Asphodel: The Second Volume of the Muse Chronicles

by David P. Jacobs

  “And the second group of statues?” Lucas asked.

  “Were made of three identical girls carved out of rosewood. Their hands were cupped around oversized wooden dandelions.”

  “Who were they?” Lucas asked.

  Icarus paused for a moment remembering the features. He went on without answering Lucas’ questions. “The doors, which were initially closed, screeched open on their hinges showing total blackness ahead. The boat glided on, leading me into the cold, stale kingdom of the Underworld.”

  “So much more fascinating than how I found out I was dead,” Lucas sighed.

  “What did you see?”

  “I hoped that Gabriel would be waiting for me, prepared to lead me through Pearly Gates or something, you know? Alternatively, I found a waiting room,” Lucas stated plainly “with nine identical chairs, and a woman in a cream-colored pants suit who introduced herself as Fiona. Even after I retired the first time, after my Seventh Generation term, I expected to see Gabriel. But no. Management had alternate plans for me.”

  Astray in his own misery, Lucas grew quiet.

  Icarus shifted so that he could see into Lucas’ eyes. “Do you wonder what would have happened if the attacks never occurred?”

  “Every waking moment.”

  “Would you . . .” Icarus fixed to say but stopped. Promptly swallowing his apprehension, he finished the question. “If you were given the opportunity to go back in time and stop the moment from taking place, would you?”

  He studied Icarus. “No. Because then I wouldn’t be who I am today. And I wouldn’t be sitting here on the beach with you.”

  Icarus solemnly studied him for a moment then smiled. He kissed Lucas gently on his forehead. The subtle moment was felt by both and needed no additional accompanying words.

  Lucas thoughtfully moved his eyes back to the water of the sun-speckled sea. Though he had answered Icarus’ question there was an unnoticed look in Lucas’ eyes that had showed otherwise.

  Annette stood at the doorway of Icarus’ office looking in on the two men as they snuggled on the shore. She had overheard pieces of the conversation while crumpling two sheets of white paper with an increasingly balled fist.

  Nathaniel was staring into the office with her. “Homophobic?” he asked. “Or jealous?”

  “Neither,” Annette lied.

  “Would you mind then not crumpling the two remaining pie surveys?”

  “I’ve been too busy to reconnect with Lucas,” Annette told him contemptuously. “I’ve got the time but I found he has a new friend.”

  “So he has,” Nathaniel observed.

  “It doesn’t bother me that it’s a guy, you know,” Annette scoffed. “I know Lucas is gay and I’m proud of him. What bothers me is . . . the person he’s with isn’t me. Though I haven’t seen him since our last group dinner, I’ve been thinking about my best friend. Thinking about him, and his life, and how he’s coping. He seems to have changed in some way. I can’t put my finger on it.” She shook her head slightly and looked at Nathaniel. “It’s the office he’s in. The Hall of Thunderstorms?” Her attention moved back to Lucas. “Do you think that by staying in Jonas’ old office that it’s somehow negatively affecting him? That maybe some part of Jonas is still in that office?”

  “There are studies that show humans thrive more positively in direct sunlight than they do in prolonged overcast weather. As I recall, Mr. Richardson has always housed a deeply buried dark streak. I think we all house that kind of streak, to some extent.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Come,” Nathaniel held out an arm. “I have something that’ll take you out of your routinely anesthetizing paranoia.”

  Annette considered Nathaniel’s arm. She frowned and left Icarus’ office without its support.

  *

  Two years had passed since Yuri Abramovich had visited with the Dandelion Sisters. America had been mesmerized in a whirlwind of scantily attired flappers, blossoming jazz and flickering motion pictures. The Roaring Twenties had seen an unparalleled growth in automobile manufacturing, the expanding use of telephones, electricity and inspiring radio broadcasts. There had been an intensification of liquored speakeasies, dizzying dance clubs and intrigue surrounding many fashionable celebrities. Even the skyline of the cosmopolitan capitals had been dazzling in a widespread architectural style respectfully referred to as Art Deco.

  Though Yuri had originally come to America to be a part of its economic development, he found himself taking an unconventional route: being obsessively immersed in the painstaking application of repairing over two thousand some-odd damaged kerosene lamps.

  The numbers “2,307” were etched into his vision and miraculously counted down with each repaired lamp. Closer to the final count, when the numbers reached to lowly ten digits, Yuri began to wonder what sort of compensation awaited him. The Dandelion Sisters had been accurate in describing his dreams of the Evangeline woman. Though he had no solid memory of her, the specter image of Evangeline was burned in his mind. The notion that Yuri had been another person in previous life spurred his curiosity. For many nights he puzzled at the mere thought of Evangeline. If she had been his true love, how had he so easily forgotten her? It was a question that he pondered well into the night as he strolled through the neighborhood and, especially, as he looked into the empty alleyway where the Sisters had been presented.

  The answer came one autumn afternoon in 1924 as Yuri put the finishing touches on kerosene lamp number 2,307. The numbered countdown was complete which left the impression of a single, stable zero digit in his vision. The shop in which he worked was a small, but adequate, space with a glass store front window. It housed wooden shelves topped with kerosene lamps in varying states of needed repair. Yuri’s heart raced at the prospect of the fate that was sure to unfold from the lamp’s refurbishment. When Yuri finished it, he leaned back in his chair inspecting his work properly. He wasn’t sure what to expect from its completion. Months before, Yuri had found the particular broken kerosene lamp in a back room, half hidden behind tool crates. He had assumed that the kerosene lamp had been there prior to his employment start date. He had no information as to whom it belonged except for an outdated numbered stock tag. He had searched, and failed, to find its matching receipt in his records. Therefore, he had no way to meet the owner unless they came in to reclaim it. Yuri frowned disappointedly and sat the finished kerosene lamp on a shelf with several others.

  He heard the door to the shop open. A well-groomed chauffeur entered. He was dressed in a grey suit, matching slacks, polished shoes, black suede gloves and a hat. The driver respectfully removed his hat as he closed the distance. As he did so, Yuri noticed that the chauffeur had a full head of black, slick-backed hair and was slightly older than Yuri, by a few years. It was an interesting contrast between the two men in regards to decorum but the conversation remained pleasant.

  “Good afternoon,” said the chauffeur. “I’ve come to pick up an order that, I believe, was supposed to be finished today.” He handed Yuri a folded receipt.

  Yuri unfolded the paper. Studying it severely, he nodded and said in his Russian accent: “I’ll get it for you. One moment.”

  The chauffeur nodded.

  Yuri returned to the shelf in which he had, several seconds prior, shelved the order. Yuri consulted the slip to the lamp’s numbered tag. His pulse quickened. Based on the slip’s information, the chauffeur had come to retrieve the same kerosene lamp that belonged to a woman named Evangeline!

  Yuri lifted the kerosene lamp from the shelf with shaking hands, wrapped it in discarded newsprint and placed it inside a hay-cushioned wooden box for safe-keeping during the chauffeur’s travels. Yuri suddenly recalled the Dandelion Sisters’ warnings. He didn’t look at the chauffeur as his customer paid for the lamp and thanked Yuri for his time. Yuri dared not pay attention as he heard the sound of the chauffeur’s footsteps as they approached the shop’s door.

  “Mr. Abramovich?” the chauffe
ur asked.

  The lingering orange afternoon light poured through the window casting the driver into silhouette.

  “Mademoiselle Evangeline requested that you accompany me back to her chateau in the countryside.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “She mentioned that you would be expecting this request. I see that, perhaps, you weren’t aware of the standing invitation. The fault is mine. I assumed you had already received notice, otherwise I would have reminded you before starting to leave.”

  “No, sir. I haven’t received an invitation.” Yuri nervously looked around the shop indicating the work that needed to be done, showing distinct reservations about venturing further into this mystery.

  “I can assure you, Mademoiselle Evangeline is extremely kind and, if I may be so bold, anxious to meet you.”

  “I’m not dressed for any kind of company,” Yuri blushed. Indeed, he wasn’t. Yuri wore a tattered dress shirt and slacks that had not seen a good wash in days. His face glistened with perspiration and dust. His face was badly in need of a shave.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Abramovich. She wants to see you as you are.”

  Even though the chauffeur’s words were meant to reassure him, Yuri was apprehensive. “Why is she so interested in meeting me?” Yuri asked, knowing full well the answer.

  To which the chauffeur shrugged. “She didn’t say.”

  A sleek black Model T Ford was waiting for Yuri. He had seen vehicles of this caliber in the past two years but he was never invited to sit in one. As Yuri inspected the vehicle, the chauffeur turned the crank, starting the engine. It roared to life before Yuri’s eyes like a beast stirred from its catnap.

  “Mr. Abramovich?” The chauffeur asked from the driver’s seat.

  Yuri hesitantly reached for the helpful extended gloved hand.

  As the sun set on the horizon, Yuri spied over his shoulder at the abating buildings. He closed his eyes, enjoying the rush of cold wind as they drove from the city to the countryside. The fetid urban smells were replaced with the sweet scent of fresh cornfields. As the vehicle traveled, Yuri imagined Evangeline. He imagined her to be stunning with sparkling eyes and a warm smile. This image of her aged rapidly in his mind as if witnessing the rotting of fruit. The face of his dream woman grew grotesquely old and it frightened him.

  He looked at the chauffeur who watched the empty road in advance. Yuri saw the stars and took comfort in them. The moon hovered in the sky, cresting on a distant hill and a grand French chateau. Yuri sat up in his seat to inspect the approaching monolith edifice which was decorated in exterior gas lanterns. As they pulled onto the cobblestoned road which led to the house, Yuri clutched the box with the lamp. He protective more of himself than the trinket inside! An unnamed stirring ignited within him which no amount of twinkling stars or constellations could have stopped.

  The mansion loomed, surpassing the stars. White headlight spears washed the Baroque exterior and extinguished upon reaching the garage and stables. When the Model T was parked, Yuri exited uncertainly with his fingers clutched to the lamp’s box. He couldn’t help but to gawk at the moonlight-reflected windows.

  “This way, Mr. Abramovich,” the chauffeur said with a smile while showing him the front steps.

  Candlelight carved the estate’s central rooms to a tepid, orange smolder. In the limited light, Yuri was intimidated by the fierce Baroque paintings and dramatic bat-wing-esque like curvature of the furnishings. There was no laughter, or music, nor any accompanying sound emulating joy. There was only the sound of the chauffeur’s and Yuri’s footsteps upon the tiled floor as if they were passing through a spacious underground tomb.

  The chauffeur led Yuri up an elaborately carved staircase which, in the narrow brightness, looked like prearranged delicate, yellowed bones. He led Yuri down a claustrophobic corridor with faded, ripped wall paper and ancient alert stern-faced portraits. They stopped at a dust-encrusted closed door, which the chauffeur opened.

  “Mademoiselle Evangeline waits for you and your kerosene lamp.”

  Yuri timidly looked at the chauffeur who had been convivial. It gave Yuri a sense of hope that his mistress possessed the same qualities despite her choice in home decorum. Yuri thanked the chauffeur and stepped into a bleak room where the moon glowed through moth-bitten curtains. He swallowed, squinting into the ascetic crypt.

  “Come closer, Mr. Abramovich,” called a woman’s voice from the window. His eyes adjusted slightly, noticing a hand having waved him forward. Yuri did as instructed.

  A wingback chair jutted from the murk. He made out an arm which was attached to the visible hand. There was a table beside the speaker. On it was a set of matches, a flat wick and a bottle of kerosene. There was also a turquoise glass vase stabbed with wilting yellow roses.

  “Have you brought the repaired lamp?” She asked.

  He sat the box on the floor and unpacked the kerosene lamp. With a trembling hand, Yuri reached for the wick, which he fit into the lamp, and gently poured in the kerosene. Yuri then ignited a match and touched the tip to the wick. The glass neck was placed on top. He pinched the crank.

  The purple room, and the occupant, were exposed. She appeared to be a gracefully ripened woman well above one hundred years old. Her tired eyes looked at Yuri while gripping a leather-bound volume of Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in her quilt-laden lap.

  At first she looked at him without recognition. Yuri, in turn, didn’t recognized her. But that moment was replaced by another as they both gasped. Yuri had seen her before but not in person; it had been in the form of a painted portrait in 1808 when he had been a painter in Paris named . . .

  “Monsieur Cauliflower!” Evangeline smiled, increasing the depth of the facial wrinkles.

  “Mademoiselle Evangeline,” Nathaniel said in his Yuri Russian accent. He suddenly felt uncomfortable in his eighteen year old body. Nathaniel now saw the world through the eyes of a man he had once been. It both delighted and filled him with fear. “It’s me: your painter, your Nathaniel J. Cauliflower.”

  *

  “The last time I saw this kitchen was before orientation,” Annette said to Nathaniel as the kitchen’s lights flipped on one by one showing the sterile cabinets, drawers and countertops. “I remember that you banished me from this place after ruining your floor with the dropped chocolate Ganache and disrupting the silence with the tumbling of broom handles from the storage closet.” She turned to Nathaniel and asked “Why the change of heart?”

  “You have a purpose for being in here now,” he answered. “A retirement party is nipping at our heels and you have some pies to construct.”

  “And let me guess,” Annette smiled and chided playfully. “You’ll be breathing down my neck hoping I don’t make too much of a mess.”

  “No, Mrs. Slocum,” Nathaniel replied, not soaking in the humor. “I have my own cooking. I figured as we are baking and cooking for the same party, we might as well share the kitchen.”

  “Share?”

  “Share.”

  “This kitchen?”

  “This kitchen.” Nathaniel repositioned his drooping glasses to the bridge of his nose. “Is there a problem?”

  “Well,” Annette shrugged. “It’s just the last time I was in here you bit my head off with the slightest disturbance. Making a pie, let alone seven of them, is going to be messy, what with the flour, the dough . . . the fillings!” She propped herself against a counter folding her arms. “Sharing a kitchen could make you volatile. I don’t want to be a part of it.”

  “It won’t make me volatile, Mrs. Slocum,” Nathaniel barked.

  Annette pursed her lips accusingly, pointing her right index finger. “See? We haven’t even gotten started yet and already you’re on edge.”

  Nathaniel blushed.

  Annette sighed solemnly. “I like it when you’re not so frustrated. I wouldn’t be lying if I said that sometimes I enjoy being with you when you’re not temperamental.”

  Nathaniel was flattered
by her backhanded comment. “An unavoidable aspect of cooking is untidiness. Sometimes a kitchen can become a messy place when I cook too, Mrs. Slocum. Half the joy of creating slight disarray is in knowing it can be cleaned.”

  Annette took in Nathaniel’s words. “Okay, Mr. Cauliflower, let’s share a kitchen. But any grouching, any at all, and I’m out.”

  “Agreed.” They shook on it and went to work.

  As Nathaniel worked the simmering pots on stove tops, Annette handled the assorted pie fixings, including fresh fruit and various spices. Annette was pleased to discover that Nathaniel supplied a few colorfully illustrated, easy-to-understand cookbooks. They each created their own meals for the upcoming retirement celebration peacefully sharing the kitchen.

  From over his right shoulder, Nathaniel watched her roll the dough with a flour-covered rolling pin. A strand of her brown hair fell out of place. She wore a frilly white apron over the yellow house-dress and looked seriously deep in concentration. Surrounding herself with her untouched passion, Annette let loose a smile as she formed the crust and fit it into a circular pan. She was elated filling it with a mixture consisting of freshly cut Granny Smith and Gala apples coated in flour, cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves. She seemed to take even more joy in attempting her first lattice covering. He turned to his soup dipping a ladle to stir the surface.