Loche jumps down a block to Leonaie and touches her shoulder. She is vibrating. Heat radiates through her coat.
“I am here, Leonaie,” he says.
Suddenly, as if by a miracle he has returned to himself. He is back.
The woman lifts the mangled hand and smashes it into Emil’s head. Once. Twice. Emil’s eyes roll back.
“Wait,” Loche says.
Leonaie pauses. Her breathing steams.
“Emil?” Loche says. “Dr. Marcus Rearden sent you to kill my son?”
The man is crying. Even in the dark Loche can see the purple balloons of bruises swelling around his eyes and nose.
“A job,” he manages to slur. “Just a job.”
“Rearden? Rearden sent you—and then you were to take me to Venice?”
“Yes,” Emil replies. His face is pale. Blood splashes now from the stump of his arm and squirts into the snow. He cradles it, presses it—“Help me…” he pleads.
“Why kill my son?”
Emil cries, “Help me.”
“Why?” Loche yells.
“He wants to hurt you—and erase everything you’ve created. Everything you are. He wants to make the myth real…”
Loche stands. He feels his eyes narrow. A subtle nod to Leonaie tells her he is finished speaking. At the gesture, Leonaie again pounds the severed hand against the side of Emil’s face over and over again. The bones of the fingers snap. She continues to strike. The tissue of the hand liquifies. She continues to strike. Two bones in her own hand break. She continues to strike.
When she stops, the hand of Emil is unrecognizable. She lets the pulverized flesh slip from her grip onto the slushy stone —a nauseating, squishy sound as it smacks down.
Emil is dead. His eyes are completely swollen shut, and masked in blood and welts.
“Your line is ended, Wishfeill,” Leonaie says. She looks up to Loche. Her expression is one Loche has never seen before. Something between bliss and terror—between contentment and grieving.
Loche kneels down and lifts her chin. “Leonaie, I must go. I must find Rearden. I know now what I must do.” Through her tears, Leonaie smiles. She nods. “Please tell the others. Please tell Julia that I must do this alone.”
With a quick glance to her now mending shoulder, Leonaie says, “They will be just fine, Loche. We will all be fine. Go. For your son, go.”
Loche kisses her on the forehead, stands and rushes up the last few blocks to the apex of the pyramid.
At the top, he gazes at the fall of Wyn Avuqua. A tower in the citadel topples and crashes into flame. A host of Godrethion pour into the west gate like a flood of black blood. The almond shape of the city breaks. The shape of a tear beads below the eye. Loche turns, steps, speaks the word, Lonwayro, and vanishes.
Dedication
November 15, this year
Venice, Italy
11:15 pm CEST
Graham Cremo’s arm rises up and his finger-tips graze Astrid’s cheek. His touch sends a jolt of electricity down to her abdomen. He then weaves his hand into her hair and gently pulls her down. But instead of a kiss, Graham connects her forehead to his and holds her there. His eyes stare into hers.
“Lain,” he whispers.
“Lain,” she replies.
“I heard the whole thing.”
Astrid smiles. Tears wet her cheeks.
“Everything?” “Everything.” His voice is easy and light. “I would have never thought you’d feel like I do.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
“You do what?”
“Like you do.”
They both laugh.
“So I’m not completely crazy?” Astrid asks.
“I didn’t say that. But it sounds as if crazy is happening all around us.”
Then, from a shadowed corner of the room, Marcus Rearden’s voice says, “Crazy is happening all around us indeed.”
Astrid’s body jerks up straight and she spins toward the sound. Marcus is sitting with his legs crossed in a simple folding chair just far enough out of the light to be hidden. His presence is menacing.
Astrid stammers in both horror and anger, “You b-b-bastard. Get the hell out! G-g-get out!” Graham’s hand clamps down on hers as if to calm her—to steady her.
Marcus leans forward into the neon monitor light. Astrid can only make out the dark sockets of his eyes and the gleam of his wet teeth. He appears almost blurry, ghoulish. “I’m finding it difficult to separate you two. Must I shoot you both to accomplish this?” He raises into the light a hardcover book. It is Graham Cremo’s Mapping the Pyramids. “But I’d like for Mr. Cremo to sign his book first. A lovely read. My favorite chapter is ‘The Menkaure Hypothesis.’” From his lap he produces another book. Astrid recognizes it immediately. “And, Professor, maybe you can autograph your book, too. Perhaps we can talk about the chapter, The Fall of Wyn Avuqua.’”
“What in the hell do you want with us, Rearden?” Astrid growls.
“I think I just told you,” he answers. “Your autograph and some discussion of your chosen topics.” He waits. His teeth shine again in the greenish glow. “Graham, your hypothesis that Menkaure pyramid could punch a needle through time is fascinating beyond measure. Deific. Poetic.” He tilts the black shadows of his eyes to the cover of Graham’s book, “And, now it is no longer hypothesis.” He tosses it to the floor and then lifts Astrid’s title. “I knew, of course, when I saw the Red Notebook appear with Yafarra. I couldn’t have hoped for better evidence. But now, it appears the past is changing.” His index finger taps the cover. “Now a young boy is said to have been sacrificed before the gates of the ancient city.” He sits back into his chair and blurs into a black silhouette. “Your book has changed. Your words have shifted. How does it feel to have the hand of Fate as an editor?”
She shivers as if the legs of spiders tap the skin of her back, along her spine, down the length of her arms.
“What dazzles me to the point of giggling is trying to work out just how your written efforts inspired my aim—inspired the story I wanted to insure would be written.”
Astrid hears her voice say, “Julia’s message.”
“Very good. Mr Cremo, your books and early essays on the possibilities of time travel—The Menkaure Hypothesis in particular was an excellent read. And Professor Finnley, your work on the ancient Itonalya inspired a messianic sacrifice. The death of God, if you will. To think it was me that sent Loche and his son back to make it happen.” There is a slight sparkle of his teeth in the dark. “It seems only right and proper that a psychologist should be the one to spell the end of God, don’t you think? Come now, I can see you trying to figure out how I connected the dots. Let’s just say that along with a goodly amount of time with Albion Ravistelle, access to nearly his entire library, and a look into a couple of Basil’s paintings—experiences I won’t soon forget—I learned a little more than I already know about Loche Newirth—and his son Edwin. And, because of my efforts, the history books are changing.”
For Astrid, it clicks. It was right before her eyes. It was written in the stars for her to read.
Rearden rises to his feet. His pale, skull-like features peel away like a mask removed when he enters the neon from the monitor screen. “But never mind all of that.” He joins her at Graham’s bedside. “Albion has shared with me that you have read Dr. Newirth’s Journal. Is that true?” Astrid’s breathing arrests. “Yes, I see,” Rearden says. “Ah, all of these books. All of these stories. What a wonder these stories are.”
Astrid gasps, “What do you want?”
Rearden’s right hand slides slowly through the air and hovers over Graham’s shoulder. He lowers it and lets it rest upon the wound.
“There is another story that needs to be read. And it is time for it to be read,” he says. “And you—you are the one to read it. You are the only one, knowing all that you know of these matters.”
The Red Notebook flashes into her mind. She can see Yafarra
pulling it from the tenesh. She flinches, reliving Rearden firing a bullet into Graham—Rearden stuffing the document into his coat. “W—what are you saying?” she asks.
“Astrid, tomorrow I will bring the Red Notebook to you, and you will read it. You will then tell me what it says.”
She shakes her head. “No. You can’t want that. If it is read it will shift—it will change—Albion fears that it will—he will never allow you to—”
His quiet laugh interrupts her, “Albion. Bless his immortal mind. For one so old—he is not so wise. Albion has sent me to find and bring Loche Newirth to this house. Albion believes that I am a mere tool. A tool that will bring the Poet to Albion’s feet. Alas, Albion. While I have his allegiance, I also have access to his knowledge, his house and the devastating paintings of Basil Fenn. Mr. Ravistelle has given me every resource to accomplish the task. But I have given little in return.” Rearden sighs. “You see, Professor, I, too, believe that when the Red Notebook is perused, Loche’s words will change the world as we know it. But not just anyone can read his words and produce such uncanny permutation. No. Not just anyone.”
Astrid stares at the psychologist. Branches of blue veins grapple upward along his temples. Where there should be wrinkles in his seventy something skin, there is a stretched, almost translucent film. She then looks at Graham. His gaze is fixed upon her. Concern clouds his eyes. She wishes he knew what she knew. Then, Rearden’s riddle makes perfect sense. She remembers the last words of Loche’s journal—and how the author taunted Rearden. The chilling lines: “Marcus, searching for the hands that move us will bring your kingdom to its knees. Like me, you crave to defeat the disease, and like me you will find written across your heart—a forgery. Something that will lose you the game. You will become what you’ve struggled to cure.” Astrid sees that Loche was right. Craze lurks around Rearden’s eyes. He has gone insane. He has gone mad.
Then the memory of her conversation with Marcel drifts through: “What about Rearden, Professor? What do you think his role in all of this is?” She had replied:“It is because of him, Marcel, this entire story began. He is a murderer. And he’s after something.”
Astrid struggles to keep her voice even. “The Journal was written for you. Everything changed because you read it.”
Marcus smiles. “Very good, Professor. It was dedicated to me. And if I read the Red Notebook, we can expect even more changes. You see, not just anyone—only I. Only me. Loche is counting on me reading it. And it will be my undoing if I do.”
“And you want me to read it for you—to tell you what’s written there?”
“Again, my dear. Very good.”
She looks down again to Graham for courage. “Find someone else. Have Albion do it.”
“My dear, I am not Albion’s friend. I am not Albion’s helper—and he is not mine. I no more support his cause than I support the efforts of the Orathom Wis. I have my own interests.”
“Revenge, Rearden? You can’t be serious…”
A sparkle of teeth, “There is a bit of retribution, certainly. But it is not my sole aim. No, I feel that Loche’s education is not yet done. I have taught him nearly everything he knows. But there is one last lesson to complete before I must face my next decision concerning Loche Newirth.”
“I won’t do it, you crazy fuck—”
The patient monitor sounds an alarm—and Graham winces and cries out in pain. Rearden’s fingers jab down into the wound. He presses and holds there for a few seconds. “I think,” he says as he lifts two bloody fingers, “you’ll do as I ask. Tomorrow. At the Masque. I will find you.”
The Planter #2
November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
5:10 am CEST
Loche Newirth sits down beside a sad looking bush and dangles his legs over the edge of a circular brick basin. He smells the fume of petrol mixed with cold ocean. A consistent hum of distant motors reverberates within the square courtyard he has found himself within. Above is yet another grey sky. The shape of the light has the look of very early morning, but he cannot be sure.
He looks down to his black, Wyn Avuquain cloak. His boots are caked with mud and snow. Around him, white marble pillars and Roman arches line the perimeter of the enclosure—as do electric light fixtures. There is some comfort in knowing that he has arrived in a time that has light fixtures. But what time? he wonders.
Thirst, hunger and fatigue wrestle for his attention. He closes his eyes and lowers his face.
“Maria Vergine,” a voice says to his right, followed by, “Madonna! Oh, Santo Cielo. Ancora?” In the tone, Loche catches surprise, shock and wonder—but he also detects a kind of calm acceptance.
Twisting, Loche sees an old man in a dark green work suit. The patch on his pocket says, Fausto. Both of his hands lightly grip a broom handle. The brush of the broom has swept a small pile of debris and dust.
Before Loche can get a word out, the custodian says, “You…you…” He shakes his head. “You Loche Newirth. C’è una ragione per cui sono venuto a lavorare stamattina. Sei a Venezia!” He pauses. Wrinkles scrunch across his forehead as he searches for words. “You in Venice,” he says. “Vieni con me—come with me, Loche Newirth. Come with me.”
The Walls We Place Behind Us
November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
5:15 am CEST
Rearden had walked behind her all the way back to her room within Albion’s house. He said nothing. As Astrid fumbled with the key to her door, he said, “Tomorrow. Tomorrow at the Masque. Until then, I’ll keep an eye on Graham.” She did not turn. She did not speak. She entered and shut the door, leaving him in the hallway. Half a minute later she could hear his footsteps receding toward the stairs.
That was hours ago. She is fairly sure it was hours ago.
The black velvet bag containing Basil’s painting was still on the table. The ancient tome, the Toele, sat beside it. She found her own book in her shoulder bag—the one Rearden wanted her to sign. She flipped it open to the chapter, “The Fall of Wyn Avuqua.” She lowered herself to the sofa as she read. She did not recognize many of the sentences. She did not remember writing them. Worry punched into her stomach. Rearden was telling the truth. An entirely new element was included in the story of the city’s fall: the sacrifice of a young boy—the One God, Thi. She dropped the book.
That was hours ago. She is fairly sure it was hours ago.
Her hands found the Toele. It did not immediately occur to her that the pages were centuries old. The elaborate and delicate illumination did not capture her attention. When the Elliqui runes suddenly shifted and changed upon the page, she rubbed her eyes. She slammed the cover shut and sat back.
That was hours ago. She is fairly sure it was hours ago.
“Hold on to it,” she could hear Howard Fenn say. “It’s like a vivid dream that disappears as soon as you wake! Hold on to it!” And so it was. She had never heard tell, or herself written of the death of Thi—but her own book now shares a version of the myth. Tension pressed against her temples—this seemingly endless headache—she shut her eyes—the image of Queen Yafarra beheading a small boy with an axe. An innocent boy.
That was hours ago. She is fairly sure it was hours ago.
How the black velvet bag came into her hands she cannot recall. Unknotting the clasp and slipping the piece out was easy. She flipped it over and saw the rendering of a young boy standing beside a lake. A tiny fleck of light in the water’s reflection drew her pupils. Her feet sought the floor, but there was no floor now below her.
Silence.
Flash.
Gone.
That was hours ago. She is fairly sure it was hours ago.
The headache is gone. The blurry clock face reads 5:15 am. Her sinuses are plugged. She has been crying.
“Hold on to it!” she hears herself say. It is like a dream—a dream receding like shadows behind walls. Only this time, it is not a dream. It is a memory. And it has nothing to
do with ancient cities, immortals or the vengeful acts of a deranged psychologist.
Vestiges of years ago vault through her mind in reverse: a note fluttering on the refrigerator door from her ex husband. It reads: If I could change what happened, I would. Beginning again is all I can do—make a new story. I wish it was with you. The divorce. The yellow file folder labeled DONE. The screaming. Her husband pleading, “Baby, don’t do this—we still have us! We still have us! Please come home.”
A funeral.
A boating trip to Upper Priest Lake—Professor Astrid Finnley and her little girl; she and her daughter—then an accident —her little girl was on the bow—then she was not—she was on the bow—then she was not.
She is floating. She is floating face down. My baby is floating face down.
Astrid raises her hands and holds her head. The memory returns. Something forgotten returns. It is still there, hidden by a wall she placed behind her. She lies back and lets the cresting wave of sleep pull her under.
The Next Sentence
November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
6:15 am CEST
From the high window above Fausto’s workshop, Loche can see over sienna rooftops and the canal to Albion Ravistelle’s home just a mile west. A cold rain falls.
For the last hour he has been sitting beside the water streaked window. In his hands is the Ithicsazj of Fausto’s making. When he saw the mask hanging on the wall, he pulled it down, and has not yet let the thing out of his grasp. Every few minutes he lowers his gaze to the empty sockets and searches for Edwin there. The red, beaded tear upon the cheek and the pale, bluish finish—a snapshot of the last time he saw his son’s face.
The Shape of Rain Page 39