477. The Lake of Eternal Wisdom: Part 1

"Papa, where are we going this morning?" asked Kyra.

"To the lake of eternal wisdom. I got a message this morning. She wants to see us."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. Now go pack for a day trip and make sure to wear your old jumpers."

Kyra took off and Papa lifted his cup. Above the rim and before a sip he spied two eyes starring directly at him. "What?"

"A message this morning. Is that right?" asked Grand.

Papa smiled. "You know, I can't tell you everything. What would the lake say if I shared a private correspondence?"

"I see," said Grand, turning back to the sink. "And I suppose this dinner is just gonna cook itself, because, you know, the pot of eternal sustenance works in mysterious ways. You should stick around and I could initiate you in the ways of knife and board, of wine and water."

"Why don't you come with us. The three of us. Pack a lunch. Make a day together."

"Zeke, you know all I've ever wanted was to be asked." She closed her eyes as his hands found her hips. "But I know magic when I see it. Take Kyra to the lake. Teach her the lesson of the pebble. Janus knows I've heard it enough."

Papa wrapped his arms around her waist. "You sure?" He kissed her ear and felt her warmth against him, her hands dusted with flour holding the counter before them.

"Yes, go, before I change my mind."

"Hey," yelled Kyra, standing in the doorway, "does this mean we aren't going?"

476. Crimson Mist

The camera sits five or six feet from the shower door. The room is filled with roiling steam and only the sound of steady water is heard. The door opens to a wall of crimson mist. In slow motion a darker shape emerges, a dynamic figure. John steps forth, wet, nude, strong, hard, his chest broad his arms chiseled, beads of water dripping from his square chin. His eyes set, straight ahead. As contrails behind wings, steam coils in his wake taking shape and form, of feminine fingers growing into delicate arms and a whimsical torso, full, soft, and erect materializes, hair flowing as rivers between mountains. The second camera catches his backside as he approaches the lave. His thighs solid, glutes round and thoroughbred taut, dimples as quarter moons, glistening wet. Still in slow motion, his right arm circles condensation from the mirror and we see two figures in the reflection. One of flesh, solid, hard, like an eggshell; one of spirit, enveloping, loving, sensual, wordless.

The scene switches to Von, sitting, sipping snizzle with his right hand, his left holding a book open. He hears a sound, pauses, hears it again and places the cup down.

The camera flashed back to the bath. John's image, standing before the lave, fades from view as the misty apparition consumes him. We hear a faint moan; and then Von's voice.

475. The Cup

The cup shook, as it had yesterday and the day before. The mornings were this way. A stalemate. Anger and despair intertwined and entrenched, their tentacles rooted in his very fascia. Where they ended and he began was no longer clear and, like a gardener before an untended vine, he felt the anxiety of being overgrown, overwhelmed, consumed.

He watched his hand; and the slight tremor, still there, as it had been for the last three days. He focused on stopping it, snizzle licking the sides of his off-white cup. Mind over matter, he told himself, evidence notwithstanding. He tried again. And then again. He thought of trying a third time before lowering the cup to the table, as if landing a helicopter in a storm, its ceramic base clacking to and fro on the metal tabletop. With the sound of failure echoing, he raised the offending hand, fingers limply clawed, palm inward, before his unshaven face and bagged eyes, the tremor as a frightened child before a scolding parent. (Looking with fatigue, his appendage looked back with all the intelligence of a loose shutter flapping in the wind.)

Kyra had vanished. Not a trace. Not a lead. He knew what had happened. He knew where she was. But there was no evidence. Just a knowing. And an imagination at play. They told him it was not his fault. He listened, politely. But their eyes did not match their words. Even through his own lens of self-crimination he could see that much. And they were right. He had pleaded. He had begged. He had convinced them on this course. So the words fell like so much virga, and tongues remained extended, parched, unsated.

Taking breath, he reached again, for the cup. His hand moving with the languid speed of a snake. Again, the table began to chatter and snizzle threatened to lap the white levees as the cup failed to take flight. Defeated, he removed his hand, withholding the dignity of a glance, locking fingers behind his back. Bending, he snuffled the cup, the aroma working as an elixir. Closing his eyes, to close the world, if only for a moment, he lapped his warm beverage as a dog before a bowl. Lost in his temporary universe, he didn't hear the door.

"John, what the hellocks?"

Startled, John jerked up and snizzle flew everywhere.

Von grabbed a towel, holding it forth at arms length. "Get yourself cleaned up."

John looked down without responding.

"I understand your grief. I understand your pain." Von hesitated and then lowered his voice. "But there is something else I understand too."

John looked up.

"Nothing you can do will bring back Cait." Again, Von paused. "But there is still hope for Kyra."

Standing, John thought to speak, but instead took the towel and turned toward the shower, his words beaten back by Von's unyielding gaze.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time you might . . ."

"Might what?"

"You might want to try one of these." Von held out a straw. For the first time in three days John smiled.

474. Soughing in the Dark

Two entered the cell
where one would not have fell
They would take their due
spoils of war their hue
Or so convinced they caballed

Where one would have wavered
the two soughed without favor
Hearts dark
into the pitch
One left
One right
Four hands to two

Blows rained as hail
Fists hammering out braille
Into each liver
A lesson delivered
and heads aloft once held
greeted the floor without yell

Breath released
Breath taken



"Sir, we have a breach."

"Video."

Shakes head.

"Idiots."

473. An Audience of Pebbles

Clover, he had said. Fields and fields of damp aromatic clover, an endless rolling carpet before china blue skies. Really, she had asked, her arms wrapped around her folded knees. Yes, he had replied, looking her way. She smiled. He didn't. Which only made her smile wider.

Tell me more she said.

I hear silence in a cloud he said, stroking her hair; and feel hope in the warmth of a sunbeam. I see your hair spread like a shell, your eyes big like planets and on my cheek, your breath, honest as the breeze. Down a ways, a stream gurgling; and on that clear bed, a thousand pebbles, all shapes and sizes, waiting in audience for our naked feet.

She leaned her head on his chest, listening to his heart beat. He pulled her tight and closed his eyes.

472. Von's Journal #8

Before the attack, Von sat with Zoe. She asked about Ceru's mother, a subject, she said, his son had had not much to say. Von smiled with closed lips and answered her questions with polite discretion noting that nothing he told her was false; nor was it true. Returning to his quarters, he picked up his journal:

a question not asked

a note not written

a look given and not

a date let slip

an idea not shared

a tear not shed

from a dull heart

an effort not made

an interest not shown

a hug half-hearted

words in place of silence

and silence when words were needed

home a prison

and work an escape

meals together are eaten alone

no arguments

no fights

no ugliness

just a drifting, slowly, away

politeness replaces passion

comfort in a cold glass

smiles exchanged for unconscious sighs

dancing seems absurd

touches become as birds in winter

and kisses rare as diamonds

and one day, you wake to a stranger

and what had been living . . .

471. Compromised

John: How many men are down?

Arn: (blank stare)

John: How many?

Arn: All of them.

John: (taps his comm) Kyra? (silence) Kyra, come in.

Arn: (sits on the curb)

John: Rog, this is John, do you read?

Rog: What's up?

John: Get everyone back to the ship.

Rog: (no response)

John: Rog, did you--

Rog: I heard you. We've got a problem.

John: What?

Rog: Kyra's missing.

John: What do you mean missing?

Rog: You know, like not here.

John: I know what missing is. Can you elaborate?

Rog: We went our separate ways. Suppose to meet back in three hours.

John: And?

Rog: She's not here. Not responding to her comm.

John: (no response. looks at Arn who is staring into space)

Rog: John, what's going on?

John: We've been compromised.

Rog: What?

John: They knew we were coming here.

Rog: Did you get the codes?

John: We got the codes.

Rog: Well?

John: Get everyone back to Bravo.

Rog: I'm not leaving without Kyra.

John: Rog--

Rog: I'm not leaving John.

John: She's not here.

Rog: Shiott!

John: Rog--

Rog: Hang on, incoming from Von. (Von stayed behind on Bravo)

Von: Rog, we're under attack.

Rog: John--

John: I heard.

Rog: Damn.

Von: Gonna need some--(loud explosion)

John: Von?

Rog: Von?