The Next Sentence

November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
6:15 am CEST

From the high window above Fausto’s workshop, Loche can see over sienna rooftops and the canal to Albion Ravistelle’s home just a mile west. A cold rain falls.

For the last hour he has been sitting beside the water streaked window. In his hands is the Ithicsazj of Fausto’s making. When he saw the mask hanging on the wall, he pulled it down, and has not yet let the thing out of his grasp. Every few minutes he lowers his gaze to the empty sockets and searches for Edwin there. The red, beaded tear upon the cheek and the pale, bluish finish—a snapshot of the last time he saw his son’s face.

When they first arrived at the shop, the enthusiastic Fausto had placed Loche before the web of research. Pictures of each character of the drama were tacked up and connected by yellow yarn, described with Post-It notes and arrayed much like Loche remembers his cabin walls not two weeks ago. Fausto spoke excitedly and waved his arms—occasionally saying, “You see? You see?” Loche managed to learn much despite the limited English of his new Italian friend: Albion Ravistelle is to hold a masquerade ball this evening; the paintings of Basil Fenn will be displayed to a host of high profile, important guests; a Professor from America has discovered the ruins of Wyn Avuqua, and she is here, in Venice. But the information that brought Fausto’s chattering to a halt was when he shared that psychologist Marcus Rearden was currently across the water at Albion’s house. Loche cannot be sure why Fausto fell silent at the mention of Rearden, his old mentor, but he can imagine that the expression on his face was conjured by the name.

Loche was given coffee, bread, cheese and fruit, and then shown upstairs to a bedroom. Not long after he had seated himself beside the window looking into the dreary day, Fausto knocked on the door and called, “Dr. Newirth, tu hai un visitatore.”

The door opened and standing there, tall, lanky, wearing an overcoat coat of green with grey lapels, and a weird, thin-lipped grin was George Eversman.

Loche did not rise. George did not speak. The immortal entered, nodded to Fausto to leave them alone, closed the door and moved to an easy chair across from Loche.

The two have not yet spoken.

A clock keeps its steady cadence just beneath the prattle of raindrops bursting on the roof. The mask seems to pull Loche’s eyes to it again.

“They…” Loche tries. “They killed Edwin, George.” Anguish and grief floods over him. Blind with tears, Loche weeps. His fingers trace the mask’s chin, mouth and cheeks.

George does not interfere but simply watches Loche. Concern haunts his eyes. A few minutes pass. Finally George says softly, “Loche, have a good cry.”

A good cry.

And amid the chaos, the fantastic circumstances and the horror of losing his son, with his tears comes his professional point of view. A voice somewhere inside his head whispers, A good cry. Crying is good. Emotional tears contain stress hormones that get excreted from the body through crying. It produces endorphins. Crying is a path to health—a clearing of grief—enables the heart and mind to re calibrate. You have shifted from a sympathetic to a parasympathetic state—Let go…let go. A good cry.

The sorrow comes in heaves and waves. Between each his chest tries to control the pulsing tempo of sobbing. He squints to see through his veiled sight.

Bethany Winship, his client, Rearden’s late mistress, enters into the office of his memory. She is both crying and laughing. “Oh my word,” she says, her eyes glinting and wet, “I know that I get up and I get down, but this is ridiculous.” Her face is pale blue. Upon her cheek is a red painted tear. Her throat is welted and bruised—pink shadows of gripping fingers stain her skin.

The wonder of it. The horror.

Loche’s mind then shifts to a beloved quote from Washington Irving. “There is sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.”

The tips of Loche’s fingers hover over the solemn countenance of the mask. Through his blurry vision he again searches for Edwin.

“He not there,” George says finally. “Your boy not there. Won’t find him there.”

“They…they killed him…”

“I know,” George says, piteously.

Loche raises his focus to George. His eyes flash clear, “How do you know?”

“Not figured it out yet?”

“Figured out what?”

“No. Not yet, eh?” George shakes his head slowly. “What is my name?”

“Your name?”

“Yes.”

“George.”

“True, dat. What other name?”

“George Eversman.”

“Yes.” The immortal waits.

“What?” Loche asks wiping his nose.

“My given Elliqui name means same as Eversman.”

Loche nods, “So?”

“Loche, I am Iteav. I am the only son of Yafarra, Queen of Wyn Avuqua.”

A billion electrical impulses spark and burn within the chassis of Loche’s skull. His eyelids slip shut. There in the firelight of his memory he sees the young boy Iteav sitting upon his mother’s lap. He sees Iteav and Edwin playing in a far room. He sees the immortal little boy lifting up a toy horse and handing it to his son.

“You were there? You saw it?” Loche says.

“No,” George replies. “I was not. I did not see Edwin die.”

“You knew I was there, in Wyn Avuqua all along?”

George thinks a moment. “Foggy, Loche. But yes, maybe.”

“Do you remember Wyn Avuqua?”

“No,” George says again. “Or, little. What I know most is from stories—the tracing of my lineage. I do not remember my life there.”

“You do not remember playing with toys—you and Edwin?”

George looks away to the grey light outside. He searches, then answers, “Maybe. I somehow know your son. But I don’t know how. Long ago, Loche. A thousand years and more ago, Loche.” He explains further. He tells of dreams—of high towers —of a woman’s face, green eyes, gold hair—of a horrible Rathinalya caused by thousands of gods. There is little else he can share from his childhood. He shifts to the shores of the Agean Sea and his parents—growing up in near Rome—discovering his immortality in his late teens.

“You do not remember your mother?” Loche asks.

“Only stories. Only tales. Maybe I see her face in dreams. She calls me in dreams. She tells me she is sorry. She cries over me.”

“How long have you known? Known you are Yafarra’s son?”

“Long, long time,” he answers. “I am Angofal for that reason. I am Chal. I am King.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you and me have lost dear ones. Because across the water, in Albion’s house is the one that put to death my mother: Nicholas Cythe. And across the water, too, is the one that put your son to death: Marcus Rearden. Across the water, we have work to do.”

“Yafarra was killed then?” Loche asks. Remembering the dull clop of her axe causes his body to flinch. It was she that dealt Rearden’s blow, he thinks. In a dark chamber of his heart she has been paid. “How was she killed?”

George shakes his head, “No one knows truth… But tales tell that Devil took her life—Summoner of Godrethion, Cynthia. Cynthia now Nicholas Cythe.” He frowns, pointing west across the canal. “I missed my chance at Uffizi when we last meet. When we meet next, Cythe will be no more. Tonight. Tonight at the masquerade ball.” The immortal shifts in his chair. His fingers lace over his lips. He asks, “You were there? You were in the great city. Menkaure took you to Wyn Avuqua?”

Loche nods.

“You see my mother?”

“Yes.”

“You see how she die?”

“No.” Loche feels a stab of anger. He can still see her escorting young George and Edwin out of the Templar chamber from his place on the stone floor. The paralyzing stab of betrayal is still fresh. He wishes he knew how she was killed. He wishes he could have seen it. He shakes his head to master his fury. “No, I did not see her die. I crossed over as the city was falling.”

“Basil? Find Basil there?”

Again Loche nods. “Yes, within a painting. He found a way to close the doors. He is closing them one by one. Soon all of his paintings will be without Centers. But he fears that the damage his work has done cannot be mended.”

George’s head tilts as he listens.

“Julia and William and the others,” Loche says. “Will they make it across?”

“Do not fear for them. I believe you will all meet again before this day is over.

“Why was I taken back to Wyn Avuqua, George? I don’t understand. I could have found my brother by looking into Leonaie’s painting here in this time, to learn what I needed to learn. Help me to understand.”

A smile widens on George’s lips like a stretching rubber band. “Why does it rain right now? Why do we learn what we learn when we learn it? I think answer is clear. Certain. Real. You made myth. Myth made you. You have now lived the story—no longer just words—pictures. You were there. I do not think Basil called you across Menkaure. Another force called you. Another took you there. Now all is real.”

“Another?”

George shrugs. “The world is full of angels and devils and undying travelers. None of us know how the next few pages will spell out our fates—none of us know what the next sentence will bring. We simply go forth. We go to learn. We go to see.” The rubbery smile pulls tighter. “And you, Aethur, Poet, you of all, made it all. The answer will come.”

George’s gaze lowers to the artifact in Loche’s hands. “And the mask that you have chosen, you shall wear.” Loche looks down at the Ithicsazj. “I give Fausto that mask, you know. It from Wyn Avuqua—so I was told.”

“This? This is the…”

George blinks his heavy lids. “Yes. Very old. I did not know its history until a few years ago. But I have had it since I was a boy. It come with me to Europe when I was young.”

George stands. He extends an envelope filagreed with gold leaves and vines to Loche. “You and me have official invitations.” He grins, “We still have Orathom Wis inside Albion’s house. But two is all we got. Julia and William will come in through back door. But you and me enter in like all the others. We will wear masks, we shall drink, and we shall avenge our fallen dear ones with steel.” The immortal’s voice shouts, “Come, Aethur! We go to the next page!”