The Shape of Rain

by Michael B. Koep

  Suddenly, Helen’s words are an inescapable avalanche. He no longer questions her intentions. He trusts her next sentiment implicitly. “If they capture you, Loche, you will wish I had taken your life when the chance came.” She sits, “If they learn of what Edwin now bears and they take him, I will wish my own death.”

  Eyes and Ears

  November 11, this year

  Over North Idaho

  11:10am PST

  From the air Astrid scans the massive lake coiled around Sand Point, Idaho, its northern end disappearing into the grey. She notes how the lake’s shape resembles a human ear. Even the name of the lake, Pend Oreille, French given, means hangs from ears or earring. The thought irks her. The indigenous tribes of the Northwest plateau were named Pend Oreilles because of the large ear jewelry they wore. Of all the amazing cultural attributes that the Pend Oreille tribes of Kalispel, Flathead and Kaniksu lived and practiced over the centuries, the Europeans named them Hangs From Ears or Earrings. Why not Un Avec La Terre (One With the Land), mes Douces (Gentle Souls), or Ami Des Immortels (Friend of Immortals)? Or better still, what the Immortals of Wyn Avuqua called them: Aevas, Earth’s Heart. Somehow these powerful and accurate characteristics were, of course, missed by the European visitors from afar. Instead they chose the shiny thing—the earring.

  The chopper takes a northwestern course over Schweitzer Ski Resort toward the lower portion of the Selkirk Mountain range.

  “Why are we going to Priest Lake?” Astrid asks into her headset mic.

  Molmer turns to her and smiles. “Of course you know the lay of the land, Professor. Yes, Priest Lake is our destination.”

  “But why?”

  Molmer and Rearden exchange smiles—Molmer’s is filled with delight, Rearden’s is harder to translate. Molmer says, “I plead for your patience, yet again. Trust that the wait will be worth it.”

  Astrid folds her hands into her lap and looks at the slate-green wrinkle of hills and forest passing below. Logging roads and stream veins disappear under boughs. Her thoughts drift to a research trip in this area with her assistant, Marcel “Red Hawk” Hruska, two years ago. They were attempting to connect the indigenous tribes, the Aevas, with the ancient Wyn Avuquain Immortals.

  She smiles at the thought of Marcel, and his enthusiasm on that trip. Nearly everything about Marcel is anomalous—but most of all, his appearance. Her twenty-eight-year-old assistant has Irish red hair and sea-blue irises. Combined with a galaxy of orange freckles, his skin is dark, as his dominating genetic traits are Native American. Thus, Red Hawk. At first glance, the word exotic comes to mind. His frame is wiry, strong and athletic. His passion for Astrid’s work and the Wyn Avuquain myths transcends that of any of her former students.

  To her amazement, her phone vibrates in her coat. Service here? she thinks. As she reaches to retrieve it she notices Rearden staring at her. She manages not to scowl at him but, instead, moves her attention to the illuminated screen. It is Marcel. How very Elliqui, she thinks.

  Marcel: How did it go today?

  And what to say? Validation? Funding? A future for our research? Then she is simply delighted that a familiar voice just entered her head, instant message or not. She glances down to get an idea of her location and then taps out:

  Astrid: I was just thinking of you. Our Elliqui must be getting better. You won’t believe it but I’m currently flying somewhere between Atlasta Mountain and Mount Casey.

  Marcel: Either you mean you’re figuratively delighted that things went well and you’re “flying” or you’re literally flying over the lower Selkirk. Which could it be, I wonder?

  She grins.

  Astrid: Both.

  Marcel: What!?

  Astrid: I’m on a helicopter with Molmer and a guy named Marcus Rearden. We’re headed to Priest Lake. They are telling me a surprise is waiting for me.

  Astrid: btw, Molmer says we’re funded! No details yet.

  Marcel: FANTASTIC! How in the hell did Molmer get you into a helicopter? :)

  Astrid: I guess the need of a surprise beat my fear. That must be a good thing, right?

  Marcel: I should say so.

  Marcel: Um … You know who Rearden is, right?

  Astrid: Google reminded me.

  Marcel: Hmmm.

  Marcel: Weird. The guy seems like a dick. Scary. I’ve been following the Winship case. Gal from Sandpoint. Friend of a friend.

  Astrid’s eyes lift from the screen to see that Rearden is watching her. She lowers her phone.

  That does it, she thinks. “Dr. Rearden, can I help you with something? You seem to have the creepy stare thing down pat.”

  Marcus’s face remains passive. He answers without hesitation—his voice hisses with static in her headphones. “I’m sorry. Apologies, truly. I’m afraid my newfound revelations over the last few days have distracted my wonted social propriety. You see, I am very much interested in you and your work, Professor. As I stare, I’m attempting to learn from you all that you know. An old psychologist habit.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d lose the attempt at mind reading, Doctor.”

  Rearden laughs, “You know a bit about that, do you not?”

  “Not as much as a psychologist might… or should,” she says.

  “Ah, but we don’t mind read. We simply help people to read their own mind.”

  “Well, I’m quite content with my mind, Doctor, so I’d appreciate it if you’d not stare—”

  “But you do know a thing or two about mind reading, don’t you? I mean, isn’t that the fundamental basis of the Itonalya’s language of Elliqui.”

  Astrid waits.

  “I would love to learn. It is a kind of telepathy, isn’t it?”

  Astrid watches him. Her first instinct is to deflect the question and change the subject—or remain silent and not answer at all. Instead, she starts speaking. She isn’t sure why. “Elliqui is said to be the true communication between the divinities and the Earth, its inhabitants, its peoples. Telepathy is a word used to make some kind of sense of Elliqui, but it falls short of what Elliqui could communicate, according to my research. Telepathy from the Greek means distant passion or distant experience, perception. Of course, if the phenomenon was real, the Greek gives a good definition, that is, the key element to the word, tele or distant. According to Itonalya lore, Elliqui, as a form of communication, was ever-present—the Hindu’s Third Eye might be a better descriptor.”

  “And now Elliqui is gone?”

  “As the inhabitants of earth grew arrogant and rebellious, tension grew between gods and men, gods and immortals, and true Elliqui began to fade.”

  “Rebellious?” Rearden asks. “Yes. Yes, rebellious.”

  “It depends upon the myth, but the confusion of tongues was a trick to keep the inhabitants of Earth under the yoke of the celestial hand. You know the Genesis Tower of Babel story, right? Man builds a tower to challenge the greatness of God—God confuses the shit out of man by confounding his language so communication falls apart. If we can’t communicate, we can’t work together, right?” Astrid holds up her cell phone. “It even works for the human-gods controlling this damned thing. Boasted as the information age, the language these days is called information—but no one speaks it—or, at least, no one knows how to get at truth.” She grins at the hand held device and adds, “Though it is crazy that I’ve got service right now…”

  Rearden nods along. She tries to decide if he’s humoring her or if he’s genuinely interested.

  “For the Itonalya myth, their confusion-of-the-tongues story influenced the Babel myth. Their myth was called, Encris—their particular fall from grace story. When the leaders of Wyn Avuqua no longer wanted to do the will of the One God, Thi, they rebelled. It is said that Thi then removed their language. It took away Elliqui.”

  “The language is that old? How far back was Babel?”

  Astrid shakes her head. “Well, we first have to believe that Babel was a real event. That’s an entirely dif
ferent conversation, but for now, let’s say it did. When is a moving target. Some place the Tower somewhere around 2400 BCE. Some centuries earlier—others, later. Most, however, are using Bible math.”

  “Bible math?”

  “Yes, the mathematic system created by the storytellers. Let’s just say that in my research, their arithmetic is a little too faith based. They can stretch two and two and believe it will equal five. Using their Bible calculator, the Earth is only some six to ten thousand years old.” She shakes her head. “Never mind that. I favor, along with other scholars, the Sumerian tower called Etemenanki and its back story, for there’s some relatively credible scientific evidence placing the tower somewhere around, let’s see, somewhere between the fourteenth and ninth century BCE. Some claim that the Sumerian Tower influenced the Babel myth—but Itonalya scholars have proof that Wyn Avuqua was the influence for both tales. There was no actual tower—but rather, the metaphorical tower that connected the Immortals to the Universe and Thi: the tower of Elliqui, if you will. Our research points to written Elliqui showing up around the tenth century BCE. That leads us to believe that the tower or Original Mode of Elliqui was toppled or destroyed around that time. And the mode did not disappear overnight. It fell slowly. Some Elliqui manuscripts say that it decayed like old age until it was finally silent. Thus came written Elliqui. Then the final destruction of Wyn Avuqua by the Godrethion happened sometime around the tenth century AD.”

  Molmer’s voice crackles into her headphones. “Elliqui in its purest form was a kind of telepathic mode of speaking, yes. After it was stolen away, the immortals attempted to remake the language in written and spoken forms.”

  Astrid nods, “That’s correct. It took centuries for the written and spoken forms to develop. And many of its early authors were slaughtered for creating and harboring it. But my team has managed to scrape together a few pieces and parts over the course of our project. Little jewels that ring inside the ear. Elliqui’s combination of phonetics and intention provide a kind of higher connection when using the written or spoken Elliqui. That’s the easiest explanation I can give over a headset in the din of a helicopter.”

  Molmer says, “It’s getting foggy out there.” The aircraft is now running the length of Priest Lake. Far ahead, she knows, is the mouth of the thoroughfare to the upper lake but it is not visible through the mist. “We’re almost there.”

  Rearden is still staring at her. It is unnerving, but she refuses to look away. “Are you attempting to read my thoughts again, Doctor? If so, I would appreciate it if you’d divert your eyes.” She is suddenly thankful for the backdrop of static in the headphones because she’s sure that her last words would have sounded fearful otherwise. As Rearden processes her request she watches his gaze glide from her lips to the curve of her face to her forehead—then landing heavily on her eyes. He then turns away and searches the landscape below. She feels cold. Her jaw is clenched.

  Rearden points down and to the left as the chopper starts up the winding thoroughfare. “Loche Newirth’s cabin is just there.” Both Molmer and Astrid see the tiny log cabin, but only for a moment as the chopper clatters by. “A dangerous man, Dr. Newirth,” he adds. “Very dangerous.”

  Astrid shudders as the cell phone vibrates in her hand.

  Marcel: Do keep me posted, okay? I’ve heard a lot of bad things about Rearden. Something has me feeling uneasy.

  Astrid: Me, too.

  Marcel: And… you okay? I know that every time you visit the lake you are reminded…

  Astrid: Fine. Long time ago.

  Montanha Do Pico

  November 11, this year

  Over the Azores, Portugal

  3:35pm AZOT

  Three choppers lift into the sky and vault southwest over the ocean. In the middle one Edwin Newirth holds his father’s hand and watches the land slip away until all beneath is water. The helicopter headset is overlarge on him. Loche adjusts the microphone to the boy’s lips and straightens the headband.

  “Can you hear me?” he asks.

  “Yes,” Edwin answers. His little voice is a stab of midrange tone, punctuated by a quick crackle of white noise.

  “Why won’t mom fly with us?” he asks.

  Loche squeezes the boy’s hand gently, “I thought it would be fun for just you and me to fly together. You’ve never been in a helicopter before.”

  “No. It makes my tummy feel funny.”

  “Mine, too.”

  “There’s mom!” Edwin says and waves.

  Loche sees her face in the window of the chopper flying beside them—fingers spread wide against the glass. Even Helen had chosen to fly separated from Edwin, however reluctant. None of the others wanted to be near the child. At least, no immortal. The Rathinalya was too much.

  “Are we going to Egypt now?”

  “Yes,” Loche says. “I expect we’ll be landing at an airstrip to board a plane, soon.”

  “How far is Egypt?”

  “I don’t know exactly—but it is almost half way around the world from where we are.”

  “Is it as far as Spokane?” The boy is still watching his mother.

  Loche smiles. “You mean from our house in Sagle, Idaho to Spokane?”

  “Yes.”

  “A little longer than that drive, I expect.”

  They pass over another island and launch again out over the ocean.

  “Why are we going to Egypt, Dad?”

  Loche feels for his shoulder bag at his feet. He pulls the strap up and lays it over his knees. His umbrella is beside him on the seat.

  “We’re going to meet someone.”

  “Who?”

  Loche squints. My dead brother, he thinks. “My brother,” he says.

  Then Loche hears his son say, The Painter.

  He flinches at the sound of Edwin’s voice—and then at the words he had said. The headset delivers a strangely clear and compressed sound into the ear, but these words of Edwin probed deeper, as if they appeared in Loche’s mind. He scowls, trying to determine if it was indeed an aural sensation. Then, how could Edwin have used the word, Painter? Especially in the context of Loche’s brother, Basil?

  When he looks at Edwin, the little boy is staring up at him. A field of stars sparkles across the boy’s face—

  The headphones crackle, and Edwin says, “Who’s your brother?”

  Loche searches the boy’s expression. The boy god is hiding there somewhere.

  “Dad?”

  “You haven’t met him,” Loche answers.

  Loche recalls the Journal’s description of his first meeting with Basil. He had written of him standing on the beach outside of the cabin at Priest Lake, Idaho. Loche went down to confront him—to ask him why he was loitering there. Shortly after, Helen and Edwin came down the path, and Loche introduced his family to Basil. In the journal, Edwin did meet Basil.

  Loche says, “Maybe you have met him. Do you remember the man with the long hair and the brown jacket on the beach—at the cabin—a few weeks ago?”

  “Yes.” Edwin answers. “Yes, I remember.”

  It continues to amaze and frighten Loche—this twisted creation at the tip of his pen. He shakes his head. Dread and joy quarrel in his abdomen. As each day passes he has trouble dividing his written account and experiential memory. If he doesn’t focus on the words, he can easily believe he met Basil there on the beach, the autumn chill, the reds and golds wreathing the still lake—Basil standing there, his hands in his pockets. Loche suppresses a smile when he thinks of Basil’s first words. “The big, deep heavy,” he had said. Loche can’t help but to allow himself to grin, remembering Basil’s next utterance, “Sorry if I’ve freaked you out—not my intention.”

  I’ve freaked myself out, Loche thinks.

  Loche feels for the leather strap of his bag hanging over his knees. Within the bag is his small daily diary, a water bottle, protein bars, and most importantly, the Red Notebook—still unopened—still unread.

  The next island is
nearing—a floating garden plot on the wide blue. Rising from the center is a single mountain. It overshadows the small city at its foot. The high summit appears flat, save for a lonely pinnacle of rock. As the helicopters close distance, the strange peak begins to take the shape of a conical anomaly.

  George’s voice from the next chopper crackles in the speakers, “Mount Pico, Loche. You see?”

  The rooftops and farmlands are left behind. Ahead, the land is pitching skyward. The forward windshield fills with the rocky colossus, and the three choppers take altitude, hurtling upward to the snow dusted apex.

  The smaller pinnacle, massive in its own right, still puzzles Loche. “Where are we going, George?”

  There is no response.

  As the chopper rises to the top and hovers, Loche can see four large tents crowding the base of the pyramid shaped structure.

  “What is that?” Loche asks. He marvels at the strange peak that dominates the northern section of the height.

  George’s laughter vibrates his eardrums. “That is our ride, Poet,” he says.

  Validation

  November 11, this year

  Upper Priest Lake, Idaho

  11:50am PST

  “Sweet Christ,” says professor Astrid Finnley.

  As the helicopter approaches the top end of Upper Priest Lake, the world around Astrid blurs save the one sight taking shape below. There, a little beyond the northern shoreline begins a formation of stone boundaries—walls—city walls—opening into a wide, almond shape—perhaps arcing four miles from point to point.

  “Oh my God.”

  There, in excavated partitions of strata is what looks like an ancient city long buried and drowned under the upper marshlands of the lake. Its outer perimeter curves like the lids of a great eye, and in the center rises a crumbled and age worn acropolis.