Death of the Body

by Rick Chiantaretto

  I didn’t pause long. I continued east down the hallway, glad that my memory made the pathway familiar. My father’s office was now one… two… three mirrors down.

  Again I found my reflection staring back at me. My face twisted in concentration. This mirror not only marked the entrance to my father’s office, but also because of the secrecy required by his position and work, it was the entrance. Self-doubt caused me to grimace. When father brought me here, he shattered the mirror to reveal a winding staircase behind it. He had the power to make the broken molecules lining the splintered shards piece themselves back together with seamless perfection. Even to the trained eye, the mirror appeared whole again.

  My powers were not great at piecing together what was broken. That gift belonged solely to my father.

  I saw the eyes in my reflection flicker with panic. I had come all this way without considering how I would get into my father’s office.

  I don’t think you are SUPPOSED to be here! a sinister voice whispered so close to my ear that I jerked to get away from it and ended up off-balance, landing sideways onto the floor. I scrambled to regain my footing, but settled instead with my back against the opposite wall in a seated position. I wasn’t sure how my feet managed to push me so quickly to the other side of the hall. I glanced around nervously for the source of the voice, but the hallway was empty.

  My heart was beating so fervently in my chest that I felt the pulse shake my entire body.

  You must get out before they find you!

  This time the voice was to my left. In my huddled position, all I could do was snap my head toward it and push in the opposite direction with my feet. My backward slide turned into a quick-paced crab-walk until my back hit something hard enough to stop me. Again, the hall was empty.

  My ragged breathing grew steady and quick as I realized that, in fact, the hall was not empty. I twitched a little as the voice returned, this time above me.

  Get up! You must escape!

  I looked, this time with more clarity, and saw the geometric lines of a beautiful tree. My back pressed deeply against the curvature of one of the pots.

  I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. I stood and approached the tree nearest to the mirror, the first tree that had spoken.

  Is my father in there? I asked, ignoring the whispered warnings going on all around me.

  In where? the tree responded, obviously playing dumb.

  How about in the secret room behind the mirror! My voice bordered on hysteria.

  There is no room.

  Trees are notoriously bad liars. If my father is down there, he is waiting for me. He would break the glass to get through the mirror, but my ability to repair the glass is… well… I couldn’t.

  If your father is down there, couldn’t he repair the glass?

  So now you are admitting there is a secret room?

  No answer.

  I continued, Is there another way into the room somewhere? One that wouldn’t require me to break anything?

  I can only say this: your father may have broken the glass, but the patriarch would not.

  Then how did he get through?

  The glass became a ripple, and he would simply step through.

  Understanding crossed my mind almost before the tree finished its sentence. The properties of glass were one of the oddities of science. I remembered a lesson I had a few years earlier when we discussed solids, liquids, and gasses. One of the students presented glass as an example of a solid, but the Elder told us that, in fact, glass was a liquid. The evidence was in the old windowpanes in the oldest of our buildings, where the glass at the bottom was thicker than the glass at the top. Glass had a flow, a response to gravity. It ran downhill… just like water.

  I grinned devilishly. If this Elder was right, then I wouldn’t have to change the physical makeup of the mirror to get through it. I would just have to make it more… liquidy.

  I put my hands against the mirror, concentrating until I felt the charged building-blocks of the glass like millions of electric shocks pressing back against me. I felt them speeding up to my will, until the whole pane shuddered against my touch. Soon my hands felt as if they were sinking into thick dough. I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of excitement as cool air swirled from the other side.

  I pressed harder and put a foot through. My arms were up to their elbows. Then there was less resistance. I felt the glass recoil from the pressure my face and torso exerted. With one final ripple, I stepped through to the other side.

  I couldn’t help but laugh as I turned to see the hallway through a pane of glass. My way was much cleaner than my father’s.

  I was familiar with the solid brick landing at the top of a spiral staircase. While the parliament building had a carved and intricate flair to its architecture, once through the mirror it changed to an older dark brick. The marble floors were replaced by carefully laid cobblestone sealed with rough mortar; the giant chandeliers and gold-plated molding morphed into crude bronze gas piping that burped flames.

  I was not afraid here. I knew that only my family, and the patriarch, knew how to find this staircase. I was not afraid to meet any of my people, except Joshua. But not even he should know the secret of this place.

  I bounded down the stairs without hesitation, sprinting through rough hallways that twisted to dark rooms hidden well beneath the building. All I had to do now was stay in the main corridor until it ended at my father’s office. My heart filled with exuberance as I rounded the last corner and saw bright light spilling out from underneath the heavy wooden door.

  The word “father” ripped out of my chest like a growl as I threw myself into the room. I had only vague memories of this place, but it was obvious that a lot had been misconstrued in my younger memory or had changed. The grandeur of the office had not been understated. It was comprised of multiple rooms and an upstairs loft. The upper area was where my father’s large mahogany desk sat, along with a balcony that overlooked the largest of the lower rooms.

  The lower rooms were more of a library than anything else. The largest room’s walls were filled with countless leather bound books. One of the smaller rooms to the right, underneath the loft, held neatly rolled scrolls and parchments. When I was younger, I wasn’t allowed to look at the writings in the office, not that I could’ve read them anyway.

  The opportunity to immerse myself in reading and learning within these rooms did not escape me, but the desire to find my father weighed heavier on my mind.

  “Father?” I cried again. Only the stillness of the air answered.

  Was he hiding, scared, or worried that my voice was an imitation? The thought of my father cowering in a corner was so atypical that it was almost funny. Still, I inched further into the large room so he could plainly see me from any vantage point in the office.

  “Father, it’s me, Edmund. Are you here?”

  Lamps illuminated the entire room. This added to my hope that my father was here, but only my frantic calls and heavy breathing broke the silence.

  I climbed the delicate wrought iron staircase with caution. The eerie silence bothered me, but my hope of finding a safe place, and more, of finding my father in it, outweighed any doubt or fear.

  I saw the corner of the desk expand as I climbed the stairs. As I approached the top, I spied a dark figure sitting in a throne-like chair. The lighting was dimmer up here, with only one lamp illuminating the yellowed pages of a book that sat on the desk.

  “Father?” I asked cautiously, inching forward, waiting for any sign of movement.

  There was no response from the dark figure. My father must have worn his dress robes in to work, or perhaps he had gone home to get them so he could better hide up here in the dark. I didn’t understand why he would need to hide. Concealing his identity, perhaps?

  “It really is me. It’s Edmund. Can you talk to me?”

  I took another step closer, half bracing for the sudden movement from the desk I was sure would happen any moment now. I
didn’t want it to startle me.

  “I’m going to light this lamp.” I made my way through a maze of books. It was so unlike him to leave things lying about.

  “Are you asleep?”

  I waved my hand. A spark flew from the lamp on the desk to the one beside me. As the spark caught, the filament inside burst into a hazy orange, filling the room with light. My eyes, however, saw red. Sorrow and anger overwhelmed me.

  My father was there, his hand resting lightly atop a book on the desk. He wasn’t wearing any robes. The dark shadows his figure cast were from charred pieces of flesh that hung loosely from his bones, blackened by fire.

  My knees buckled. An ungodly howl tore through my body, starting from the tips of my toes and escaping from my mouth. My body convulsed, full of the relentless pain. I was only vaguely aware of knocking stack after stack of books to the ground and over the balcony. I writhed in agony, streams of tears gushing from my eyes. The muscles in my chest convulsed, forcing the air out of my lungs. I choked between sobs to refill them.

  I coughed spit and vomit as I took out my thirst for violence by throwing book after book as hard as I could manage. I continued until I had thrown a book through every one of the lamps, plunging the rooms into total darkness. When I no longer had the strength to throw another book, I curled into a ball under my father’s blackened feet and wished for death. I wanted to disappear, to sink into utter oblivion, anything to avoid the pain.

  I ran out of tears before I quit sobbing. I didn’t quit sobbing until my exhausted body succumbed to sleep.

  ***

  I don’t know how long I slept but it was broken by a bright light that stained my closed eyelids a burnt orange. The color reminded me of fire.

  For a moment I couldn’t open my eyes. They were glued together by too many tears and hours of sleep. When I finally did get them open, I was staring into a bright blue sky.

  I was sure I was dreaming because I could still smell the scent of old books. As I sat up, I was surprised to discover the ceiling of my father’s office looked exactly like the sky. The illusion made it appear as if there were no roof and I was sitting outside. It didn’t take me long, however, to make out the crossbeams and realize that carefully placed mirrors created the amazing scene above me. Clever dad, I thought.

  The horrors of the previous night returned with unsympathetic force. I turned to find the charred remains of my father still sitting at his desk, his hand on a book. But in the newfound light something else caught my eye. My father was holding a pen and had been writing a letter.

  I got close enough to see my name on the parchment he was writing. I snatched it from the desk, shook off the ash, and revealed my father’s last letter to me.

  Dearest Edmund,

  How I hope I get to deliver this letter in person, but I haven’t much time, so I must write quickly just in case. If anything happens to me, I hope you manage to make it, somehow, to my office. It is, indeed, the safest place for you and, I’m hoping, for me.

  Though you have probably already figured most of this out, my intelligent boy, Joshua has killed the patriarch and betrayed us all. It appears he has made a deal with the energumen: our eternal slavery in exchange for their service to him.

  If you survive and I do not, you must know what our family does for the world. I will leave a book for you. You must read through it fully, for by understanding it you will have access to the powers of the seven levels through the seven doors, which you will need in order to fulfill your destiny and our family’s legacy.

  I am also leaving you my ring, which I wish for you to keep with you always. It has

  I turned the parchment over, but there was no more to my father’s letter. I read it again and again, to the point of committing it to memory. My father wasn’t an affectionate man. His compliment in the letter made me feel pride and love. The book he spoke of must be the one still on the desk. I pried it from beneath his fingers and read the cover.

  Crossing Death

  I flipped through the pages, but as far as I could tell every page was blank. I added confusion to my pile of emotions.

  The ring was easy to find. I knew exactly which one my father was talking about because he never took it off. When I was younger, I asked him about the ring and he told me it was a special family heirloom that would be passed to me one day. The ring was such a part of him that I soon forgot about it. But sure enough, the ring was set carefully on the desk close to the book. The fact that it wasn’t on his finger seemed ominous to me, but at the same time I was grateful I wouldn’t have to deal with removing it myself.

  The ring had an allure that was hard to describe. It was bright silver and caught the light so completely that the red ruby at the center appeared as if it were set within a shining white flame. Surrounding the ruby was a setting that I had never studied the detail of before. The silver that surrounded the center stone was molded into three skulls. An intricate ivy design filled the hollow spaces and trailed down between the fingers. My mother once called it the death ring. The reference seemed more than fitting at this moment.

  I knew that to understand the things my father said I would have to make it to the ruins as soon as possible. I realized I must have slept most of the day away because I could see the mirrored faux sky changing to a late afternoon hue of blue. I shoved the book down my shirt and folded my father’s letter neatly before placing it in my shirt pocket. As I reached into that pocket, my fingers tenderly brushed the acorn that would be my last offering to my great home of Orenda. I placed the ring on my finger—surprised that it fit my small hand—stole a final glance at my father, swore under my breath that I would avenge his death, and left the office.

  In that moment, something changed for me. I hadn’t really considered myself to be a child at this point in my life anyway, but now I had no choice but to leave behind all childish things. I grew up. The emotion that had been my constant companion for the last day was replaced by resolve. I resolved to figure out the mystery of the book. I resolved that my father would not die in vain. I resolved that I would protect my friends until my dying breath. Most of all, I resolved that Joshua would pay for his crimes, and that I would be the one to make him pay.

  Five

  I waited on the inside of the mirror for the people in the hall to clear, but strangely, not because I was afraid of them. I waited to avoid conflict, sure, but only because I still had a conscience and didn’t want to see any of them end up dead. The glass of the mirror sensed my resolve. It dissolved more easily this time and was restored with barely a thought. I marched straight out the nearest door into the late afternoon sunlight and headed for the town gates.

  I avoided my house because I knew by now someone would be stationed there to keep an eye out for me. It wasn’t so much that there was a missing kid that was the problem, but that there was a missing servant kid. I knew Clayton would be irritated enough by the thought of having to cook and clean for himself that he would raise some sort of commotion.

  I was passing the schoolyard when the thing that I half expected to happen, did. It was simpler than I had anticipated: calmer; even kinder. It was simply a voice.

  “So, dear Edmund, did you get to pay your father a visit?”

  The sugary tone of the question made my blood boil. I turned slowly to see Joshua standing tall in his blackest robes, not twenty feet from me. He was not alone. A quick mental count revealed ten other men standing with him, each with unnaturally hollow, bright yellow eyes. I could hear more closing in behind me.

  I knew what they were. They were humans possessed by energumen. They huddled protectively around Joshua as though he were some sort of god. The idea sickened me.

  Just a day earlier I would have considered this moment my worst nightmare, but I had been wrong. Finding my father burned at his desk trumped this one.

  I kept my response flat. “In fact, I did.”

  “I hope you found him well.”

  The lie in his words was meant to h
urt. I felt a lurch in my emotions that resulted in a single tear beading up in the corner of my eye.

  Joshua took notice. “So my fire did find dear old dad. Strange. No matter. Your father has—had—something I need.” His words dripped with venom. “But, you see, he kept his work a secret. So much so, in fact, that his office is hidden somewhere in the parliament building, and I can’t find it.”

  I could see where this was going. I regretted the fact that I had admitted to seeing my father.

  “You see, Edmund, there’s this book…”

  I instinctively placed my arm to protect my stomach. The weight of the book suddenly felt heavy.

  “Did he give it to you?”

  I was perplexed, so my voice was not as controlled as I would have liked. “How could he have given me a book, you filthy betrayer? You killed him. You sacrificed us all for your putrid energumen!”

  The accusation didn’t faze Joshua at all. His face was still hard and determined. “Yet, he gave you his ring.”

  My hand recoiled like I’d touched a hot stove. “I took it.”

  Joshua inched forward. Although I inched backward at the same pace, I wondered how far the energumen behind me would let me get.

  “And the book?”

  “What book?”

  “The book you have hidden in your shirt?”

  I didn’t let my expression give any response. “My father’s journals.”

  Joshua took one more step forward, but when I followed with my backward step I encountered strong, cold hands preventing me from going further.

  “I don’t believe you,” Joshua said. His following step closer was meant to be menacing.