The Planter #2

November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
5:10 am CEST

Loche Newirth sits down beside a sad looking bush and dangles his legs over the edge of a circular brick basin. He smells the fume of petrol mixed with cold ocean. A consistent hum of distant motors reverberates within the square courtyard he has found himself within. Above is yet another grey sky. The shape of the light has the look of very early morning, but he cannot be sure.

He looks down to his black, Wyn Avuquain cloak. His boots are caked with mud and snow. Around him, white marble pillars and Roman arches line the perimeter of the enclosure—as do electric light fixtures. There is some comfort in knowing that he has arrived in a time that has light fixtures. But what time? he wonders.

Thirst, hunger and fatigue wrestle for his attention. He closes his eyes and lowers his face.

“Maria Vergine,” a voice says to his right, followed by, “Madonna! Oh, Santo Cielo. Ancora?” In the tone, Loche catches surprise, shock and wonder—but he also detects a kind of calm acceptance.

Twisting, Loche sees an old man in a dark green work suit. The patch on his pocket says, Fausto. Both of his hands lightly grip a broom handle. The brush of the broom has swept a small pile of debris and dust.

Before Loche can get a word out, the custodian says, “You…you…” He shakes his head. “You Loche Newirth. C’è una ragione per cui sono venuto a lavorare stamattina. Sei a Venezia!” He pauses. Wrinkles scrunch across his forehead as he searches for words. “You in Venice,” he says. “Vieni con me—come with me, Loche Newirth. Come with me.”