Debris of Shadows_Book II_The Forgotten Cathedral

by Tony LaRocca

  They were still jerks.

  She could hear her dad raising his voice again. He was telling Mom that they should be thankful for Brother Asher. Tish would never admit it out loud, but the monk scared her. He was creepy. He always looked so, so tired, like he would fall over at any second.

  Maybe he was having bad dreams too.

  She flipped through the pages, not seeing the words. It was an old book, one that took place in the eighteen hundreds. Her mom had told her to find something new, but she liked rereading books that she had read before. They felt like old friends.

  “He’s not bad,” her dad said from downstairs. “You promised to give him a chance. I don’t know about you, but I’m not going on that damn oxygen ever again. I’m not going to be sick and dying like that. I refuse.”

  “It’s a matter of perspective,” said Vincent. He still sounded like an old man, even in his young body. She remembered him having a gray, pointy beard that touched his chest, long hair, and spectacles. Her dad used to call him a hippie. When she asked what that meant, her mom had told her to mind her own beeswax. “Perspective is everything. The more points of view we have, the more we can understand. Only then can we make a sound judgement.”

  “That’s why I asked you over,” said her mom, “because we all need to talk, and share our views. Everything is so unstable now. I don’t trust him.” Her voice rose. “I’m sorry, Roger, I just don’t, and I won’t be silent about it.”

  “You shouldn’t have to, dear,” said Julia. “There’s a hunger for truth in all of us.” Her kind, grandma–like voice sounded so funny coming from a twenty–something mouth. Tish laughed, and buried her face in her pillow.

  She heard her mom’s feet stomp up the stairs. She whipped her book open, and buried her nose in it.

  Her mom peered in, glared at her, and closed the door.

  Tish rolled her eyes. Like she really cared what the stupid adults were talking about anyway.

  She sighed. Outside, she could hear the jerks playing kickball in the street. But if she went out there, they would just laugh at her. They would call her Chubb–Butt and Monster–Mush like they did before. They would probably call her the bad word again as well, so why bother?

  Holy Ophanim, she wished she had some candy. More than that, she wished that she were alone in her secret hiding place. Maybe later she would be able to sneak off, once her mom’s scholastic demands were satisfied.

  “Don’t call me that,” she heard her dad shout. “Just because I was brought up to be —”

  His voice became a whisper again. She imagined the pissed–off glare that her mom was probably giving him.

  She closed the book. A happy–looking, yellow dog stuck its tongue out at her from its cover. How could he look so happy, when the book’s ending was so sad? Maybe that was why she liked it. The first time she had read it, she had cried and cried. Mom had held her, had told her that it was okay, and that she understood. Dad had just sucked another breath from his mask, and scoffed. It was only a stupid book, he had said, and there were enough real things to cry about. She flipped to the end, and started to read. She got halfway through the last chapter, and stopped.

  “That’s not how it goes,” she said.

  She turned back a few pages, and read the end of the previous chapter. She swallowed, closed the book, and peered at the cover again. Had they changed the words since the last time she had read it, or was it the fault of the weirdo, sleepwalking monk?

  She opened her bedroom door, and crept down the stairs.

  “Everyone has different filters,” Vincent was saying, “created by our lives and experiences. We all block out anything that doesn’t confirm our biases, that’s just human nature. That’s why we need as many points of view as possible.” He looked up at her, and grinned. “Well hello, Princess.”

  She smiled. “Hello, Mister Wakefield.” She turned to Julia. “Mrs. Wakefield.”

  “Hey there,” said Julia. “Come with me later, and we’ll get Brother Asher to make us some cookie ingredients. There’s too much healthy stuff here.” She winked. “Besides, I have some new cars to show you.”

  “Oh please,” said Vincent. He leaned over to pinch his wife’s butt. “That’s the last thing you need.”

  Tish felt her cheeks go red. “Thank you,” she said. “That sounds… great.” She wondered if she should tell Mrs. W. about her secret place, but decided against it. It was hers, and she liked it that way.

  “Tish, we’re talking right now,” said her mother, her voice company–sweet, but with a hint of ice lurking beneath. “I thought I told you to read.”

  “Mom, I have to show you something.”

  Her mother still smiled, but her eyes flared. “Later, sweetie.”

  “Oh, what the hell,” said her father. “Show me, hon.”

  “Roger…”

  “Come on,” said her dad, “it’s important to the kid.”

  “Fine,” said her mom. “Show him quick, and then back to work.”

  Tish looked at her father, remembering his former critique, and bit her lip. “You wouldn’t understand, Daddy.”

  Vincent chuckled at this, and elbowed Roger in the ribs. “Come on,” he said. “You can show me Asher’s renovations, while the women talk about cooking, and what not.”

  “No, please, don’t go,” said her mom. She turned to Tish. “This meeting is important, little girl. This had better be quick.”

  Thanks, Mom, thought Tish, way to be supportive. She flipped to the end of the book, and handed it over. “Read it, please.”

  Her mother rolled her eyes as she took the paperback. “I don’t know why you need to bother me with this now, I’ve read it a thousand times…” Her voice dropped off as her eyes bulged.

  “Ho, ho!” said Vincent. “I think she’s caught a live one.”

  Roger cocked his head to the side. “Helen?”

  Her mom held her hand up, palm out, without taking her eyes from the text. She flipped to the next page, and the next. “Get everyone together,” she said, “everyone you can find.”

  Julia leaned in. “Helen, sweetie, what is it?”

  Her mom slapped the book shut. “I knew he was a snake,” she said. “Get everyone together, right now. We’re going to confront that son of a bitch, once and for all.”

  Chapter 13

  Asher locked the bathroom door. He turned on the light, and stared into the bulb. His eyes stung. They wanted so badly to close. He could not remember the last time that he had slept. He ran the faucet, and splashed cold water on his face.

  “You okay in there, kid?”

  No, he thought, I’m nothing near okay. “I’m fine,” he said to the door. “I’ll just be a minute.” He had only just walked in there, or had he? Had he lost time again?

  He could feel his children working within his brain, inhibiting dopamine reception, and releasing adrenaline. Self–modification was forbidden to anyone below the sixth circle, but he knew that the Ophanim would forgive him. To fall asleep now would be catastrophic.

  The smothering tide of fatigue ebbed. He could think clearly again. He stared at himself in the mirror. Everyone accused him of starving himself, but that was not true. He consumed over five thousand calories a day. Resurrecting took an enormous amount of nourishment, not only for him, but also for his children — especially if they spent long periods away from his body. He had finished his and Theresa’s supply of rations a week ago, and had begun to convert the Structural Sands on the outskirts of the dome into food. Strictly synthetic protein, carbohydrate, and fat paste, of course.

  He flushed the closed toilet, and splashed more cold water on his face. He definitely felt better. He opened his neck sacs, and the children within his skull flew from his nose, and back into their subdermal cells. He stared into his bloodshot eyes, and grinned. At least now, he looked more or less presentable.

  He walked back into the den. The pea–green, paisley couch was uglier than he had imagined possible, but he k
new that it held sentimental value. He had fixed its broken springs and termite–masticated wood, at least.

  Ralph, the owner of the couch, came in from his kitchen bearing two glasses of water. Asher could see his oven through the doorway. Pink enamel, for the Ophanim’s sake. He shuddered. He took the glass, smiled, and gulped down its contents. He had not realized how thirsty he was.

  He glanced out the window. A band of orange was spreading across the horizon. The sun would set soon. He smiled. It had been a productive day. Two of his new charges had been more or less easy. The third, a teenage boy, had screamed and thrown things at him. He had smashed mirrors, and punched his own face. It had taken three do–overs to get the poor kid down to a sane, if annoyingly whiny, citizen. Some of his charges, on their own, had formed a support group to help people like him and his family. Such kindness made the monk feel proud.

  The fourth, an old man in a young man’s skin, sat down on the easy chair across from him. His name was Ralph Goshen. He still moved like an old man, though his new bones were strong and healthy. He lowered himself gingerly onto the yellow piece of furniture, pulled the lever on its side, and leaned back, raising the footrest. He crossed his legs, and sighed. He looked at his hands, free of shakes and liver spots, and chuckled. “Thanks for the makeover,” he said.

  Asher nodded. At least this day would have a happy ending. “So tell me about yourself,” he said, though he knew the man’s history. Talking about their pasts seemed to help his charges adjust.

  “I guess you could say I did just about everything,” Ralph said. “I was a butcher for a while. I worked on the docks when I was young, building ships. Then I tried my hand at acting, and eventually, comedy. I bounced around the club circuit, even made it to the virts once or twice. Radio was fun, you could be anything or anyone on the audio channels.”

  “It sounds like fun,” said Asher. He had never heard any of the audio channels, or seen a virt for that matter.

  “Yeah,” said Ralph, “but nothing lasts forever. I was just a little fish in the ocean, but I liked that. Little fish can have fun without worrying about anyone caring what they say or do. I still did stand–up or a voice–over now and then just to keep my motor running, but it stopped paying the bills. So, in my retirement, I did what my grandfather used to do. I cut hair. At least it gave me a captive audience.” A cloud crossed his face. He squinted, as if he could see something that was not there.

  Not another one, Asher inwardly groaned. He sat up straight. “Something wrong?”

  “Nothing,” said Ralph. He gave a little laugh. “I was thinking of all the different styles people had, and then…” He blinked a few times. “It’s weird, I remember people looking as vain as peacocks, having black, brown, or even red hair.” He swallowed, his face looking more and more troubled.

  Asher sang from the back of his throat. The blond man leaned back, the muscles of his olive–skinned face slack. He closed his green eyes as his fingers clenched the yellow arms of his chair. The litany stopped, and his lids fluttered back open.

  “You know what?” asked Ralph. “I remember now, everyone must have been getting their hair dyed. It was the style. People were always asking me for a dye job, even guys. What’s wrong with gold? Everyone’s born gold. A girl would show me a picture of a model and say, ‘She’s so beautiful. How does she pull off red hair like that?’ And I’d say, ‘With a scalping knife, just like everyone else!’” He winked, and then shrugged. “Sorry, it’s not my A material. I think there are a few bugs in the system. I guess the new brain needs a test run.” He looked at Asher. “I was always worried about Alzheimer’s, you know.”

  “I know,” said the monk, “and you don’t have to worry. That’s all in the past.”

  Ralph stretched out his arms. He placed one elbow in the crook of the other, and pulled it towards him. “It feels good, Brother, real good. I don’t suppose you’ve brought back any widows from the senior center yet? Little fish need love too.”

  Asher stood and smiled, holding out his hand. Ralph did the same, and met his handshake. “Believe me, sir,” said the monk, “it’s a pleasure to meet someone who can adjust so easily. Some are definitely taking all this harder than others.”

  “I can imagine,” said Ralph. “Becky, she died ten years ago, and we never did have any kids. My family is long gone. So I’m lucky, I guess. Or maybe not.” He leaned his head to the side. “I’m grateful, Brother, and praise the Ophanim for what you’ve done, but I gotta admit, you’re not the way I expected you to be.”

  “How so?”

  Ralph looked him up and down. “You need a shower, moisturizer, a sandwich, and a nap. Kid, if you don’t mind me saying, you need a nap that lasts a year.”

  Asher brushed off his cloak. “You have no idea how true that is.”

  “I guess I thought that if you guys came during my lifetime, you would be much more, I don’t know…”

  “Older?”

  “Majestic.” Ralph gave him an apologetic smile. “When I was young, I imagined you’d be all dressed in white and silver, with a weird kind of armor built into your arms. People in the subway stations used to give away little comic books that drew you monks like that.”

  “Oh, those are the Strongholds,” said Asher. “They won’t appear until the Day of Cleansing. It’s all down to the will of the Ophanim.”

  “The infallible will of the Ophanim,” Ralph said in a booming voice. “I remember Father Heerema at Saint Ezequiel’s, back in Indiana. He used to always say it like that, but he could make the windows shake. Here’s one for you. Why do communion wafers taste like soggy cardboard? So you can praise in the mist of the corrugation!”

  Asher opened his mouth, and closed it again. “You definitely have a gift,” he said. He smiled. “Take care, Ralph. San Domenico is a new city, you’ll see. It welcomes you.”

  He left, and walked through the twilit streets. He fingered the edge of his ratty cloak, and laughed to himself. Had there really been a time when he had been so vain, when its appearance had mattered so damn much? All the pompous trappings of the Church seemed so petty now.

  He glanced up and down the avenue. Something was not quite right, but he could not place what. Perhaps it was because no one was walking. Day or night, people always seemed to be milling about.

  A lanky figure ran towards him. It was Roger.

  “Thank the Ophanim I found you,” he said between pants. “It’s Helen. Once she gets her teeth stuck good into something, she refuses to give it up. She’s like a dog with a bone. Now she’s on a spree, getting everyone worked up.”

  Asher’s shoulders slumped. “Where is she?”

  His friend pointed to the corner. A thick sheen of sweat glistened on his upper lip and forehead. “The library.”

  Asher nodded. Of course.

  He waited for Roger to catch his breath. He insisted that they walk, and take their time. To run would show that he found her and her antics important.

  When they reached the library steps, he saw that Helen had managed to form a small crowd. “It’s censorship,” she shouted, waving a book in the air with one hand, and holding Tish’s hand in the other. “He keeps saying that he never changed our minds, that he didn’t play with our memories. But he’s lying, and this is proof.”

  Someone in the back of the crowd noticed Asher as he and Roger approached. A ripple passed through the assembly as heads turned to stare.

  “Helen,” he said, stepping into the throng, “please tell me what’s wrong.”

  She pointed at him. “Stay right there,” she said. “Stay away from me, Brother.”

  He stopped, and held out his hands. “I just want to help,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “You always say that you’re here to help. I’m sick of it. What are you, a monk or a shrink?”

  Roger climbed the steps to her side. “Helen, stop it,” he said.

  “No, it’s all right,” said Asher, “let her say what she feels.” He l
ooked at her without expression, like a parent or teacher dealing with a hysterical child. “Why are you so upset? What is it you’re afraid of?”

  Helen let go of her daughter, and put her hands over her ears. “Stop that,” she said. “Stop pretending you care, stop trying to turn me inside out. You’re just a liar, and you can’t hide it anymore.”

  “I’m not trying to hide anything,” said Asher. He walked towards the steps, the crowd parting before him. “You’re safe, Helen. I’d never hurt you, Tish, or any of you. I’d never play with your memories, and even if I wanted to, I can’t. It’s beyond me.”

  “Oh yeah?” she asked. “Then explain this.” She thrust a paperback at him, like a prosecutor brandishing a fingerprint–covered gun. He took it from her, and flipped through it. A Black Mouth Cur with its tongue lolling from its mouth stared at him from the cover. The book’s pages were pristine, and gleamed in the light of the setting sun. Its text was sharp and legible. He shrugged.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It might have been old, and I may have repaired its pages, or fixed its binding. I’m sorry if that offended you, I might have gotten a little carried away.”

  “It’s not the pieces of paper, it’s what’s printed on them. That was one of my favorite books, and I know damn well that it doesn’t have a happy ending.”

  Asher looked down at the novel. He skimmed the last chapter, his lips moving with the text. “I don’t know what to say,” he said when he was done. “I never read it before, but I’ll take your word for it. I guess when I said that I got carried away, I really meant it.”

  “Put it back the way it was,” she said. “What else have you done, drawn eyebrows on the Mona Lisa?”

  “Very possibly,” he said. “Right now I have real people to take care of. But when I’m done, I promise to go back, and give all the art and literature a thorough examination. Maybe you could do that for me. Why don’t you and your friends get a committee together, and look over everything? Then you can help me put things back the way they should be, wherever I’ve gone wrong.” He turned around, and made his way back through the crowd.