,” I smiled, “I am.”
There was a silence. “Good,” William said. “But if this is so, why are you driving away? And so fast?”
“Another errand.”
“Negative. Once we arrive at your home we must make preparations to leave—wait a moment,” Greenhame’s tone shifted.
“What?” I asked.
Samuel had muttered something that I couldn’t make out. I looked into the rearview mirror. “What is it?”
“Looks like we’ve some fellows behind wanting to meet you.”
“What?”
“Carry on, Loche. This won’t take long. Hold your course.”
At the next curve the black sedan swerved off onto a driveway that led down to a lake residence. As they disappeared I focused on the sharp turns ahead. The next time I checked the mirror, there was a different vehicle behind me. And it was coming up fast.
I took a fork that led up toward the mountain.
“Where are you going?” I yelled into the phone. There was static. Quickly glancing at the cell screen I could see the reception bars fading away.
“We’ll be right there,” Greenahame’s voice said, broken by static. “We are getting behind—” The phone went dead.
Sharp bends in the road came one after the other. I had taken the turn that led to Schweitzer Mountain Ski Resort. The rain turned to snow as I climbed. Snow began to accumulate on the roadway. Panic. Thirty miles per hour the speedometer read. Any faster, I thought, and I’m in the ditch. Each turn amplified my anxious need to escape. My mind was racing much faster than the car, and I could not find a balance between the two.
A fork in the road cut up to the right, and I made for it. As I navigated the fork the back of the car pitched to the right and I slid sideways for several seconds. My Idaho driving skills kicked in, and I easily corrected the tack. The car behind remained close, almost pushing me up the winding mountain lane.
Twenty-five miles per hour—twenty. Higher. Colder. My back wheels were skating up and up. I suddenly realized that I may have thrown off Greenhame and Samuel by choosing this path. The mirror showed only one car in pursuit. Again I narrowed my focus at the curves ahead and struggled for more speed atop the ice.
The incline grew sharper, as did the turns, and as I forced my vehicle up the hill my fishtails grew more frequent. My fingers lost feeling gripping the wheel, and they tingled with a thousand pinpricks. In my palm I could feel the cut I shared with Ravistelle begin to burn as if his blood was seeking a way out from ben
eath the scab.
“What the fuck am I doing here!” I yelled at the road ahead. “I didn’t ask for any of this! I don’t want to write! I don’t want Basil as my brother!” The speed of my thoughts tumbled down over my recent past. I’d lost my wife and son, my home, my career—I was content with my life before I’d met Basil. I had all a man could ever want or need. The walls I’d built to keep my life and family safe were thrown down—and now I was to become some kind of supernatural poet that could save mankind and the angels. Mental illness? What good could I achieve if I couldn’t keep my own sanity. What if I can’t help, can’t handle it or I go in with them? I wanted to be free of desire, free of wanting an answer, free of everything. “I don’t want this!” I screamed. My eyes began to blur. The big deep heavy.
The car in the mirror was hazy, and when I looked back to the road I was unable to discern the next curve. The small snub-nosed pistol that I had seen in the bunker below my house flashed into my memory. I wished in vain that the firearm was in my possession. My back wheels spun the car out of control and it slid across the lane, lurching its way to a crashing halt against a low snow berm.
I shot my eyes toward the car that followed and caught only a long, thin middle finger from the driver. They were young skiers on their way to the resort. The car passed by.
I gasped. Saliva sputtered from lips as I panted. My temples pounded and a mist of red anger veiled my vision. I stepped out of the car and screamed at the sky, “I don’t want you! I want my life back, do you hear me! I will never be yours!”
Then I recall the sting of cold. I tore off my coat, and then my sweater underneath and finally my pants and shoes. In moments I was naked, running steadily up a tree-lined, crosscountry ski path. The sharp crust of the wintry floor quickly numbed my feet. Fifty yards up I entered into a wide clearing that framed a high and distant view of the snow-covered lowlands to the grey lakeshore. The morning sky sprawled colorless and thick. My lungs heaved in the ice-cold air, peering down a cliff face of at least one-hundred feet. Rocks grinned up out of the snow like rotting teeth in a skull.
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 30
