The Singularity Cycle 02 Song of the Death God

by William Holloway

  What was going on here? Had the illness made his brother mad? He had seen this happen before, but it simply turned the victim into a halfwit; tragic, yes, but nothing resembling what his brother had become.

  Greta and Karin? Useless. All they wanted was to pour scorn on their brother. They didn’t want to help him; they didn’t want to figure anything out. They just wanted to drink. At this point, Wilhelm understood he couldn’t do anything about Uli, or do anything for Uli. But the fact of the thing, the sheer impossibility of his transformation, he’d never seen the likes of it.

  Uli had been only capable of painting himself painting. That was the true Uli Ernst: narcissistic and oblivious. But he had transformed into a painter whose work was sick, but unfathomably deep in a style requiring a lifetime of intensive study. Uli had attended countless art displays, but this was just a function of polite society. It was debatable whether he ever even glanced at the paintings. And the style, it was unprecedented. The forms, bodies, buildings, animals, clouds, plants twisted to form shapes that looked like symbols, hieroglyphs, letters of some language that didn’t exist…

  No, this was simply not possible.

  And Carsten? At least Carsten was always serious and studious. Converting the old servants’ quarters into a quiet place to read could be expected from Carsten. But translating a text from the 1300s from Latin into German? Just for fun? What in the hell was he translating, anyway?

  Wilhelm inhaled and held it. Maybe it wasn’t his brothers who were going mad. Maybe it was him. Maybe his life as a scoundrel and a bully and a fraud had caught up to him. Maybe the drinking had a lot to do with it. Maybe he was in no place to judge either one of them.

  Carsten seemed driven, maybe too driven, but saner than Uli. Wilhelm decided his first order of business must be to speak to Carsten at length about Uli.

  ***

  By the time Carsten arrived home, Wilhelm’s sobriety hadn’t worked out as well as he’d hoped. He was on his second bottle of the wine. These weren’t large bottles, so he didn’t feel that bad about it. He comforted himself that he was facing a mystery of existential proportions and hadn’t turned to the hard stuff. Not yet at least.

  Wilhelm positioned himself, his second bottle of wine, and his smoking case of French cigarettes in a patch of shade between the house and the old servants’ quarters. Soon, Carsten emerged from the rear of the house with Ava and the carriage driver.

  Greta and Karin were right about Ava. She was beautiful. She carried a flat wooden box. Wilhelm was happy for Carsten. He was driven and studious, and he would doubtless make them, or at least their father, very proud. And this beautiful young thing? He would ordinarily have coveted her intensely, but this crisis of conscience prevented that. Of course he was attracted to her, but for the first time in his life, he was showing character, and it felt right, even if it didn’t feel good.

  The carriage driver was an interesting addition to the puzzle. He was different from the other house staff. While he used terms like sir, and he spoke when spoken to, he didn’t lower his gaze. And his gaze was firm. This was a hard man.

  Wilhelm watched them walk, Ava silent, Carsten and Karl conferring quietly, Karl nodding in agreement.

  Carsten went to Prague with this man at exactly the same time that Uli fell ill. This was also the exact time that Uli stopped writing him. Uli used to write regularly, bragging of his conquests of the opposite sex. Something had happened, and both of his brothers changed abruptly and drastically.

  Suddenly, he wanted to talk to Uli about Carsten as well.

  Karl noticed Wilhelm first, and immediately stopped the conversation. He tapped Carsten covertly on the back and motioned with a nod that Wilhelm was watching them.

  Wilhelm stood and greeted them. “Little brother! And little Ava! My, how you’re both all so grown now.”

  Ava looked at her feet. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  There was a pause and Carsten said, “Good to see you, Wilhelm.”

  Then Carsten said to Ava and Karl, “Come back in about an hour. I’m going to visit with my brother for a while.”

  Ava and Karl walked in the other direction, as if operating under instructions discussed before. Odd. Carsten’s adult tone was odd as well. There was no question who was in charge here. These two didn’t work for his father, they worked for him. Wilhelm watched them walk away, in wonder of his youngest brother.

  Wilhelm said, “Well, it certainly looks like you’re actually the one in command around here.”

  Carsten nodded. “I’ve taken on a few extra responsibilities, at least until Father gets back on his feet.”

  Wilhelm nodded thoughtfully. “I can appreciate that, Carsten… I don’t think our sisters are going to be turning this ship around anytime soon, and neither are myself or Uli.”

  Carsten said nothing.

  Wilhelm added, “Especially Uli.”

  Carsten still said nothing. It was just plain uncomfortable. It was obvious to Wilhelm that Carsten was merely tolerating someone he regarded as a fool. Maybe that was why Wilhelm felt so nervous again. It was as if their roles had reversed. He was like a child petitioning an adult to hear him out, and he was suffocating in this inversion.

  “Well, little brother, let’s go and sit in your… study, and talk. We need to talk about a few things.”

  Carsten nodded and led the way.

  Carsten was again seated behind his desk. It took a few moments to get the candles and lanterns lit. During that time, Wilhelm realized this place was completely lit from within. The shutters blocked the majority of the light and the heavy curtains did the rest. He walked back and forth in wonder at the books Carsten had on his shelves. This wasn’t the library of a rich young man. This was the library of a rich older linguist and scientist. Wilhelm was surprised to find not only texts on translation—there were texts on mathematics, astronomy, and chemistry.

  Wilhelm took a drink from the glass that Carsten had offered him for his wine. “I have to say, Carsten, you amaze me.”

  Carsten didn’t say anything. He just watched his brother looking at his library.

  Wilhelm said, “As you may know, I’m concerned about Uli.”

  “This is why you’re here in Munich.”

  Wilhelm nodded. “I received a letter from Greta and Karin, and they were very worried.”

  “They are embarrassed. There’s a difference.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “They’ve been very inconvenienced. They haven’t had a drunken gathering for months.”

  Wilhelm just continued looking at the books, trying to figure out something to say.

  Carsten said, “It’s been marvelous.”

  Wilhelm turned to look at him and asked, “When is the last time you talked to Uli?”

  Carsten paused and said, “Months.”

  A look of sadness crossed Wilhelm’s face. “Uli never gave you any reason to care for him, did he?”

  Carsten answered bluntly, “Uli was a bastard. He was as shallow and as stupid as a person could be.”

  Wilhelm asked quietly, “And me?”

  Carsten answered just as bluntly, “You were gone by the time I was eight years old.”

  Wilhelm nodded. He understood all the things implicit in that statement. He walked over to the table and sat down opposite Carsten. “Have you seen Uli’s paintings?”

  “You asked me this already, but you were very tired… I told you that I had.”

  “What do you think of them?”

  “I think they’re brilliant.”

  “Carsten… they’re horrifying.”

  Carsten again said nothing.

  Wilhelm was confused. He was a man who made it part of his persona knowing about bad or offensive art, and by all accounts the Michelangelo of bad and offensive art was in the next building. He should be ecstatic, but he wasn’t.

  “Carsten, sane people… sane people don’t paint things like that, and yes, before you even say it, I know I’m a hypocrite.�
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  “I think that his work shows a picture of reality as it may be if the subjective lens of the waking conscious was removed.”

  “What…?”

  Carsten continued, “And gives a view of the subjective reconstitution of the objective world by the dreaming mind.”

  Wilhelm exhaled loudly. “That ties it together fairly neatly for me, at least of my experience since coming back to Munich. It’s like stepping into one of Uli’s paintings; how on earth does a person your age come up with something like that, Carsten?”

  Carsten looked at him with the closest expression to amusement that Wilhelm had seen.

  “You say things like that, which as far as I’m concerned is practically impossible for you to say. That kind of analysis of anything only comes with a lifetime of study. Uli paints those things… those horrible things… with a degree of understanding and skill that only comes with a lifetime of study.”

  Again, Carsten only looked at him mildly.

  “OK, I’ll try this a different way… Do you know why Uli is doing what he’s doing? Do you know if something happened to him?”

  Carsten paused and said, “He became very ill; he started the paintings after that.”

  “He got sick when you went to Prague.”

  “He was still sick when I came back.”

  “You went to Prague with the carriage driver.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why the carriage driver? That’s odd, Carsten.”

  “I didn’t want to go by myself. He’s an able and well-traveled man.”

  Wilhelm asked, “Why does a young man from the wealthy class of Munich need to go to Prague with an able and well-traveled man?”

  Carsten shrugged. “I wanted to see the city. I didn’t want to see the city for what it is supposed to be, I wanted to see it for itself. And I was buying my book, and I didn’t want to travel alone with that kind of money and an expensive relic.”

  “He seems like a hard man, not someone to be trifled with.”

  “He is an able man.”

  “He’s protection, isn’t he?”

  “Uli is mad, Greta and Karin are useless, Father is defenseless, and you are gone. Karl is a very reassuring presence.”

  Wilhelm had to admit this did make sense. Still, it just didn’t sit right. The entire picture was troubling, as if there were a hidden design lurking just beneath the surface.

  Wilhelm changed direction. “What do you think is going on with Uli? What do you think is wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know. I prefer this to the idiot that he was. What do you think is wrong with him? And why is this so important to you?”

  Wilhelm sighed, shook his head and said, “I think that if I was a better brother, a better man, Uli would have been a better man as well… and this may not have happened.”

  “It’s possible.”

  Wilhelm continued, “But this, this recent change. This was not my fault. It’s not possible for me to have been responsible for anything like this.”

  Carsten picked up a notebook and began jotting down some notes. This meeting was at an end. He glanced up at his brother for one final thought. “I agree. When do you return to Paris?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was cold, but Wilhelm was sweating. He rolled around in his bed, tossing and turning. He drank far less than usual all that day and had stayed good to the promise. He hadn’t touched the hard stuff. He only drank wine. Now his head pounded in his sleep and his stomach boiled with acid. Twice, he woke and ran to the restroom, where his bowels exploded in blasts of burning noisome diarrhea.

  He never truly reached sleep, only that place where the distinction between this world and the dream world becomes frighteningly thin. He came to over and over after dreaming of a landscape with no feature other than this house.

  A vast stone plain with inky boiling clouds.

  Over and over, he was out on that landscape, and he ran through the open doors of this house, but it was abandoned. No furniture, no people, only dust.

  He walked through the house, following footsteps in dust covering the floor. They led to Uli’s rooms in one dream, and Carsten’s rooms in another, but they were empty as well.

  He made it to the living room and saw a large painting over the mantel. It was one of Uli’s, he could tell. He got closer and closer to the painting until he woke up and repeated the process.

  In the last dream, he ran straight to the abhorrent painting. He got to the mantel and looked up. It was a view of the front of Carsten’s old servants’ quarters.

  It was like all of Uli’s paintings: a picture of the prosaic whose proportions and geometry were distorted, twisted in his unnatural fashion. The trees, the stars, the clouds in the night sky of the painting were twisted into symbols, hieroglyphs, letters in a language not spoken since man first wrote.

  Light flowed from underneath the front door of the small house. It was night, but someone was awake doing something behind that door.

  ***

  Wilhelm woke, soaked with sweat. He looked at his shaking hands. His breathing was ragged. He was exhausted. The brief glimpses of sleep he had endured gave no rest at all. He knew if he were to lie back down, it would only be more of the same.

  He turned on the electric lights to see himself in the mirror. He was a mess, there was no doubt about it. It shamed him, but he went ahead or there would be no rest at all. He poured a tall glass of scotch, neat. He looked at himself holding the glass. He yawned, but still felt restless. He got up and paced.

  He asked himself, is being here really worth it? Yes, this is all very strange, all very concerning, but women and good times were still to be had in Paris. And with his new-found conscience, he could apply himself more to his painting… and it could really mean something.

  But something prevented him from throwing his suitcase together and lighting out first thing in the morning. Something held him here that he couldn’t articulate. There was an unfolding drama and his part hadn’t yet happened.

  His pacing took him out the door. He silently walked the halls. He saw the carriage parked in front, the horses stabled for the night. It was very late, or early, depending on where you began counting. It was early enough that the house staff were not yet cleaning and preparing food.

  He walked up the hall to Uli’s room. Light filtered from under the door. Wilhelm walked as quietly as possible to the doorway and looked through the keyhole.

  Uli was stark naked, standing in front of yet another large canvas, painting with terrible speed. His motions were quick and efficient. He didn’t stop to assess his work; he just painted, maddeningly fast. It was incredible. He poured sweat, the muscles on his body stood out in bulging chords. This sight was every bit as distressing as the paintings he produced. It looked horribly painful, but above all else it looked wholly unnatural.

  Wilhelm had seen automatons, elaborate machines that mimicked the motions of people. He thought them ugly and creepy. This was like that, except it was his unpleasant, braggart little brother cruelly transformed into a puppet.

  Wilhelm tore himself from this vision and walked silently, but quickly, away. He wanted to drain the scotch in one single motion, but forced himself to moderate.

  He passed the living room and the mantel holding Uli’s painting from his dream. He stood and looked into the room. Was it childish superstition to go and check? Part of him felt like this was a test of his sanity. Could he just walk away and not go to see if one of Uli’s paintings had replaced the portrait of his stoic grandfather? If he saw that Uli’s painting was there, would he scream and go mad?

  He laughed at himself, nervously. He walked over to the mantel. It couldn’t hurt to soothe his frayed nerves. It was just that old painting of his grandfather. He breathed a sigh of relief and his gaze turned to the back window.

  This room faced the garden to the rear of the house. The old servants’ quarters were beyond, out of sight. He walked quietly out the back door and down the path.
He continued until he saw the old building. It was just as it looked in the painting in the dream. Light came from underneath the front door. It would be wrong to peek through the keyhole. Yes, Carsten was precocious, but he was the rock of sanity keeping this household going. But he couldn’t help himself, the scotch was almost empty, and his blood was warm. He thought, what could one little peek hurt?

  Ava was stark naked on a table covered with a black cloth. Carsten walked around the table, twice in one direction, twice in the other direction. Her eyes were covered with a black blindfold, her hands tied together in a position of prayer. She was surrounded by an array of black candles.

  Wilhelm could not distinctly hear what was said, but Carsten spoke a short phrase in what sounded like Latin, then Ava repeated it. This process repeated several times. Wilhelm only saw Carsten and Ava in profile. He stood at her feet between her open legs. He picked up a long, ornate silver dagger and placed the tip on her belly. She winced. He wasn’t hurting her seriously, but it did hurt. He drew it down from her navel to where the small thatch of pubic hair began.

  He cut her. It wasn’t deep, but Carsten cut her!

  Wilhelm’s mouth dropped open. He didn’t move a muscle, but this was… actually, he wasn’t really sure what this was. Clearly some kind of ritual, but beyond that he had no idea.

  Carsten picked up the dagger and pointed it to the ceiling then said a phrase in Latin that Ava repeated. Then he picked up a silver plate from between Ava’s legs. There was a large pile of white powder on the plate. Carsten turned the blade downward, and a few drops of Ava’s blood fell onto the powder. Carsten picked up a silver bell, set down the silver plate, and walked in circles, this time in reverse, and at the end of each circuit, he rang the bell.