The Art that Changes Us

November 15, this year
Venice, Italy
9:35 pm CEST

Tap, tap, tap.

Astrid is startled out of a deep sleep. It takes her a few moments to recall where she is. The gothic arch of the window, the lit spires of the cathedral across the canal, the ancient book on the floor beside her chair—she shakes her head and says to herself, “In the house of Albion Ravistelle.”

Tap, tap, tap.

She rises. Her back aches. She crosses the room to the door. “Yes?” she says. “Who is it?”

“Professor?” a quiet voice whispers from the hall, “Professor Finnley? Please forgive the interruption, may we speak? My name is Howard Fenn. I am Basil Fenn’s Stepfather.”

Astrid opens the door to discover an elderly man seated in a wheelchair. A red and gold blanket is draped over his knees. A document bag hangs by its leather strap from the chair’s handles. His eyes are friendly and tired. “Please forgive my sudden visit—but I feel that our time to speak privately before tomorrow’s event will be somewhat limited—and things change so fast…” He takes a quick look from side to side. “May we speak together?” Whispering he adds, “We may not have much time.”

Drowse still fogs Astrid’s periphery, but she steps back and nods to Howard. “Of course. Please come in.”

The old man wheels into her chamber and positions himself across from two leather armchairs. Astrid closes the door and joins him.

“May I offer you—”

“Please, nothing for me,” Howard interrupts. “As I’ve said, it is likely we won’t have much time. There’s little that goes unseen under this roof—and I’m quite sure that my visit is perhaps not completely secret. Whether anyone will mind our speaking together, I do not know. Nevertheless, I felt I should take the chance.”

Astrid attempts to focus by blinking her eyes. She waits.

“What I’m about to share is between you and me. As far as I know, no one has yet discovered—” he breaks off. His heavy lids blink three times. He starts again. “You have found yourself in the whirlpool—in the Center. I would imagine you’re feeling the vertigo?”

Astrid nods and appreciates his simple tone and genuine demeanor. She intuitively feels at ease with this new acquaintance. “I’ve spent my life studying and searching for the stuff of myth—and I—I found it. The past couple of days are beyond rational explanation.”

“And shall continue to be,” Howard smiles. “Yes. Yes. I’ve had a similar shock—many years ago, of course. It landed me in this chair.” He grips the sides of the wheels and glances at his motionless legs. “I looked at a piece of art not meant for me—or anyone—then everything was different. So very different.”

Astrid looks at her hands in her lap. “Everything was different,” she echoes. “I’ve done something similar—I’ve looked at Loche’s Journal. Another art piece that has changed—”

“Yes,” Howard nods, “I’ve read the Journal, too. Which brings me to why I’ve come.” He stares at her for a moment. “I’ve read your books.” She is about to reply with her usual, Oh, those things, but she holds her breath instead. “I’ve read your books… and they are wonderful, if you ask me,” he says. “Professor, I’ve come to speak with you about your books. Since my accident with Basil’s painting and the condition it has left me in, I’ve spent all of my time exploring and fact-finding to learn about my son Basil, his gift, his place in this world and his relation to the mythic audience that surround us all. Loche’s depiction of my research and findings in the Journal is accurate to a point. Accurate as far as his story can tell. Yet, for all of his divine talent, the story he has made is making itself.”

The pit of Astrid’s stomach clenches. Worry and fear pour into her bloodstream. The feeling she has tried to explain to Albion and Marcel when she thinks about how the past shifts—how new memories form from out of a void of nothingness.

“Your books,” Howard says, “I read some time ago.” He pauses and looks away. His expression reads as if he is deciding if he should jump into a cold lake or simply turn and walk away. “Your books I read a few years ago—but your books have only just appeared in my memory. Today! When I heard you were here, Professor Finnley. If I concentrate I can track other changes in my memory’s timeline. I don’t know why I’m able to do this and others are not—notably Albion Ravistelle and others. Maybe it’s because of my experience within the Center that left me crippled. Maybe because Loche wanted me to see. I don’t know.”

Astrid reaches her hand out and rests it on the man’s knee. “I can somehow feel the same things. As if the past is changing—and when it does there is a brief time when the change can be seen or felt. A profound sadness or worry—”

Emphatic nods from Howard. “Yes,” he agrees.

“—like something incredibly important you failed to see, or forgot or were unable to understand—then suddenly—it’s clearly before you. Wyn Avuqua was like that. Discovering it.”

More enthusiastic acknowledgment. “Your books…”

“My books?” Astrid says, “You keep saying.”

“Your books have changed, too.” With a wave of his hand gesturing to the ancient book upon the table, he says, “And I would expect the Toele has amended as well.”

“What do you mean?”

“For me, this knowing lasts for a brief time before it slips into memory and the feelings of worry we’ve described. I’ve even written journal entries of my own only to find them slightly changed days later.” He stops, scratches his head and puzzles for a few seconds. “Or, goddamit, at least I think they’ve changed. Clarity is dependent upon reference frames…reference frames, some relativity and a goddamn stiff drink!”

“What about the changes in the texts?”

“Professor?” he asks. “Do you recall writing about the death of an innocent at Wyn Avuqua before the city fell?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The killing of the One God, Thi before the gates of the city?”

Confusion squeezes Astrid’s forehead. “No. In all of my research I’ve never—” An avalanche of fear crashes into her abdomen. “I don’t remember the…” But she does remember.

The boy god. The Queen of the city dismembers the innocent boy to buy peace with the Godrethion horde, only to be betrayed.

Howard watches her. His face seems to mirror the shock of her own revelation—her own discovery.

“Hold on to it,” Howard offers, “it can slowly slip into memory—as if it has been there since the moment Loche’s timeline placed it.”

She inhales the cool atmosphere of the chamber—the scented candle wax, the smell of the old tapestries, the taste of anxiety. Howard digs into his document bag, produces one of Astrid’s books and holds it up. Astrid raises her hand and lets the pads of her fingers touch the cover. She traces the shape of the pyramid below her name. She remembers the section about the boy god, the killing, the bloody aftermath. Like a déjà vu—like a fading dream after waking—like a forgotten thought pressed back into the subconscious, she teeters on a line between memory and discovery.

“Oh God,” she whispers.

“Precisely,” Howard replies grimly.

“The boy god.” She lowers her hand. “The boy god is Aethur’s son. Thi is Loche Newirth’s son.”