by Collin Earl
CHAPTER FOUR
Dreams
Brian gathered up Monson’s things, and then led him down another highly ornate hallway. Covered in murals, the length of the passage displayed an assortment of Roman military ventures, some historical and others obviously fictional. The murals showed remarkable artistic skill. The soldiers and their commanders remained locked in eternal combat with hordes of barbarians and charlatans, as the fury of the Roman war machine devastated lines of blurred figures in the background. The illustrations suited this hall well. It felt like a culmination of ideas that described the school, and the attitudes of a long-forgotten people suddenly reborn in the modern. This mural was Coren and Rome personified in an epic artistic rendition.
"I have never liked these paintings," Brian said, looking at the murals with distaste.
"Really?" asked Monson with some surprise, "Why is that?"
"Actually, to be completely honest with you, I’ve never liked the whole Roman concept," Brian replied. "Granted, it’s not like it originated with their society; there has always been such. Probably always will be. The Romans aren't anything special in that particular regard."
"I'm not quite sure I understand."
"My dear young Hero," Brian said patiently. "What—"
He paused, considering his words. "Let me answer you in the form of a question. Were the Romans great, and, if that be the case, for what reason?"
Monson scrutinized Brian, trying to discern his possible meaning. He knew there was a specific answer that Brian was looking for, but had no idea what it was.
"Yes," Monson answered, acting more confident than he felt, but also thinking he had an indisputable fact that proved their greatness.
Brian's face reflected a polite interest that plainly told Monson to go on. Monson obliged, "I think you need to look at all the different things they were responsible for. I mean, if you think about it, there is hardly an area of science, philosophy or religion that the Romans didn't have at least some influence over."
"Yes, that is true," Brian said with a wry smile. "But how were they able to accomplish all of those great things?"
Monson paused for a moment, unsure of the question's meaning. Brian gave him an understanding smile, "Let me ask you this: Do you think the people the Romans conquered thought they were great?"
The answer was obvious.
"Probably not," Monson answered tentatively.
"Exactly." Brian looked amused. "Yes, we have many great things from the Romans. Their accomplishments were far-reaching, even everlasting, but their crimes were just as, if not more, far-reaching and everlasting. Always remember, winners are the ones who write the history. There are two sides to every story, but more often than not, we are only party to one side."
"I guess I never really thought about it," Monson commented, taken aback.
"It certainly does make you think, does it not? History is supposed to be about the truth and facts. One should not be illustrating any particular action in any particular light, but instead relaying events and analyzing observable facts." Brian gestured toward the wall. "Now answer me this, young Master Grey: What if the artist had been able to immortalize the innocent people who died in both battle and siege? The women and children who lost fathers, husbands and brothers in the fury of pointless conflict, or the pain suffered by those who had lost all hope, faith and the will to live because of a cause they neither knew nor understood? Now that would be a picture worthy of admiration.”
"Brian," Monson said, again puzzled, "what exactly do you do here?"
"Oh, I apologize, where are my manners?!" Brian chuckled. "I started to ramble." He adopted a slightly more formal tone, one that sounded a great deal like Mr. Gatt. "My dear Hero, I am thy manservant."
Monson thought he heard wrong. "I'm sorry. You're my what?"
"Thy manservant."
"And what the bloody hell is that?" Monson said, exasperated. Why did it seem that everyone at this school was reluctant to give him a straight answer?
"As Horum Vir, you are given certain privileges and responsibilities." Brian adjusted the bags he was carrying for Monson and smoothly pulled out a small envelope, removed a blue key card, and stopped in front of a great oak door.
"I am at the same time a privilege and responsibility. I am here to make sure that you fulfill your responsibilities and that you take full advantage of your privileges."
"Responsibilities?" Monson grimaced. "That sounds awfully unpleasant."
"Yes, responsibilities can be unpleasant.” Brian winked at him. "Then again, privileges can more than make up for this."
In one fluid motion, the door opened without a sound.
"Whoa," was all Monson said as Brian slid through and stepped aside. Monson followed. He was instantly impressed.
Monson walked into a handsome sitting area where oversized leather sitting chairs and a sofa were carefully arranged around a sturdy oak coffee table. Sizable floor lamps stood on either side of the chairs, dousing the area with mounds of soft light. Adjacent to the sitting area was a large wooden entertainment center, completely self-contained behind wooden shutters. On the other side of the room, a double window covered by a handsome shade of horizontal slats sat between two sets of double doors.
"Welcome to your quarters." Brian set the bags down and walked over to the window. He opened it to reveal a breathtaking view of the grounds and national forest at the edge of Coren's property. "This is where you'll be staying during your time here. Feel free to explore."
Monson was happy to oblige.
He moved freely, stopping periodically when he found something of interest. He noticed that besides the sitting area, which could easily be used for entertaining, there was a wet bar, complete with a refrigerator and an assortment of laborsaving appliances. Upon closer inspection, he realized the wet bar was more akin to a small kitchen, and although it wasn't large, it appeared to be fairly well equipped. He also noticed a control panel with commands such as "lights," “music” and “movies.” Monson suspected this was a sort of voice-activated feature, as there weren’t any buttons, just a large speaker located in the middle of the panel. It was all very cool.
"Brian, what can you tell me about this position that I have?" Monson walked to one of the plush leather chairs and sat down, looking at Brian intently. "In one day I’ve gone from being the winner of a scholarship, to attending a school—a good school–but a school nonetheless, to being a rock star. You spoke of the responsibilities; what exactly are they expecting me to do?"
"Master Grey," Brian bowed slightly, "I would be happy to enlighten you, but not right now. You still have many a thing to do. You need to eat something and rest."
He turned back to Monson. "Though I am curious, why did you not read the information packet you received after you won the Knowledge Bowl?"
Monson flushed. He really didn't want to talk about that.
"It's a long story."
Brian did not pursue the subject, but rather beckoned Monson to follow him. He walked to the left side of the room to one set of double oak doors, and with a flick of his wrist, opened them to reveal Monson's bedroom. And what a bedroom it was.
It was spacious, but not ostentatiously so. A massive four-poster bed carved of redwood, complete with silk hangings, dominated the center of the room. A nightstand and dresser to either side of the marvelous bed completed the picture. A half-opened doorway directly to Monson's left revealed a huge bathroom. To the right was a large bay window. Monson looked around the room in awe. What kind of lives were these people living that they could offer such opulence to one such as he?
Brian was next to the bed parting the curtains.
One look at a fluffy comforter and mountains of pillows, and Monson lost his self-control. He ran and jumped, spinning in mid-air to land on his back in the center of the bed. He kicked off his shoes as he sunk into the mattress.
Brian gave a smile and an appreciative chuckle. "You and I are going t
o get along just fine, lad. I’ll get you something to eat, and then you should get a bit of rest."
"Rest?" asked Monson, surprised. "Like sleep? Now? Aren't there other things I should be attending, like meeting teachers or something?"
"Most of the other students are getting to know their roommates right now," Brian replied, his voice calm and reassuring. "About an hour is allocated to this portion of the orientation. You can go and introduce yourself to the various Floor Captains, if you wish."
"No, that's all right," Monson said, ignoring the fact that he had no idea what a Floor Captain was.
"You look quite tired. Relax for a moment and I’ll bring you something to eat."
Monson relented, acknowledging Brian with a nod.
Brian gave another slight bow and left, closing the great double doors behind him.
What a nice…weirdo, Monson thought to himself. Between Brian and Mr. Gatt, Monson wasn't going to run out of adults to annoy.
Adults. Monson found that he suddenly missed Molly. He indulged in a back-cracking stretch and thought he would take Brian's advice and rest for a while. He was tired from the excitement of the day; a short snooze would do him some good. He slowly moved to the top of the bed to pull down the covers, which were tucked far under the headboard. As he pulled back the blankets and sheets, his thoughts wandered to Kylie Coremack and her little speech. He wondered if that type of behavior was normal for girls. He really hoped not. A verbal lashing like that was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and not one he would readily repeat. The situation didn't make sense to him. Her change in attitude and demeanor—it was so sudden and felt forced, though that didn't really make sense. Why put on a show like that?
Monson looked at the uncovered bed. Suddenly, he didn't want to sleep, but thought he would instead check out the rest of his apartment.
Monson went directly for the only door that remained unopened, crossing the entire apartment to get there. The door revealed a handsome office, complete with an oak computer desk. More of the plush furniture—an L-shaped couch and armchair—sat to either side of an expansive bookshelf that reached from floor to ceiling.
Monson went to a chair sitting in front of the desk. He reclined briefly before he noticed a rippled cover that hid most of the desk's surface. Monson searched and found a small button under the lip of the desktop. He pushed it and the cover retracted with a slight clink. To Monson's delight, an expensive-looking computer complete with a flat, high-definition screen, a scanner, and a printer sat on the desktop. Monson smiled appreciatively as he slid the shade back into place.
Getting up, his attention wandered to the large shelf of books along the wall. Before the attack, Monson read—a lot. This was one of the things that his grandfather had encouraged. Never stop learning, he would say. It was odd that this, of all things, he remembered, but he did remember, with surprising clarity. Words are power, his grandfather had said, and reading along with developing skills of reason is the key to unlocking that power. In his current state, Monson couldn't recall why that was so important to his grandfather, just that it was.
Many details like this had come back to him slowly. Learning about one’s past might seem scary at first, but as freakish as it sounded, the fact that he couldn't remember much of his was a bit exciting. Memories would come and it was as if he was reliving his life. It was a funny sensation whenever a memory resurfaced. While it could be disconcerting, it was much better than the gaping void that existed prior to the recovery of a memory.
Monson scanned the books and smiled as he saw that the titles were shelved in alphabetical order. Monson guessed that Brian probably had something to do with this. He seemed like the type who would. A few of them caught his interest with amusing titles or nice-looking covers. Monson pulled a few. He was always looking for something to read and here was as good as any other place to browse. Most of the books were histories that were militaristic in nature. Some were accounts of modern conflicts: the Persian Gulf Wars, Vietnam, Korea, World Wars I and II, the Civil War—just to name a few. Most, however, were historic accounts of ancient battles. The Roman Empire and its many epic accounts was recorded in multiple volumes. One large series of books seemed to encompass Roman history, from the formation of the Roman Republic to the fall of the Byzantine Empire. Monson was relieved to see that despite the school’s obsession with Old Rome, there were many books dedicated to other empires, such as Egypt, Persia, and Syria. Monson idled around the shelves for a bit longer hoping to find something that might entertain him during his off nights. It was in that moment that something on the back-center bookcase caught his eye.
Lore of the Folk: a Complete Guide to Your Understanding of the Secrets of Coren County read the title. Curious, Monson pulled the book off the shelf and proceeded to examine the cover, which was dominated by a painting of a rock-laced waterfall. It was beautiful, almost as realistic as a photograph. Monson traced his finger along the right side of the picture. He wondered if these falls were actually in the valley, or if this was just some artistic license meant to make Coren County appear more interesting than it really was.
Monson flipped open the cover to look for something resembling a dedication or author's note. Instead he found these handwritten phrases: For Rose Mary, may you never find this, but if you do, hopefully it helps.
Monson continued to flip. The book was handwritten and was more like a scrapbook than a published piece. And what about the dedication? Now that was weird.
"Well, you seem a little out of place here, don't you?" Monson asked out loud. "What about this valley could be so interesting that someone would want to write a history of it?"
"Master Grey," a voice split the air from the other room. Monson recognized it as Brian's.
"Yeah, I'm in here, Brian." Monson quickly closed the book. He hesitated for a moment, and without really thinking, he tucked the book under his arm and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Brian was standing behind the counter of the kitchenette holding a tray with an assortment of food.
"I was not aware of your preference, so I brought you a little bit of everything." He set the tray on the counter and offered Monson a couple of different soft drinks. Monson grabbed a can, at the same time placing the book on the stool beside him. He cracked it open and started to drink.
"I don't usually drink a lot of pop," Monson commented, taking a sip of the blue-canned cola. It was a bit sweet, but he found that he liked it. Setting down the soda, Monson picked up a ham and cheese bagel sandwich and bit into it. It was simple, but tasty.
"What teenager does not drink soft drinks?" Brian leaned over the plate of food, but didn’t take any himself. Monson, noticing this, grabbed another sandwich and placed it in front of him. Brian looked startled.
"You look hungry." Monson gestured to the food. "Why don't you join me? Besides, we're probably going to be spending quite a bit of time together, so we might as well be friends."
Brian studied Monson with soft, unassuming eyes. He smiled gently and picked up the sandwich. "Thank you," he said as he took a bite, "but back to the soft drinks; I’m curious. Why do you not drink them? Are you an athlete?"
Monson laughed. "No, I’ve never played any sports as far as I know. I was homeschooled, so that makes it hard, you know."
"You were homeschooled, were you? Why stop now?" Brian asked, "And in such a dramatic way? Did homeschooling not suit your taste?"
Monson didn't answer, but stuffed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth, almost choking as he did so. Finally, he was able to swallow.
"I think I'm going to lie down now," he said, a slight edge to his voice.
"I see." Brian straightened up and gave Monson another one of those little bows. "I will wake you when the time is right. Rest assured knowing I will be here, and thank you for the sandwich."
Monson touched his fingers to his brow in a kind of half-salute and proceeded to his room, closing the doors beh
ind him.
Alone now, he walked across his room and sat on the large window seat that ran the length of the huge window. It was raining outside. A gentle patter of drops stuck to the glass as the remnants drizzled down the length of the window. The sight and sounds were soothing. Monson stared out to the forest that marked the edge of Coren's property. The area stretched on forever, the lush greenery reaching far into the distance. Monson liked the rain, but only if he had dry spot from which to watch it. The hospital in Seattle often saw rain and Monson enjoyed watching the downpour from his window, much like he was doing—
Movement in the distance, just in front of the tree line, drew his attention. A single person moved out from the darkness and ran south along the tree line. The figure wore a dark cloak and seemed to blend into the dark forest.
The gloom made it difficult to see. But then the person stopped and turned in Monson’s direction. The distance made it impossible for him to be certain, but Monson had the very distinct feeling that he — it was definitely a man in the cloak — was looking straight at him.
“Master Grey, I am going out for a moment. Do you need anything?”
Monson turned reflexively to answer. “Um…no, Brian. I do not. Thanks.”
Monson returned his attention to the window, but the figure was gone. Disappeared.
Strange, thought Monson as he searched the tree line. He couldn’t have just disappeared? Where did he go?
Monson’s question went unanswered, though the most obvious answer was that the man had retreated into the forest. Still….
Monson’s attention lingered on the forest for some time. He did not know why, but the disappearance of the cloaked man tugged at something in the back of his mind. Eventually, the rain’s steady patter turned his thoughts involuntarily to Brian. He sighed. He had been short with the manservant. Brian didn't know anything about his past—no one did. It wasn't fair for Monson to treat him like he did.
Monson removed himself from the window and flopped onto the bed, stretching his arms and legs, tightening the muscles as much as he could. He winced as he felt the strain of scarred skin that covered a large part of his body.
"One more reminder of what I can't remember." Monson gritted his teeth, determined to finish his stretching.
Monson slid his hands toward the space between his headboard and mattress, hoping to find an edge or lip he could grab. There wasn't one; the headboard seemed to continue all the way down to the floor. Annoyed at being unable to accomplish his stretch, Monson moved his fingers farther down the headboard. He stopped when his hands slid over a strange indention. Monson's fingers lingered. To the touch, it didn't feel like it was a part of the original design; it felt too random and rough. He struggled, curious why there would be such distinct marks on a well-crafted hardwood bed frame.
Could the bed be from a used furniture store? Monson stifled a laugh, but realized that he didn't need to; he was the only one privy to the thought. What a ridiculous thought. There was no way that could be. All the same, Monson did his best to envision Dean Dayton shopping at a Liquidation World or Goodwill. The thought made Monson giggle. He continued running his fingers over the indentations. He realized that the markings ran at least part of the length of the bottom portion of the bed, were finely cut, despite their out-of-place location, and fairly deep.
Ahh, screw this, Monson thought, extracting his arm from the space between the bed and the headboard. He slid with a dull thump off the side of the bed and picked up the mattress, intending to tear it off. The mattress was heavier than he had expected. He strained, and with a final thrust, the mattress slid partially to the side and exposed a heart with a set of initials chiseled into the wood.
Monson laughed aloud. How anticlimactic—all that curious excitement for some cheesy declaration of puppy love. Annoyance kicked in. Monson took a closer look at the initials: G.D.P. & M.P. He made a mental note to make fun of whoever wrote that, and then grabbed the mattress to heave it back into position.
"Heavy little sucker, aren't you?"
Monson struggled for a few moments more and finally shoved the mattress in place. Unfortunately, he wasn't paying attention to his footing. He fell, kicking the frame of the bed just hard enough to move it slightly. He hit the ground with a solid thump, and slid lightly across the floor to a stop just as a second thump broke the silence.
Monson lay on the ground panting.
Brilliant, Grey, just brilliant. It was then that the sound finally registered. What was that second thump?
Monson, crawling, forced his way under the side of his bed to investigate. He pulled out a small metal box.
The container appeared totally unremarkable. Tarnished and faded, probably from many years of use, it appeared to be shut tightly.
Annoyed, Monson almost gave the small tin a toss. Honestly, why on earth would this be wedged up behind his bed? He couldn't think of anything more stupid. There was no reason for that to be there unless . . . someone was trying to hide it. Monson paused and looked at the container. This could be something private and important forgotten by the previous owner.
Then again, he or she did leave it. In which case, it couldn't be that important, especially in a place that appeared to be more for convenience than hiding.
Monson fingered the lid of the box. There couldn't be any harm in just looking, could there? Monson decided not, and slowly wedged the lid off of the container.
Paper and envelopes of every shape, size, and color came spilling out, along with accumulated filth. How long had this thing been in here to have this much dust? A sweet scent permeated the air as remains of a perfume washed over him. A girl wrote these. The handwriting, or what could be seen of it, was small and full of loops too feminine to be a boy's. Monson grabbed one of the pages and opened it. He read the title, written in the same embellished handwriting.
The Queen's Chronicle - Conquering the Ridge by M.P.
She followed a path of her own choosing.
One that scaled the height of her own mountain.
A journey started with a voice, which said:
Come, find your other self.
Long was the quest along the winding trail
Deep were the rivers she traversed
Dark were the woods she explored.
Difficult were the keepers who confounded her.
She withstood with the allure of the natural man
She calmed the core of the enlightened soul
She found the secret of the translated other self
Only to lose herself to the worlds.
The path, the war, still wages on.
Red for passion and anger's heat
Blue for docile souls that are ever upbeat
Yellow for freedom; the expressive self
Green for the solid being; the foundation for all else.
A woman followed a path of her own choosing
One that scaled the height of her own mountain
She started her journey with a single step
And found the other's gate enigma at its peak.
Monson stopped reading, attempting to understand. What in the world is this? He picked up some more of the papers; it went on for at least two more pages. If this was a love letter, it didn't seem like a very good one. What happened to "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways"?
As Monson replaced the poem and properly stacked the mismatched groups of paper, a picture caught his eye. He pulled it out of the stack. It was a painting—an amazing one.
Vibrant colors of a sunset highlighted a castle like no other. Large, with an airy, open architecture, the fortress sat on a pair of cumulus clouds suspended hundreds, maybe thousands of feet in the air. In the distance, four peaks encircled a lush, green valley. The colors were bold and beautiful. Monson couldn't take his eyes off of it. He smiled as he pictured in great detail a place like this castle on a cloud. Monson flipped the picture over to see if there was a signatur
e. He found the same insignia as on the poem, M.P. He made a mental note: Figure out who M.P. was.
Monson grabbed the container and lid and replaced the papers, including the poem, but kept the picture out. He returned the tin to under his bed. He lay down, looking at the picture and recounting the events of the day. Day . . . bah! It wasn't even three o’clock yet! He sighed, feeling the tiredness creep through him. Between almost being clubbed by Artorius, knocking the crap out of one of the prettiest girls Monson had ever seen, the weird gray stone hanging around his neck, oh, and let's not forgot the weird out-of-body experience or whatever that was when Dean Dayton called his name, he felt that he had experienced enough for one day. He hoped this wasn't going to be a daily thing.