Mythworld: Invisible Moon

by James A. Owen

  He squinted at her for a moment, then a smile creased his features. “Meredith,” he said, “Yes, yes, sit, sit.” He stood and half pulled out a chair for her, which she took.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Mmm, well,” he began, “I am Chief. This is what I know. Do not deny it.”

  “I don’t. You’re the Chief.”

  “Ahh,” he said sadly. “I am not the Chief. I am lost, like that idiot, Van Hassel. You know—VanHasselYouIdiot.”

  Meredith suppressed a laugh. “Herald.”

  “Yes, the Weird Harold. VanHasselYouIdiot. He knows. He knew. He should be Chief.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He answered by spreading his hands, indicating the mass of books and papers scattered around the table. It was the assortment of research, the books and articles they had gathered to research Herald’s story—Meredith and Herald’s story—and June’s suspicions about Ragnarok. Apparently, Mr. Janes had found a way to busy himself (without skinning anyone) and had done what a newspaperman does—find the story.

  He scanned Meredith’s face as she looked over his pile of readings, and nodded appreciatively. “Yes,” he said, nodding, “you see it, Meredith Strugatski. You see the story. Do not deny it. Do not deny it.”

  “I see it, Mr. Janes. Unfortunately, we stopped looking when things got complicated, and now it seems there may not be anything to be done.”

  “No!” he said excitedly. “There is time! There is time! This is what the Herald found! There is time, do not deny it!”

  “Herald? What is it? What did he find?”

  “These,” he said reaching into a small cardboard box Meredith had not seen before, and reverently handing her several sheets of what appeared to be music. There were no titles on them, no markings or words or anything that would otherwise give a hint as to what the music was. Only notes and notations; and unfortunately, Meredith’s musical aptitude was somewhere south of none—she couldn’t see anything to them.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, handing the small pile back to him. “I don’t see anything.”

  He smiled at that, and a bit of that old editor’s gleam came back into his eyes. He lifted the papers in front of her. “What do you see, Meredith?”

  “Music—but I don’t know how to read it.”

  He nodded as if that was the answer he’d expected, then shuffled the papers and held them in front of her again. “Now what do you see?”

  “I don’t understand …”

  He pushed them closer, prodding. “You see them! Do not deny it.”

  “What do you think I see? It’s still music, the same as before.”

  “Yes!” he exclaimed, triumphant. “This is it! The music!”

  He continued, explaining. “There are writers greater than ourselves, Meredith. They write the words, and draw the pictures,”––this, pointing up at June’s unfinished work on the underside of the dome—“… And some, make the music. We do not have to make it to hear it—but it can always be heard again. The ending is the beginning …” He shuffled the papers, “ … and the beginning is the ending. They are the same. Do not deny it.”

  “I don’t deny it, Mr. Janes. But I don’t understand what it means, either.”

  He moved to one of the massive windows and with no small effort drew back the heavy drapes. “Look,” he said, pointing out at the snow, “it is winter now, when all things are ending. The Herald says that the research said it was also winter at the beginning. Perhaps, then,” he concluded, closing the drapes and returning to the table, “this is not an ending, truly, but only a beginning in disguise.”

  This was not the raving of a traumatized man, Meredith was certain. There was more to what he was saying, more than ramblings. He was referring to Herald’s research—maybe the editor who was buried in the jumpy man in front of her had pulled something out of the pile that the rest of them hadn’t.

  “What did Herald’s research say about the beginning?”

  Abruptly, his manner and countenance changed; the unsteady, flighty movements became sure and precise. He placed the cardboard box on the table and expertly thumbed through the contents looking for the information she’d requested. This was his turf, and some part of him still knew what to do.

  “Ah,” he said, pulling one of the books from the box. “Here it is.”

  He handed her a copy of The Prose Edda, which was fat with post-it notes sticking out of all sides, then sat back to let her read.

  The markers were mostly scribbled black with references and notes in Herald’s scratchy handwriting, but some were in another hand entirely—not to mention the endless scribblings in the book itself, made in the margins, she assumed, by the previous owner.

  Meredith suddenly realized that the other handwriting on the markers was Shingo’s, and that this book and perhaps the contents of the cardboard box must’ve been the discovery Herald mentioned before their excursion into Ontario. She was wondering why a reasonably contemporary paperback edition (in English, no less) of the Prose Edda would have caused them to become so excited, when a receipt from an auction sale dropped out from between the pages. It was dated about eight months earlier, and bore the address of an auction house in Vienna. It also bore an embossing on the title page that she recognized by touch before she confirmed it with her eyes.

  This book had belonged to Michael Langbein.

  Astonished, Meredith looked up at Mr. Janes, who was studying her passively with a curious expression. She traced the outline of the embossed letters, then turned to the page with the most prominent marker and began reading.

  As if the book were a foreign film, dubbed in a language that picked and chose its words according to the lip motions of the actors, Mr. Janes stood in front of the flickering firelight and began to narrate; his exposition uncannily mirroring the passages she was reading.

  Meredith looked down at the book—with a shudder, she realized the page she turned to bore the very lines Michael had once spoken to her after dreaming of her father … of Vasily:

  “At every door

  before you enter

  look around with care

  you never know

  what enemies

  aren’t waiting for you there.”

  These were the words spoken by King Gylfi on entering Valhalla, who then saw three high seats, a man sitting in each …

  “…And it happened that the three on high were asked a number of questions: Who is the foremost, or eldest of the gods? Where is he? What power does he have? What great deeds has he done?

  “And it was answered: He is called the All-Father, and he lives forever and ever. He rules over the whole of his kingdom and governs all things great and small. He created the heaven and earth and the sky and all that in them is. But his greatest achievement is the making of man and giving him a soul which will live and never die, although his body may decay to dust or burn to ashes.

  “Then it was asked, what was the All-Father doing before heaven and earth were made?

  “And it was answered that he was at that time dwelling with the frost ogres, in the place of All-Winter.”

  As if on cue, a gust of frigid wind spread a rattling of ice and snow across the windows of The Pickle Factory. Mr. Janes paused, then with a timid glance at Meredith, continued.

  “Nifleheim, the place of All-Winter, the Abode-Of-Darkness, the Deep Void: from this place flowed the rivers to the place of warmth and heat called Muspell, and where the cool air met the warm fell droplets of water which grew into the likeness of a man, who was given the name Ymir, called by the frost ogres Aurgelmir, and who was the father of all the giants and ogres who followed after.

  “This giant, and the families who sprang from his sweat were evil, and they were a blight on Nifleheim and Muspell, and the heavens and the earth trembled in fear before their might.

  “Then it came to pass that there were born three sons of the All-Father, called Odin, and Vili, and Ve, and they were strong, and handsom
e, and brave, and they went forth and slew the giant Ymir.”

  Mr. Janes stopped, breathing hard. It seemed a strange weariness had overcome him, and he could not continue. Meredith stood up and pulled out a chair for him. Delna had returned to the main hall, and Meredith waved her over. She brought a tray with glasses and fresh, hot, ginger lemonade. Mr. Janes drained one glass, then another, then sat, staring into the fire.

  She nudged him, impatient. “Mr. Janes? What happened next?”

  He turned to her, blinking, as if from a trance, then pointed to a passage in the book; Meredith had become so engrossed in his narrative that she had forgotten the book in front of her. It read:

  “From Ymir’s flesh

  the earth was made

  and from his blood the seas

  crags from his bones

  trees from his hair

  and from his skull the sky.

  “From his eyebrows

  the blessed gods

  made Midgard for the sons of men,

  and from his brains

  were created

  all storm-threatening clouds.”

  Meredith looked at Mr. Janes, still a bit unclear. He nodded, ever the editor, and took her hands in his. “Meredith, Midgard is our world—the earth—and its creation was the end of the Age of Winters. The last of the snows fell, and were melted by the fires of Muspell; and it is from that that all men and beasts came. The winter came before all that is, before all we know.”

  He paused, looking out at the snows beginning to drift in the yard. “Perhaps this is another Age of Winters. Perhaps, this is not the Fimbulvetr the Herald fears, but only the passage into another age,”

  She squeezed his hands. “I hope you’re right, Mr. Janes. I truly do.”

  “He’s not,” said a brusque voice from the front of the hall, “not completely, anyway.”

  The speaker was standing in the open doorway, and was so broad he took up the entire width of the double doors. He moved forward in an odd, scooting motion, then stood, and Meredith realized that he had had to kneel to get in the doors.

  He was shirtless and muscular, and a thick fur coated his forearms; dozens of cable-like growths projected from his back and curled around his sides, and a crown of them also protruded from his skull. Twisting around his legs, then swirling with coiled power behind him as he walked, was a broad, studded, tail.

  Shingo.

  There had been changes, while he’d been gone.

  Meredith hoped they were merely physical.

  With one look, Shingo sent Delna running, chittering in fear, to the back rooms. He moved forward through the hall, brushing aside chairs and tables with a feral strength and grace. “He’s right about part of it, Meredith,” said Shingo. “It is the dawning of a new age—but only for those strong enough to survive. For everyone else, Ragnarok.”

  As if to punctuate his point he stepped past Meredith and grabbed Mr. Janes by the neck, then moved smoothly to one side and forced him into the fireplace.

  “Shingo! My God, stop! What are you doing?”

  “Don’t, Meredith. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She screamed and grabbed him, but he had grown too massive—he could easily hold her away with one hand while pinning Mr. Janes in the flames.

  After a few seconds, Meredith could block out the smell, but she didn’t think she’d ever block out the screaming from her memory. In moments, it was over; Shingo dropped the charred remains of what had been Meredith’s editor to the bricks in front of the fire and turned back to her.

  “Look, Meredith,” he said, a tone of awe in his voice, “five minutes in an open flame, and not a blister.”

  She had to admit, it was pretty astonishing—his forearm was flaked with ash and singed hairs, but other than that, he was completely unharmed.

  “But Shingo, how … How …”

  Before he could answer her, a kamikaze pilot crashed a Zero on top of his head and exploded. More from surprise than pain, Shingo dropped Meredith, and she ran to the shelter of the scaffolding to see what sort of lunatic was assaulting her giant psychotic boyfriend.

  It was Glen.

  Armed with molotov cocktails the size of pumpkins, the troll who used to be a leprechaun circled warily as Shingo shook off the initial attack and stood to face him.

  He seemed almost surprised to see who his foe was, and almost laughed, arms akimbo. “Mr. Beecroft, what are you doing? It’s me, Shingo.”

  Glen wasn’t having any of it; he had lit another of the bombs and was twirling it around his head. “One,” he said, panting slightly with the exertion, “I know Shingo. Shingo was a friend of mine. And you … Are … No … Shingo!” he finished, chucking the flaming projectile at Shingo’s head.

  “Dammit,” said Shingo, head snapping back with the impact, “we don’t need to be doing this.” He brushed off the flames, then pushed closer to Glen, who had moved to the top of the counter.

  Meredith could see where this was progressing; prudently, she began to climb the scaffolding to move farther from the fray. From her perch about twenty feet up, Meredith could see Delna, crouching behind the door to the private quarters—no doubt loading more cocktails for Glen.

  Delna’s husband had lit another of the bombs, and was speaking again. “And two, no—you’re wrong. I’m nothing like you.” He hurled the cocktail, which Shingo ducked easily. “Bugger!” said Glen.

  Shingo suddenly jumped across the room and landed astride the counter just as Glen leapt up to a chandelier.

  Shingo looked around at the half-dozen molotov cocktails sitting around the counter, then grinned wickedly up at Glen.

  “We really don’t have to do this. I just want to talk to Meredith—why’d you make this so difficult? I mean, who gives a damn about that crazy old guy, anyway?”

  “Three,” said Glen, swinging, “I care because he was a paying customer; and even if the world comes to an end, someone’s still gotta be around to pay for the coffee. And four,” he finished, pulling a lighter out of his pocket and flipping it open, “you kids never learn.”

  Shingo’s eyes widened.

  Glen dropped the lighter.

  The world became fire.

  O O O

  The fire swept through the hall, completely scorching everything to the bare walls. Paintings, the furniture, bookshelves; all was lost in the cataclysm that followed. Glen was just up high enough that Meredith could see he would likely survive, though he’d be bald and tender when it was all over. For her part, the wood on the scaffolding went quickly, and she climbed higher and higher to escape the rising flame. When Meredith could climb no higher, she wrapped herself around the bars and clung to them, though it was not long before they were glowing nova-red with the heat.

  It was an unusual experience; she had savored the smell of children’s flesh, cooking; more recently been saddened to smell the stench of friends’ flesh singed and blackened; but it was an entirely new sensation to smell one’s own scent, simmering in the air.

  Shingo was right, she thought—some of us were meant to survive. When the fire died out, she was in terrible pain, and her skin was charred where she’d been gripping the bars; but Meredith was alive.

  Glen seemed to be unconscious, but she thought she could see him breathing. Of Shingo, Meredith could see nothing—the smoke still swirled thickly around the lower levels of the hall, and she was not very inclined nor did she have the energy to climb down to look.

  The fire had been well contained by the walls of the main hall, which were basically those of the original structure; made of eighteen-inch-thick clay, stone, and adobe, the walls had retained the heat, so that the rest of the structure remained essentially unharmed.

  Above her where the heat had coalesced, the paints of June’s labors’ had blistered and peeled; some melted and ran; all of the creations of God, Michelangelo Buonarotti, and Junichi Kawaminami, pooling and blending into a single, formless wash of charred colors.

  Meredith was tryi
ng to decide whether it would be less painful to try to climb down to the floor, or merely roll off the side, when a voice began to rise up out of the blackness and the smoke below.

  “I remember when you first came to Silvertown. I had known a little about you because of dad, and the things Vasily told my parents about the daughter he never got to see. But seeing you, that first week …

  “You had just gotten back from the hospital, and were in the special bed they’d installed in your living room. Mom and Dad had been over to get you settled in and bring you dinner and whatnot, but thought it best that I not bother you until you were stronger.

  “I’d been walking home from school, heading for the shop, when I happened to pass by and catch a glimpse of you through the front window. You looked strange, and uncomfortable, sitting there in the body cast; though, being a healthy young man, I was more interested in the t-shirt you wore above the cast.

  “Your breasts were the first thing I remember, other than the cast. When you pulled your shirt over your head and put on a clean bra, I nearly combusted right there in the street.

  “I knew then that I wanted you, even if I couldn’t have you. I wanted you to be mine, although I fought it for a long time.”

  Meredith couldn’t resist a pained chuckle. “You resisted exactly as long as it took to get me out of the body cast, you idiot,” she said, pulling herself onto her side to better see below the scaffolding. “We were sleeping together within two months.”

  “Yes,” said Shingo, stepping past where the counter used to be, into the dim light from the still-glowing embers. “But I knew that sooner or later, it had to end—until I found …”

  “The book.”

  He tipped his head, intrigued. “Book? Did Herald speak to you?”

  “No. Mr. Janes found it, and we were discussing it before you murdered him.”

  “Ah. So you didn’t have a chance to get into the rest of the box, then?”