The Water’s Eye #2

November 11, this year
Terciera Island, Azores, Portugal
1:45pm AZOT

Helen holds the spike of her finger at his throat and pauses. Loche can see her struggling—her pupils flitting—seeking some reason not to murder.

Loche closes his eyes and wonders if his death would be the best option. And what better way than at the hand of his estranged wife, a woman he never truly knew. Was it his fault for not understanding her, or has she deceived him all these years? Why did he make her a god-killer?

Then, Edwin fills his mind. His only son. His eyes snap open and he feels flame stabbing out. For a split second Loche sees that his anger causes Helen to tremble and fall back. And to his surprise the sharp nail drops down and away, and Helen cries as if the wind had been knocked from her lungs. Her chin drops and her legs weaken. She catches herself by grasping Loche’s arms.

Loche, shocked at this sudden turn, catches her waist and lowers her to the floor.

“What, what is the matter?” Loche asks.

“It’s Rathinalya,” she manages to breathe out. “I’ve never —never felt it so powerful. I cannot stand. You—you are a god after all.”

“What are you talking about?”

The Rathinalya. Loche recalls the sensation described as an immortal’s innate dexterity. But also, their instinctive reaction to a celestial on earth. William Greenhame had told of overwhelming chills, like a thousand needles pricking the skin, a cascade of ice crystals ticking down the spine. This is how an immortal knows a god had bridged—how an immortal knows that a god is near—the purpose of their existence—god killer.

Loche positions her so that she can lean her body against the wall of glass. Her breathing is heavy. Sweat mats the hair around her face. Her hands are still clamped to Loche’s upper arms.

“I’ve never… felt it like this… even with Cythe… this can’t be possible… you…”

“I don’t understand, Helen,” Loche says. “It is not me you’re sensing.” She raises her face to his and searches.

“Albion, Nicholas Cythe—Rearden—they must be right. You’re…” She breaks off again, unable to breathe. Fear blackens the grey of her irises. Her hands grip tighter. “I didn’t want to believe it.”

Loche studies her. He is confused. She is clinging to him, and he cannot decide if she is yearning to hold him for comfort, or to raise her hands to his throat and strangle the life from him.

“Make it stop, Loche. Make it stop!” she cries.

“It is not me,” Loche tells her. “It must be something else.”

Heavy, uneven footsteps thump behind him. Loche turns and sees Julia Iris leaning unsteadily in the passageway. She is grappling for the door frame and the wall to balance herself. Like Helen, Julia’s face is blurred by fear.

“Loche,” she cries. “Edwin! Edwin is—” Loche pulls away from Helen and rushes to Julia. He catches her as her legs give way. “He’s outside, Loche.”

“What? What are you saying?”

“Edwin! Stop Edwin!” Julia raises her arm and points. Loche follows the line of her arm to the huge window, out across the green to the sea. “Edwin! Stop him!” she cries again.

With an awkward, feeble push, Helen turns her body and looks out the window. She then slaps her hand to the glass and screams, “Edwin! Edwin!”

Loche rushes to the window and scans the lawn. The afternoon is a flat metal wash. A small figure is running across the center of the grass plot toward the sea—toward the cliff. It is six-year-old Edwin Newirth.

Loche’s fist beats repeatedly against the glass as his voice screams “Edwin! Edwin!”

The little boy stops in the middle of the green field, turns around and looks up. He waves at his father. Silence. Despite the distance of fifty meters and the grey light, Loche can see a grin upon his son’s face. Edwin lowers his hand, looks back toward the sea and then back to Loche. He waves one more time, and as if he were being called, he spins his little body toward the sea and runs.

“Edwin! Stop!” The glass walls clatter. Loche knocks harder. “What are you doing?”

“Go after him! Bring him back!” Helen cries. Loche looks down at her and then to Julia. Both are overcome and crippled with some power he can only guess at. He lunges for the door, through the hall and vaults himself down three floors of stairs.

Near the exit, two armed Orathom Wis are visibly struggling with the powerful Rathinalya. They note Loche but say nothing as he rushes through. One is slumped in his chair, the other is on his knees just outside with his hands over his mouth. Looking over his shoulder as he passes, Loche identifies the same shadow of horror in their faces that he saw on Helen—upon Julia. He squints, dashing out under the steel sky. He trains his eyes on his son. In his periphery a puff of white birds swirl down below the cliff line. The raw chill in the air cuts into his chest. A quickening throb booms in his ears.

“Edwin!” He yells. The sound is muffled in the stillness. His breath is an icy fume. The boy is running far ahead. His legs running to the cliff. “Edwin!”

Distance is closing between them. Behind, Helen’s weakened voice is calling, “Edwin! Loche!” He glances back. Both his wife and Julia are staggering out of the building, trying to follow.

When he faces forward again, he sees Edwin stopped at the cliff edge. He turns toward his father and smiles. The smile is genuine and beautiful, as if the boy has rediscovered a loved missing toy. Loche tries to run faster. “Careful, son!” he manages to blurt between heaves. Edwin’s grin grows, then he turns away and looks down.

When the little boy’s body disappears, dropping fast below the cliff-line, Loche is nearly an arms reach. Helen’s defeated scream scrapes at Loche’s soul. Loche leaps forward and lands on his chest, arms stretched out and down, his hands splayed wide, but empty. He watches helplessly as his son plunges from the high cliff to the mirrored water below.

Then he understands.

Spreading out upon the surface of the water beneath Edwin, like spilled black ink, is a massive, widening pupil. Around its diameter an ice blue iris forms. Loche’s breathing halts. Edwin tumbles down. He descends well below the waterline but there is no splash. The surface does not cover over him. Loche sees him plummet to a tiny speck then disappear into the black.

Helen and Julia drop to their knees beside Loche. Helen is shrieking, “No! No! No!” Julia attempts to peer down into the eye; then cries out as if in pain. She covers her face with her hands.

Loche stands, takes three steps backward and then rushes forward, hurling himself out into the sky above the sea. Arms rotate and thread through the air to keep his body from tumbling head over foot—he keeps his glare latched to the massive eye.

He does not look away.

He does not blink.

This time he will make it blink.

He will drive a lance through it.

This time it will fear him.

Silence.

Flash.

Gone.