Hadrian's Wall

by Felicia Jensen

  “We later discovered that Elona’s blood was primordial... an irony of fate that the blood of her beloved Hunta wasn’t.”

  “When she emerged from hell the first time, she informed me that from that day her name would be different, so she went in search of a new identity... When she returned, she said that she would represent the community of her ancestors, the glorious Mongols. Most surprising was her safety when she claimed that she was prepared to stand beside me, consoling me for my loss.”

  “I was amazed at so much audacity. I frankly told her that no one could console me. There was no rival that could compete with you inside my heart.”

  Surreal! The worst is that I recognized that scene from my own nightmares. I was experiencing a successive wave of déjà vu. It was scary when I saw my hallucinations and nightmares so clearly described in a text so old. Nothing could stop me now. I turned several pages and continued reading.]

  “Since we were little boys, we three were raised like brothers. The families did not care about it. Our world was a world apart from Rome. The peace had lasted a long time. There is not any animosity between the Romans and the natives. Perhaps the Romans who were living here no longer felt connected to the ancient homeland. Their customs had become intertwined with the Celts’ customs, creating new rituals and ways of living. The Roman culture—as pure as it was in Rome—was definitely lost.”

  “My naïve childhood blinded me to things that drove the human men. I did not understand what was happening around me... why people looked at me with such horror and stayed away from me. After all, in my mother’s home, her subjects always had affection and respect for me. However, everything changed when the legions invaded our fields and snatched me from my mother’s arms... I became a hostage because of the Emperor’s determination to ensure proper behavior amongst the rebellious tribes.

  I was only six years old.”

  (...)

  “My foster brothers joined the Legion and were trained to be brave soldiers like their Roman parents. When the crisis began in the occupied territories, betrayals led to a major retaliation—then another and another... We soon realized that the Romans who did not take a stand against us would also be considered traitors.”

  “But my brothers could never harm us, so they were imprisoned and tortured. The Legion did not forgive anyone, nor did they accept traitors among their ranks. However, my father transformed my brothers and took them with him wherever he was hiding.”

  “I heard about them some years later.”

  “My father commanded my transformed brothers to protect me until the hour of our liberation... Seeing them like that, so different from me ... tough white flesh, disturbing eyes... all this scared me. Was this what I would become too?"

  (...)

  “Unlike my brothers, my transformation should occur naturally and no one could have predicted when this would happen ... I was still human, thanks to the legacy of my mother, but when the time came, I definitely embraced the cursed legacy of my father.”

  “That was not what I wanted, of course, but I could not escape my destiny. I had the blood from the first. More than that, I was the only original descendant. I was born to lead my people against a threat which was imposed on humans. My father had forged my constitution exactly as to both sources as a kind of sign that the species should co-exist together.”

  “And I could never forget it, but I still was daring to dream that someday he would return and free me from this burden.”

  (...)

  “For the Romans, I was a major threat, so they kept me in bondage. The promise that the Roman emperor had given to my father represented nothing to the two peoples right now. There was no way to avoid the imminent war.”

  (...)

  The whip had not hurt my skin...only my pride.”

  “We were enslaved and used as weapons of war against the rebellious Celts and Picts. We were treated like beasts of the coliseum—released to entertain the bloodthirsty crowd who wanted to see their enemies being devoured.”

  “However, we rebelled against the slavery imposed by Rome. That’s when the war broke out.”

  (...)

  “The time to face ‘the red-eyes’ was approaching. Everything was prepared for the final confrontation and I had already made my arrangements for your abduction. I was longing for the moment when you would be in my arms again. Although I was an immortal and you a human, it no longer mattered... I would live as long as you would live.”

  “Not a day more.”

  “After the war, when the ‘red eyes’ will no longer represent a threat, I will take you away from my people and yours”...

  (...)

  I closed the diary, completely stunned. What the hell was all that insanity? A hallucinatory journey through a world that could only exist in the minds of some lunatic? What’s worse is that I felt like I was participating in the events, as if I was following it all. Words turned into images, sounds, and smells. Everything was so vivid, so real! Exactly the same world as my nightmares. Take a deep breath and keep calm!

  The moisture on my cheeks startled me. I told myself repeatedly that the codex was nothing more than a collection of imaginative and fanciful tales. It was just “fantastic reality”—a narrative style, something formatted in the manner of ancient mythologies and many other works that have surpassed the test of time, overcome the barrier of oblivion... The Odyssey by Homer, The Epic of Gilgamesh, Beowulf’s great deeds, recorded in the form of a poem...or the Arthurian tales. Whatever! The point here is that it sounded like advertising strategy.

  Primitive, but functional.

  So far so good, I had noticed that ancient works exaggerated in metaphors, in figurative senses and in the metonymies, perhaps in order to escape from censorship by whoever was in power or because it really was the way the ancients understood the world. But the connection between that language, full of lines, and the true biography of the clan, was still a puzzle to me. Where did the delusion end and the reality begin? Yes, because none of it could be true. None of it made sense. It could be the truth of someone interpreting the facts according to primitive values that ruled a nebular age.

  I decided to postpone this explanation.

  I tried to ignore the puzzle that codex represents and concentrate on the challenge of illustrating it. I needed to be practical, right here, right now. What feature would fit in the fanciful context, suffering, and obscure scene described by the authors? Personally, I believed that Mr. Cahill should hire a professional illustrator. He needed someone who really mastered the techniques, not an amateur like me. He needs someone who understands the various applications of shading, someone familiar with the dotted technique of the great masters such as Gustave Doré.

  21

  RED LOOKS GOOD

  Obviously, Doré did not work alone. He had several assistants to finish his art work. Was it not so in most of the studios of famous artists? Many works have only been sketched by the great masters and at the end of an entire collective work, it carried their signature.

  However, knowing that even geniuses need help did not console me. I was definitely not up to the task, nor did I have the proper materials, but if I didn’t try to do something... anything...I would never know how far I could get. After all, artistic practice requires curiosity, initiative, and training. I would have to start somewhere.

  Unless a talent has manifested itself very early as a fucking gift, it’s just the constant exercise conducing us to improve the quality of our work. The aspirants to any artistic expression needs to pursue it, regardless of the teachers’ evaluations or the critics’ opinions. They have to refine their technique and expand their sensitivity through tireless attempts—learning from their mistakes and keeping the right frame of mind.

  Unfortunately, my actual style had not manifested since childhood as a “fucking gift.” My drawings were grotesque, like those of any other kid my age. It was the training I’d had that brought out a modest art expression and now I wou
ld just have to keep training to see if something would develop further. Without practice, it would impossible to know if my work would become excellent, satisfactory, or remain mediocre.

  Maybe I should do sketches for the codex first and inking them later. This was an option I could not discard. That would give me time to research the most appropriate techniques while at the same time develop my own personal style that might help to disguise my limitations while emphasizing my strengths. It would also give me time to find someone to finalize the art for me and contribute to the quality of the work.

  I believed that the shading was important to work the psychological atmosphere of an epic illustration and also highlight the fantastic language of the narrative... Using charcoal would create the somber feeling that the text of the codex described. (Oh! See? The somber!) With a little luck, I would get an effect close to what I wanted without having to seek recourse with more difficult techniques which would take a lot of time to learn.

  I still had some difficulty with the ink pen and the subtlety of the graphite pencil. I would have to refine my technique with them, as well as produce a variety of layouts. I was uncertain about the use of color. Strong colors came to my mind, but for the look I wanted, I really needed more lugubrious colors.

  Wait! So what if I used the colors only on the symbolic level? To break the monotony of black and white, as an enhancement, an effect... a detail that does not overshadow the main idea of darkness in the picture, but would draw attention to it, provide some highlight to an otherwise dismal depiction. It would be risky because the color could disrupt the whole picture...unless I choose only a few key objects for coloring, as in Sin City... In this case, I could color the eyes—red, yellow, or jade green.

  That’s it! Finally, I’d found the answer! The illustrations would have an ancient, gloomy atmosphere, perhaps shaded by charcoal or pencil (I still had not decided on that); but on the other hand, there would be bold, volatile, colorful details in the counterpart. Behold the communion between the ancient and modern, like everything that was related to Hadrian’s Wall. My artistic sensibility was strongly influenced by the contradictory context that surrounded me.

  Although I felt a little calmer, I was itching to get started on the sketches. I’d do a lot of sketches—either for practice or as drafts to be reviewed and considered. I still wanted to do some studies of shading, as I’d done in the past. No telling where it could take me now.

  Who knows? Turning mistakes into successes…

  I yawned. I was so tired I could fall asleep on the paper in front of me. Before I did anything, I needed to buy the appropriate materials.

  I bit my lower lip, looking askance at the codex. Again I flipped through it looking for an illustration on which I could base my study, but there were none. There were a few symbols that I immediately recognized—the same symbol adorning the bracelets worn by Rita and her boss, Ms. Newton, as well as the one on Adrian’s ring and...

  Oh my God!

  The next picture was an exact reproduction of my birthmark! The caption read: “Promise of beginning and end.”

  I closed the diary a little more forcefully than necessary. I stared in horror at my birthmark as if it were a venomous creature. Something that I’d had all my life suddenly seemed strange and uncomfortable to me. Asia Chadwick was right. The format was too perfect to be natural.

  Is my birthmark a symbol?

  I felt a chill, then another and another until my whole body began to tremble as if I had been seized by a tropical fever. Chills raced down my spine and my muscles contracted, causing pain everywhere in my body. I knew the cold that plagued me had nothing to do with the weather. Finally, the shock of recent events began to affect me.

  What a big coward you are, girl! When will you stop hiding your head in the sand like an ostrich? A nagging voice reverberated in my mind. Maybe a hot bath would calm your nerves, said another voice, more diplomatic, as if trying to appease the other. That’s right! Like in Psycho, quickly came the scathing reply.

  Right now, I looked like an unfinished version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. If Dr. Barringer could see me now, he’d probably put me in the psych ward.

  Oh, I have no doubt! The two voices finally agreed.

  * * *

  Could a bath keep me away from puzzles I cannot solve? Could it get my mind off of the crazy, emotional story I had just read?

  The answer is no!

  I couldn’t calm down. I grabbed my stuff and headed into the silent hallway. It’s hard to believe that this same corridor was seething with people just a few hours ago. As I made my way past closed doors, I tried to remember Delilah’s directions: “Pass the second door”... “Turn at the second hallway”... “A sign out front”... Following her directions right to the letter, I found it. I pushed the heavy handle of the shutter doors and fumbled to find the light switch. When the lights came on, I was surprised to see a very large room which resembled the women’s locker room of my high school gym, but this was far more luxurious. It was partitioned along its entire length with louvered doors painted bright red. The floors were decorated with ceramic tiles with a beautiful, intricate design that I thought was Greco-Roman. On my left was a row of toilets inside stalls with louvered doors. On my right were the showers stalls.

  Across the room was a long marble counter with round sinks of white and gold faucets. Above the counter was a huge mirror covering the entire wall up to the ceiling, just below the top-hung windows.

  Unoccupied, the room seemed ghostly, although I assumed it was not so quiet during the week. At least now I could enjoy some much-needed solitude...that is if I could really trust Stephen’s word that he wouldn’t spy on me.

  Nestled between the shower stalls was a large closet and beside it another louvered door, wider than the others. Curious, I walked through it, hearing the bathroom door behind me swing closed.

  A cool night breeze fluttered my hair. Looking up, I noticed that it came through the open top-hung windows. I shuddered, but I didn’t stop until I reached the large door. I pulled it open what I saw left me flabbergasted—a huge spa, with many jets.

  Well, well! I pursed my lips. What did you expect, girl? Delilah’s coffin? I shook my head at my ridiculous thoughts. Here I am, imagining a scene of horror in a spotlessly clean, well-lighted bathroom.

  Automatically, I turned my attention to the cupboard beside the spa where I found stacks of soft, fluffy towels, soap, and small bottles of shampoo... probably for unprepared girls like me. I was amazed.

  I selected a towel from the stack and tore open the soap package. Its delicate fragrance enveloped me. Ah yes, the bath idea was becoming attractive. A thought suddenly occurred to me: Why not using the spa? But as quickly as it came, the suggestion was refuted by my grumpy voices of reason. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to deal with the control buttons. Resigned, I went straight to the shower.

  The water from the showerhead came out strong and hot, hitting my face. I jumped back and then grabbed the lever to regulate the flow. When I turned back, I let out a sigh of satisfaction. I stayed in that position for a long time with the water massaging my neck, relaxing the tense muscles of my back. I leisurely lathered my body, thinking vaguely about all the events that had turned my life upside down.

  Basically, I wanted to believe that I wasn’t crazy, that something extraordinary was happening. I felt that my life could be changing forever, but every time I tried to analyze the situation, it was as if my brain was crashing. Perhaps that was a defense mechanism, but the fact is that several obscure hypotheses were orbiting inside my brain and when I brought them into the light of reality, my reason cried, “This is not possible!” I dreaded seeing my sanity destroyed forever.

  I began to remember the details...things that I had filed away in a “restricted area” of my brain were now simply overflowing in the form of flashes, flaring out in succession as if charging me to pay attention: Dr. Barringer referring to humans as if he were not human, making en
igmatic comments and directing my research as if preparing me for some bombastic revelation; his red bottle that I was not permitted to touch; the gloves, the glasses, eyes that change color everywhere I look; the giant panther in South Portland; Stone panthers in this town; every firstborn Cahill receiving the same first name; conversations full of strange double meanings...

  Oh sure, I could not forget the electromagnetic waves. Now I knew the word I should use to describe the shocks radiating mysteriously off their bodies and because of that, they wear gloves. Their bodies are strong, perfect, hard as rocks, but as light and flexible as the purest steel—impenetrable, but malleable.

  The odd eyes... It’s impossible to look at them for a long time. If they are disturbed by strong emotions, those eyes blaze and change color. Using my powers of observation, I have learned what such changes mean. Whenever they’re angry or determined to achieve something, their eyes become incredibly yellow. When they’re suffering, or thrilled, their eyes becoming dark like silex.

  Adrian is different than the others. It’s something I still cannot understand because he controls himself when he is close to me. However, more than once when he changed his voice... a deep sounded voice with a metal echo. I saw that not only did his eyes change color, they became strangely orange, like molten lava...and every time that happened, I felt an inexplicable malaise.

  My guess is that this “orange trait” was Adrian’s way of expressing his sovereignty or supremacy over the rest of his...specie. Like a peacock displaying his tail that is more fabulous than the others. No, that’s not a good example. Maybe the lion when he’s roaring louder than the others—the “alpha male.”

  Yeah, it’s ridiculous! I know that, but somehow he is different from other “pale-faces.”

  The little shocks also revealed to me unexplained aspects of the strange electromagnetism that their skin always was irradiating. After I got used to it, I began to analyze these sensations. For example, the waves emitted by cold skin are inexplicably hot. I’ve been searching the Internet and found nothing about it. The texts merely confirm that the human body radiates energy like everything else in the universe...and that energy affects the environment and living beings according its propagation.