Peter flipped through the indecipherable text. “This just leaves me with more questions.”
“Once Nicholas completed the book, he became obsessed with the idea that demons were after him to possess it. Visions haunted him day and night.”
“And so he killed himself.”
“After years of enduring the torment, he grew mad and burned himself alive.”
“All because of a book that’s impossible to read,” Peter said, flipping the old manuscript closed.
Kea placed her hand on Peter’s and helped him reopen the book. “Look at these individual letters,” she said, guiding his hand across the old parchment. “They’re here for a reason. Nicholas inscribed them for some purpose—I’m sure he knew exactly what this book was for.”
Peter felt enthralled by Kea’s touch. The sense of her warm hand on his was intoxicating. He felt like a schoolboy on his first date and could not remember the last time he had felt that way about a woman. He forced himself to quell his enthusiasm and concentrate. “He’s dead; we may never find out what the book was about.”
“There are rumors—stories really.”
“What stories?”
“Some say the book is imbued with God’s power.”
Peter scoffed at the insinuation. “A magical book?”
Kea noticed the sarcasm in Peter’s voice. “You don’t believe in God?”
“It’s just a fairy tale—a supernatural being created to make us feel more significant, nothing more.”
“You’re an interesting man,” Kea responded. “Faith is such a small thing to ask, yet you choose to ignore it.”
“That’s not it,” Peter countered. “It’s just that I prefer to see things in a more scientific light—tangible proof, that’s all.”
“Nicholas believed he was doing God’s will,” Kea said, gesturing to Peter’s manuscript. “The book is proof of it.”
“He was a monk, raised in a monastery—he must’ve been a believer.”
“Of course he was,” Kea pressed. “So much so that most scholars assumed the manuscript had burned with him—that Nicholas’s self-immolation proved that he intended to bring the book in front of God to read it after his death. That you have come across it now is quite curious, indeed. Something or someone must have intervened.”
Peter sat back and pondered Kea’s words. He was captivated by her charms, but to suggest that a book could traverse into a fairy tale afterlife was a little off-putting. Death, as Peter thought of it, was the end—lights out, darkness, your life extinguished—nothing more. To believe in a physical realm outside of your Earthly existence was natural, although extremely misguided. He was certain that life beyond the grave was nothing more than a fanciful desire conjured from the deepest part of our psyches meant to assuage our fear of the unknown, or as the case would merit, our deep-seated fear of nothing. Humans had long endured troubled dreams, and in their ignorance, they had invented religion to explain them away. Peter was an educated man and not a fool.
“I can see you’re having a problem with that.”
“No, it’s not that,” Peter replied. “It’s just hard for me to believe Nicholas gave his life for nothing—superstition.”
“To Nicholas, it was as real as anything this mortal world could offer.”
Peter understood her point of view, even if he did not agree with the assessment.
“Perhaps you should take a look for yourself?” Kea mused.
“Look—at what?”
“Where Nicholas lived.”
Peter’s curiosity soared. “He lived nearby?”
“But of course. Nicholas was a resident of San Cielo for many years.”
Peter reminded himself of the collapsed church, and his excitement waned. “There’s probably not much left.”
“Not much,” Kea agreed. “Perhaps you will see something others have missed?”
Peter’s breath left him momentarily as he struggled to find the words he wanted to say. “I would like to go—although it would be better to have someone knowledgeable show me the site,” he said and then sheepishly backpedaled. “I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant.”
Kea blushed. “I would like that very much; however, I think you have other problems,” she said, pointing to Peter’s wedding band.
Peter spun the worn, white gold ring around his finger. “It’s not what I meant,” he said. Then hoping to deflect her train of thought, he added, “Which way do I go?”
Kea pointed down the side street, away from town. “Not far,” she replied. “A few kilometers. Nicholas’s house is part of a nature preserve now. You should have no problems if you follow the signs.”
“Thank you for everything.” Peter said, packing up the manuscript and making his way to the front door.
“It was my pleasure to meet you, Peter,” Kea said, extending her hand to shake through the open door. “You must come back and tell me everything.”
“Yes, I will.”
Kea closed the door behind him and waved goodbye through the glass.
Peter cursed at himself for his blunder. He could not help but feel a little bit dejected at the way things had gone. The whole situation did nothing but remind him of his current marital problems. Regardless of what opportunities life presented, it would always find a way to beat him back down. He adjusted his daypack, waved meekly back to Kea, and started his journey.
❖❖❖
The paved side street out of San Cielo turned into a rural road that ambled its way through the low hills of the countryside. Narrow shoulders and inattentive drivers made the hike dangerous. Cars raced by and forced him off the road several times, but Peter persevered and after more than an hour, he arrived at his destination.
It was not much to look at. Crumbling walls about waist-high were all that remained of the small, rectangular building. The old dwelling sat in the middle of a meadow lined by tall trees. Beyond the tree line, Peter could hear day hikers taking in the trails of the nearby park. He approached the ruin and surveyed the site.
The remnants of the building were about the size of a small bedroom. The ground around its exterior resembled a moonscape. Holes of various sizes had been dug all along the dwelling’s perimeter. Peter sighed at the damage. It was commonplace to find that looters had ransacked an archaeological dig site before proper studies could take place.
Within the building’s crumbled walls, Peter found the same pattern of digging along the dirt floor. The only interior structure remaining that he could discern was a set of stone blocks that may have been a table or bed that had once existed in antiquity.
Peter was disappointed. He thought there may have been something in the dwelling that could have given him more insight into the mysterious book—some telltale inscription or hidden alcove. It seemed that everything having to do with the monk Nicholas was ordinary and commonplace.
Peter leaned against a broken wall and contemplated his long walk back to town. Raised voices coming from the trees behind the ruin got his attention. He did not give the voices much consideration, but several yards away he could see what appeared to be a person standing in the undergrowth. Low tree branches obscured Peter’s vision, but the figure of a person was unmistakable. He moved to get a better angle on the interloper, but the individual backed away from the clearing and went deeper into the woods. A familiar feeling ran through Peter as he walked to the area to investigate.
Peter pulled the branches back and stepped through the first line of foliage. The light from the clearing dimmed and he adjusted his eyes to see within the shaded, darker recesses of the forest. There, on the other side of the brush and staring back at him, was the little boy.
Peter stopped dead in his tracks. He was several miles outside of San Cielo and was certain no one could have followed him. The mountain road Peter had traveled on to the preserve contained several long stretches in it where he was able to look back for approaching cars, and he never saw any sign of the little boy.
The
child stood a few yards away with his hands at his sides. His demeanor was one of quiet delight. He grinned at Peter and made no effort to move deeper into the woods.
“So you followed me out here, huh?”
The young man offered no response.
“Do you speak English?”
The little boy adjusted his standing position, but did not reply.
“Look, I don’t know what you want from me, but leave me alone.”
Again, the child did not give any indication that he had heard or understood anything the older man was saying.
Peter stepped closer to the child and immediately felt his senses start to rebel. He retreated and shook his head to clear it. Keeping his distance, he pulled out his wallet and held a few Euro notes for the boy to see. “Money?” Peter asked, shaking the bills. “Is that what you want?”
The young child nodded and moved toward the man.
The familiar ringing noise returned and clouded Peter’s mind, but he held on to his senses in order to rid himself of the young menace once and for all. “That’s right,” he said, losing some focus in his peripheral vision. “You want some money and then you’ll go away.”
The boy stepped to within a stride of Peter’s outstretched hand.
Peter sweated profusely. He was lightheaded and his knees were beginning to buckle, but he persevered. “Go on—take it,” he said. “Just leave me alone—please.”
The little boy grinned and raised his arm, but instead of taking the money, the boy snatched Peter’s wallet. He retreated a few yards, holding the billfold up for the older man to see.
“Really funny, little man,” Peter said, fighting the urge to pass out. “Give it back.”
The little boy smiled and opened his mouth to reply, but nothing audible emerged. He turned away and darted off, deeper into the forest.
Peter realized it was not a game. He had been the target of the child all along. “Stop, you little thief!” he yelled, but the words did nothing to slow the young man’s pace. Peter mustered what strength he could and began his pursuit.
The forest floor was rolling and uneven. Dry streambeds and shallow glens broke the terrain at irregular intervals, while trees and thick brush blocked most avenues to pedestrians. The only dedicated access through the woods was the well-worn trail system used by hikers.
Peter panted heavily as he chased after the little boy. His daypack pounded against his body making the effort even more laborious, but the longer the chase lasted, the more he was gaining on the child. He used his bigger strides to win out over the speed and stamina of the youth. Ahead of Peter, the little boy veered onto one of the designated paths and sprinted past an elderly couple. “Stop him!” Peter cried out. “He stole my wallet!”
Not understanding English, the couple turned to see what the commotion was, and too slow to react, did nothing to stop the child as he ran by.
Feeling a bit better, Peter pushed himself faster. He managed a small, “Sorry,” as he bypassed the couple and continued after the thief.
Ahead, the young man diverged from the trail and made a beeline to a blind hillock. He bolted up the small slope and launched himself into the air and out of sight below the crest.
Peter slowed as he neared the crest. When he saw the boy running along the floor of the glen below, he jumped off, landing in the soft earth. The boy obviously knew the woods better than he did, and Peter could not allow him to get the upper hand.
The boy slowed at another hillock and turned to see if Peter was still chasing him. He smiled and threw himself to the forest floor below.
Peter was willing to take a chance to gain distance on the boy and bounded off the rise, landing heavily on the ground. He stumbled, losing his footing momentarily, but continued on.
Panting himself, the little boy stopped on another rise and stared back at Peter. The child smiled grandly as if toying with the older man.
Peter stopped short of the child and held out his hand. “Just give me back the wallet, and we can forget the whole thing.”
The little boy nodded and mouthed inaudible words to his pursuer. He turned nonchalantly away from Peter and leapt over the crest.
Peter ran after the boy. Reaching the top of the hill, he took a mighty leap into the air and immediately wished he had not. The gentle dell he thought would be on the other side of the rise was instead a deep defile. Once Peter was in midair, there was no turning back. Below him was a downed tree with broken shards of wood jutting up from its massive trunk. Standing next to the tree, and grinning ear to ear, was the little boy.
Peter tried in vain to adjust his course, but there was nothing he could do. His slight frame slammed into the stump with great force. He screamed out in agony as the broken wood pierced his chest and broke through his ribcage. In shock and immobile, Peter came face to face with the boy. The ringing returned with a vengeance and he experienced a euphoric lightheadedness that coupled itself to the severe pain of his injury. He lay helpless, impaled on the stump of the tree as he went into shock.
The little boy nodded and smiled at the older man. He bent close to Peter’s ear and whispered, “Me sequere.”
Peter gasped for breath. The cacophony in his head grew more intense as he tried to comprehend what the child was saying. He knew the phrase, but could not give it meaning.
The little boy laughed at the stricken man. “Follow me,” he said in perfect English.
There, on the tree and amidst the complete confusion of his embattled senses, Peter drew his last breath and died.
Chapter 9
Peter was numb to the unbroken wall of blackness that surrounded him. His consciousness floated in an immeasurable state of nothingness. He had no working senses and it was as if everything about his physical being had been suspended. Peter reasoned that since his brain was functioning properly, he must still exist, but the nature and state of the medium he currently occupied was a mystery.
Peter’s accident in the forest blazed forth in his memory. He relived the fall and the pain over and over until it seemed utterly surreal. He attempted to rein in his thoughts—tried to bring them back from the brink of madness. Peter focused on what he knew. He was severely hurt in a mishap—that much was certain, but what took place after he blacked out? Peter did not know. His mind started to replay the accident again and he rebelled, forcing himself past it. He could remember the incident and that meant he must still be alive. It made sense to him, but why could he not move his arms and legs? Why could he not see or hear anything?
Peter had heard stories about people spending years in a coma after a serious accident and awakening to find their family members, having aged dramatically, standing over them. Doctors often talked about brain function while being comatose and identifying an individual who might survive a coma versus someone in a persistent vegetative state. Relief flooded Peter’s consciousness. He must be in a coma brought on by his mishap in the forest. He was seriously injured and his body had shut down, placing him into some kind of suspended animation. He used that information to quell his mind and to channel his concentration on the blackness. He searched for any sign, familiar or otherwise, that may shed light on his current predicament, but he lost focus and drifted.
After hours amidst the unbroken oblivion, the smallest of sensations niggled at Peter’s brain. It started out so small that he barely realized it came from somewhere external to his own being. He could not make it out clearly, but he could definitely feel something. Peter received the faintest impression that he was falling. Not fast, but slowly. He redirected all his efforts on that fleeting, vertigo-inducing effect. The speed at which he fell was gently increasing. There were no physical markers in the realm of blackness with which to gauge his rate of passage, but somewhere deep within his consciousness, Peter knew that he was falling and that it was happening at an ever-quickening pace.
Little by little, Peter’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. Dim and blurry at first, his sight sharpened and fixed on a faint white s
mudge against the backdrop of black. It was faraway and almost imperceptible at first, but the bright light grew in intensity as he fell toward it. Peter strained to see the area surrounding the light. He tried in vain to make out the origin of the brilliance, but the light overwhelmed everything around it. It was as if the darkness ended where the light began. As Peter neared, he could tell that the illumination was projecting an immense amount of power—more so than that of the sun. Yet, the off-white light was not blinding. There was no warmth from the glow; everything about it was cold and devoid of feeling.
Peter’s momentum slowed and his aspect changed. He was no longer falling; instead, Peter was flying in an upright position, fully standing, toward the light. He attempted to determine what force was guiding him, but everything about where he was remained elusive.
Slowly, the darkness began to change. The black nothingness morphed into a rough, rock-hewn appearance similar to that of an underground tunnel. The faceted edges of the stone glinted like diamonds as Peter’s position changed with every passing moment.
A reflection of light off the rim of his glasses caught Peter’s attention. He crossed his eyes to see the nose bridge of his eyewear. With a little more effort, he found himself able to scan his immediate area.
Peter inspected his body. There was no sign of the injury to his chest; the telltale vestige of his accident in the forest was missing. His clothes on the other hand were foreign to him. They were the same as he remembered, but the fabric’s colors were muted. It was difficult to tell exactly in the peculiar light, but the colors exhibited all the signs of being subdued with a gray dye or some opaque overlay.
Peter shifted his attention to his appendages. All his limbs were present and articulated correctly. His legs and feet hung underneath him as he flew forward. They were unmoving and lifeless, but remained attached to his body. Held tightly across his chest was another curiosity: the old, leather-bound manuscript of the monk Nicholas. He had trouble believing what he was seeing and blinked his eyes slowly in an effort to clear the image, but the book remained. Peter had no doubt it was the same manuscript, but how it wound up in his arms was vexing. He concentrated on his hands and tried to let go of the tome, but nothing happened. The sight of the book was troubling, but Peter quickly rationalized a plausible theory: during the violent and stress-laden incident with the tree stump, he latched on to his most recent and intense memory, which was the old manuscript. He had been working at trying to figure out the book’s origins and it must have lingered with him into his unconscious, coma-like state.
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