by Jared Stone
Snapping out of his thoughts, Argos turned toward the cottage. “Coming!” he announced. Running over to the open doorway, he stepped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness within. Once he could see, he beheld the gorgeous brunette priestess standing by their table in a long white dress, both hands draped over her protruding abdomen.
“Is everything alright?” Argos asked her hurriedly. She smiled and walked over to him.
“Everything is fine, dear,” she assured the concerned man, leaning forward and kissing him. “I was simply kneading the bread for this evening, when my arms began to grow tired. I fear I am not able to work quite as hard as I could before the baby….”
With this, she glanced down at her belly and began rubbing her hand over it in a slow, soothing gesture. Argos also reached out and placed his hand atop his unborn child, beaming with pride and joy.
“Take a rest, dear,” Argos said softly, running his rough fingers along the side of her soft cheek. “I can finish kneading the bread.”
Io closed her eyes at his touch and smiled softly. “Thank you, my love,” she whispered.
Argos stepped around her and took his place at the edge of the table. Reaching down and putting the heels of both palms into the ball of dough, he began to push and pull at it, rolling it around the table. As he did so, he thought of all the great things he would be able to teach his son. Cooking, tending to animals, building things, he listed off proudly to himself. Even fighting! In such dangerous days as these, every boy should learn how to fight from his father!
“Argos! You do not have to be so rough on the poor dough!” Io exclaimed with a laugh, bringing the man back to the present. “What did it ever do to you?”
Argos cracked a shy, embarrassed smile and turned to face her. “Sorry,” he said. “I was just getting excited, lost in my thoughts.”
Io chuckled. “I have never met anyone so excited by food!” she said. “You truly are one of a kind!”
Argos could only stand there, staring at the priestess with a smile plastered across his face. Io’s gaze met his, and they remained like this in silence, feeling as if no other world existed outside of this one shared moment together.
“Well, I believe that I am at least strong enough to get us a little more water,” Io finally stated, walking over and picking up the bucket sitting in the corner. “You may stay with your fantasies of dough. I shall return in a moment.”
Argos turned back to his task on the table as she exited. “Do not overexert yourself!” he called out to her.
“Do not worry; I shall be fine!” she reassured him as she disappeared into the external sunshine.
Argos chuckled quietly to himself. No matter how he might try, he knew he would not be able to convince Io to rest. Her unrelenting drive to do all she could to improve their lives was admirable and amazing to him. He did not know any other priestesses, but, from what he knew of Io, he was confident that Hera had the most capable woman alive in Her employ. He could not fathom what his life would have been like without her. He felt very fortunate that she was the immortal one, as he could never imagine any kind of existence after she was gone.
“Argos!” he suddenly heard Io’s terrified voice cry from outside. “Argos, help!”
Bolting up from leaning over the table, Argos raced to the door to see what the emergency was. He burst out into the bright sunlight and squinted through the pain of his adjusting vision. There, standing in the open space between the two animal pens, were two large men, each gripping tightly onto Io’s arms as she pushed and pulled in an attempt to free herself.
“Let go of me!” she insisted. “Let go!”
“Take your hands off of her!” Argos commanded, rushing forward without hesitation. He was more than willing to fight to the death to protect the woman he loved from the clutches of wandering thugs.
“Halt!” Argos heard a voice command as a third man stepped out from behind one of the other two. This man was much thinner and shorter than the others, yet he carried himself with the self-assured air of someone much more powerful. He wore white cloth wrapped around his body with golden sandals and a golden mask over his face that had eyeholes but no mouth. The fearless glare of the stranger’s blue eyes from behind the mask stopped Argos in his tracks.
“Who are you?” Argos inquired angrily. “And what do you want with us?”
The man in the mask began calmly walking toward him. “I am simply a messenger of the gods,” the man stated confidently, “and I have come to punish those who have knowingly violated the laws set by the gods in antiquity.”
Argos was confused. “We have broken no laws,” he insisted forcefully. “She and I are servants of the Queen Goddess herself! Let her go! Leave us in peace!”
The masked man shook his head. “The priestess knows that of which I speak,” he countered. He then turned and looked back at the pregnant woman. “Is that not true, priestess?”
Io displayed nothing but fear on her face. “Please, Argos,” she pleaded. “Stop them!”
Argos balled his hands into fists and rushed forward, prepared to do everything he could to save the priestess. But, before he could even take two steps, the masked man had brought an instrument up to his chest. Argos had just enough time to recognize the curved u-shape of the lyre before the man ran his fingers across the vertically-stretched strings. As the first chords issued forth, they seemed to collide with Argos like an ocean wave, washing over him and preventing him from moving any farther. Even after that initial sensation had passed, he attempted to lift his leg and found that he could not. He tried to look down to see why his leg had ceased to function, but he also discovered that he could not move his head. He stood totally paralyzed, staring straight ahead at the masked man and his captured lover.
“That should make things simpler,” the masked man stated, lowering the musical instrument to his side.
“Argos!?” Io cried out, staring in horror at the man frozen in time before her.
Io! Argos attempted to call out to her. Io, can you hear me? But no words came out of his mouth. He was a captive within his own body.
“He cannot assist you now, priestess,” the masked man informed her coolly. Reaching to his side, he pulled out a dagger and began walking toward Argos.
“Argos!” Io cried again, tears now streaming down her face.
The masked man came to Argos’ side and stood there, glancing at him as if he was nothing more than a pest that required extermination. He then leaned in closely. “Take one final look at her,” he instructed into the frozen man’s ear. “For, though she shall live on in torment for eternity, this is the last time you shall ever lay your mortal eyes upon her.”
Argos stared wide-eyed at the struggling priestess. As she thrashed around and called out to him, he could only notice her exquisite beauty. Her curly brunette locks waving in the sunlight. Her crystal clear eyes that gazed into his own with a care and inexhaustible love he previously thought impossible. The curve of her abdomen, under which his unborn son slept. She was so very dear to him. Dearer than even his own happiness. He would never leave her. No matter what it took, he would find a way back to her. Argos was entirely absorbed by these thoughts as he felt the dagger enter his abdomen.
“Argos!”
The priestess’ voice was the last thing Argos heard as the world began to fade into darkness. He tried as hard as he could to call out to her. To assure her that they would be reunited again someday.
Iooooooooo….
* * *
810 BCE: Western Zhou Dynasty
“…wahhhhhh!!!”
The newborn baby cried out from the midwife’s arms. As the woman swaddled the screaming child in cloths, she looked at the exhausted mother.
“What is the child’s name?” she asked.
The mother gazed up at her new son. “His name is Míng,” she stated. “For he is the shining good fortune who has brought luminous joy into our lives.”
Argos opened his tiny e
yes and gazed at the foreign world around him. Everything was so large and frightening, and he could not make sense of any of it.
4 - Nirvana
Monday, January 12th
Like all breaks, Christmas and New Year’s came and went more quickly than Lucian would have liked, and he was already back on campus to begin the next semester of classes. He had thankfully registered for all of his courses at the end of last semester, before life had gotten out of control with Lilly and Willow and everything. Though nervous to begin this new set of challenges, Lucian could at least take comfort in the fact that he was significantly more prepared to start this semester than he had been for the previous. And, whatever school held in store for him, he was confident that it would be no more difficult than vanquishing a demon and fighting off armies of the undead.
As Lucian had mentioned over Christmas dinner, he was very interested in learning more about other religions and seeing whether or not he might wish to pursue a major in the subject. For this reason, he had registered for a class on Eastern Religions, which he was now walking toward as his first class of the new semester. Schuntz was actually not the professor for this course, and, though he and Schuntz had begun to grow closer as a byproduct of their shared struggles against mutual enemies, Lucian still looked forward to not having the strict professor for any more classes in the foreseeable future. Lucian’s other subjects – History of the Americas, English Composition, and Intro to International Affairs – all seemed interesting in their own right, but they didn’t generate the same drive in Lucian as his Religion course.
On his way to his first new class, Lucian had left enough time to briefly stop by Professor Schuntz’s office within the Religion Department to check in and see if the professor had heard anything back from the Kílánór yet. Making his way up the crumbling exterior stairs and through the crooked green door, Lucian stood before Schuntz’s office and knocked twice.
“Enter,” the professor’s voice said from within.
Lucian slowly cracked the door open and stuck his head inside. “Hi, Professor,” he said. “May I come in?”
“Ah, Mr. Aarden,” Professor Schuntz exclaimed, sounding almost excited by the boy’s arrival. “Yes, please come in.”
Lucian stepped inside and made his way around the cluttered floor to his usual chair on the opposite end of Schuntz’s desk. As soon as he sat down, he opened his mouth to speak, but he was abruptly cut off by the professor.
“I have been conducting further research into the information you and Mr. Valenti brought to me at our last meeting,” Schuntz explained, inching forward in his wooden chair and rummaging through papers on his desk. “It appears that there are several references to a ‘Lósófán’ in ancient manuscripts, but they are both vague and, at times, conflicting. Tell me, do you believe that the name you heard that night at the mansion could have been ‘Lósófán’?”
Lucian nodded. “Yeah, I think that was it,” he said. “Maybe. I’m honestly not totally certain.”
“Mmmm,” the professor grunted, skimming his eyes over what seemed to Lucian like an absurd amount of documents. “I was fearful that it might be. This will certainly require much more research before I am able to propose a plan of action. I will have to send in official requests for documents, perhaps even travel to other locations to procure the necessary information. There are some individuals to whom I must reach out, and….”
“So you haven’t heard anything back yet?” Lucian asked, deciding to forcibly insert his question for fear of never having another opportunity amid Schuntz’s enthusiastic ramblings.
“Hm?” Schuntz grunted, only half paying attention as he continued to formulate complicated resource-gathering plans in his head.
“The Kílánór,” Lucian clarified. ‘You haven’t heard anything back from them yet?”
Schuntz looked up at his student, first in confusion, then with a hardened glare. “Oh. No,” he stated. “The Kílánór have not responded to any of my attempts to contact them, though such behavior does not surprise me. I warned you, Mr. Aarden, that we cannot rely on the Kílánór to aid us in this. We are much better off relying on our own skills and knowledge if we aim to succeed.”
Lucian felt a stab of disappointment. He had always held the Kílánór in such high esteem after meeting Gus, viewing them as faraway heroes that would one day come charging in to save the day. He had trouble reconciling that vision with the cold, hard reality that they might not care enough to heed the professor’s call.
“Well, I guess we should just keep on trying then…,” Lucian suggested somberly. He grabbed his bag and stood up once again. “Sorry, Professor, but I have to go now. I have to get to Eastern Religions.”
This once again caught Schuntz’s attention, and he looked up at the boy. “Ah, yes. The new professor,” Schuntz said with a hint of disdain. “Please, do tell me what you think of him, Mr. Aarden. He is here on a trial basis, and I am not entirely convinced of his efficacy.”
Lucian nodded. “Will do, professor,” he promised.
The professor then once again turned his eyes to the documents before him and continued his mission of poring over every minute detail hidden within the texts. As Lucian walked out of the room, he couldn’t help but wonder whether Schuntz’s skepticism of the new professor boded well for him or hinted at an even worse experience than being taught by Schuntz himself. Walking down the front steps and back out onto the cement walkway between buildings, Lucian figured that he would no doubt find out soon enough.
The Eastern Religions class was actually held within the same ugly concrete block of a building where he had attended his Comparative Religion course the semester before, in the exact same run-down theater classroom. Lucian knew it very well by this point, and so he bounded up the stairs, walked over to the classroom, and sat down in his usual seat: second row from the front of the back section. Pulling out a notebook and pen, he shifted his butt around and tried to make himself as comfortable as possible atop the well-worn orange cushion of his fold-down chair.
While he waited, he examined the students entering the theater-classroom. There were far fewer of them than had been in his Comparative Religions class – only about fifteen or twenty in total. Lucian was expecting more to show up, but, with only two minutes left before the start of class, he realized that it might not happen. It seemed logical to him that, as he progressed further along in his courses, the typical class sizes would continue to shrink and become more specialized, and he was looking forward to the smaller, more intimate classroom setting. As these thoughts rolled around in his head, he began to fidget with the new ring on his right hand, rolling it around on his finger in a repeating, meditative way.
From the top of the center aisle to his left, a man entered carrying a brown bag over his shoulder. He wasn’t significantly older than the students around him – probably in his mid- to late-thirties – but it was pretty clear from Lucian’s perspective that this was the new professor. As the man casually walked down the center aisle to the base of the stage at the front of the room, he looked around him, taking in all the strange attributes of the run-down theater that was his new classroom. Turning around to face the students, he slung the bag off his shoulder and threw it up onto the floor of the elevated stage.
“Geez. This place is a little weird, isn’t it?” he then asked loudly into the open area of sparsely-scattered students. This elicited a laugh from a few of them, including Lucian.
“Everyone, come on down here,” the new professor instructed, waving both of his hands in a beckoning motion. “C’mon. There’s no need to be all spread out all over the place. We’re not gonna be able to chat like this.”
There was silence throughout the room, and not a single student made a move to get up, perhaps unsure whether or not he was being serious.
“C’mon!” he urged again lightheartedly. “Get down here!”
There was a rustling of movement as all the students grabbed their things and went to si
t down in the front two rows before the professor. Lucian experienced a stab of strange discomfort as he grabbed his things to move to a new spot in the front of the classroom. While he generally appreciated this close, casual style of instruction much better when compared to that of Schuntz, this came in direct conflict with the comfort he felt at having established a seat to call his own within each of his classrooms. Begrudgingly, he followed a couple of other students down the rows to grab a seat on the right side of the group.
“Much better! Thanks!” the professor said. Placing both of his hands flat on the stage behind him, he hopped up and sat down upon the wooden floor. “Seriously, though. Was this place a theater before it was a classroom or something? Anybody know?”
He looked around at all of the clueless, silent faces before him.
“Fair enough,” he concluded with a single nod of his head. “Well, my name is Michael Aviv, and I’m a new professor here at the university.”
There was more silence from the group of students. Lucian felt sort of bad for the guy, as his classmates weren’t giving the professor very much to work with; but he figured first meetings were always a little awkward for everyone, including himself.
“You’re all welcome to call me Professor Aviv, Professor, Michael, Mike,” he continued. “I’ll first tell you a little bit about myself. I was born in upstate New York. My parents are both from Israel, and they came to the United States right before I was born. I went to school out there first, then graduated, then traveled around the world for a while, studying under some great spiritual practitioners throughout Asia. After about ten years of that, I came back here to get my PhD in Eastern Religion and Philosophy. And that’s how I’m here before you today.”
Lucian was quite impressed. This might actually be someone I could relate to, he thought to himself. I wonder if Professor Aviv has ever studied under a teacher like Panhavant….
