Of Mr. George Ruthven the tears and mournings,
Amidst the giddie course of fortune’s turnings,
Upon his dear friend’s death, Mr. John Gall,
Where his rare ornaments bear a part,
and wretched Gabions all.
FIRST MUSE
Now must I mourn for Gall, since he is gone,
And ye, my Gabions, help me him to mone;
And in your courses sorrow for his sake,
Whose matchless Muse immortal did you make.
Who now shall pen your praise and make you knowne?
By whom now shall your virtues be forth showne?
Who shall declare your worth?
He chuckled when he pulled the book. The “First” Muse, thought Percy, as he reviewed the poem the first time before writing. He will write until the “Ninth Muse” . . . but why would such a rational man—a dean and a provost in Perth—appear to believe in such supernatural nonsense? Any explanation for such inspiration must be science-based and he, much like the Oxford administration, should know better. Have known better . . . he writes of alchemy, but to what larger purpose? Of this he should have considered. Am I missing the greater point?
He reads on and is besieged by disgust.
For what we do presage is not in grosse,
For we are brethren of the Rosie Crosse;
We have the Mason Word and second sight,
Things for to come we can foretell aright.
The Rosie Crosse, he ponders. An order of philosophers, mathematicians, and even astronomers of his time . . . intelligent and in some cases evolved persons . . . There must be a higher meaning to his words. There must be.
In the absence of immediate answers, Percy titles his book and makes a fortuitous decision. His alchemist, Frederic Nempere, also known as Ginotti, will be a member of the Rosicrucian, or Rosie Crosse.
He checks another volume, flips through its pages . . . and finds the image he is looking for. He taps the page with his index finger.
“The Rosie Crosse . . .”
He places a weight on the page for easy access; the stage set, he will create from here. Percy dips his pen and sets to write.
He pauses for but a moment, however, when three volumes from his shelf catch his eye:
Things as They Are; or, The Adventures of Caleb Williams
He glimpses the author’s name—William Godwin—and then looks upon the quote on the cover of Volume One:
Amidst the woods the leopard knows his kind;
The tyger preys not on the tyger brood;
Man only is the common foe of man.
“He’s right, you know,” Percy says. He laughs to himself at the truth of the statement. “Someone I’d certainly want to meet someday. Some are just that much more evolved than others.”
And he, finally, writes.
TIMES SQUARE, NEW YORK CITY
Rain and plenty of it. Empty, flooded streets. Backed-up sewers, abandoned vehicles, and power outages here and there. One spun-out taxicab. An overturned newspaper vending machine and a barely visible Times Square tron banding today’s news:
Treasures of Syrian World Heritage Site Targeted for Destruction by ISIS . . . Jersey Shore Hate Crime Leaves Mark . . . New Letter to the Media by Alleged Child Conspirator, Titled “Disambiguation,” Received by Global News Outlets . . . Original London Bomber Suspect’s Identity Questioned; Is the Jailed “X” an Imposter?
It’s been weeks since Manhattan Island has seen any semblance of sun or blue sky.
Before the red there was the gray. A bleak, transforming gray akin to a dank, unwashed ceiling where clouds used to be.
When the first major downpour of 2014 hit nearly a month ago, nothing forecast portended anything other than a day or so of inclement weather. The sun will break through eventually, they said. And they were correct. However, what could not be predicted was the permanent absence of a further consistent blaze of yellow.
Those days are over.
The sun will return for brief periods, but the bleed has begun.
She does not know her name. She does not know how she arrived, or when. Where? For now, another fruitless rumination.
When asked if she needed help, she walked on. When asked her name, she understood the question but bluffed the answer, based on something she had been called minutes prior by a cab driver who almost hit her: “Freak?”
~~~
A few minutes pass, and she is approached by someone new. The brim of his hat obscures his eyes and though she is lost, she suspects he is several years her senior if only based on his gray goatee, which is too perfectly trimmed to be anything other than a new affectation; he’s been watching her from the window of a nearby lobby before running outside to help.
“Freak.”
“Who told you that?” the pedestrian asks. The lost woman does not answer at first, so the well-meaning pedestrian asks again.
Freak shakes her head. “Told . . . me?”
“Who called you that?”
“They did.” That she understands him surprises her.
“They?” The pedestrian, realizing he is getting nowhere, changes course. “You’re shivering.” He removes his leather jacket, despite the elements.
But Freak turns her back to him and walks away.
Dejected, Thomas McFee lifts his head and watches her off. The rain falls harder and he covers his hat with his jacket as he sprints back across the street to the sanctuary of the Scarp building.
In a brief moment of calm ten minutes later, Thomas leaves the building. Though he intends to go upstairs and surprise Denise, he does not. Though he has not been in touch for well over a year and believes his publisher has given up on his return, Thomas is convinced she will welcome him when the timing is right. After considerable grief, of course.
Thomas tells the guard in the lobby that he is escaping the weather for a moment. The guard stands away from the front desk to ask; he doesn’t ask any further questions and he lets the man be. Whether the guard recognizes Thomas or not is a question only he can answer.
The writer doesn’t care. What’s the worst that could happen? he thinks.
SOHO ARTS DISTRICT, NEW YORK CITY
One week following his relocation, Matthius is engaged in his peaceful pursuit, painting, when he senses the presence. The image on his canvas is as yet unformed; spots and dripping dabs of red and brown provide the vaguest of starting points for a piece not yet coalesced in the mind’s eye of the artist. “Who’s there?” Matthius asks from his stool. There is no response, so he asks again. “Who’s there?”
“Is my voice familiar to you?”
“Who are you? Where—”
“Do you know my voice?”
“No.”
Brikke enters from the shadows. “Do you know my face?”
Matthius stands. He flashes back to the car, to the scene that took the life of his precious Persia. “I know you,” he responds, seething. “You died . . .”
“Not necessarily.”
“You killed her.” Matthius manages. He falters in a test of wills and looks to the floor, then looks back toward the giant’s eyes, affirming: “You killed her.”
“So it appears,” Brikke patronizes.
“I saw you die.” Matthius backs up to the wall. “Who are you?”
Despite his size, the giant’s careful manner implies a well-rehearsed vulnerability. “I am someone who has made a terrible mistake, and I need your help. I promise I will not hurt you.”
“Why m—”
“Because you have the answers,” the bigger man says. “Because you are the Chronicler.”
Matthius realizes he cannot back up further. He cautiously slinks forward. “Okay. I’m calling security.”
Brikke observes the setup of the room. Unconcerned, he sits on the couch before asking, “May I?” No response, predictably. “I know the whereabouts of your beloved girl,” he admits as Matthius simmers. “Trust me, nothing is as it appears.” He
shakes his head for emphasis. “Nothing at all. If you help me, I promise to reciprocate. To my interests your companion is bait and nothing more. I assure you she’s safe—”
“She’s dead!” Matthius is torn. “You can’t bargain with something you killed!”
“I was with her. How do you account for me?”
Matthius curtails his impulse. “No . . . you’re lying. Who are you?” Brikke looks to the paintings; Matthius forlornly follows the giant’s gaze. He is strangely settled by the visitor, though his instinct is to run. His larger issue, however, is that he believes him. “Who is she?” Matthius asks, weakly.
“She?” Brikke stands and walks toward the artwork. “She was in this room once,” Brikke responds, sorting through the frames. “In this very room, which, in part, explains your obsession.”
“I’ve had enough.”
“I don’t think so.”
Matthius’ eyes dart past the new painting-in-progress to a fresh, blank canvas on another easel. “No . . . no. I can’t help you.”
“Inspiration? Will you ponder my presence and my words only when inspired to create your next piece of art? You know, Mr. Alexi . . . too many others of lesser talent once procrastinated and realized the gravity of their situation when it was too late. In the end they too were alone, hiding from dragons.” Matthius glances to his painting of the drowning Taebal, leaning against a wall across from the others. “Isolation was forced upon them and they had no choice but to create and leave their record in caves.” Matthius glares at his antagonist, infuriated by that last. As was the intent. “The difference is, they were groups, in some instances families, where you are . . . just one. Just one with, again, no choice.”
“Then you really may as well kill me now,” Matthius bluffs.
Brikke heads back to the couch and flashes his empty hands. He remains standing. “My name is Brikke. I have no agenda other than what I am about to tell you. I will appeal to Matthius Alexi the freethinker, the man who would never discount the possibility of any cosmology until he analyzes it first.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Is that the best you can do?”
Matthius is well past incredulous. “You break into my home, and now you’re going to test me? And then you’re going to tell me a story.”
“Yes.” Matthius snickers and turns away. “So . . . let’s just say, for the time being, this is another culture’s version of the spin of the world,” Brikke tests, to no interruption. “No doubt you have heard of the earth’s five mass extinctions?” Matthius remains still. “As I’m sure you have also heard that for every myth constructed to explain the inexplicable there is a basis in reality? The Greeks spoke of the nine muses—”
“I’m not interested in fantasy, and I’m certainly not interested in a history lesson. If you don’t leave—”
Brikke ignores him. “A child named Adriel, a small, stunted child, will soon be sent forward to guard the farthest gate of the Infinity Pass, in your faith the farthest gate of the heavens—”
“I no longer have faith. You’re wrong,” Matthius concludes. “You just proved to me you have no credibility.”
“You are dishonest with yourself. You still search.”
“No, I—”
“You still write. You keep your notebooks . . . and you still hope.” Matthius tenses. “That possibility is enough to prevent you from acting on your impulse. You still search.”
“You’ve been spying on me.”
“Clearly. I’ll go on. You paint, you search. And you’re about to finish one and begin something new, another creation to satisfy your ongoing intellectual quest.” Matthius balls his hands into fists. Brikke notices. “And you’re not going to touch me.” He reclaims the couch. “I sit, and I’m almost as tall as you standing. Need we continue this charade, Mr. Alexi? And if so, for how long?”
“I’m sizing you up; would you give me a minute?” Matthius is loath to realize that the bigger man is right. He concedes in seconds and relaxes his hands. “Let’s move forward.”
“To my point, then . . . Mr. Alexi,” Brikke explains without pause, “those questions you cannot answer, those answers you seek but cannot reconcile once discovered, those brush strokes on your canvas, and your entries in your notebooks written to make sense of it all . . . you hoped for many years I would show here. You just didn’t know who I would be.” Matthius tries but fails to hide his curiosity; he cannot look away. “The gods have kept a grim secret from the subject of these explorations.” Brikke motions to the paintings. “The goddess Ara—”
“The subject of these explorations?” Matthius laughs, overly self-conscious. “I enjoy painting; it’s an innocent pastime. The goddess? Do you expect me to believe—”
“I expect you, formerly a man of faith, to retain at least the fundamental premise that a most delicate balance of natural and supernatural forces prevails in the universe. That neither you nor anyone knows all the answers, that the possibility of an imperfect muse who inspires all of art and invention not only exists but has been lied to, hence your eternal mysteries and yes, your holy books, because she cannot influence the answers to your people’s unending query of the true nature of life and death and art that is in fact a solvable equation.”
Matthius has an epiphany. “Who . . . who is X?”
Brikke nods. “I mention the word equation, and it resonates with you. This is progress. Maybe now . . .” He watches as Matthius turns a chair and sits across from him, folding his arms on its top, looking up but still not once losing the larger man’s gaze. “Maybe now.” He proceeds. “X bases his work on the output of some of your finest writers, including yourself, but he is not—yet—regarded by the gods. He is ignored. His shortcoming is that although he recognizes that your art is corrupted, he does not recognize the protected works that provide the opposite solution, the way out.”
“Hidden?”
“And presumed lost. Those creations she inspired before the tragedy.”
“The tragedy.” Matthius speaks with apathy so as to hide his vulnerability. “I’m expecting the runaround, but how many creations did she inspire before—”
“For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, no?” Expectation met. “These works, these . . . books,” Brikke resumes, “have been suppressed by the gods as another affront to the natural order.”
“Petty bastards, those gods.”
“As to X, he will not go away though he is, in fact, dangerously close to The Truth he writes of in his letters, but he, like you and the rest, are running out of time. He does know, as do some others, but he more than most, that the child known as Adriel must not be allowed to live, though he is not yet clear precisely why, as his equation remains a work in progress.” Matthius quietly stands and turns away. “Whatever mysteries you fail to fathom, he fails with you as no human can ever fully grasp the supernatural unless gifted by the gods.” Matthius is about to question, but Brikke intercedes: “Consider a brain, for our purposes that would be Adriel, and a body system influenced by that brain. To mitigate any threat upon Ara transforming to mortal, the gods ensured that her influence as human would be contained as it was when she was exiled as a goddess. And so the immortals elected to send to the earth not one but nine mortal incarnations of the muse, each incarnated in Ara’s vengeful image, though not a one to retain any comprehension as to why their unease.”
And Matthius realizes. He turns and again faces the bigger man. “Sisters?”
“X’s work is as flawed as the antiquated myths he has utilized for his research, though he does understand Ara’s immortal brethren were not exceptionally empowered. It wasn’t until the ascent of the Romans when the Greek myths of the nine muses were assigned their specific tasks . . . but I must move on. Ara—Adriel—is unaware of her mortal sisters, as you say. Each incarnation is in fact unaware of the other. Until she is extracted, Adriel will remain fractured in her mortality but not understand why, she will be plagued by an unce
asing thirst for revenge that she will never comprehend . . . and she will be disallowed to become whole as the threat she represents is substantial. The human way, once a muse, having infected the universe of the gods, just as an alchemist, a mystic, once infected a weapon and its gauntlet which altered your course.”
“I’m more a Guardians of the Galaxy fan than Excalibur and that mess.”
“She will reach the Infinity Pass; you will be unable to stop her, as you will not be present. Then once delivered, she must be extracted from the gods. There is no choice, for neither her nor you.”
“But—”
“Ara was imperfect and cursed to become mortal. Adriel’s struggles will distract her should she remain. She will grow to be angry and exact her revenge, until she recognizes that she has precisely what she wants—a life with Eron—and hence no reason to leave. By then it will be too late.”
“Eron? Who is Eron?”
“He who set Ara on her course. And now he is an Over-dweller, a restless spirit, who himself will turn against the gods and protect her as his own. She will resent that they cannot be together on her terms, and her need for revenge will be that much more incessant—”
“And so living happily ever after is out of the question?”
“—ultimately causing the end of both man and god. This will be no further mass extinction from where one day a new seed will take root and grow,” Brikke elaborates. “Of the nine, only Adriel will stand with the immortals, though she will remain human. She will endure trial, but she will also be studied. She will not be killed. She will never be killed while she is among them. The gods are a petty lot; you are correct. They are not human though they secretly strive to be. They are, in fact, resentful of Ara, who openly exhibited such tendencies as a muse and inspired such . . . soulfulness within the art and invention of those mortals she so influenced and empowered. There is not an immortal among them that secretly doesn’t long to live, if for a moment, as one of them. However, again, if allowed to age, Adriel’s humanity will upset the balance further by exposing the gods’ own limitations, enabling further rifts and the destruction of not only this realm but theirs as well.”
Chronicles of Ara: Perdition Page 10