Asphodel: The Second Volume of the Muse Chronicles

by David P. Jacobs

  Two letters had been etched into the wood which Annette assumed were a person’s initials. “J and R. Did Jonas scratch those?”

  “Yes,” Nathaniel said flatly. “I was eight years old. And he was nine.”

  “And . . .” Annette coached.

  Nathaniel sighed and began the story of his seventh life and his relationship with Jonas starting in his boyhood years. As he retold of his adventures, and as the morning sun rose, the crouching clues were exhumed making him incorrigibly vulnerable to a past he had tried to keep interred.

  *

  The year was 1987 when eight-year-old Nathaniel sat at his kitchen table in his white dress shirt, brown suspenders, corduroy pants and bow tie. His fine blonde hair had been wetted and parted to the side. Though his exact expression was unreadable due to the thick glasses that covered most of his face, his disinterest in the affairs of that night’s dinner was obvious as he gave a sigh. His mother, Justine, had brought another potential male suitor to dinner. Nathaniel had seen many men come and go in his mother’s romantic life. None of them had lasted long enough to make an emotional impact.

  The Casanova was a prosecuting attorney who recently moved to town and fell in love with Justine, as all men tended to do. The attorney smelled of stale hairstyling product and an odious musk. Nathaniel wondered, as the serving bowl of spaghetti and the basket of half-burnt garlic bread was passed around the table, how much longer this fellow would be gracing their lives.

  “I have a son about your age, Nate,” his mother’s date announced as he twirled a fork to scoop up a helping of slick, sauce-encrusted noodles.

  Young Nathaniel had an immediate distaste for him. He shyly turned to his mother asking “May I please be excused?”

  “But you haven’t touched a bite of your spaghetti, Nathaniel. Here. Have some garlic bread that Thomas made for us.”

  Nathaniel stared at his plate of spaghetti. He looked at the piece of over-baked bread his mother tossed to his plate. He then looked at her paramour who fought with a few strands of noodles which wriggled like limp garden snakes. Nathaniel was irrevocably put off from his hungriness.

  “Seven bites and you can scurry off,” Justine told Nathaniel.

  Justine was an unhealthily thin, middle-aged woman with fine, dirty-blonde hair. She wore a frilly, flowery blue dress with nearly invisible straps and low cleavage. She also wore faux jewelry which clinked as she moved her hand interestingly to her chin. Her overly-accessorized makeup was almost clown-like as she nodded at the date’s poorly executed advances. She didn’t parade in this attire normally. Justine was generally quite conservative. Seeing his mother like this disgusted Nathaniel but, because he had been taught polite respect from an early age, he didn’t say anything.

  Those seven bites of his dinner were excruciating. As Nathaniel lifted the noodles to his mouth seven times, he suffered through witnessing the deplorable mating ritual that materialized. There was witty banter between his mother and the date, who was as attentive as a male peacock displaying multi-colored plumage to attract her. Nathaniel mentally counted each bite until his sentence was terminated. Leaving the piece of garlic bread, Nathaniel scooped his plate, silverware and paper towel napkin and started to leave the table.

  His mother asked Nathaniel to “Thank Thomas for the garlic bread” to which Nathaniel mumbled his unenthusiastic appreciation to his contributor.

  Laughter and the occasional rise and fall of conversation could still be heard despite Nathaniel’s bedroom door being closed. Nathaniel’s room was filled wall to wall and floor to ceiling with crowded bookshelves. His desk and two nightstands were also topped with books transforming his room into a grotto of literature. He tried to bury his attention into the passages of the library book in his hands but the tête-à-tête was the annoying equivalent of a pesky hovering summertime mosquito. He required silence when he read. Only then did the music of the words offer to him their own rampant opus. When the noise of his mother’s conversation died, and the sudden revving drone of the attorney’s Mercedes eventually faded into the distance, Nathaniel was able to fully enjoy the book.

  As he flipped the page preparing himself for the words there was a knock on his door. Justine stood in the frame with a hand to her forehead looking at her son. From his point of view, she looked slap-happily bewildered.

  “Nathaniel,” Justine said to him. “Nathaniel, there’s something serious that I need to speak with you about.”

  Justine sported this look with every man that had come to call so it meant nothing to Nathaniel as she swooned. Justine sat on the side of his bed asking him to bookmark the page.

  Nathaniel respectfully did this.

  “Nathaniel,” Justine told him. “As you know, Thomas and I have been dating for almost five weeks. And, in those five weeks, we’ve grown close. So close that you might say we’re virtually inseparable.” She put a loving hand on Nathaniel’s. “I know that you spend more time at your great aunt’s farm than you do here and I know that me working double shifts hasn’t helped. But I think, with Thomas in our lives, that might change . . . for the better. He has a son from his previous marriage. I think it would be nice for you to have a friend. I think . . . I want to marry Thomas. What are your thoughts?”

  Nathaniel stared at his mother through his thick lenses, not phased in the least. He had seen this state and it never lasted. Playing the deferential son, Nathaniel said to his mother “Whatever makes you happy.”

  Justine broke out into elated tears hugging her son who cleaved the library book. Little did Nathaniel know that, by giving her his misguided blessing, the silence he relied on was about to be broken – by way of an unpleasant step-brother.

  It was on the day of the wedding when the two boys met. They had tried to meet previously but Nathaniel had either been too immersed in a book to care or the other boy had been experiencing his own exploits. As Justine and Thomas said their vows, Nathaniel sat in the pew with his new family member – a nine-year-old boy named Jonas who intentionally, out of sheer boredom of the ceremony, carved his initials into the pew with a pocketknife.

  The house that Nathaniel once felt comfortable to roam became a battlefield of inarguable land mines. The physical attributes of the house changed bringing forth mounds of legal office paperwork which Nathaniel dared not touch for fear of being reprimanded. The furniture was replaced. The stern-faced pictures of the Rothchild ancestry on the walls and mantel accumulated in number. The only room that felt remotely recognizable was Nathaniel’s room but even then he was watched and outwardly judged by his step brother if he consulted a library book. Nathaniel succumbed to a habit of asking permission to enter rooms that Jonas occupied.

  There was no escape from these irregularities. The farm house in which Nathaniel had once felt safe became part of Thomas and Jonas’ monthly routine as Justine invited them to meet, and share dinner with, Nathaniel’s great aunt. The humble house that had been a refuge was appraised and undermined by Jonas. The stereoscope was considered “junk,” the red rocking horse was dubbed “a prissy baby’s toy,” and the peacock perfume bottle that Nathaniel had admired was knighted “the gayest thing” Jonas had ever seen. There was one saving grace to the farm house interior: the Weather Wizard. Jonas dismissed it at first but then found himself staring back at it as if entranced. It was that look that led Nathaniel to believe in a side to Jonas that wasn’t so uncompromising.

  Lines were drawn in regards to territory when they moved into a larger house that same summer. It was a one-storey house with gray siding. While family activities (such as dinner, holiday gatherings and movie nights) happened in the upstairs living room, additional den and spacious kitchen, the medium-sized basement common room strictly acted as the boys’ alternate recreational area. There were two bedrooms on the main floor and two in the finished basement which was also home to a storage room that housed a separate built-in washer and dryer. The two bedrooms in the basement were more than spatially accommodating and on opp
osite ends with a shared bathroom. The boys settled that each room was their own restricted territory. Nathaniel was able to increase his personal library while Jonas’ room was decidedly decorated in sports paraphernalia. The common room was compromisingly neutral with an oversized subwoofer surround-sound entertainment system with an assortment of game consoles. Thomas spared no expense in adhering to the boys’ needs and was pleased that, for a brief time, an unspoken peace came between them.

  But the treaty didn’t last.

  Nathaniel was sleeping soundly while clutching a copy of Oscar Wilde’s The Portrait of Dorian Gray when Jonas opened the bedroom door. He sneered at the sight of the book in his step-brother’s arms and jolted him awake.

  “Nate,” Jonas whispered.

  Nathaniel groaned, rolling to his left side.

  Jonas tried to revive Nathaniel, shaking him harder. “Nate, wake up!”

  Nathaniel sat up in bed with his eyes closed. His hair was sticking up on one side. Fumbling for his glasses on the bedside he put them on and stared at Jonas accusingly. “What are you doing in my room, Jonas? We agreed.”

  “Forget about that and shut it!” Jonas snapped.

  The bedroom door inched slightly on its own. As it did this, Nathaniel and Jonas brought their attentions to the creaking hinges. The door stopped moving, stayed for a moment and forcefully slammed shut by itself. Both boys jumped. They sat in the bed wide-eyed to see if it would do it again which it did not.

  “My door did that a minute ago too,” Jonas whispered to Nathaniel.

  “Nu-huh,” Nathaniel shook his head. “You’re lying. You’re playing a trick on me to get me scared.”

  “I swear, Nate! I was lying in bed falling asleep when I heard my own door slam. I watched as it reopened on its own and slammed again. Happened three times or I’m a monkey’s uncle!” Jonas grabbed Nathaniel’s arm. “Say you believe me, you snot! Say it or I’ll knock you into next Tuesday!”

  “I don’t believe you,” Nathaniel said with as much courage as he could muster.

  Jonas reached to strike Nathaniel but the sound of the bedroom door opening stopped him. Both boys watched as, yet again, the door opened slowly on its own. The gaping darkness from the hallway greeted them. Nathaniel switched on the bedside light which ushered a sense of relief. But that relief was soon transformed to dreadfulness as the door slammed shut on its own. Jonas carefully started for the door.

  “Jonas!” Nathaniel squealed. “Don’t go over there!”

  “Shut up, Nate!” Jonas ordered through clinched teeth. He reached out to the knob. As he did so, the knob turned by itself. The door opened a crack. “Unbelievable. Are you seeing this?”

  The boys heard a series of overlapping whispers from three ghostly young girls chanting a lullaby. “Are you hearing this?” Jonas added.

  “You probably have the stereo on a loop or something playing a scene from a scary movie,” Nathaniel alleged.

  Jonas grabbed Nathaniel’s arm pulling him out of bed. “Come on, chicken.” As Nathaniel was dragged from bed Jonas sized his step-brother’s pajama wardrobe which was blue plaid with tiny lighthouses scattered about on the fabric. “Well, the good news is, Nate, whatever it is they’re talking about they’ll be more afraid of your pajamas then we are of them. Let’s go.”

  The boys ventured into the basement common room. They followed the voices into the storage room where they switched on the lights. Past the washer and dryer and into the far right corner’s hallway which had been used to store Christmas decorations, the boys proceeded to an eerie blue glow that came from a single door which had not been there before. The blue glow shined from underneath.

  Jonas tried the knob. “It’s locked.”

  “Jonas . . .” Nathaniel clutched him as something appeared under the door. “Jonas! Something’s crawling!”

  But Jonas was more interested in the dandelion keyhole insignia. As Jonas examined the keyhole, wondering about the key it required, the voices fell silent.

  He realized that Nathaniel had been clutching onto him and shook his step-brother off. They watched as the sliver of blackness scurried along the door’s perimeter. The object forcefully crawled itself from beneath the door to the storage room floor. Nathaniel screeched, thinking it to be a bug of some sort. Alternatively it was all the more unusual – a white flower with six distinct petals. On the petals were individual reddish-brown lines in each segment.

  “You were afraid of a flower,” Jonas jeered.

  Nathaniel pouted.

  “A flower! Oh what a riot!” Jonas belted in hysterics. “You are never . . .” he tried to say, while laughing “ever . . . going to live this down!”

  “Boys!” They jumped and reeled to find an agitated Thomas in his night robe. “What are two doing up so late slamming doors and making racket?”

  “We . . . we found a door,” Nathaniel was the first to speak.

  “Door?” Thomas asked. “What door?”

  “The door right . . .” but as Jonas turned to show him they only found a concrete wall. “There was a door here! I swear dad!”

  “Enough. Boys should be in bed this late at night not wandering around making commotion.” Thomas led the boys from the storage room and to the rest of the basement where there were no lingering signs of slamming doors or ghostly voices.

  “Dad, I swear. Nate and I both saw it. The door was locked and had a brass dandelion-shaped keyhole!”

  Thomas seemed startled by this. His face became pale. With trembling hands, Thomas closed the storage room door. “There’s no such thing and the next one who speaks of it is grounded,” he told them while whisking them to their own bedrooms. He hurriedly disappeared upstairs.

  Later that night, as the house settled into a serene calmness, Nathaniel touched the flower with his fingertips. He felt foolish for having been afraid of such a thing and was likewise curious as to what type of flower it was. Nathaniel scoured the shelves for his gardening book. It took him nearly thirty minutes to match the flower to a picture.

  “Asphodel,” Nathaniel sighed into the pages. “I’ve heard of you, but from where? Where?” And then it struck him. He opened his book on Greek mythology and inspected the index finding the passage. While the asphodel was a common garden plant in the lily family the mythology of it brought more interest. In Greek mythology, Homer had once written of a meadow of asphodel flowers which had grown specifically in the Underworld. The grayish pallor had alluded to the dead in that subterranean level. Nathaniel looked at the flower, pondering its origins. “Where did you really come from?” Nathaniel asked.

  In another part of the house, Thomas lifted the lid of a jewelry case in which he kept his cufflinks. Also in the case was a key with a dandelion symbol that the Sisters had given him. He thought a loaded question to himself while turning his eyes to the bedroom window: “What had been on the other side of that phantom door?”

  *

  “The storm’s ended,” Nathaniel told Annette. The absent sound of falling pegs left a reassuring stillness. The sun had risen exposing the sanctuary to daylight. A blue glass vase of asphodel flowers stared at them. “I see our meteorologist has taken on the role of florist.” He stood from the pew and looked at Annette.

  “Surely that’s not the end of the story,” Annette told him.

  “No, hardly the end,” he responded. “But we’ve been cooped in the department and in this dismal arena. Let’s inspect the day.”

  Muses stirred as he crossed to the door. As he pulled the heavy church door, he was expecting to be greeted by clean morning air awash with the recognizable scent of dew. He expected birds to be chirping happily in nearby trees. He wanted there to be exposed clear-blue skies above the parting storm clouds. But as he stood on the stone patio overlooking the gravel parking lot, he discovered that the shredded sky was colored a stale sepia. Falling colored pegs had torn holes through the tree leaves and lawn shrubbery like bite-marks caused by gluttonous caterpillars. The weed-grown lawn was
overwrought with piles of colored pegs in such a way that it looked like an aggressively arranged Easter egg hunt. Laughing ravens circumnavigated the landscape’s wide-ranging malaise which flickered and scratched like a ruined projector film.

  “Holy Management,” Annette said.

  Nathaniel told her, “I’ve frequently thought there’s nothing as inspiring than the dawn of a new day. Now I’m not so sure.”

  Annette spotted a large 9 x 12 inch manila envelope zipped into a large plastic freezer bag. The package had weight alluding to its possible bulky contents. With her case files protectively under her arm, she reached inside the envelope to find a compass and a graffiti-etched folded map of the area. Annette extended the map to find that a hand-drawn path had been marked in a red permanent marker. The path led to an undisclosed spot which had been circled. Beside the spot was a single, scribed number “6.”

  “Mr. Cauliflower . . .” Annette began.

  Nathaniel consulted the map. “Six.”

  “Yes, six,” she nodded. “Sarah Milbourne, nine. Doris the waitress, eight. Lyle Slocum, seven. I think what we’re looking at is a map to wherever he claimed his sixth victim.”

  “Where he claimed his sixth victim?”

  “Where else is he going to lead us, Mr. Cauliflower? If he wanted me to find where he’s currently keeping them, he wouldn’t have played these games.”

  “He’s even provided us a compass so that we won’t argue over directions. Isn’t that thoughtful?” Nathaniel said in a mockingly playful tone. “Well then, what are we waiting for? Lead the way, detective.”