594. Polaris Summation

By request, a somewhat coherent summation of The Story as it relates to the crew's time on Polaris. Enjoy and/or be amused.

592. You Won't Feel a Thing

"What the frail are you doing here?" said Rog, not expecting to see Arn.

"Nice to see you too," said Arn. "I can leave if you like. Your call."

"It's not that. I was just expecting someone else. Come in."

Arn didn't move.

"Well?" said Rog.

"Didn't come to socialize."

"Yeah?"

"Came to save your petard. Grab Yul. I'll explain on the way."

"Look--"

Arn looked blankly at his chron.

"Yul is ill. Help is on the way. Be here any minute."

"I am your help," replied Arn without raising his voice. "You don't want to be here when that help arrives."

"I don't think you understand."

"Let me put it this way. Stay here. You die."

Rog stared at Arn who stared back. Each still as a tree in a windless dawn.

"Damn it Arn, does everything have to be a frailing mystery with you?"

"Words are time and we don't have time. You coming or--?"

An explosion sent Arn into Rog's arms, the room concussed, shaken as if by a giant, dust and plaster falling like snow, choking breath and caking tongue, the room a blizzard of destruction, their bodies as lumps in an avalanche.

__________

"You don't look Kulmykian," said Trev, the room somewhat of a drunken blur.

"I'm not," she said, closing the door and turning the lock.

"Arc'teryxian?"

"No."

"What are you then?"

"Does it matter?" she smiled, approaching the bed.

Trev considered that for a moment while fumbling with a pillow on the headboard. "Suppose not."

"Didn't think so," her voice creamy, the room spinning. Running her thumbs over his forehead, she closed his eyes, her blue nails tracing elliptical loops on his flush temples. "Relax. Promise you won't feel a thing."

__________

Von looked at the chaplain. "What the hellocks happened?"

"Some things, we don't know."

Von lifted his hand.

"And you can beat me to a pulp and you'll get no more. I can't give what I don't have."

Von lowered his hand, looking at it as if it didn't belong to him. "Okay, then give me your best guess."

"What has occurred here has never occurred before. Your guess is as good as mine."

"Your shiotting me."

"I'm afraid not."

"Never before?"

"Never."

"Really?"

"Really."

Von's left eye begin to twitch. Turning to the fount, he raised his right hand. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," said the chaplain.

Von glanced in his direction and then back to the fount before dipping his fingers in the light. In a blink, he was gone.

587. Stolen Hours

The ocean glittered in encore as the sun set and the moon rose. Where light from above had warmed roof and heart alike, lights within, gloaming golden and orange behind jalousied pane, twinkled life indoors, happy shadows of simple domestic bliss where bread was bread and wine was wine and gratitude for the day was served first. In concert, closing or opening act debated, the claret sky twinkled life from the watchful velvet heavens. The sight was, as it had been before and as it would be again, sublime, if one had the mind to see.

Trev didn't. He had found a small alley off a small street, a place for locals, a vista to the small harbor in the distance, a place to get lost, a place to be lost, a place, with open windows and aged wood, redolent of lore, legend and sea, of hands labored in cause, a place breathing neither need nor want, a place to get drunk. And drink he did. Drank the colors till the colors danced in his eyes and around his head and sound sat upon his head, feet kicking the top of his lobes. So he did what lost and drunk do, he drank more, his hands on the bar, rolling as if at sea, heavy his head felt, bobbing. Another glass, another lifting and down like gavel rang empty what was once full.

As coin upon coin was offered up, coin attracted what coin is wont and beside his listing was flesh firm and soft, eyes the larger in reflection, fingers twirling, a code neither secret nor discreet. He talked, the words feeling visible, objects upon a platter, notes hanging in the air, an orchestra in support of tale told. She listened, her face a pleasant mask, hiding nothing and in that nothing, nothing sincere, sincere as nothing asked, nothing wanted, beauty held, growing by the dram.

Lost, time. To lose time, to that place he sought, those hours given forth, banked in memory denied to journal, foe of pen and paper, stranger to all but strangers. She offered neither flesh nor warmth as it seemed from afar as it would seem from eye and ear witnessed, but lostness, a few hours stolen, extracted. That is what he wanted, an extractor, someone to pull from his mind an hour, an hour removed from the hours before and the hours to come. She could do this. Extract him. Her trade, skill. Worthy of the exchange, for who can buy time? Who can create time?

He nodded. She smiled. And lips were sealed to the ears that asked. "Did you find him?" asked John.

"Not hide nor hair," replied Arn as the bartender looked to the stairs. "Yet."

581. Gyro

He walked as if wearing himself, each movement shifting weight like a heavy object inside a box. Vision sharp, hearing narrow, touch blind sensitive, taste metallic bitter. The cobbled streets were still butter smooth, a dull gloss, evidence of time and shod. The shops bustled as they had bustled before, although vaguely cloaked with a strange patina of loneliness that made what looked the same feel entirely different. The gloaming without would come to match the gloaming within, the feeling such as neighbors peeking from behind curtains, fingers pointing just out of sight, whispers mouthed but not heard.

Inside, the box, his heart spun, a gyro picking up speed, slightly out of balance, faster, singing rotation, a heavy hum, a spinning beyond his hands to stop, trapped, buried, within his chest it spun, above the gut, below the throat. The street started to spin. Feeling dizzy, he sat. The bench felt warm. Bead of sweat trickled in the blue sky heat. Still he felt a chill, cold as one feels cold in fever. Taut, his skin felt; and thin. Taut and thin, brittle, such to tear if he moved too quick. Or combust under the magnifying glass sun, the cold heat burning his pale space-voyaged complexion.

His hands gripped the arms of the bench and what was still, felt as if moving, a circus ride shifting to and fro, jerking on tracks metal, wood squealing protest, a ride without known end. Colors, bodies, blurred before his starring eyes. Voices mixed with the sounds of transport and nature, of a village exhaling midday life. Hues flowed like water, like the river and he felt the rock, resisting, out of place, out of step, stupid, stubborn; and upon his stubbornness, life flowed over and around him, wearing him down, wearing him away, not with harshness, but a gentle washing, away, not of door slammed but instead, slowly, quietly shut, a rejection all the more damning in its lack of hate or anger, a cold indictment, of knowledge known to all but himself.

How was she? Where was she? Where was he? How was he? The questions stuck in his parched throat, unable to move, a hairball lodged. Still, the questions came, multiplied, mocked, each a strand, an invisible spider weaving, he the prize, dinner, caught, passive, watching, strand, question, strand, question. Tight, he felt tight, constricted, consumed, in life, in the street, but not of life, not of the street. How? Where? Why? His head spun. His head. Spider. Him. Consuming itself. Alive.

__________

As Ariel held Em's head, John stood above, caught in the moment between action done and action to be done. Em looked up. "Where's Trev?" Her voice soft such to need a gentle breeze to carry it upward.

"We don't know," said John. Seeing her exhale, chest sunken, he quickly added, "But Arn will find him. Have no doubt, he will be here soon."

578. The Falling of a Leaf

As a leaf, paper thin, weightlessly quiet, flits on the gentle resistance of air's invisible carpet, a last conscious effort, a dance before mother, and father, childlike in escape, inevitable as falling rain, Em fell. Her gown flashed in the ruby explosion, snapshot captured like a ghost in lightning, a parachute of transparent cloth, living it seemed, to protect the one within from the descent of knee buckled, of blood rushed, eye a flutter, ear echoing, hair static rising. Her fingers crawled upward, a reaching for, toward, ever upward and not down, not to break the fall, but upward, following the eye, reaching, seeing what could not be seen, touching what could not be touched, an invisible union not of flesh or mind; and so upward they rose, a salutation of surrender, a kiss under the skin of lip, a hug of hearts, from two to one, as ice to water returned.

577. Pistic

The door opened. A nurse bookended by two armed guards, the light between the night, filled the frame. Em stood before the window, in gown like ghost, watching the girls and their dogs. The nurse took a step. Without turning, Em raised her hand. The nurse stopped. The guards, faceless behind darkened visors, powered their weapons--click, hum. Em turned into the vibration. Weapons leveled. She raised the other hand and looked to the heavens.

"Father."

The room filled with ruby light, and what was, was no more.

568. Around the Whorl

A knock on the door. Zoe nodded and Von stepped into the hall. A gurney, a nurse and a contingent of armed guards, dressed in black, weapons drawn, waited. Their black face-shields were polished, his reflection like a house of mirrors, equally elongated, reflected back. He looked from the nurse to the guards and back to the nurse before raising an index finger and ducking back into the room.

Zoe raised her weary head and inquired. Von held his finger to his lips and motioned toward the window.

----------

Rog had called for help. He had dressed Yul, wiped and continued wiping the blood from her face rocking her back and forth in his arms. The dispatcher had said it would be an hour before anyone could arrive. Rog had yelled. Must have worked and his anger subsided as with fifteen minutes, a knock on the door, help had arrived.

----------

Von opened the window, returned to the bed and placed Zoe on his back, her emaciated hands wrapped around his neck, the bulge of the child uncomfortably pressing into his back. Quickly they moved through the courtyard, steps light, breath shallow.

----------

Watching the girls skip and dance around the tree, an odd-shaped figure, dark, hunchbacked, cloaked, caught her eye moving toward the tree and toward the girls. Fear turned to shock as the girls stopped, their dogs pulling forth and barking. The figure kept moving and slipped from sight, the bubble of joy broken, a chill of aloneness, vague, grew.

----------

The Hood read the report. His communique had not reached Polaris, solar storm was reason claimed.

----------

John pulled up to the hospital, his comm blinked. While Kyra and Ariel slept, he took the call, a voice spoke in even tones and direct declarative statements. Quietly, he pulled away, heading for the chapel.

561. Mute Eyes

He had not called. He was not taking calls.

They wheeled her into her own room, just a single bed, white sheets and a solitary window overlooking the grounds of the provincial hospital. She sat the bed in a cotton gown, head turned forty-five degrees, eyes fixed on the window. The room had no smell, clean, bland, insipid. She breathed without moving, foreign air into her lungs, in the care of strangers, alone. Limp, her arms hung, hands in her lap, as they had been placed. Her lips, dry, cracked, felt as her heart, bleeding, cause unknown. Strength absent, waiting for purpose, waiting for a call, a sound in the silence, a ring that someone gave a damn.

Images flashed. Her father at the helm, steadfast, the ship rolling in a storm; her mother, pearly smile, saucer eyes, arms conveying what words couldn't as strength slipped away in heartbeats faint and fainter. Family, connection, relationship. This was life. To care, to love, to act, to hold and caress and kiss, a flower in a vase, a thumb on forehead, strokes gentle.

The room had one bed and one small table next to the bed. Light slatted into the monochromatic cell, bars of shadow, confinement solitary, an antithesis slap to all she had known. Together, she had told her father, we will lift her up. Together, her father had repeated into their embrace, father and daughter drawing upon the other. Together their strength grew, together their love multiplied. Together mattered. Together gave meaning. Together flowed, naturally. Together smothered doubt, held fear at arms length. She sat the room, silent, alone, her unblinking eyes fixed on the window, on the grounds, seeing nothing, neither tree nor leaf, neither flower nor bird.

Spoken, not a word, they had said. Mute of eye too. Her chart said shock. She had seen them, strangers, move today as she imagined they had moved yesterday and as she suspected, they would move tomorrow, with or without her. Their hearts distant, necessity she wondered, grown callous in the labor of care, weary in battles lost. They had even misspelled her name. And through it all were images and silence.

Together, father and daughter had lifted, spirit and casket, when the time came. Together, pure as morning before song of bird, within and not without, they lifted their souls as they lifted the soul of womb to eternal light. The walk seemed forever and an instant, timeless she would say later, the most curious mixing of contradictions, held within something larger, something greater, and, for a moment, as if a crack in the wall of darkness, something flashed, something no word could describe, no concept could hold, and her feet felt to float, casket too, and they walked, father on one side, daughter on the other. Together.

Alone, in the white barred silence, Em sat the bed with doll arms, fingers clawed in natural repose. Her face felt paper thin, fragile, fading in this alien world, some Janus forsaken outpost, cared for in a system doing what systems do, processing, cold, mechanical, the faux caring of one in a play, mouthing words mouthed a thousand times before and to be mouthed a thousand more. The room held but one table. The table sat between bed and window and on that table, a small metal object, neither blinking nor buzzing. He had not called. He was not taking calls. He was not here. He was not coming.

Unnatural, the air. Dry, sterile. Not the air of Hyneria. Not the air of love. They had taken her locket, as they described her brooch. Taken her mother. She had watched them, remove her clothes, take the brooch. Her mind moved, her arms did not. And cold foreign hands took the enclosure, their placid unreadable faces illuminated in the pulsing light. She saw her arm resist, in her mind. They placed it in a box. Her mother. They didn't know. She could not speak, her words gone as moments are gone, her chest constricted, caving into itself, a fetal curling, involuted, he would have said.

Would have. Past as present. The world, this cold, alien, foreign world, white, sterile, alone, the silence of the guilty. It wasn't suppose to be this way. Mother had died at home, in loving arms, in familiar surroundings, flowers and poetry, light warm as wood, hands as caring as the bee to flower. Love is round, she had said, not a line or a square but a circle. In bed, pillow under her head, her hair combed, her eyes clear, she raised her left hand into mine, her right hand into father's. A circle she said as father and I joined hands, love is.

Leaves slipped from moor, dancing before the window, a sight best shared, imbibed like children's laughter, hearts drunk with innocence waiting the sentence of time. Innocence held not weight, nor past, nor future. Moments laden as pregnant dew, happy in their own accord, glistening in the light of possibility, the kind of possibility that knows not failure. Her weary unblinking eyes thought of fairy tales and wondered why. Why the silence.

550. Gestalt

When I took the leap, arms outstretched, chest bowed and head held high, I can say without any doubt, for the first time in my life, I felt free. The leap itself, although mere seconds, remains to this day, the single most defining memory I have. Imagine a waterfall and you are standing behind the cascade and all that you see is vague, fuzzy, ear pounding and colorless. You fear the water until pushed and on the other side is peaceful quiet, vivid color and where there was wet cloak heaviness, now, only the lightness of a bird in flight, bones hollow, wings spread, endless vistas verdant and lush.

I had heard, and I expected, to feel regret. Instead, as strange as this may sound, a rebirth. The world I knew could not leap with me, would not dare to dare as I had dared and I felt a smile I could not repress, a joy I could not contain, a happiness as water to the fish, as air to the bird, as wisdom in the child. I won't say that time stood still. I was well aware of falling, but to fall without fear, to embrace death and in the embracing of death to experience life on a plane beyond my previous comprehension effected what I can only describe as an internal expansion, as if before I had to define the world with only a handful of words, now I saw with the eyes of a thesaurus, my mind burning in a light seen without eyes.

Then I hit the water (laughter here), and, I shite you not, I felt like a baby yanked from the womb, the sting of life upon me, my sentence served. Took three days to get the taste of salt out of my nose and I would by lying if I didn't say I enjoyed every sneeze and snort and ache and throb, which, much to my dismay, began to fade as the color from a rose plucked from the bush.

549. Inanis

He sat, head in hands, heavy as stone. His eyes looked without seeing, the glitter of the night ocean lost before his mind; the wind, picking up as the moon rose, mute to his ears. Nor did he feel the goose pimples on his arms. The balance of one's life, what is taken and what is given, a question without an impartial answer. Worthy, what did that mean. To be worthy, the question felt as horn on horn, one falling upon the other, neither giving way, haunches sprung, necks swung, two rams banging heads.

And there was that sound again. Bruit was the technical term. Turbulent flow. No stethoscope necessary. Would they know? Would they care? He stood, expanded his chest and listened. No denying the sensation. Divine justice perhaps. But then, the question returned. Worthy? One would have to be worthy for the divine to give a frail. Kyra had said something similar. Staring into death, she saw a great nothingness. And it dawned on her, that all her beliefs could be nothing but lies. Worthy of what? Worthy to what?

Whether the ocean was listening or beckoning he could not tell. His eyes felt dry in the salt air, the flesh of his orbs paper thin, the light dimming from within. Numbness sat in his fingertips like lead weights, only his hair moving, dancing in the breeze, highlighted with moonlight. He took a step toward the edge of the outcrop, toes like claws grasping rock like bird. Could he fly or would he drop. Accident or intentional. Wouldn't be his frailing problem to solve. His shirt billowed like a kite and his legs appeared as a diver, arms outstretched, chest bowed out. As toe kissed rock goodbye, he expected regret and smiled. Even in his final act, he would be denied.

Soundtrack: Tarja Turunen's Oasis

548. Cecity

Trev ran. From Em. From Mairi. But mostly, from himself, or, as he might rationalize, to himself, whatever the hell that meant. The sand under his feet, between his toes, burned with coarseness or friction or heat or all the above but he ran anyway, ran till he felt his heart in his chest, heard it throb in his ears till even the surf sounded distant. Then he ran more, ran to extinguish the pain through sheer exhaustion as if his mind, like an old sludge-filled engine, simply needed to spin, to rev, to burn the gunk of regret through physical exertion.

For all his effort, he might as well have tried to kill the fly on his forehead with a sledgehammer. Perhaps then his bastard memory would reveal what was real and what had only been a dream or, maybe, just his over active imagination. Em asked the wrong question at the wrong time and Janus damn her for pushing the issue, an issue he himself couldn't reconcile, his memory a puzzle, complete it seemed except for those extra pieces, pieces she demanded an accounting and he but a mumbling idiot had not an answer. Not one frailing answer. Remember she had said. Remember frailing what. Remember frailing what.

Climbing wet rock, the air turned cooler in the aestival evening. A tide pool, calm as glass, reflected herds of cotton-ball clouds roaming a sky pristine. Trev leaned over, his face unrecognizable. His smile, a grin; his eyes hollowed. Indignation rose from gut to throat, stuck, lacking object to strike. Curses, ugly, tremored his cracked lips, held within to stew, for the stewing resonated a delicious pain, one familiar, welcomed as enemies joining hands against a common foe.

He played the events over in his mind, what he said, what he didn't say, what he wished he had thought to say. She looked so beautiful in her hurt, like a little girl discovering a cherished belief was nothing more than a lie, and the liar had nothing but excuses that belied not care and concern or even wisdom; rather, a glimpse, a look into the void, an opening into the chasm they called adulthood--code language for, we don't have a frailing clue and neither will you in time. She had that kind of look on her face and the image, static, unchanging, bore a hole between his eyes like a bullet, one he had fired come around the world, and in perfect symmetry stuck him dead stupid, tongue ripped from moor, throat afire, surrounded by water he couldn't drink. Licking his cardinalate lips, he could not deny some perverse pleasure in the taste.

547. Nocent

Mairi woke and seeing Em asked, "Where is Trev?"

Em, seeing Mairi awake heard the question as one hears the distant surf. "Gone."

"Gone?" repeated Mairi, her voice not much more than a whisper.

"Gone as in not coming back gone," said Em, her tone numb, her gaze somewhere else.

Mairi stared at Em, part crestfallen, part disbelieving.

Em continued. "Not your fault. Not mine either. The boy has issues."

"What happened?"

"I confronted him on a few, let us say, inconsistencies. Of course, he didn't quite see it that way."

"Em?"

"What?"

"Why is your nose bleeding?"

__________

Several months earlier . . .

"Polaris?"

"Yes, Polaris."

"Punishment or reward. I mean of all the forsaken places, not that I'm complaining, I hear its beautiful, but--"

"History is made in the forsaken places. Count your blessings for the opportunity."

__________

A few days before . . .

"Sir, the update you requested."

The Hood looked over the slate, the data drawing him from seat to stand. "Polaris! They went to Polaris?! 

545. The Fount of Light

I walked from hospital to chapel on an afternoon best remembered as a near perfect summer day. The sky, a deep blue, the kind of blue typically seen only at elevation; the trees, hardy in their battle against wind and rain swayed like majestic giants in a gentle breeze, whispering well wishes; the grounds, pristinely manicured, a sign of care and money communicating peace through order and design.

The chapel rose from the ground, stone by stone, each cut by hand, each unique, patterns of nature expressing beauty to shame great masters. I walked alone. My thoughts happy for the space. The chapel growing in size with each step and I felt as a son returned to the father, my shoulders heavy with lessons learned the hard way.

He approached and I thought nothing of it, an older soul in a body at ease, steps soft, eyes clear, a smile natural in the ways of smiling, as natural as the flower before the sun. I would have made nothing of the encounter, ordinarily, until he spoke, not to me as much as with me, as if his only mission was this moment, to greet, say hello; and I felt an energy I had not felt in a long time, an energy few possess, an energy with the power to move heart and soul rather than stone and soil. We talked for some time before he apologized and introduced himself as the chaplain. I enquired if the chapel was open and he said by all means I must visit, to spend as much time as I liked. His handshake felt warm, not of hand, but of heart and I believe he knew, from the touch, my soul needed the energy he gave. Before I could break the spell, he was gone and I smiled or perhaps he smiled me. I watched him walk away, his feet soft upon the ground and I thought that under different circumstances and another time, I'd like to share word and bread and I'd like to think he would have welcomed the occasion.

For the brief moment of our encounter, my fears took pause, and as the old soul disappeared into the distance, they returned, shadows of mind emerging for breath, begging for attention and so I drew breath and welcomed them to journey with me and together we would visit the chaplain's domain. I was not as alone as I had thought.

I entered not from the main door, but rather from the side, a smaller arched door adorned in carving that needed no translation. To the right rose the main tower, nankeen stone reaching into the sapphire sky, and I felt not alone. Looking into the bell tower, I saw no one and I knew at this moment no one would be in the tower. Still, I looked again and the feeling grew stronger. I drew breath and my hand began to tremble and before my mind flashed a vision or a dream or perhaps just a hope.

As promised the wooden door was unlocked, opening with heft, notably without squeal or squeak. Natural light spilled into the warmly lit narthex, a candle unto itself keeping watch over the darkened nave. Aisles lined the cavernous interior and from above hung embroidered banners, each a testament to trial, tribulation and triumph. I felt as if transported to the Tao Hall of Whales and, as if from instinct, the solemn weight of memory bowed my head. From light years removed, I felt a bond sewn in the sinew of brothers, a bond I feared I would never feel again.

Raising my head, I breathed in the cool air, letting the light from the stained glass walls illuminate the path before me in a kaleidoscope of color. The nave's belly held not pews but chairs, perhaps a thousand, all the same, arraigned with meticulous precision, slated backs slightly curved, reaching upward, ever upward, like soldiers in attention. I stood front and center, the alter some distance before me, not another soul to be seen.

Following the lead of the chairs, my eyes looked up and I saw arch upon arch, wood inlaid upon stone, receding as I imagined trumpets might. On either side of the alter, perched as owls at night, the gleaming instruments of divine calling. I spoke, almost unconsciously, two words, the only two words that seemed fitting: My Janus. What happened next, I should not have been surprised, made me smile. My voice, of what should have been only a whisper, resonated, not by accident, but by what could only be called intelligent design, and I longed to sit among many, listening to a single voice, the old soul, bring order to chaos, his voice as clear from the rear as from the front, as from the conversation of what seemed a long time ago.

Then, for some unknown reason, standing in the luxury of other men's labor, I felt utterly alone. The feeling started in my gut and like a wave rolled upward leaving my face flush. I seldom feel lonely, but in this moment, standing within this storied place, so magnificent, I missed my boy. I missed Ceru and the wonderful hues upon the smooth stone before me appeared to pool, the image more dreamlike with each remembering. I made the sign of the Tao and bending on one knee, lower my head.

I never heard the steps. His hand laid upon my shoulder like a heating pad. I rose without looking as he said come with me, and we begin to walk. In the center of the nave stood a fount, not of water, but of light. I stood to one side and the old soul to the other. He nodded his head and I placed my hands in the fountain of light. What happened next I cannot explain no more than music and be explained in words or a song by ink and paper.

__________

Younger C and me outside of All Saints Chapel on the campus of The University of the South, inspiration for the chapter posted above.

544. Notes as Motes

ed note: sometimes I get stuck. usually because I'm taking myself and The Story too seriously. sometimes because I read great authors and upon the reading feel as if I've completely forgotten how to write or that what I write is such tripe as to waste the time it takes to write and wastes the time of those who attempt to read. sometimes I'm just out of ideas, interesting ideas, of where to take the story. when this happens, you get a chapter like the one below. each of the snippets could and perhaps should be a full chapter in its own right, and one or two just might be expanded. forgive my stuckness and feel free to skip the tripe below although I'm not promising tomorrow's tripe will be any better.

"So, tell me more about his message?" asked Kyra.

"Don't really know anymore than I've told you," said John. "What's wrong with your nose?"

"Nose bleed. Can't seem to get it to stop."

"Let me see."

__________

"Is there a chapel?" asked Von.

The servitor displayed a virtual map of a building a few hundred yards away. Von took note, nodding his thanks. A few minutes later, standing in the courtyard, his eyes sore from the sight, sore of memory forgotten, the chapel stood, an object, as chapels should he thought, with a gravity and presence beyond stone and mortar, wood and banner. Creed mattered not. He opened the door and walked into the expanse, tradition and ritual breathing, him, breathing life into soul, stoking memories of Tao sanctuaries back on Hyneria, reminding him of what was and what was never to be again.

__________

Em motioned and Trev followed. "I've got a problem," she said.

"Look, this is not what it looks like."

"You ever notice that when you get nervous you repeat the same word."

"I'm not nervous. I'm concerned."

"You should be."

"I don't know what your problem is but Mairi was there when I needed her and I fully intend to be there for her now."

"I'm not talking about Mairi."

__________

"Rog, you wanna get your message? You know, we haven't heard from anyone since we landed."

"No, not really."

"Well, I think I will."

"No, I don't think so."

After a short and playful wrestling match with Yul on top, her knees on either side of his chest and his comm to her ear, Rog noticed a change in her demeanor. "What's up?"

Handing him the comm she said, "I think you need to listen to this."

__________

Kyra held her head back and removed the bloody cloth. John webbed his hand to the back of her head, looking, looking a little too long without speaking.

"What is it?"

"I'm not sure, but I think we should head to the hospital."

"Are you serious? For a nose bleed?"

"Yes. How quickly can you be ready?"

541. Never

"Are you just gonna stand there?" asked Em. Trev hesitated. "Pick her up."

Trev lifted Mairi into his arms, her legs hanging loose, neck cradled in the crook of his elbow. Between lips dry and cracked she managed one word: "Never."

Zoe held Von's finger like a child to parent, lying in bed white with the eerie stillness of the infirm. Through lips dry and cracked, with eyes opened to another world, she spoke in a paper thin whisper. "If I see Ceru before you, I'll tell him how much you love him."

On the nightstand, Rog's comm blinked. Lost in the space of union divine, memories of one betraying the physicality of the other, eyes open, to the movies of his mind. Yul was too high to care, too lost in lust to wonder.

Kyra stood before the ocean, her chest matching the gentle swells. The watchet sky, endless as the hazy horizon. Licking her lips, an odd copper taste in her mouth. Reaching forth, her white fingers returned crimson bright, her gut tight in intuition.

"Dad?" asked Ariel. "Are you okay?"

John nodded, listening to the last message on his comm, sender unknown. "Your friends are in trouble. You've been warned."



---------

The head Chatelaine stood before the new class. We have, she said, many rules, and in time you will learn them all as the wind learns the path between the trees. However, as the full moon bows before the rising sun, we have one rule above all others. She paused, eyes glassing the room, looking through the new recruits. Mairi sat straight, hands placed evenly on her desk. The Chatelaine continued. Never become attached to a client. Placing her hands behind her back, she repeated. Never.

537. Floating

Life wants to live. Life wants to live.

Von sat in the waiting room, those words his hope, his dagger.

Life will fight to live. We don't understand it. But it is our best hope.

You may see her now said a voice he didn't recognize and would not remember. Upon the white pillow her auburn hair flowed and she looked almost comical with her balloon belly hiding under the sheets like a child hiding a ball.

Zoe opened her eyes and reached for his hand. You know, she said, what Ceru would say?

Von shook his head.

When the rain was heaviest and the waters started to rise he would look at me with those deep blue eyes and say that the only way to float, was to smile.

Von couldn't find his tongue.

Squeezing his leathered hand she said, Von, will you do me a favor?

He nodded through glassy eyes.

Float me out of here. Then she smiled and he smiled back as the sun shinning through the rain.


Soundtrack: Colby's Song by Joshua James

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534. Kinesics

Mairi knocked on the (red) door.

Trev, did you hear something?

Knuckles white, petite, rose thrice, fell twice.

No baby, not a thing.

Wood sonorous, sentinel sennet, sung with susurration feminine.

I could have swore I heard something.

What fell, fell as rain, the door (silent) witness silent, her heart (leaden) rendered violent.

Do you want me to check?

Rims glinted, a light kind to eyes (verdant) full of (liquid) pain reflective.

Yes, please.

Crimson cheeks quivered, command lost, decorum abandoned.

Okay.

Snuffle breath, pond shallow, issued cries inaudible to stone ears.

Thanks.

Arm rose, the weigh as lead, purchase beyond body to pay.

Trev opened the door.

Her cape opened in the fall, a pleated parachute forming a perfect circle.

Oh my Janus. Mairi? Em!

531. Afflatus

Water lapped his toes. Warm. Endless openness. With a single incision, he opened his chest. With a solitary reach, he removed his heart. Held forth, the instrument of bottomless pain, black as pitch, burning his hands like ice, damned as angels bowed before pride and greed, the sword of ambition upon their burning shoulders.

Branding fingers seared his heart, tendrils of acidic smoke rising, burnt umber pungent. Flesh exposed, salt air stung, a thousand tiny needles burrowing like minute clams in the receding surf. Pain sought pain, an explosion at the fount of gush to shut the mouth of complaint. Fingers tightened, black pus oozed, fingers on fire, pain intensifying. Cracked lips opened to gasp, to gulp air thick, tumid. A rope of acid descended tongue and throat, seeking union of a boiling, roiling stomach, skin scorched of lava, flesh peeling, withering as paper before heat white.

Noise issued, what sounded like voice, his. Hollow as thunder, words blurred upon the windshield of a driving rain, pounding, base deep, resounding relentless, the sting of soul found weighed and wanting, to look into the mirror and where substance once aboded only a sketch remained, hung from brittle bone, almond eyes pulled round, skin no longer supple. A hand reached, not his own, and into the mirror it dipped as a pebble into a pond, ripples of time like rings on a tree, each a memory hidden behind memory.

Into the wind and whisked away with the backhand of nature, a cry escaped bitter lips. Unto knee the weight of his world driven, shoulders hammered like fence posts into blistering sand. Spume rode waves like horses, galloping toward shore, his eyes afire in reflection of a life surrendered to demons and phantoms as real as the movement of mind and sea. Upturned, his visage into the spittle of mother, his fist balled. Anger, drunk with despair, struck empty air, empty as salvation sought; empty as absolution fought (denied).

From somewhere not seen, not known, not believed, a voice susurrated forth, a salve issuing from no direction and all directions, melody as waves, a call siren, fingers twisting nipples erect, caressing the turgid weight between his legs, closing his eyes with palm assuring. A long slender finger asked not upon the probe, taking the bore smooth, easing the pain of inhibition between the parting moon, wrinkled fruit hanging in shadow, growing tight in machination.

He bent as she had bent. He spread as she had spread. And from the pain of memory, the hot spear of atonement impaled its heat, burning away agony, purging his bowels of regret, exploding his resistance to matters not of hands born, taking from him the doors of pride and conception. Opened wide, from front to rear, a chair appeared, bright as light, locks golden as dawn adoring the frame.

(Lyrics from Be Like the Sea: Cathie Ryan)

It matters nothing what they did to you
The storm is over, the wreckage through
Leave them in your wake, no more for you to take
Be like the sea

If it hurts your heart, cast it up on the shore
Let it go forever, ceart go leor
Wash away the sorrow, the tears of no tomorrow
Be like the sea

The sea, the sea, dive with me
We'll lose these rags we're wearing and be
Like the sea, the sea, wild and free
We'll swim out past the longing so deep

Down below these waves in the deepest depth
There are echoes sounding true as your breath
The still, small voice in you, the endless open blue
Be like the sea

Go on forever, shine out in the sun
The full a tá sé everyone
Dance yourself around, give up the small ground
Be like the sea

The sea, the sea, dive with me
We'll lose these rags we're wearing and be
Like the sea, the sea, wild and free
We'll swim out past the longing so deep

Away out past the longing so deep

(Be Like the Sea: Cathie Ryan)

Gabcast! DT #26 - Afflatus 1

Reading and Commentary



Gabcast! DT #27 - Afflatus 2

Reading and Commentary Part 2

526. Thalassic Evenings

ed note: a Rashomon beginning, sorta.

Trev leaned on the railing, the ocean before glittering as a field of diamonds as the stars above gave yield to the rising moon.

"Beautiful moonrise," said Em.

Trev turned. "Not nearly as beautiful as your smile."

-----

Trev stood before the ocean, chest out like the figurehead on the bow of a ship, rail holding his waist in tow. Em floated from the cottage, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, her hair falling on his chest, cheek on cheek, smiles felt rather than seen.

"I love you baby."

"Like a fish loves the sea."

"Come back inside then, and swim up my stream."

-----

Upon the shimmering ocean, a thousand tiny waves winked silent salutations. Trev smiled, drew breath, chest expanding, arms braced on the rail. Em approached, her sheer gown fluttering in soft night breeze.

"Boo."

"Hey."

-----

The wooden deck looked gray under the pale moon light, shadows extending like fingers into the cottage from his angular frame. Em smiled. Trev looked angelic in the cool light of night, his hair spiked from nocturnal activities, waving like long grass in the evening breeze. With nary a cloud on the horizon, the moon loomed above the horizon, his chiseled jaw silhouetted within the circumference of light.

"Beautiful."

"Yes."

"I didn't mean the moon."

-----

The cottage stood in the night as it had stood ten thousand nights before, almost. They say the light from a home changes in tone to the love within. From a distance, they said, the little cottage on the hill, that night, shone with a warmth no one in the village could ever remember seeing before. The light was not brighter; in fact, it was not anything anyone could put their finger on. Yet, undeniably, something was different and they all agreed, that difference made the labor of the day worth the warmth of the pillow.

-----

Soundtrack: Brooke Fraser's Hymn

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524. Dans la ville

Rog and Yul attend a concert in the city. Yul's idea.

Rodrigo y Gabriela