To my husband, Loche—for your words.
I love you,
Helen
“Jesus Christ,” Astrid whispers.
“What? What is it?” Marcel asks.
Astrid flips the page. The handwriting is different. It reads:
October 26th, Priest Lake.
What is real and what is make-believe? Have I become what I have longed to cure? Have I finally gone crazy?
“What is it, Professor?”
She raises her face to them. “We have the Poet’s journal.”
The Trust of Helen Newirth
1010 A.D.
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua
Helen Newirth enfolds Edwin in her arms. Towering over her with the Rathinalya tugging at his jaw, her jailor, the formidable Talan Adamsman, watches the reunion closely. Wide-eyed, with her hands clustered into fists at her sides and smiling at the mother and son reunion is the newest to the Orathom Wis ranks, Leonaie Eschelle.
Edwin turns to Loche while being smothered in his mother’s kisses and tears. His little grinning face fades into a translucent mask then back to smiles—the sight sends a nail dragging down Loche’s spine. The boy god from Basil’s painting appears from behind Edwin’s skin. Shadows pool in Its eye sockets and two tiny pin-pricks of light, both horrifyingly reminiscent of the yawning Center, glimmer like distant stars. The two faces crossfade back and forth at a pace that matches Loche’s breathing.
The psychologist shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut to make it stop.
Julia says, “Loche?”
An instinct from some impossible to understand neurological firing struggles for mastery in Loche’s mind. Its directive is to scream to the entwined entities of God and Son, Hide yourself! Not here! They will… they will kill you…this is no place for a god! But all that comes from Loche’s mouth is the vapor of his breath in the cool, autumn dusk.
“Loche?” Julia asks again. He feels William’s hand on his shoulder.
It is the massive Talan Adamsman that breaks the phantasmic stranglehold on Loche when he says, “George believes that Helen still has a role to play—so he allowed us passage to find you.”
Corey says, “But I see, Talan, that you are still her chaperone.”
“I am,” Talan says. He bows as William dismounts and stands beside Corey. “William Greenhame. William. When word came of your fall, I laughed. William Greenhame, I told them, even limbed and thrown to the sea with the fishes, William will live. Gal Ashto! Good to see you, my friend.”
William bows in return, “Lain, Talan.”
Talan motions to Leonaie Echelle. She is pretty. Her hair even more brown than the last time Loche saw her in the Azores —age shuffling off its coils from her face and her frame. But behind her youthing, there is nothing that can hide the grief she carries—the death of her beloved, Samuel Lifeson. Each time Loche has seen Leonaie he has noticed tears weighing below her eyes. This meeting is no different.
Talan says, “Miss Leonaie Echelle has come at her own request. George approved of her coming. Her errand is unknown to me.”
Leonaie’s smile, though sad, is still piercing and bright. “I am here to speak with Dr. Newirth. I will need to speak to him in private as soon as we are able.”
Helen lets out a breathy snicker, “Yes. Place me on the private convo waiting list, too, won’t you?”
The massive Italian man scowls at Helen—his thick eyebrows angle angrily. “As for Helen—George does not trust her… nor do I. Nor do any of you, I expect. But I believe her youthful urges are finally finding the right road.” He faces Loche, “After all, you are alive, Dr. Newirth. If Helen had not escaped my supervision at the Azores Omvide, the bullet meant for you may have met its target. I am thankful for my failure and letting her slip from my grasp. One can never order fate completely.”
Helen’s detached and myopic tone sounds out, “Husband, I saved your life. And please, don’t be so shocked to see me. After all, because of this little fellow, we’ll always be a family.” Her voice has its familiar, unsettling quality.
Edwin’s cheeks glow crimson.
This is no place for a god. Loche thinks again, but a strange relief unwinds the muscles along his shoulders. Perhaps the grafted boy and God heard his frightened plea. George Everman’s voice drifts through—as does the sound of a sizzling omelet, “Trouble for Edwin is that we, Orathom Wis, eat the gods.” The Itonalya already know, of course. The Rathinalya is enough to place the boy on the plate. But if the god shows itself, its swirling, glittery eyes, Loche believes a ravenous, immortal mob might devour them all. At least Helen will be there to protect Edwin if things go terribly wrong.
And what exactly has gone right? he thinks.
“Always a family,” Helen continues, “And you’re stuck with me.”
Corey speaks, “We, Helen, may be stuck with you—but it does not mean that you have earned our trust.”
“You speak of trust, Corey Thomas?” Helen sighs, sarcastic. Her words border on laughter. “You? Which trust, I wonder? Albion’s? George’s? Really, Corey, I’ve learned much from you over the years—but you’re not the only one that can pull off double agent. But never mind—time will tell.”
She kisses Edwin on the forehead and stands. Her head swivels and her eyes take in the entry court of the West Gate of the City. “And, Corey, here we are in Wyn Avuqua, as told in the Toele. Can you believe it? You do remember our first bottle of wine together, don’t you? Beside the canal in Venice? What was I, 19? We spoke of this place—the true home of our kind. Do you remember?”
Corey listens but remains stoic and impassive.
“And we talked about what we were all waiting on… how did we say it? Waiting on this omen thing from this place?” Her fingers comb through Edwin’s hair. “And didn’t you instruct me, all those years ago, to consider the dictum: the less you care, the longer you last? Well, I do care, Corey Thomas.” She gently places her hands on either side of Edwin’s face. She then says to Loche, “And I’ve lasted long enough to know whose side I’m on.”
“And whose side is that, Helen?” Corey asks.
She answers the question with her grey eyes studying Loche’s face. “Loche knows…”
“And what of trust?” comes the deep baritone voice of Vincale. “I can see now the only trust one should keep is that anything is possible. I can trust that divisions between the Itonalya will indeed widen, for I see between you, great chasms. Even now in the City, cracks are forming between us. I shudder to think of what is to come for our people. Never would I have thought that one Itonalya could not trust another.”
William says, “You can trust there is nothing sacred—even we. Time will crumble the very mountains of this world.”
Vincale shadows. “Come,” he says. “I am to bring Loche and his son to Tiris Avu. The Queen waits. She above all will want to learn how the moon’s children will one day break faith.”
The Big Deep Heavy
November 12, this year
Venice, Italy
10:10 pm CEST
Astrid hands the Journal she has just finished reading to Fausto and asks in English, “Can you read this?”
“Si.”
“If you have trouble, Marcel will help you. Capiche?”
“Si,” Fausto says, his hands trembling as he takes the Journal. He stares at her. “What,” he asks haltingly in English, “what does it say?”
Astrid shakes her head. “For the moment, I don’t know how to answer you.” She reaches to the book and touches the back cover. “There is an envelope—a letter—at the end of the book. The letter is written by Albion Ravistelle. He tells of the events that follow where Loche leaves off, and the way his story —” her words bang into a wall, “the way his story—” she scowls. “Changes—changes—” She gives up. She whispers, “Changes everything.” After a moment she smiles lamely, “I don’t know if it will help you in your research, or if it will cause more confusion. But you should read it. You des
erve to read it.”
The Mask Maker wonders at her. Glassy eyes blink. He backs away with the leather book and closes himself inside his bedroom. Astrid turns toward the small kitchen, passes Marcel, asleep on the couch, and sits at the table beside the window where she has been all day and into the evening, reading. She folds her hands, places her elbows on the table and rests her head upon her knuckles.
“Fuck,” she whispers.
Strewn all over the table are notes. Most of the scribbled lines ending with question marks. Many have deep cut underlines and ballpoint circles.
Is Loche, God?
Does the Devil really exist?
If Heaven is to fall, what does that mean? Is it happening now?
A wine bottle without a label atop the small refrigerator catches her attention. She does not hesitate. She rises, grabs it and finds an opener in the first drawer she tries. She pulls the cork. The collar of the bottle plinks the rim of a glass as she pours. In the dim light the wine appears black. Bringing it to her lips she gulps until it is gone. She refills and takes another long pull. The wine is sweet—fragrant, like bruised flowers. Thick, like blood.
“Fuck.”
Did Loche change the past?
Did Loche kill the Painter, Basil?
Did Basil ever exist, save in narrative, save in memory?
Did he create Helen? Albion?
“Fuck.”
She continues to scan the notes. Some lines are hers, others are copied from Albion’s letter.
Did Loche create the Itonalya?
Can he do it again?
Wyn Avuqua?
Why could we not find the city, and then suddenly, it’s there?!!!
Marcus Rearden? Bethany Winship?
How can a story meant to capture a murderer, change existence?
—same way a story about crucifying a the Son of God can change existence?
A chill claws through her. Aloud she says, “Dr. Marcus Rearden… What are you trying to do now?”
Astrid puzzles still looking at the sheet of notes.
What of Basil’s paintings in Albion’s possession?
Albion plans to show them!
Tears rise. She poses a question to the empty kitchen, the gods that may or may not be listening, the scribbled journal in the next room, her students on the other side of the planet, her ex-husband’s note waving in the furnace heat at home, and the man that has somehow captured her heart, Graham Cremo:
“What about me? Did Loche Newirth create me?”
Like the Book
1010 A.D.
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua
Edwin waves at the gatekeeper in his stone house beside the gigantic cog and wheel machines. The keeper waves back. Slacked heavy chains bow to the high parapets, to the massive doors and back down into funneled wheels beside the entry. Ahead, a mossy green cobblestone road starts a gentle climb into a dozen or so cedar trees. It feels to Loche that he is not entering a city, but rather another forest, a forest glittering with tiny torches.
“Tomorrow,” Vincale says, “if the Lady allows, you shall wander the City under the light of day. But even as Dellithion visits Endale elsewhere, you are blessed to enter Wyn Avuqua at night. For in darkness her embrace can be evermore alluring…”
A gentle rain begins as the last of the grey light fails. A rushing stream somewhere distant threads through the pines. They pass high gabled buildings and networks of pathways that lead into clusters of distant houses. They pass other travelers on horseback, people on foot and an occasional wagon with glowing yellow lanterns. They are greeted with smiles, and galinna and adnyet. But the greetings are quickly stifled by the realization that a god travels within the party. Their smiles fade to dark wonderment.
Vincale’s warm voice from ahead keeps the train heartened. “All is well,” he says. “Follow and do not be troubled.”
Every so often they cross below pinnacled stone arches. Icons are embossed at each apex. Loche squints, trying to make out the image.
“The talons of a heron, Loche Newirth,” Vincale assists. “We are now passing through Shartiris.”
Corey to his old friend, “Shartiris. William Hubert Greenhame… we are riding through Shartiris.” Then whispering to himself in disbelief, “We are riding through Shartiris.”
“A wonder!” William replies. To Leonaie he says, “Those of the House of Talons are the warriors of the City, though, I dare say, all are trained in the art.”
“That is indeed so,” Vincale says.
William, his voice lighthearted and at ease, “See there… Leonaie, these must be the spires and chimneys of the lower Armory”
“Right again, William Greenhame,” Vincale replies.
Leonaie’s looks to the passing sights and to where William points, but Loche notices her focus often returning to him. She wears an expression he cannot yet read. Back at the gate Leonaie had leaned into his ear and whispered, “We must speak privately—as soon as it can be managed.”
High above the tree-line jut three brick chimneys. Orange sparks and feathery plumes of smoke rise from their tops like freshly extinguished candles. The structure below appears to be conical. Through the thick dark an overlarge open door hurls an incandescent heat into the night. On the air is the tink, tink, tink of many hammers, and the breathing of bellows as if within the forge a dragon sleeps.
Blinking, Loche sees the black and white grid of text behind his lids. William is suddenly at his side. He asks quietly, “Is it anything like you imagined? Is this what you saw when you wrote of it?”
Loche tries to recall. He thinks of the key hanging around Julia’s neck. The key that will open the door to his circular office tower—the key to the cabinets containing his journals, notes and poetry. There, outside his round office window, he would watch the trees fill with purple dusk, and the forest glade just down the hill from his driveway would suddenly reveal a stone cabin, or a circular citadel with five spear-like towers, or a tavern smelling of yeast, crisp woodsmoke and spilled ale—bright candles in the windows, and yes, a conical armory would sometimes appear with three high chimneys and he could almost hear the ring of hammers pinging on anvils. Yet, those images and sounds and flavors were fleeting. Just as they would form in the architecture of his imagination—just as he would enter, explore and struggle to explain his discoveries onto paper, his visions could very easily vanish—crumble—die. His imagined ocular citadel, Tiris Avu, its monumental foundation rivaling that of the Pantheon, or the weighty core of the Pyramids of Giza, or the sure, modern footing of the Empire State Building, was no match for the destructive force of reality: a bothersome phone call, Helen’s voice from the kitchen below beckoning for some mindless chore, his worry over a hurting client, the occasional tussle with existential dread. And so, too, the delight of his six-year-old son knocking on the office door with two wooden swords and a challenge—or the little boy’s thudding footfalls across the floor into Loche’s lap with a thousand questions about stars, bees, donuts, video games and how to build jet boots could, and often did, nudge aside the best laid megalithic plans. During those moments he felt like the metal between the hammer and the anvil. He was at the pressure point between fiction and reality. A casualty from the collision of colossal forces. Loche can hear Edwin’s voice, When is your book done, Dad? Are we still writing the good stories?
Loche gazes up to another series of arches and notes two more icons carved into the stone signage: a heart and a set of wings. The company enters into a lantern-lit maze of bridges and canals. Just beyond, Wyn Avuqua’s center fortress, its circular ward and five towers, Tiris Avu, rises out of the landscape. It is familiar and terrifying all at once, like a dream coming true. Had he seen it from here before? Did he know this was going to happen?
Had he conceived of the gatekeeper? The warrior class of Shartiris? The way the City’s lamplight flickers across the valley like moonlit water? The eye-shaped kingdom of immortals with its towers, high battlements, armories, libraries,
temples, music houses, sculptures and simple homes—fires in their hearths, bread on their boards?
Yes. Yes it was like what he had seen in his mind’s eye. It was what he had written. It was the dreamscape of his poetry.
“Son,” William asks again, “is it as you wrote it?”
“No,” Loche answers. A sharp chill searches beneath his jacket. “It is now real and I can do nothing to control it.”
“I do not agree with you, Son,” William says. There is a quiet terror in his words. “But I fear that when you learn to control it, and control it you will, Death will be your teacher.”
Newirtheism
November 13, this year
Venice, Italy
10:21 am CEST
“So what we have here is what I’m going to coin as Newirtheism.” Astrid’s hangover is not as intense as she was expecting. She can still taste the wine in her mouth. Her head throbs a little. She feels about how she might feel during the start of any Monday morning lecture. But better. Probably because the bottle of wine was exquisite—no sulfites—no preservatives—and more than likely bottled by a family owned winery just walking distance away. She scans the kitchen to see if there is another bottle hiding somewhere.
“Newirtheism?” Marcel repeats.
“Yes,” Astrid says, rising, opening the small white cube of a refrigerator. Voila—wine. She seizes the bottle, sets it on the counter and jabs the corkscrew into the throat. “My only chance of not losing my mind is using what I know in order to process all that we are involved in. The Journal and Albion’s notes are beyond anything I or anyone involved can fully understand—including Dr. Newirth himself. But laying what I know of myth and history over what we have just learned, I think we can at least find a place to stand within it.”
“Gods exist… afterlife exists…” Marcel says seemingly to himself.
The Shape of Rain Page 29