The Big Deep Heavy

November 12, this year
Venice, Italy
10:10 pm CEST

Astrid hands the Journal she has just finished reading to Fausto and asks in English, “Can you read this?”

“Si.”

“If you have trouble, Marcel will help you. Capiche?”

“Si,” Fausto says, his hands trembling as he takes the Journal. He stares at her. “What,” he asks haltingly in English, “what does it say?”

Astrid shakes her head. “For the moment, I don’t know how to answer you.” She reaches to the book and touches the back cover. “There is an envelope—a letter—at the end of the book. The letter is written by Albion Ravistelle. He tells of the events that follow where Loche leaves off, and the way his story —” her words bang into a wall, “the way his story—” she scowls. “Changes—changes—” She gives up. She whispers, “Changes everything.” After a moment she smiles lamely, “I don’t know if it will help you in your research, or if it will cause more confusion. But you should read it. You deserve to read it.”

The Mask Maker wonders at her. Glassy eyes blink. He backs away with the leather book and closes himself inside his bedroom. Astrid turns toward the small kitchen, passes Marcel, asleep on the couch, and sits at the table beside the window where she has been all day and into the evening, reading. She folds her hands, places her elbows on the table and rests her head upon her knuckles.

“Fuck,” she whispers.

Strewn all over the table are notes. Most of the scribbled lines ending with question marks. Many have deep cut underlines and ballpoint circles.

Is Loche, God?

Does the Devil really exist?

If Heaven is to fall, what does that mean? Is it happening now?

A wine bottle without a label atop the small refrigerator catches her attention. She does not hesitate. She rises, grabs it and finds an opener in the first drawer she tries. She pulls the cork. The collar of the bottle plinks the rim of a glass as she pours. In the dim light the wine appears black. Bringing it to her lips she gulps until it is gone. She refills and takes another long pull. The wine is sweet—fragrant, like bruised flowers. Thick, like blood.

“Fuck.”

Did Loche change the past?

Did Loche kill the Painter, Basil?

Did Basil ever exist, save in narrative, save in memory?

Did he create Helen? Albion?

“Fuck.”

She continues to scan the notes. Some lines are hers, others are copied from Albion’s letter.

Did Loche create the Itonalya?

Can he do it again?

Wyn Avuqua?

Why could we not find the city, and then suddenly, it’s there?!!!

Marcus Rearden? Bethany Winship?

How can a story meant to capture a murderer, change existence?

—same way a story about crucifying a the Son of God can change existence?

A chill claws through her. Aloud she says, “Dr. Marcus Rearden… What are you trying to do now?”

Astrid puzzles still looking at the sheet of notes.

What of Basil’s paintings in Albion’s possession?

Albion plans to show them!

Tears rise. She poses a question to the empty kitchen, the gods that may or may not be listening, the scribbled journal in the next room, her students on the other side of the planet, her ex-husband’s note waving in the furnace heat at home, and the man that has somehow captured her heart, Graham Cremo:

“What about me? Did Loche Newirth create me?”