Covenant

November 12, this year
Venice, Italy
11:36 am CEST

“Our friendship has been long,” Albion says, turning his hard gaze from Fausto and stepping to a nearby shelf of masks. His fingers run along his chin. He examines the faces. “And I know, you have had questions. Questions. Oh, so many questions. And as I’ve said to you, all these years, answers for you—answers for you are dangerous. So very dangerous.”

The tiny bell above the door chimes. Two large men wearing long dark grey coats enter. One turns to the window and flips the open sign to closed while the other drops the blinds.

Light blue branches of veins appear along Fausto’s forehead. His skin pales. He glances at the shelves toward Astrid and Marcel in the shadows, and then to the two men now standing on either side of the doorway. Their faces are stern, almost angry.

“I’ve entrusted you with my secret. And other secrets,” Ravistelle continues, “for we have known each other since you were a child, after all. And I have been with you all along. But as you might expect, I’m disappointed that you would keep secrets from me, my dear, Fausto. All that I’ve shared with you, and now you hide things from me.” His shoes tap the wood floor as he moves to inspect several framed pictures on the wall. “Perhaps it is unfair of me to expect you to carry my secrets. Unfair of me to place the weight of my secrets upon you,” he pauses, tilting his head toward Fausto, “upon you and your family.”

Fausto quakes. “Albion—” he starts. He wets his lips. His eyes plead.

Ravistelle raises his hand. “If I wanted to take Astrid Finnley now, I could. I know she is here somewhere.” He returns to the counter and places his palms gently upon Fausto’s hands. “Do not fear. I am willing to forgive you for hiding her from me. How could you not be filled with even more questions after watching her appear out of thin air? How could you not be filled with a desire to know more about your friend Albion Ravistelle and his long, long, long life?” He pats the back of Fausto’s hands. “I know. I know.

“Fausto, I have something I want you to do for me.”

Fausto opens his mouth but can only nod affirmation.

“Good. I know Professor Finnley is afraid. Tell her that she need not fear. She was invited, after all. Our treatment of her at the dig site was ill-managed. It is not our intention to harm her. It is our intention to include her. Now, this may be difficult for her to believe, given what she’s seen and heard. So I will now grant her that grace. As I’ve said, I could take her now, but I would rather she come to me freely.”

Ravistelle gestures to the larger of the two men behind him. The man steps forward and produces a wooden box the size of a laptop computer. Ravistelle receives it, studies the dark mahogany grain, the subtle relief work of ivy leaves around the lid, and then sets it upon the counter. He slides it beneath Fausto’s fingers.

“Please place this into the hands of Professor Astrid Finnley and her assistant, Marcel Red Hawk Hruska.” He drops his gaze to the box with a reverential bow, “Within is my peace offering to her—and my covenant. Once she has examined it, please ask her to join me at my house, tomorrow evening—where we shall dine and speak more of these things. You may accompany her and bring the beautiful masks you have made.”

Ravistelle unfolds his coat. Whirls it over his shoulders and smiles. “Thank you,” he says. “Perhaps, my friend, it is time that I shared more of my life with you.”

He turns toward Astrid hiding in the shelves. He seems to stare directly into her eyes. “Tell her, Fausto. Tell her not to fear me. Answers await her at my house.”

The bell rings. The three men exit.

The clock ticks beside the register. Fausto does not move save for the slight involuntary quaking of his shoulders.

Astrid rounds the shelving row with Marcel.

Marcel says, “Fausto? Are you alright?”

“I have never been so afraid,” he replies. His voice is as coarse as sandpaper.

Astrid carefully lifts Fausto’s fingers, sets them aside and slides the box toward her. She finds the lip of the lid and lifts it away. Inside she discovers a worn, brown leather bound journal. She stares at it for a moment. She looks up to both Marcel and Fausto with a question staining her expression. She digs the book out and flips open to the first page. Scribbled in bubbly, feminine letters is:

To my husband, Loche—for your words.

I love you,

Helen

“Jesus Christ,” Astrid whispers.

“What? What is it?” Marcel asks.

Astrid flips the page. The handwriting is different. It reads:

October 26th, Priest Lake.

What is real and what is make-believe? Have I become what I have longed to cure? Have I finally gone crazy?

“What is it, Professor?”

She raises her face to them. “We have the Poet’s journal.”