Friday, November 12th, 15.27
He walked down the cobblestone sidewalk. Tall buildings arose about him on every side and at every angle, the historical witnesses of the centuries through which the city had prospered. The modernized streets still swelled with a certain European mood, the remainder of that spirit with which the city had been founded more than two hundred years ago. These streets were not busy: A man and his love passed by arm-in-arm on the opposite sidewalk, blissfully oblivious of anything but the other and the quiet conversation they shared. A handful of parked cars lined the curb, patiently awaiting the return of their masters.
He mentally noted that all (or at least most) of the cars shared a cold colouring, as though even colour itself had been drained of its warmth. The colouring of the vehicles ranged from obsidian black to royal blue, a colour with so very little in common with the standard blue that it had more of a similarity to purple. This attentiveness to odd and otherly things would have been a danger to him had there been more traffic; and yet there was so very little that he was permitted to remain safely within the confines of his distraction. Whether it was distraction or strange attention he knew not and yet it mattered not, as his focus, whatever it be so classified as, was disturbed by the sounds of hasty footsteps behind him. A runner--jogger? His curiosity got the better of him as the steps grew louder--closer. Turning over his left shoulder he saw the running figure for only a second as it collided with him, causing him to stumble for balance--forcing him to make way as he. As he recovered he saw the back of the figure running beyond. Though the man was no doubt running there was a certain, almost desperate haste in his steps as they pounded away upon the cold stone, growing steadily quieter until they faded away completely.
The city returned to its state of silence and quiet. Beyond perhaps a mile or two behind, a car’s tires screeched against the cement, yet he noticed not as his attention returned to other things. Forgotten was his attention to the strange lifelessness of the serene city. He now thought of the man and his love walking down the street in their cold, serene attire--arm-in-arm in blissful obsession with one another. Briefly, as he recalled the coldness of the colour of all about him he sought the Sun and found it not behind--but in front of him, and shielded from view by thick clouds. The clouds did not propose rain and yet covered all, shading them from the warmth and love of that Star beyond. He recalled with a flash the running man and as he recalled to his senses the memory, he noted how the man had broken the rule: he wore the reddest shade possible of that bloody colour: his trousers and hooded jacket covered him in the colour--even the shoes showed forth that colour. only the treading did show a pure, newly bought white. He has not seen the face of the man and yet the idea came to him that he knew him. Wherefrom, he could recall not--and yet, as he attempted to, his focus was broken as he stepped against the cold--deathly cold and stern solidity of a lamppost, placed before him as though for that purpose. He stopped, finding himself in the place he strangely knew he should be. On the left side, immediately beside him rose the steps of the cathedral: regal and ominous in its sheer scale. On the right side of him, across the street, arose a library with gothic architecture which inherently implied a connexion between it and the cathedral--one to his right, and one to his left. Had not this cold bearer of light stopped him in his tracks he would have walked beyond in his distraction. To where--he could not know. He turned to his left and rose before the steps, climbing with haste and checking his watch which showed him that the time was 3:43 PM. He was early.
Friday, November 12th, 15.43
He stood before the heavy, dark oaken doors of the cathedral. Pushing them open, he entered and, finding the church largely empty, he added himself to the queue for that forgiving sacrament: Confession, Reconciliation, Penance--it had several titles and yet, if anyone were mentioned in conversation, there would rarely be any confusion. This was the sacrament where things were corrected--where wrongs were righted and inadequacies made complete. As he awaited the attention of Father, he began to search his conscience for such inadequacies and immediately drifted to that which engulfed his attention most: Ulunya. She was a girl who he knew quite well--who had encaptivated him since the moment he had first laid eyes upon her--and yet, even at the time when he had done so he knew that this did not justify love. For love is patient, and love waits. So he had--waited; and for six years had he waited, knowing her when he could and avoiding her when he must.
Over the past years, they had been good friends and acquaintances--yet he hoped for more: He hope--indeed he prayed that they might become closer--even to the point of becoming what some might call “an item.” The term was somewhat sickening: It implied a great lack of heart. They had first come to know of one another in this very room, under the gaze and judgment of The Almighty; and so had their relationship been confined until, after several weeks, he and Jordan had invited her to take part in the literary and governmental organization of which they were both members. Before she had joined there had been six of them, and they seemed incomplete in some strange and mysterious way. Thus, he had invited her to be the seventh and final number--for seven was the perfect number: three couples and one single who could see all exactly as it was and keep the group within the confines of reason. The single in the group was his dearest friend and advisor, and so the three pairs in the group subjected themselves to the observance of the man who would warn them if he saw a thing out of place--a referee of sorts. The group opened discussion and study of largely two branches: philosophy and literature. They sought, in their private affairs, to freely study the philosophy of the classical philosophers, Plato, Aristotle, and their peers; the philosophers of the 19th and 20th centuries; and the Christian philosophy. Following the addition of Ulunya to the group, it consisted then of two of the Roman Church. The remaining characters varied mildly in belief, regarding as their principle common values those of compatriotism, intellectual honesty, and logic. The most unusual character of the group served as their founder and president. He was of no definite religious conviction, nor did he appreciate being questioned on the matter.
The latter was the man called Jordan, his best friend and advisor. As Jordan had no true alignment toward any Church, in particular, he was adopted as a referee of sorts. He was also the oldest of the group, being twenty and one years older than the second oldest of the group. Jordan, despite his refusal to place himself under the heading of any earthly spiritual leader, held a largely Christian point of view which merged quite nicely with his classical philosophical grounding. Jordan was a man of strong conviction coupled with a strong morality. He was a doctor of the mind as well, with the same being his profession. Thus, he was extraordinarily qualified to be a sort of balancing factor to the group. The door banged open as he realized that the last person in the queue before him was now finished and now walked quietly away, leaving the brown door frame and the darkness within vacant and welcoming. His time had come.
Friday, November 12th, 15.49
He knelt before the screen. Veiled by a purple linen, a certain anonymity was present, disclosing both faces from the other’s. Raising his eyes to the crucifix that hung above the wooden frame, he crossed himself with his right hand: “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two days since my last confession.” Awkwardly, he stopped abruptly as he considered his next words. After several seconds, the calm, age-worn voice of Father came through the screen: “May the Lord loosen your tongue that you may make a good confession.” A second later, and urged by Father’s request, he continued: “Father--there’s this girl I know (Father sighed, exhaling deeply)--I’ve known her for quite some time and we’ve always conducted ourselves with due caution in one another’s presence and--well--lately, I’ve been considering making a proposition to her.”
Father waited cautiously before responding, slightly confused: “And--what seems to be the issue?”
“I simply don’t know if it’s the right decision.”
“Have you prayed regarding this matter? Have you meditated on whether this union would be for the best--for both of you?”
“Father, I have. I just don’t know if I’ve considered it for long enough--if it’s the right commitment right now. Of course--.”
“My child, you understand that if you aren’t certain--if you aren’t entirely sure--regarding this matter, it is not one that should be taken lightly.”
“I understand, Father. I also understand that there are the things that are--and then there are the things that were meant to be.”
After a rather uncomfortable pause, Father continued: “Indeed. My child, as much as I would like to converse with you for all eternity--and I believe I may someday--you have, in fact, stayed too long. I have kept you long enough and you must go. For this is not a place for your conversation to be resolved--you may come and see me at another time but I must kindly command you: confess your sins and leave so that another may take your place. For this is not the place for such a conversation--as another may be in dire need of absolution--waiting outside this door.”
Quickly came the reply from the younger man: “Father, I am the last one.”
Brief and sharp was the tone in which Father responded in his own turn: “My son, if you will persist in refusing to admit the truth to one of my office, then you must at least admit it to yourself. And you are mistaken. Go in the peace of the Lord and return only to this room when you are prepared to confess. Then, and only then, will this matter be resolved. As it is--your penance for the misuse of this time is to pray five decades of the Rosary. Pax Domine sit semper tecum in Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritui Sancto. Your sin is forgiven.”
The young man stood up and, opening the door, slipped out into the light of the church. Aware of Father’s assurance that another awaited the sacrament he held the door and, turning to see for whom he made way, recognized his beloved who, slipping backward into the dark room, gently and slowly pulled the door closed. In beauty she was simple and pure: Her head, naturally quite round (with a definitive cheek and jaw), was wreathed in reddish brown hair which descended from its central point above her left eye in rivers of natural, loose curls which were naturally thick and unruly--as they had about them a certain chaotic and disordered proclivity. Thus, she most often pinned to the central back of her head, with a single hairpiece or ribbon, the flanking locks of her hair (that hung toward the front and obliques of her face) so that they were tightly pulled back and overlapped with the flowing locks beneath. They were little more than shoulder length, permitting the unbound curls behind her ears to fall upon the tops and fronts of her shoulders. Her eyes were bright brown and moderately large in proportion to the scale of her head. Her body was healthy and well-built--with a slight tone to the muscles which implied that she, though delicate, had something of a physical strength about her. In height she was only slightly taller than the average woman by a matter of an inch or two. In demeanour, she was gentle and sweetly-natured to those whom she knew well and trusted. Yet she knew well how to be disagreeable and, lying directly beneath that shy, passively agreeable disposition was one that was stubborn, untrusting, unyielding, vengeful, and defensive. Her head was bent forward intently as she maintained a gentle eye contact with him until the dark door hid her face from him entirely. He thoughtfully made his way to the front of the church and, dropping a knee to the ground, crossed himself once more before sliding into the seats. He sat, considering for a moment. He thought about his conversation with Father, and about the stern nature he had seen today (the sternness which he had never seen from the priest he had known since only a child): Five decades of the Rosary! Indeed it was quite the penance. He did not believe that this slight misuse of the sacrament was a warrant enough for such reparation, especially as he had believed himself to be the last in the line and, therefore, taking time from nobody.
Pulling his Rosary from his pocket, he examined it as though he had not seen it there before--and yet he kept it ever there, within the confines of his clothing, ever awaiting the moment when it might be of use. The Rosary, to an unbeliever, might easily be mistaken for a necklace and yet to use it as such might be considered criminal to the devout. The instrument consisted of sixty beads composed in a large “Q” shape. The tail of the shape featured a Crucifix, a representation of the crucified Son of God, followed by a series of five beads which led to the beginning of five “decades.” A decade consisted of ten “Ave Maria” beads followed by the “Gloria Patri” which, itself, was followed by a “Pater Noster” bead. Combined, these five “decades” formed the entirety of the round part of the “Q” shape, returning finally to the point of origin. The entirety of five decades could take a person easily twenty minutes. Shifting to a kneeling position, he committed to a single decade. Crossing himself once more he began: “Pater Noster, Qui es in Caeli, sanctificetur nomen Tuam…” Four minutes later he rose and, checking his watch noted that he had enough time to run an errand.
Friday, November 12th, 15.59
He glanced quickly at his wristwatch as he exited the holy building. There was something unkind in the act of turning one’s back upon the sanctuary, and yet it must often be done. He rapidly descended the stairs and, upon reaching the curbside, glanced once in both directions before resuming his course: across the street and into the library building across the street. He entered the building which, in conjunction with its outward appearance, gave a medieval impression with its seemingly unmeasurably aisles and shelves. The place, however, was well kept, as it was a respectable institution that shared governance with the Cathedral just across the street.
Approaching a desk, he identified himself and, upon stating the purpose of his visit, awaited the execution of his request. As he did so, he glanced again--though now impatiently--at his wristwatch and marked the time: twelve minutes. Pacing slightly, he came to a display of writing notebooks, and it occurred to him for some strange reason that he would likely have need of one. Determined to purchase one for a modest sum, he settled upon a black-bound book, mentally rebuking the red version as too brilliant and the blue as insufficient. His order was presently delivered to him, whereafter he seized the book. He quickly moved to a nearby table where he carefully placed the book and, opening it to the fourth page, read the first seven lines. Upon the completion of this sample, he quickly closed the book and chuckled: “A wardrobe indeed!” He glanced briefly at his watch: six minutes. Picking up his literary cargo, he strode quickly to the door from which he had entered and upon descending the stairs, began again to cross the street hastily. He watched the second hand on his watch as it climbed toward the top of the instrument. Why did it climb so hastily? What had it so to gain by completing that journey merely to again descend only to repeat its journey for eternity? It climbed to ten--two steps away and indeed it drew closer. Now to eleven it climbed--only moments from victory. Why turn back now when it had only to climb--to glance up once more? A choice: to glance up or to remain within the circuit. At some point, each member of mankind faces this question: whether to glance up toward the goal ahead or to remain comfortably within a familiar cycle.
The familiar pattern breeds a manner of contentment that is predictable and safe. Yet, this contentment may at one moment be as consoling as a mother, whilst at the very next it may be as treacherous as the worst of traitors. Thus, while familiarity is safe, it is not altogether to be trusted and must be accompanied at all times by a bodyguard of the alternative: the unknown--the search for greater things than this. If one does not look for greater things then what has he to gain? Has he not anything but that which may be lost? Indeed it would have been better that, on this day, he had looked ahead for greater things. For on this day, he fixed his gaze upon the circuit--and his watch was not altogether where it should have been; and as the second hand on his wristwatch, at last, reached the final number, so also did his life. The greater thing ahead was, in an indirect manner, the veil beyond which he now travelled: the great unknown. The greater thing ahead was, in a very physical sense, the 1.24-ton vehicle which ended his consciousness: sending him forever to a place that might well grow all too familiar. The vehicle was the only red automobile on that street that he had seen that day: it broke the monotony of the familiar when, driven by the hands of his beloved, it brought the time of men crashing down around him: to what end he had yet to discover.
Saturday, November 13th, 13.37
339 State Street, St. Clement’s Gothic Cathedral, Nave-South Transept
The voice was timeless: the voice of a man who had seen many winters, and yet was not old. Upon this man, time resulted in wisdom without many apparent effects of age:
“...John Niezche: a man of unimpeachable integrity. He never did me harm--not of any kind--and I’ve not heard a bad account of him from any person--not one. He was loved by many, and those who did not love him at least respected him. Indeed, he seemed well on his way to perfection and I believe that, if given the time, he would have achieved something--as close to perfection as any man could attain...had he been given the time.
In my work with him--regarding the organisation of which we were both members… ‘Seven’ (he moodily shifted his feet as he spoke the name)--I found in him a great quality: --one which I have rarely seen so naturally imbued in a man in any of my days as a psycho-analyst: the actual habit of not confronting in others their own faults while confronting in himself all of his own faults! Extraordinary! He was among the most--no, let me rephrase, he actually is...was...the most conscientious man I’ve ever had the privilege to know.”
The speaker was the man, Jordan. His dark hair was somewhat dishevelled. Greying, it aligned so perfectly with the timelessness of his voice that they worked together to reveal him as a man of much knowledge. He was a man who had known many people. Even through his work as a doctor of the mind, he had met nearly every sort and manner of person imaginable and yet he continued to search--to search in order that those who sought his friendship would not be neglected. He was not a man without emotion, and very often allowed them to surface, revealing a highly intricate and sensitive personality with whom many could sympathize. His voice went on, steadily, as he described his fallen comrade as kindly as he could.
“He saw his imperfections as few before him and wished to wrench out of himself, no matter how painfully, those imperfections which weighed upon him. He was not a man who liked easiness...as testified to by his extreme love of walking to wherever he could and even some of those places where he couldn’t. He was a very self-confident man… confident in his strengths while at the same time...well...trying to be wary of his weaknesses. That’s a wise man there (here he pointed to the coffin which laid before the altar). I can only but grieve for all that might have been, had that man had his chance to make an impression--to fully blossom, as he was about to. I’ll leave you with words of wisdom and then with words of hope. Death is not the end but merely where a man discovers what reward is merited by his earthly life, and by his duty toward his responsibilities, and toward that end, I’d say there were few men much greater than John Niezche. As for hope: he always attempted to wrench from himself those things which weighed him down--which were not good for him--he quested for perfection. I think that not even death may be able to stop his quest.”
The man retired from the microphone, respectfully bowing in the centre aisle before the altar of St. Clement’s Cathedral. Whereafter he slipped quickly and quietly into the front row seat beside the grief-stricken Ulunya. As though the passing of her beloved were not cause for grief enough, the effects were amplified by the fact that it had been at her own hand. The habit of a person to entirely blame his or her self is rivalled only by a person’s habit to refuse responsibility of any kind. They sat in silence as the coffin was ceremoniously carried from the building. Slowly and sorrowfully did that train of grief travel--up the aisle and toward the great doors of the cathedral. The remains of the deceased were intended to travel but one journey more, to a small church on the outside of the city. It was in the churchyard of that place that he had intended to rest forever--until the time when he should once more be called upon.
As the coffin slipped from view, behind those great, dark oak doors, she remembered how, not so long ago, he had slipped from her view behind that door as he began his final ambulation to the library across the street, from which he would not return but in death. She choked on a sob as she, a stubborn but sensitive character, determined to save face before the man, Jordan, as though her grief were a just cause to be ashamed. She glanced at him from the peripheral of her vision, seeking to find whether he paid her much notice. She had only known him in a somewhat professional manner, as they had both been members of “Seven,” and his stance was, to her, most surprising: He sat tightly, with his hands clasped upon his lap and his head slightly inclined, appearing as though he, too, were on the brink of tears. He felt her gaze and, turning his head to look indirectly at her, offered her his handkerchief: a gesture that she proudly, though graciously, declined. After several more moments of silence, Jordan quietly spoke: “I hope you know that--should you need anything, I am at your service.” She thanked him and responded, asking only that he would accompany her for some time. He consented silently and resumed his former posture.
“Jordan?” She quickly began, awaiting his acceptance of conversation. He turned his gaze, expressionless, again upon her, silently (and quite eerily) inviting conversation on her terms.
“You have known many men and women. You spoke of him as a truly great man. I do not mean to speak unkindly of the dead, but was such praise warranted?”
Jordan turned his gaze from her as he silently pondered his response. He was as a chess master: thoughtful and ponderous. Without turning back to her, he responded after several moments:
“Potential is the maximum level of greatness which one may attain if given all time to attain it. Niezche, I think, had a very great potential, and he was most definitely directed toward the attainment of that potential. For as good a man as he was--and he was a very good human--he had elements of darkness as we all have but.... as great as his potential for goodness was, his potential for evil was almost as great...and that’s a terrifying thought because he really could’ve been...well...a saint really. That’s why I said what I said: because he was searching in the right direction, and I believe that, given the time, he would’ve become a most good and excellent human. At the time of his passing, he was, though, the most conscientious man I’ve ever known.”
The silence returned as she pondered his words. She expected that he was correct and hated herself. It was such a betrayal: he had been a good and respected person, and Jordan’s testimony of his goodness brought such condemnation upon herself for having removed such a life from this world. It was a killing so dreadful that it could only be overshadowed by the death of GOD himself--or so her mind told her. She blamed herself entirely, and wished that their roles might have been reversed: that he might have been behind the wheel and that she might have been...well...elsewhere. Perhaps that was how it had been meant to be. Perhaps she was never meant to come to the cathedral that day. Perhaps he was never meant to leave the cathedral. Perhaps she had never been meant to wake up that day. Perhaps he had never been meant to ever know her. Perhaps she had never been meant to be even born. The habit of a person to blame themselves is surpassed only by the habit of a person to refuse responsibility of any kind. Indeed she wished that she had never even been…
“Why do you think such dreadful--awful thoughts?” A quiet, compassionate, timeless voice cut her thoughts. She turned to Jordan to find that he was seated perfectly erect: every fibre of his being was focused on her as he read her like a book. She shuddered as she realized that the citadel of secrecy that she had believed her mind to be was truly a mere glasshouse. “Are they not true?” She responded.
“Are they not true?” he repeated in disbelief. He scoffed and glanced away from her as though to seek the light: “They become true only if you wish them to be so. You believe all those dreadful things? What can you have to gain by thinking so? I KNOW what you have to gain: You may either invoke it upon yourself in a manner of self-pity, creating yourself as a victim or even worse...you may believe it? Do you believe it? Do you?”
“Jordan, I understand a lot--and I understand that this is my fault. It’s basically true that, had I never been…”
“Don’t say it.”
“...I’m sorry? Say what?”
“Don’t say that. Whatever happened cannot now be undone--and you were always meant to exist.”
She was silent for several moments as she recovered from his admonishment. When she recovered, she quickly shook from her head the shock of the encounter and glanced at him again and found him, still, watching her most intently. Her expression shattered as she disintegrated before his gaze: “How did you know? Am I not entitled to my own counsel?”
Jordan, naturally, considered briefly before responding: “You are indeed entitled to your ‘own counsel’; but let it be said that your council should not entirely be trusted, and you should also consider the counsel of your friends.”
“Then you tell me,” she began tearfully and bitterly, “If it is not my fault, pray tell whose fault is it.”
A hint of a smile cracked for a mere instant upon Jordan’s face as he leaned sharply forward: “Must it be anybody’s fault? Why must we assign blame to anyone in this given situation? This was a tragedy! Besides (he gasped a little here, perhaps a laugh), there’s more than enough blame to go around.”
The man relaxed once more, permitting a moment of silence to allow this first wave of treatment to take effect before he began again: “I’m assuming you’ve already considered an alternate--a reversed scenario in which John is the killer and you are the victim.” Ulunya attempted and failed to conceal her shock as she sat silently, sniffling a little. Jordan was right, and they both knew it.
“Fine. Let’s consider, for a moment, that scenario. Assume your positions are reversed (he swept his open hand in a circle): he in the car and you--....not. Would you blame him?”
She remained silent and, turning away from her, Jordan relaxed, knowing that his message had been received and understood, for her face--the fibre of her expression was somewhat calmer and more relaxed. Jordan, picked a piece of lint from his lap and, casting it aside, resumed his silence and stillness--deep in thought. The church was silent. The lights dimmed within as the two sat alone, in their own thoughts and silence--full of grief. Outside, Niezche’s body was loaded into a black car. It was to be driven to the place of final repose where it would be interred that evening. Ulunya thought of Jordan's words and considered many possible meanings of the closing line of his oration: That not even death may be able to stop his quest. She considered asking of him now his meaning then, but decided the better of it: allow Jordan to himself. Only the sanctuary lights remained around the altar space, and the entirety of the church benefitted light from it as best it could. Yet there was not enough light to fill all of the place, and darkness settled within the corners and in the areas farthest from the altar.
Jordan noted this, and recognized that a similar darkness resided in all persons who had divorced meaning and life. Meaning--purpose, symbolized by the altar, is the only source of light and, should that source be distanced or, Heaven forbid, altogether removed, there is nought but darkness. So what was the purpose? How could it be defined? Perhaps it was love? This sounded naive and was Perhaps it was God. Perhaps it was anything that gives a person the sense of purpose--but what could give a person a perfect sense of purpose? If love was the answer, and love was God, then purpose was for one to attempt to love GOD as GOD loved one. How could such a task be accomplished?--or even approached? Well...let’s assume that GOD is love, and that all persons have at least a little bit of love within them--some more than others but none completely devoid of it--then it would be true to say that all persons (perhaps even all Creation) have at least piece of GOD within them. Were this the case, purpose would be to seek out and love in all people the elements that were deserving of love. Thus, in order to have purpose one must attempt to seek out and understand love and truth in all things--for love is the truth--and the truth is God. Perhaps it is correct to say that truth, and love, and GOD are all one.
Jordan emerged from the fog and tried to recall where he had begun--what original question had triggered such a chain reaction of ideas. As he did so, the sound of footsteps, fast and deliberate, echoed down the centre aisle--quickly approaching. Rushed, and excited, and possibly desperate. They rang closer until they stopped immediately beside him. “Excuse me,” began a distinctly British accent, “I bear something for Miss Reaux which I believe will be of some interest to her.”
Saturday, November 13th 14.02
339 State Street, St. Clement’s Gothic Cathedral, Nave-South Transept
Both Ulunya and Jordan turned their attentions upon the man and, remaining seated, discovered to their surprise that the interruption had been the doing of Father Freud who carefully carried, with both hands, a black notebook. He carried it as though it were a most holy and important object and, briefly humbling himself before the altar, he moved around the pew upon which the two were seated and, passing in front of the man, Jordan, presented the notebook to Ulunya, slipping it carefully into her hands. She sought his face, intently looking up, silently, for some hint--confused as to what could have inspired him to give to her a seemingly ordinary book. Fr. Freud was quick to input that the book “was indeed quite ordinary and that there was nothing within the notebook. The notebook was entirely blank and it was merely of emotional importance, for which he had given it to her--for John Niezche had died holding this book.”
Ulunya Reaux slightly gasped as she recalled that John had, indeed, been carrying a black notebook at the time of his death. Taking but a moment to recover her senses, she made action as though to open the book, to which Father, calmly but surely placing his hand upon the book as though to prevent its being opened, assured her that: “Indeed it is quite empty, but that she should consider laying it aside as a memory of him who was passed.”
Relaxing, she knew that he was right, and assured him that she would do so. She withdrew her hand and Fr. Freud, after leaving his hand in place upon the book one second more, withdrew it carefully as though ready to pounce again should she again seek to open it: “There is nothing written inside,” he repeated. Ulunya nodded somewhat timidly as she forced a small smile.
Father took a deep breath, perhaps relieved, and turned his attention slightly to Jordan who remained somewhat hunched forward but turned his head up in acknowledgement of the priest. Fr. Freud suddenly shifted his stance toward Jordan and, reaching out his hand, asked that he might make the man’s acquaintance. Jordan remained seated and in much the same position as he reciprocated the gesture, stating his first name followed by an obnoxiously inferior description of himself: “I was a good friend of John’s.” The priest nodded in acknowledgement as he responded: “I am Fr. James Freud. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Jordan, forcing a most ridiculous and exuberant grin which, it would seem, had involved every muscle in his face (for it brought the end of his mouth up toward his nose by about an entire inch) and nodded very quickly as though he could hardly wait to be finished with this nicety. Fr. Freud, it would seem, was in no way rushed, and, settling on the bench between the two, asked Jordan if he had long been a comrade of John’s. Jordan responded shortly that John had been a close acquaintance of his for about five years. After pausing momentarily, as though to see whether the priest intended to continue the conversation, Jordan abruptly rose and, briefly meeting the eyes of Ulunya, he smiled compassionately at her and, ignoring the presence of the priest, bowed in the centre aisle toward the altar. Turning sharply, Jordan began to withdraw from the building by way of the same centre aisle: away and toward the great oak doors. Fr. Freud laid a fatherly hand upon the shoulder of Ulunya who, staring at the floor, smiled briefly in a manner that was sad, discontent, and pathetic in nature. The priest arose and, dropping a knee on the spot of the floor that was almost still warm from the feet of Jordan, he crossed himself and, rising, followed Jordan toward the doors. Though seventy-six years in age, the priest manipulated the length of his legs to quite quickly reduce the distance between himself and the man. Following him carefully through the doors and onto the front steps, he waited until the doors were hardly closed behind them before he hastily called after Jordan: “My good sir!” Jordan turned promptly and, taking a militant step toward him, slanted his head sharply as if to inquire as to the purpose of his pursuit.
“Sir--Jordan--if I may be so bold (here the priest smiled apologetically) I have dug for myself a hole which, I fear, I may require you to dig me out of.” Jordan’s expression, though polite, gave one the distinct feeling that he wished the priest to remain buried; but he politely bid the priest continue. “As you may recall, I have informed Miss Beaux that the notebook which I gave to her was empty, and you must allow me to be blatant in saying that I have misled her--lied...perhaps. You must trust me on this matter--and I am absolutely sure that you are meant to fulfil this task: you must accompany Miss Reaux until she is asleep tonight…” Father continued his instructions to the fullest, whilst Jordan stood by most solemnly, staring quietly at the ground. Once he had, at length, finished, the priest bowed shortly to Jordan before taking his leave and travelling into a nearby alley where he disappeared into the late autumn afternoon.
The Sun, low in the skies, showed forth its orange, golden, and crimson rays but one time more before it sank into the horizon, destined to fight in mortal combat with the darkness until, smitten within the heaven’s, one of those two polarized combatants fell to their demise. An hour later, the light of the Sun remained although the Star, itself, had some time ago fallen. With the final tones of light, John Niezche’s remains were interred in the graveyard of St. George Chapel in the presence of the handful of his closest friends: for most of his acquaintances had bid their farewells at the cathedral earlier that day. Jordan, too, perhaps, might not have been present had it not been for his mysterious assignment. The ceremony was short, as the light was quickly fading in a manner such that, as the first handful of earth was by the hands of Ulunya upon the coffin laid, the light, already, had hardly existed. Thus, the light was completely eradicated by the time that the ceremony was concluded. The group quickly dispersed at the conclusion of the ceremony, driven to their homes by the darkness. Yet Ulunya and Jordan remained, alone, near to the grave. In silence, they sat upon the cold earth, her head upon his shoulder, and silently she wept. Jordan, blankly stared at the dark earth, conversing with himself regarding many relevant subjects. A cold wind crept through the place, causing the trees to sway and rustle in the night air. After many minutes of silence, Jordan rose and, taking the hand of Ulunya, aided her to her feet. Significantly taller than her, he kindly put his arm around her as they returned, across the graveyard and around the small building, to their waiting vehicle. Stepping quickly ahead of her, he opened for her the passenger side car door and, closing it behind her, went ‘round to the driver side door where he entered the vehicle and, after waiting a moment to examine the scenario, started the vehicle. The journey home was silent. The lamps shone eerily in the dark night air and the streets were quite as empty as they had been at the time of John’s death. In the course of their travel, they happened to pass the cathedral which, shrouded in darkness, was illuminated only by its night lights which highlighted its towering steeples against the night sky above. Jordan glanced at the steps of the building, upon which he had been given the commission which he even now was fulfilling: “You must ensure that she does not open the book until tomorrow morning, yet she, when she falls asleep tonight, must be in close contact with it--I believe she must be touching it. You must be her company and you must watch her every move lest she, through curiosity, open that book. It must not be opened before the appointed time...”
These instructions were, in no small way, quite odd; and yet Jordan knew, by something in the air, that this was no ordinary night. He had nothing but pure instinct to base this idea upon, and he understood that the death of his comrade could, indeed, be playing havoc upon his judgement, and yet there was something so sure--so desperate--in the manner of the priest, that he believed that, were he to fail to fulfil the commission, it might yield consequences greater than he could, at this time, foresee. Jordan felt no small amount of awkwardness in that he was now bound to follow the darling of his fallen friend until she passed that night into the unconscious, and yet he did so but swore to himself that he would do so most respectfully and in a rather Spartan manner. Even now he planned: he would keep her in her own sitting-room until she should slip, from sheer exhaustion and grief, into the clutches of sleep.
Saturday, November 13th, 23.41
901 James Street
Reaux, Jordan
The night passed slowly for the two as they sat in silence, Ulunya sought to divorce herself from reality by engrossing herself in the work of one of those writers who had shaped the literary standard to which all future books must naturally be compared: the work of Lovecraft; whose dark and impressionistic writings were quite appealing to her that night. She reclined comfortably in her personal armchair, scanning the pages of Lovecraft’s work in the hopes of confusing herself into a state of dreamy unconscious--the place where she could escape from this lonely reality which had become her’s. For it seemed to her that this world was suddenly a very lonely place, as it now lacked him whom she loved most.
Jordan, similarly, was seated upon a rough kitchen chair from which he could observe Ulunya, regularly checking to assess the grade of her alertness. He disguised himself in the appearance of reading “Crime and Punishment,” a favourite novel of his by the Russian author Fyodor Dostoyevsky. In an effort to disguise his observation, he appeared to read the book, and even did so, taking regular breaks to glance slightly over the edge of the book, noting the progress of his subject in her journey to the unconscious. In the middle of the dining room table lay the black composition notebook which, carelessly deposited there, had been all but forgotten by her to whom it was given. Now she sat...now slouched...now lay upon her armchair, appropriately adjusting the back of the chair to allow her to maintain the posture which felt most comfortable to her as she drifted toward sweet comfort. The time came when Jordan, quite comfortable in the assumption that she was past the point of no return, abandoned the reading of his book and simply observed (with the book still as his disguise) with a soft, compassionate interest as her eyelids flickered whilst she fought to retain consciousness--to focus upon her book until, overwhelmed by those forces which she could not control, her mentality resigned the fight. Her eyes now settled--closed--and her complexion, stressed from the day’s troubles, softened into pure and utter beauty and innocence: the queen was dead. From her hands fell Lovecraft’s novel, and, breathing deeply and steadily, she began the life of the unconscious.
Jordan jumped from his position, seeking to remedy the scenario as he had been instructed by the priest: “You must inform her that, upon waking, she must open the book and read the first page--but not more than that. She must follow the instructions which I have written within, and you both must trust in my many years and wisdom.” Jordan seized the notebook from the middle of the dining room table and, rushing toward the sleeping beauty, placed it within her now empty arms. Bending over her, he touched her tricep arm muscle and he slightly shook her, attempting to awake at least some part of her consciousness. “Ulunya...Ulunya can you hear me?” She murmured incomprehensibly and Jordan, without a moment’s hesitation, informed her that she must open the book that night. Returning to his fully erect height, he observed her but a moment more and, with a thoughtful smile upon his face, spoke gently: “Good night, sweet beauty.” Looking at his watch, he determined to retire to his own business after leaving her a note to call upon him in the morning. Walking from the property to his awaiting vehicle, he left the note folded as a bookmark within the work of Lovecraft which he left closed upon the note on the place where it had fallen upon the floor.
Friday, November 12th, 16.11339 State Street, St. Clement’s Gothic Cathedral, Facade
Niezche, Reaux
It was at that moment when Niezche knew that this was death. The life drained from his body as water from a broken jar. He was broken and shattered, and only his skin did hide from vision the havoc that the vehicle had wrought upon his internals. His entire life had led him to this moment: every event, magnanimous and minuscule alike, had contributed in some way to his arrival at this place and in this time. How could he have been expected to foresee that Death was scheduled to meet him here? How could he save himself? How could it be that cruel? Why had he trusted himself to lead the way? The waiting time for the end of life was long--but not as long as he had expected.
The pavement was cold and hard. Yet, it mattered not for his suffering, he knew, was presently to be ended. He felt that something he had been full of was now draining quite quickly--as though he had been full of this all his life and simply had grown so used to it that he never noticed what it would be to lack it; and now he did lack it--increasingly so each second. Yet there were no seconds: to him, time ended then whilst for the world it continued. He emptied in a strange way, for this substance which from him drained did not pour but was rather swept away in the manner that a spool of thread is unwound. He now was quite empty and, as the last bit of it became loose, it followed the rest as a string.
At the very last moment, he became aware that he was somehow attached to this substance and that his body was left behind. He saw his life as it had been: he had been on a quest for good, and sought through all things the holiest and greatest that he could be. Among men he was respected and never known to do a harmful thing. Yet it was in his mind that he was guilty: he had been arrogant and conceited. He had believed himself to be of the type that could do no evil--a chosen of God--who was so inherently holy that he had not within him the evil to do as those awful human comrades of his did. He was, in this, mistaken, for by underestimating himself, he realized that he had been unjust: the potential in all men to do evil is almost as great as their potential to do good. He had condemned the world as unworthy of himself before he had examined it in its fullness and, in so doing, had failed to show respect for the evil in all men. Thus, he could not know the contrary good in all men--he was the Pharisee in a world of tax collectors. Whilst searching for the truth, he had forgotten to set his own home in order before setting out to repair the world; and it was here, at home, that he had failed, and for his arrogance and conceit he would pay a price.
The coldness of the pavement, replaced by nothing, continued to fade as he wished--begged--for another chance. He could do better--indeed he knew he could do better. He saw his mistakes and would aright them. All of his being wept as it recognized its shortcomings. Would that he had all time to fulfil his quest. The coldness of the pavement was now entirely gone and, as he passed beyond the veil, he hoped still one time more before he was cast into darkness…
Fraying
Niezche
He moved up a corridor. He picked his steps around heaps of cloth that littered the path. The air was sooty and dense. A heat lingered which, as he travelled, grew exceeding in temperature. He wished to stop his journey but realised that he no longer had a will and, thus, was destined to travel toward that great heat. The corridor was narrow and, as he travelled unwillingly toward the heat, he discovered that the heaps of cloth grew closer together and ever deeper. Still unable to see, he continued down the corridor until, striking a wall, he found himself forced to turn. Rounding a corner, he now detected a red light that streamed toward him. In this light, he regained his vision and, stopping momentarily to examine but one of the millions of pieces of cloth that littered the corridor floor, realised to his amazement that they were all garments. In the manner of a tunic, they were long and quite loose, and each tunic was marked by black stains. As he unwillingly resumed his journey toward the red light, the united heap of garments was now so deep--so dense that he was required to abandon all efforts of walking in favour of crawling over them. As he arrived at the end of the corridor, he noted the last garment. In all things was it like the others, and yet he knew, somehow, that it was his. Before him, the corridor opened before a pit of flames. The heat was great—and so unbearable that he was unable to even glance upon the source, as it was so bright that even to gaze upon that pit would be as red hot irons applied to one’s eyes. The place was filled with the most horrible sound. He wished to be away from the place and yet he was bid closer until he was on the very brink of the great chasm. One step more would dash him into the flames. Gazing into the chasm, he wished to shield his eyes—if only he’d had them at his disposal. The pit had neither a definite width nor depth. The heat engulfed him and the poison air filled him and he passed into a world of darkness and hatred. He could think of no words but the most negative, disgusting, and hateful expressions he had ever known. This place dominated him and filled him with the pale gas of damnation. He discovered that the sound, which before had seemed to him a roar, was truly six hundred trillion wails all mingled into one. His soul quaked and he knew that, for all the evil--for all the harm that ever he’d done, he did not deserve this place. It was at this moment that he realized that he was again free: his will was his own once more. Seizing the garment which he knew to be his own, he placed it about his shoulders. He felt himself reconstituted. Slowly, he regained that which had been from him taken--he would have his chance. Why for him? For all those souls which into that pit had been cast--had they, too, received unto them this chance?
Sunday, November 14th, 03.33901 James Street
Reaux, Jordan
She had an idea and, looking down at her hands, Ulunya Reaux found herself holding a composition notebook. As she did so, it occurred to her that she had been told to open the book and “read the first page.” Obediently, she opened the book, expecting to find, written upon the first page, some manner of instruction. As she peered into the open book, she found that there was indeed writing within the book--yet she could read it not. Even the slightest attempt to read from it simply confused her and brought her into such a flustered state that, to focus all effort upon the reading of it--upon focusing enough to make sense of even a single word seemed hopeless. Yet, she tried, and as she attempted to put all of her mental faculties in the comprehension of the document, she grew disoriented and it occurred to her that she was falling.
Moments later, Ulunya awoke and, glancing at her surroundings, (greatly in search of Jordan), found herself alone. She loudly called his name as she gathered her senses about her and, receiving no response, she arose from her armchair, rather stiff. The open composition book fell from her hands and she discovered that there was a handwritten message set upon the first page. With a flash of memory, she recalled her dream which flooded back to her comprehension entirely. She then recalled the events of the night before and, searching hastily for the Lovecraftian novel which had lulled her to sleep, she very quickly discovered it lying on the floor with a note marking her last read page. Smiling slightly, she recovered the book and, pulling from it the note, she examined it briefly on one side before turning it around in her first so that she could read the writing upon it. As she read it from her dominant right hand, she scrubbed from her eyes, with her right hand, the sleep from which she had awoken. The letter was hastily scribbled, revealing something of the mood in which Jordan had left her. It revealed the author to a man quite capable of delicate hand script, should he find himself willing to take the time: “Find me at Cathedral library. Lose no time. _Jordu.”
Seizing her heavy coat from its position, hanging upon the back of the kitchen chair that Jordan had not been seated upon, she stepped out the door and, closing the door behind her, left the house silent for but a moment before the door was hastily reopened. Ulunya rushed within and, dashing to the armchair, seized the black composition notebook. From thence, she retraced her steps to the door, notebook in hand, and once more exited the building, closing the door softly behind her. She stepped out into the dark night, illuminated only by the streetlights and the stars above. Directing her gaze to the Heavens, she noted the belt of Orion: three stars perfectly aligned and outstanding against the night sky. Few star shapes could rival that most enduring and apparent formation. From his belt, on all sides, the stars separated, presenting the limbs and head of the man who had so long ago passed into legend. The man eternally fled from his foe, Scorpius, never confronting that which most conflicted him and thus, he could never advance--could never leave behind that foe which he would never confront. The moon, too, rested indirectly overhead. The clouded veil of the days before had passed away, leaving the night clear and crisp. The Moon could be seen in all its brilliance and the Sun fought with its own perpetual enemy, confronting the Night--forever seeking to destroy the darkness. One night the conflict would end--perhaps tonight was that night. The Earth and its subjects, shrouded in darkness, slept. Kings and common men, the teacher and the scholar, the ingenious and the challenged, the living and the dead. All slept regardless of rank, age, or race. The infant and the ancient alike slept, awaiting the time they should again be called to walk the Earth. Also did John Niezche sleep within the grave. The soil around him was enclosed, blocking him from the outer world by the means of its citadelic wall which, six feet deep, held forever the remains of a man whose plea, by some feat of fate unknown, had surpassed the finite realm and now sought its own completion by whatever means could be found. His castle was marked only by a stone which bore testimony to the person that was John K. Niezche--Born the twenty-first of March, 1984--Died on the twelfth of November, 2007. His testimonial, provided but twelve hours for completion, was basic; yet it was sufficient to relate all that a stranger was entitled to know. For he lived forever and the hearts and minds of those who had thought they’d known him.
Like magnets to one another drawn, so were the implements of his task gathered: Ulunya now to the Cathedral journeyed; and the man, Jordan, slept uneasily within the library awaiting the time that he, too, should again be called to walk the Earth. Entering the library by way of the door that John had used not 48 hours before, she approached the area, set aside for silence and study, and found the man asleep upon a large book. His head rested upon the top of the page and his shoulders and arms fell together, conveying that they had aided the man’s neck in the support of his head. The posture of the man implied that he had, indeed, spent his last moments of consciousness attempting to take in or reflect upon the contents of the book which now beneath him lay.
Approaching the resting man from his front right side, Ulunya Reaux poured momentarily over the book, largely obstructed by the man’s upper body, for the purpose of identifying the topic from which he read. Identifying key words groups such as “Cain and Abel” and “discovery that they were naked” allowed her information to properly assume that he was studying ancient religious and ancestral texts. Tenderly, she touched the back of his shoulder and shook him slightly. The man arose suddenly and with surprisingly clear eyes, as though he had not been sleeping at all (though he clearly had been). His pattern of sitting upright was in a straight and deliberate pattern--his head turned neither to the right nor to the left until he had resumed an entirely upright position. As soon as he had done so, he glanced up from his seated position and engaged the eyes of his visitor, turning his head slightly to the side with a sideways tilt. Ulunya stood straight and stern, her mouth into a straight line was kept, in a manner that implied great severity of occasion in addition to a most profound respect for the man. She stood before him as a soldier before his king: he: comfortable, and the visitor at attention. She informed him directly that she had seen the note which he had left for her and that, though she knew not entirely why he had called upon her, she had no reason to not oblige him. He nodded thoughtfully--slowly, as she quickly added: “Did you intend to spend the night here? I noticed that you directed me to come to this place when I awoke...surely you did not expect me for some time yet.” Speaking for the first time, Jordan responded that “he had indeed intended to spend the night in this place--preferably awake.” He added the last bit with a chuckle which slightly pursed his lips into a grin. He arose in respect for the lady before him and motioned her to a chair on the opposite side of the small table from him. She obliged and as she seated herself, he returned to his position so that the two sat face-to-face with a comfortable two-and-a-half to three meters between them: the table separating. Now came Ulunya’s turn to search Jordan for his reason for bringing her to this place upon her own awakening. She comically (and definitely intentionally) copied Jordan’s customary tilt of the head and rolled back and relaxed shoulders and he, not immune to comedic impressions nor satire, bringing his right hand up from its position upon his lap, pointed briefly at her as he showed his teeth in acknowledgement of her purpose. She pleasantly smiled in return. Jordan quickly recovered his former, serious, state and returned to a that of thoughtful interaction.
“I brought you to this place because…” here he waited several seconds, as was customary to him, to ponder. He brought his hands into a scholar’s cradle upon the desk from which he began to gesticulate as he again began to speak: “Let’s go back a bit--briefly. I was informed by your priest that I should accompany you, and ensure that you had the book near at hand when you retired. He said that, after you fell to sleep, you should read the first page of the book--and apparently only that--in your first moments of consciousness. I can’t understand, entirely, his reasoning for this--is your priest, by any chance...does he have a history of strange behaviour or...madness?” Ulunya shook her head slowly, fully engaged. Her chin rested upon her hands which were clasped at an apex between her elbows which rested upon the table--her beauty and innocence were extraordinarily evident from his posture, as with a childlike attention her large eyes regarded the man whom she trusted as a father figure. Her own father had been from her taken at such an early age that to attach herself to the advice of such a man as Jordan was predictable--if not inevitable. Jordan continued: “His commands to me would have been strange but--and this may be as a result of my work--it somehow made quite some sense. If it had not, you may be entirely sure that I would not have done as he requested. So now, Miss Reaux--Ulunya--(confused by himself he shook his head to stay on topic) I ask if you have any idea what your priest may have meant or intended?” Jordan momentarily looked around as though for a glass of water and, finding not one, he quickly returned to receive the response which he had requested. Her response was an underwhelming repetition of her previous action. Reading slight annoyance on the face of the man, she quickly murmured: “I have none.”
“Then…” Jordan began, “I would say--possibly--we may owe your priest a visit? How do you wish to proceed? Have you read the book?” Ulunya abruptly stiffened for a moment--sitting bolt upright upon her chair. For nought but a brief moment she maintained the posture before, removing her arms from the desk, she reached into her large purse-bag which she had unassumingly placed upon the floor beside her chair. She nearly dove within, returning but several seconds later with the black notebook. Placing it upon the desk she asked him: “What is in it?”
“You were told to read it. I was never given permission--(here he leaned suddenly forward to add emphasis) so I didn’t!”. After an uncertain moment, Ulunya hastily opened the book to find that the page was segregated, by perfectly straight strokes of a pencil, into five sections--each labelled to its contents: Objective, place, time, hazards, constants. The script was precise and deliberate.
“OBJECTIVE:
Deliver the book to the floor beside the bed.
PLACE: Mr Niezche’s place of residence; beside bed; about 2.5 feet from the nearest wall.
TIME: Before he awake. (safely by 7.00)
HAZARDS: The broom closet and the lamp. Find them and avoid them.
CONSTANTS: Everything. Touch not a thing. Ensure that you do not disturb the dust-bunny in the bottom south-west corner of the room nor the lamp in the north-west corner; AND DO NOT read page two of this manual nor should you look under the front doormat.”
Jordan watched Ulunya’s face as she read. By the time she had finished the document, her face exhibited an almost comic confusion at the contents of the book. Looking up from it, she met Jordan’s inquisitive eyes and, believing that the book spoke best for itself, caused the book to slide across the table to Jordan who, receiving it, turned it toward him and briefly read the book in a far more timely fashion than Ulunya had. He nodded thoughtfully as he closed the book--slowly and carefully. Folding his hands upon the closed book, he rejoined his and Ulunya’s mutual glance--clearly confused and nearly laughing at the strange deliberations imposed by the book. He and she shared a glance for a moment, each silently laughing and enjoying the comedic expression of the other. Jordan nodded again as he said, still smiling broadly: “Let’s pay your priest that visit.”
Sunday, November 14th, 04.40
339 State Street, St. Clement’s Gothic Cathedral, Fr. Freud's Demesne
A knock resounded. Two members of very different worlds sought the attention of another member of a world so different from either of their already different universes that he was somewhere joined between the two. It was at this time that the duet--Jordan and Reaux, sought to upgrade the status of their group from that of a duet to that of a triad. They had taken that path that the priest had taken. Like him, they had, upon approaching the Cathedral, rounded it and gone into the alley beyond which led to a place that was, by nature, nearly secret. It was the home of the priest: Fr James Freud. His home was behind the main church building, but not separate from it. It seemed that it also was bound to the sanctuary through a network of stairs, halls, and rooms which led to an adjoining door from which one could easily pass from one building to the other. The abode of the priest was marked only by an outside door which, perched atop four stairs, was the gateway through which the priest could pass into the outer world. It was at this door that the two now sought admission. Reaux was clad in a knitted sweater (done up with buttons) of similar colour to the dusk time sky. She covered herself additionally with a long woolen jacket which proceeded slightly beneath her hips. From there descended a black, pleated skirt which descended to a point an inch or so beneath her knees, and stockings of similar colour to her knitted sweater. The garment protected her well against the cool November night. Jordan, for his part, wore black trousers of denim and a grey semi-formal long sleeve shirt which he covered additionally with a long coat similar to that of Reaux’s. His greying hair was somewhat unkempt, but his short beard and moustache gave him a somewhat imperial bearing. He would have been quite an appropriate sight in any era: then or two hundred years past.
A bolt thudded. A chain rang out in protest at being disturbed from its post. The door opened cleanly; but its course was shortened by the chain which bound it to the frame. For security reasons, Father had kept the security of his home intact as he now examined his visitors through the resulting gap which was left between the door and the frame, maintained by the small chain. The darkness shrouded from his view the visitors, as the poorly lit alley afforded him not the privilege of knowing them by vision. He nervously requested that the visitors identify themselves. He received a soft response from Reaux who serenely identified themselves as "us." Father closed the door and, after undoing the chain, quickly flung the door open widely, allowing his visitors to enter. Stepping aside, his body language bid them enter. As they stepped through the door frame, Father requested that they remove their shoes and leave them before the door. Reaux was quick to comply but Jordan, slightly uncomfortable with the situation, hesitated. Father Freud ignored Jordan as he courteously welcomed Reaux to a small sitting room that spread directly before the door, beseeching her to take the armchair. Fr. Freud followed her and they began to make themselves comfortable whilst Jordan slowly undid the knots upon and removed his shoes, leaving them before the door beside those of Reaux. Fr. Freud rose as Jordan approached and courteously bid him take a seat on a small couch. Moving to the far right side of the couch, he allowed Jordan much room on the opposite side. Jordan stiffly sat down as Reaux began to politely push on toward the purpose of their visit. She began by vocally hoping that she had not awoken the priest, to which the priest responded sardonically (though not lacking in due humour) that he always was awake at such obscure hours. The priest followed his statement with a small chuckle which helped to soften the collective mood. "I don't like to allow shoes beyond the door for sanitation reasons: imagine all the places those shoes have been!" Father put in with a note of apology in his voice. Father’s hair had a long time been grey, and his face, smaller than average, was somewhat wrinkled with age—but not dramatically so.
Reaux exuberantly smiled and nodded as she further attempted to soften the conversation. Jordan, leaning forward and upright, remained ready to engage. He determined to put aside his unreasonable dislike of the priest so that better things might flourish. He took notice of an awkwardness--increasing with each silent moment--and, realizing that he was expected to lead the conversation, began to lay out the reason for their visit:
“Mister...Father (here Fr. Freud nodded encouragingly), we came because we are both rather confused, and I believe that...well, let me put it this way: Ms Reaux and I have been instructed by you and by that book (Jordan motioned toward Reaux’s purse-bag) and we have muddled around with the notion that you had known what you were doing when you told us--told me to behave--to operate in what any rational person would call ‘unusual.’ As an excuse for all this, we’ve nothing more than this book of your’s--apparently of relevance but how--I really just can’t understand.”
Father looked tired as Jordan leaned back into the sofa, still oriented toward the priest so that he sat at something of an angle. The priest was reciprocal of this posture but, being significantly older than Jordan, proved to have much less stamina than the man. For, as he attempted to remain reciprocal to Jordan, it was clear that his years had left him quite lacking that fire which Jordan had about him. It was clear, however, that the priest had, in fact, aged quite well regarding that many of his profession would have retired by the time they had attained to his age. The priest quietly brought himself to his feet and, disappearing into another room, left the man and woman alone. Jordan, turning to Ulunya, raised an eyebrow. The shadows beneath his eyes were evident as he managed a small smile at Ulunya who, quite baffled, smiled back impatiently.
About half a minute later, the priest returned and, asking if either of his visitors would like a drink, apologized for having not done so before and handed to Jordan a composition notebook much like the first one in every way but that this second book was green, whereas the first had been black. Jordan, looking up sharply, agreed to a glass of water and thanked the priest. Father pointed at the book as he turned toward the kitchen. As he did so, he bid Jordan “take a good look at that.” As the priest disappeared once more, Jordan flipped quickly through the book, taking no more than a second on most of the pages but stopping for a slightly longer period of time at certain points as he attempted to mentally grasp the contents of the book in as short a period of time as possible. Ulunya, from her armchair, was incapable of any comprehension of the book but that which could be discovered from Jordan’s face. He focused intensely upon the pages, squinting all the while. As he progressed rapidly through the pages of the book, he rushed to the coffee table, placed centrally between the couch and the armchair, muttering that Ulunya should “see this, hey.” Ulunya moved from her seat as though she had been launched from thence as she rushed to the table to pour over the book. Before her were about two hundred pages of that same type of writing which had been within their own, black, notebook. The contents of this green book were placed with much less diligence and care: scribbled hastily, most of them gave the impression that this book had been authored by a madman. Each page detailed a scenario in a rather similar manner to that scenario upon the first page of their own notebook. However, each page was dated in small digits in the bottom corner closest to the binding--almost hidden. Jordan, noticing this, pointed quickly to the date upon the 26th page, Ulunya moved hastily around the table to get a better view. The date was “10/4/07”, a week before John Niezche’s death. Jordan began to flip forward through the book, quickly noting the date upon each page as it increased sequentially: the fifth, the sixth, the eighth, the tenth...the next page was the eleventh of November, the date of the death of Niezche. After spending but a moment upon this page, Jordan verified that the page was segregated by the same criteria as had been the black notebook and, flipping to the next page, found that it too was dated the eleventh--and the same was true for a third page, flipping still more quickly, the next two pages were revealed to be dated for the twelfth--and one page for the thirteenth (this new day). As he scanned the pages, Jordan confirmed that the dates developed in numerical order (skipping several days between each page), one page after the next, he came finally upon page 159 which was dated for March the 30th of 2013. The entire endeavour was so hastily executed that it had taken no more than thirty seconds for the two of them to comprehend sufficiently: by pointing and muttering had they quickly communicated as they made haste.
Glancing at Jordan, Ulunya formed an inquisitive expression whilst pointing at her head. She wondered if the priest could be, to an extraordinary extent, lacking sanity. In essence, the book appeared to be a diary staged (partially at least) in days not passed. This priest travelled in days not arranged. Indeed, if this book was not evidence of such a truth, then it was evidence of a certain failure of the aged priest’s mental faculty. Regardless, why had he involved them in it? The two individuals repaired to their separate seats and were hardly settled when the priest returned with a glass of clear, colourless fluid in each hand. Extending himself, he handed one to Ulunya who, promptly abandoning it upon the coffee table, watched as the priest handed the other glass to Jordan. Jordan accepted it with both hands cupped, and grinning with the same ridiculous, tightlipped exuberance, nodded rapidly in exactly the same manner he had when first making the priest’s acquaintance in the Church the day before. The expression--however forced, was not entirely insincere. As the priest tasked himself to sitting down, Jordan discreetly made eye contact with the distrustful Ulunya (who was practically cowering within her chair) from over the lip of his drinking glass as he tilted it back, taking a deep, deliberate sip. Returning it from his mouth, he leaned forward and, placing the glass opposite from Ulunya’s, turned his attention to the priest. Fr. Freud awaited the conversation with a strange eagerness--as though he had for a long time anticipated the exchange of speech between himself and Jordan. Ulunya found that she was to be--at this moment in time--nothing more than a pretty complexion on the other side of the room, isolated from the conversation by the two intellectuals. Fr. Freud nodded respectfully toward Jordan and, putting his head down to avoid eye contact, began the conversation: “I assume you have seen all that is to be seen?” Jordan replied that the book seemed so very complex that he could not even dream of understanding all that it meant in the few seconds that he had been afforded. The priest nodded and, rubbing his hairless chin, continued by telling Jordan that the book was a diary of his--a truth which Jordan already comprehended and now sought only an explanation for how--why this man imagined that he was gifted with foresight or such an abuse of an element of existence as essential as that of time. It seemed quite arrogant and yet the priest behaved in a purely rational manner, as though knowledge of future things were mere child’s play.
“Did you see the last pages?” Freud asked. Jordan responded that he had not and repeated that he had not very much time to do more than browse the book. “Then,” Fr. Freud continued, “I insist you pick the book up and allow me to give you a...a...a guided tour of this little wonder.” He gestured toward the book which Jordan, slowly and sceptically, lifted and, looking hastily toward the priest, waited for an instruction which came as a simple number: “160.” Jordan attained to the page most quickly and saw that it was unlike all previous pages in that it was more suitable to be contained within a diary than any of the pages that had come before it. “From here on,” Freud began, “is to guide most directly and carefully through each day.” Jordan looked up quickly at Fr. Freud as though he expected that the priest might betray, with an expression, a joke on his part--yet there was nought but a solemn expression which was revealed.
“So in lay man’s terms this is a…” Jordan halted his speech to permit the priest to answer the question in his own words--a strategy the Jordan had understood to be of great value for many years.
“...A book to tell me the things I forgot when I last visited tomorrow.”
Jordan nodded as though he was determined--he had underlined the issue and now sought merely to eradicate all possible alternatives. His jaw dropped slightly, allowing his mouth to form a slight “O” shape as he maintained a serious expression; for madness is no small matter. Jordan clarified, “So that when tomorrow, and the day after...and even every day (he pointed directly at the book in his left hand with his right hand and maintained eye contact with the priest) you can know what went wrong the last time... (he stammered as he tried to overcome the apparent irrationality which he was dwelling upon)...amend those things which you did not expect to go wrong the last time but can expect to go wrong this time--you’re learning from future mistakes!” The concept was practically hilarious and yet Jordan wondered that it might be so. The priest nodded quickly, quite pleased that Jordan had so quickly warmed up to the subject.
Ulunya observed the exchange from the lonely armchair--each exchange brought her more certainty that the priest was not to be trusted. With little effort--and with certainly very little thought of any kind, she devised a plan which she began to execute. Leaning forward, she lifted from the table the drinking glass and, putting it delicately to her lips, allowed the fluid within to touch for but a moment her closed lips which held fast before the rush of fluid. This action attracted Jordan’s prereferral vision. He glanced briefly at her as she returned the drinking glass to the table, leaving it conveniently within reach. She subtly made eye contact with Jordan and allowed a brief, pleasant smile to be revealed. Jordan made no definite expression as he turned back to the priest who was now speaking.
“See, I’ve lived longer than many men and I believe that I have lived so long for a reason--that I may carry my cross for as long...for as far as possible. I believe that I have lived a good life, but I realize that I am not here merely to make my own life good. I want to make other people’s life...lives good and happy. You see?” Jordan nodded in agreement as he drank quickly from his own drinking glass.
“You believe that if time can be manipulated you can use it to perfect certain things. If something goes wrong, you can simply come back to it hundreds of times until it is fixed?” Jordan’s speech led the priest and the priest followed: “I would not say ‘simply’--time is very stubborn and cannot easily be bent to a person’s will.” Jordan grunted as he quickly nodded, drinking once more from his glass which became as now a permanent accessory inside his left hand--the book lay upon his lap and his right hand was free to make a vast variety of gestures which testified to his many years as a doctor of the mind.
As he withdrew the glass once more, he asked the priest, somewhat in jest, how many times this conversation had occurred between them. “We?” the priest clarified. “I have taken part in this conversation 61 times.” Jordan raised his eyebrows in surprise as he sipped once more from his glass before responding sharply. “And I?”
“This is the third time for you,” the priest responded.
“And I?” Ulunya spoke sharply from her armchair. She seemed relaxed, her right leg was crossed over her left which hung between the floor and the table.
“You, my daughter, are experiencing this conversation for the... (he paused for a moment, bringing his eyes around the room as if to count imaginary objects)...8th time.” He nodded surely. Jordan put his head in his hands and wiped his eyes as Ulunya asked the most predictable question. Why did she not remember it then? Why did she not remember tomorrow? Fr. Freud laughed as though the question were absurd. She was such a silly girl!
“Why...because it hasn’t happened yet my dear!” Fr. Freud revealed to her a paternal smile before turning back to Jordan (Ulunya, quite disgusted, rolled her eyes). Jordan was relaxed as he asked whether it was safe to manipulate time, and how it affected other people when time was altered. For all matters and affairs are connected within an extraordinary network which, should one be, theoretically, rearranged or altered, would render the world a most horrifyingly confusing place. Time would mean nothing--history would be destroyed! Father decisively flicked his wrist and pointed at Jordan:
“This is true. This is why one must isolate and avoid certain constants and causally related factors, for if time is as a string, and as one travels along that string, it frays. Only in fraying can the string alter. Understand this: Whatever happened--it is a chess game. You may alter details within events, but you may not alter the decisive outcome of the event. You have certain roles which must not be changed, as the rope can also tear apart if frayed too much, and that would be universally tragic.” Jordan nodded. After several silent moments, Jordan glanced at Ulunya and found that she already contained him in vision. She was watching him as he had watched her in the church the day before. Her eyes were focused and her mouth and face were expressionless. To the priest, he said: “This is all most interesting.”
Fr. Freud nodded excitedly: “That’s what I thought when I discovered it. Anyway, I actually came back because Niezche...most regrettably died. I shouldn’t even be able to walk right now--it seems that...I can’t even travel in normal methods...such as walking as you might; yet I travel as few do, through time…”
The moment that Jordan had returned his gaze to Father, Ulunya Reaux enjoyed the lack of attention. She casually and carefully lowered her right leg and began to cross her left leg back over her right leg as she readjusted her position to restore comfort. Her left leg now lingered mere inches from the table as the priest’s address continued.
“...See, when Niezche died, I knew that this must come to pass, and yet I also knew that he was meant to marry…” The cup clattered as it fell. Like a crown from a king’s eminence it was cast down, rolling as it lay. From it drained its former contents. Violently did it roll from the glass tabletop to the floor, into which the remainder of its contents now bled. The lake spread across the table as an army, conquering and dominating all that it encountered. Both men now turned their attention suddenly upon Ulunya who sat, unmoved in her seat. Her lips were parted in a mockery of surprise. As they both looked upon her, she stared back innocently, and from between her parted lips came a low, short gush which curled her lower lip in a display of apology: “Awe.” The priest hastily jumped to his feet and, rushing his aged body to the kitchen, declared that it was no matter--he would get a towel immediately. As he stepped carefully from the room, Ulunya's laughter lines animated around her mouth as she withdrew her lower jaw, biting her chin with her top teeth as she attempted and failed to conceal her glee from the man.
Jordan appeared to be greatly unimpressed. He scowled at her as he recognised the intention within her face. Completely baffled and shocked beyond words, his expression implied that it may have been only the distance between himself and his student that had saved her from receiving from him a blow across the cheek. She attempted, immediately, to minimize his offence as she explained that she had done so only because she wanted to inform him in privacy that she had thought the priest to be acting oddly--not himself for quite some time. She knew not when his strange behaviour had begun, but she had first begun to notice it about two months before. This most recent behaviour of his, combined with his explanations, now left her quite certain now that the Father had lost much of his sense, logic, and sanity-- “Is such a man to be trusted.” Jordan did not speak as the priest reentered the room with a dishtowel. As Jordan recognized Fr. Freud’s intention to absorb the lake of water, he quickly arose from his chair and insisted that he might be given the towel, with which he would, himself, clean up after his student. Fr. Freud conceded the towel and Jordan, kneeling on one knee, set about absorbing from the table the water which had so recently been upon it spilt. As he set about absorbing the same from the carpeted floor, Ulunya arose from her chair and carefully knelt adjacent to him upon the floor. She could not bear to allow her beloved and trusted teacher and father to be lower than her, and so she attempted to help him amend that which she had done. Jordan, recognizing her wish, unceremoniously gave to her the towel with which she finished the job as he returned to the couch.
No sooner was Jordan at the couch when Ulunya arose from behind the table and offered to return the towel to the kitchen--an offer which Fr. Freud permitted, adding that it should be placed beside the stoves. She nodded obediently and, upon quickly fulfilling the task, returned to the chair, resuming her former position and posture. She observed the two men: Jordan, removing from his face that unpleasant expression which had developed in response to her antics, turned his attention back to the priest. The priest, his attention now entirely upon Ulunya, asked if he should refill her cup. She kindly declined--displaying the fact that she had, in fact, been brought up according to good manners. The priest began again to speak and, as he did so, Ulunya subtly caught Jordan’s eyes with her own and pointed toward his own drinking glass which he pushed toward her (offering her a drink from his own), continuing to orient himself toward Fr. Freud who was explaining that there were certain things which he had determined to be constants in each given scenario and that, should one such constant or hasard be altered, the entire scenario or even universe would devolve into a state of complete chaos.
“I now need both of you to travel to the day of John Niezche’s death. This was what I had intended when I gave to you that notebook, and so far, I have done my part right. You both, too (he said reassuringly as he glanced at Ulunya and then back to Jordan) have played your roles properly up to this point, but the worst and hardest is yet to come. If this is executed to perfection, I believe John Niezche will come back from the dead…” Ulunya gasped as she repeated the most recent five words in the formulation of a question.
“Yes. I believe you will speak to John very soon, my child...much sooner than you think.” The priest paused to catch his breath and, as he did so, he turned back to Jordan whose brow was deeply furrowed as he examined everything about the scenario with great interest. He saw no reason why the priest should be expressly distrusted. If he was, in the impossible possibilities of chance, reason, and dimension, correct and truthful in these matters, then Jordan knew he must pay heed, for not to do so would be almost criminal. However, if truly mad he was, he was not evidently dangerous, and Jordan thought that he might aid this man in recovering from this mental state into which he had declined. Now, he sought only to understand the man and his condition so that he could proceed properly. As he thought most deeply about these things, the priest was now entertained in reviewing certain pages within the green notebook, being extraordinarily careful to avoid certain other ones. The second drinking glass fell to the floor as Ulunya leapt from her chair. Avoiding eye contact with the priest, she once more caught Jordan’s eye briefly as she rushed from the room, announcing carelessly “so sorry!” as she went to the kitchen to retrieve, once more, the dishtowel. Jordan excused himself and, taking up the empty cup, followed her hastily and met her at the stove.
He was calm and controlled as he questioned her. “What is this about?”
She moved closer toward him so that she could speak quietly. “I don’t like this.”
“There is... definitely something unusual happening here. (He paused thoughtfully) I do not believe him to be dangerous--he’s your priest: You should know him as well as anyone. You should. Now...well...what is it that you don’t trust in him? His case seems, to me, quite understandable. I think that insanity such as his is not to be a surprise...rather, it is sanity that should be surprising. Now would you please tell me...I need to know why you have now spilt water on this poor man’s rug and coffee table two separate times.” He held the empty glass before her as though it were evidence of the crime.
She took from his hands the glass and, holding it with her left hand, pointed at it with her right hand as she accused it: “I think these might be poisoned.”
Jordan was silent.
“You do not think so?” she asked him.
Jordan slowly, stoically shook his head as he looked at the floor. Ulunya hung her head in shame as she realized that her actions must have appeared to the older man to be most childish. He broke the silence by putting his hand paternally on her shoulder as he muttered: “Well...in that case, I think I owe you a bit of gratitude. I still think you could’ve gone about it in a much better manner. Did you not see me drink from the cup? Have you any reason to have suspected him of wishing me harm?”
“Well, he said I’d speak to John very soon, and if that isn’t a threat then I don’t know what it is…”
Jordan quietly interrupted as he suggested that it was merely a display of “poor communication skills.”
“I’m not willing to bet my life on that.”
“Well, you might! After all, I did drink most of it, and it tasted perfectly normal as far as glasses of water are concerned,” Jordan retorted.
“I suspected that it was effective—dangerous—in large quantities.”
“Well, I’ve clearly no evidence to prove that it is not, in fact, dangerous; but I think that either way, you may have somewhat overreacted. I suspect that you enjoyed a certain element of comedy through your...behaviour, and so I hope that you do not expect me to believe that your motive for reacting as you did was...was purely in my interests. Would you say that...in your own opinion--you overreacted at all, or that your motive was guided to some extent by a certain…” Jordan, struggling to define his point, was silent as he hoped that his student had the intelligence and honesty to understand his point. Ulunya knew that the man had nothing to gain from such a confession, and that, for such a question to be asked of her, he did so only in her own interests--a challenge to her honesty. A moment of silence found the two participants silent--staring into one another's face and eyes. Her mouth opened slightly as a silent laugh was exposed. Her lips tightly together came, and her eyes were allowed to wander from the face of the wise man--a silent admission of the truth he spoke. As she avoided the discomfort of an oral admission, she bypassed such a confession.
“When you came after me, I thought you might hit me,” she confessed.
Jordan allowed his lips to crease into a natural smile. “Yeah, well, I was afraid that I might hit you.”
Ulunya reciprocated the smile. She still did not meet his eyes, for he was, in height, more significant than she. If aligned abreast, she was, in entirety, tall enough merely to surpass his shoulders. As her chin drew up, her head inclined that she might see into his face. There remained a comfortable distance--perhaps a meter--between the two, and their relationship was that of a father and daughter. Jordan knew that she had chosen him to replace her father who had, when she was not twelve years of age, been taken from her at the hands of a most beloved, jealous, and deceitful brother--her own blood uncle. For money had been hard in those days for the Reaux family and, as is far too often the case, members of the family put off the bonds of kinsfolk. For her father had been, in comparison to her uncle, quite financially stable and her uncle, becoming reliant upon his funds for his own existence, had deceived her father into bestowing upon him every single coin of inheritance. The will and testament were modified and it not long followed that her father was found dead by a suspicious accident. The forensics found that he had, on a cold December night, been slain by a bullet whilst crossing a street in the Downtown. His life, finance, and country estate splendid were--as the poet would have it--in a moment--a twinkling all utterly ended. All he had had to call his own upon that world was, by law, and will, and testimony the property of his brother.
It then followed that she was to a girls’ home sent,
and in such a domain was her innocence bent.
For she held within her such tones of sorrow
that hatred itself did her own heart borrow.
She wished for justice and dreamed to repay
the murder of her father who’d been taken that day.
and it not long followed that justice was brought,
for truth is unbound and GOD is not mocked.
Her uncle had been a fool to in such a manner behave,
and for the rest of his life, he would in a prison cell rave.
Yet often through justice is not a human heart healed,
for in her own conscience her own wrath was revealed.
She had been fond of uncle and father arrayed,
and their love and trust both had been by him betrayed.
So had it become habit to trust but a few,
and her suspicion, once prompted, like a weed within a garden grew.
It so followed that she had met with Jordan in a clinical setting but a little after her fifteenth birthday. The headmaster of the girls’ home had seen in her a certain darkness that distanced her from all. She spoke nought, she ate little, and drink did she but rarely. Sleep came upon her only by exhaustion. She had worked hard upon all tasks and studies, and was an exemplar student, and yet as far as relationships were concerned, she had nothing. She had captured, by her persistence in all things, the hearts of the teaching staff, and but one thing held her back: For no person can in isolation within civilization prosper; and so, in such context was Jordan brought. She had progressed well by her eighteenth birthday, and upon her own freedom from the girls’ school, she had moved to the suburban area of the city where her abode now dwelt--nearer to Jordan. She had been raised in the Church, and upon her own liberty, she had sought quite quickly to return to the fold. It was at this point within her life that she had met John Niezche. He was a year younger than she. Into the community of St. Clement’s Cathedral had she come as a stranger. Upon arriving within such a congregation, it was evident that many relationships between parishioners were already well-grounded in history and acquaintance, and so she found herself within a position where she must force herself into an already established community. To do such was not her nature, and it was only, by the constant coaching and encouragement of Jordan, that she had been able to make something of herself. John Niezche had been among the first number of the congregation to attempt to establish any acquaintance with her at all, and she had at first shunned him. For she had feared that to place another in her own trust would be to tempt fate to repeat the betrayal of the past. Yet, as time continued and her confidence grew, she found within her the will to allow this young man at least a friendly part of her heart. Fr. Freud, too, had been quick to welcome her, but as a priest in such a congregation, he was necessarily distant, and she could but rarely have five minutes put together to converse with him. Thus, as her trust in him was not nearly as well-grounded as would have been preferable, he needed merely to shake from her those foundations the trust, and the entire structure would collapse. It would seem that, in his most recent behaviours, Fr. Freud had acted and spoken with such strangeness that it had caused Ulunya Reaux to doubt his sanity and even the goodness of his own intentions. All this did Jordan know well. His most recent words lingered as they demanded a reaction from his student: “I was afraid that I might hit you.”
Her chin was drawn up and her head tilted back so that she could into his face look. She spoke with filial affection: “Any lesser man would have.”
Jordan responded quickly with the use of a hybrid reaction: it was a cleared throat and a sharp affirmation combined: “Mhm.” It was as though he meant to confirm her in her most recent assumption without admitting that he was worthy of any high regard, for he had a humility about him. Seizing the towel from the priest’s countertop, Ulunya strode toward the sitting room where the priest waited. Jordan, understanding that the exchange was over, followed her from the kitchen.
Sunday, November 14th, 05.39339 State Street, St. Clement’s Gothic Cathedral, Fr. Freud's Demesne
Into the sitting room strode Ulunya Reaux, followed closely by the man, Jordan. From Ulunya’s right hand hung the dishtowel. She had within her the intention of absorbing from the priest’s sitting room floor and coffee table the contents of a second drinking glass which had been upon it spilt. Yet, as she approached, she was halted by a gesture from Fr. James Freud. He raised his hand as if to command a company of musketeers to cease fire. Jordan and Reaux were both stopped in their tracks as the priest commanded the scene. He remarked that they had for a long time been gone to fetch that towel.
“I--we had trouble finding it,” Ulunya lied, prompting Jordan to hang his head with a certain disgust. For the absence of truth from this statement was so evident that she had but two choices to choose for justification: She had told the untruth without thinking--it was a reaction not very well thought through, or she believed the priest to be devoid of all common sense whatsoever. For had not she been the agent by which the towel had been placed upon the countertop in the first place? And if so, how had she so quickly forgotten the details as to where she had placed it? And why had it required two perfectly competent individuals nearly five minutes to discover its position? Such were the telltale facts that had prompted the man, Jordan, to react with disgust and embarrassment. The priest smiled, perhaps sadly, in response to the lie as he continued. “You shouldn’t have,” he said, “for the water has long since evaporated.” Ulunya edged nearer to the armchair, being careful to remain courteously oriented toward the priest. As she did so, she peered carefully toward the coffee table and discovered that the water had, indeed, remained upon both surfaces. Father chuckled good-naturedly as she did so, for he had intended, by such a remark, to comically exaggerate the extent of the time for which they had been absent. Ulunya awkwardly dried, from the surfaces of the floor and table, the water while the priest asked Jordan if he had slept much that night. Jordan nodded and replied guardedly that he had slept “to a sufficient extent.” The priest nodded as though Jordan had a very good point made. The priest mentioned that he had been given that towel by a certain parishioner, adding cleverly that he was glad that it had enjoyed such profound usefulness that night. Ulunya rose from her task and her cheeks flushed red at the joke of the priest. Was she a glass window? To be spectated upon and comprehended to completion in all things? Was she so predictable? As she subtly glanced at the priest with an air of resentment, for he dared to make her subject of his own comedy and she shared not his enjoyment of the moment, for she believed it to be at her own expense. The priest noticed her not, but was occupied by turning his head manually in different directions to stretch his neck which had become stiff as a board from so long a period remaining sedentary. She turned and, passing by Jordan, began to make her way to the kitchen. The priest looked on with interest and, making and locking eye contact uncomfortably with Jordan, he silently dared Jordan to again follow her. Ulunya, as she passed him by, smiled quite eerily at Jordan and he, retaining eye contact with the priest most uncomfortable, grimaced in response to her expression. He accepted the priest’s challenge and turning, he, too, made his way quickly after her, toward the kitchen.
“There’s another use for that tonight,” Jordan muttered and, snatching, from its dangling position in her right hand, the towel, he lightly rapped her playfully about the back of the head with it, causing her hair to fly about, becoming dishevelled. She turned, quite surprised, as he brushed by her, smirking through a grimace. He quickly deposited the towel on the far side of the kitchen and, returning, found her guarding the kitchen doorway, her hair still dishevelled. The sides had fallen naturally back to their places where they lay loosely and with natural curls upon and in front of her shoulders; but her top hair, usually straight and orderly, was disarrayed such that the forward-most portion of it revealed a proclivity to fall before her face (where it lightly shrouded her right eye). She understood that Jordan had done so in good humour, and with equally good humour did she receive, from a man she owed much, this slight tease. In a mockery of anger did she peer at him from between and around this portion of hair which had before her face fallen. Her hands were outstretched slightly to the side and raised to nearly shoulder height, palms upwards, as if to ask “what was that for?” She turned to remain continually oriented toward him as he passed her by once more. As he did so, he muttered ironically that “you’ve got something on your nose (he pointed to the side of his own to emphasize).” He returned to the sitting room and found Fr. Freud standing before the couch, awaiting their return. Ulunya joined them a moment later after repairing to her hairstyle some semblance of order.
Fr. Freud asked that they follow him and set off toward a simple door set in the back of the house. Jordan promptly followed him, leaving Ulunya, a straggler, to consider for several moments. She glanced about the room and, noticing that she had forgotten her own purse-bag which was set next to the armchair which she had occupied. As she rushed toward the armchair to retrieve that which she had forgotten, Jordan and Fr. Freud unlatched, opened, and passed through the door which was so simply set in the wall. The wall, painted the typical shade of white, contained the door which was painted in a colour quite similar. The paint on this door--and much of the wall for that matter--was noticeably chipped as though it had for many seasons existed. There were almost signs of weathering upon the door which were most confusing, as the door was within and--thus--had seen no exposure to the elements without. Seizing her own purse-bag, she lifted it to her shoulder as she briefly looked within and noted that the black notebook was not to be found within. A momentary visual scan about the room revealed that neither black nor green notebook had not been left. As she turned her attention back toward the door, she found that Jordan had waited and was holding the door ajar for her--for he was a true gentleman. Fr. Freud, it would seem, cared not that his visitors had tarried. He had continued through the door and was several steps down a sort of corridor by the time Ulunya and Jordan had regrouped. She stepped carefully past Jordan and with a strange note of shyness, almost whimpered a brief “thank you.” Jordan nodded silently, quickly adding a caution: “Watch your step.” As she passed through the door, Jordan closed it behind her, and remained as an escort. Before them lay a dark, archaically lit corridor. The floor was that of square red brick and the walls, constructed of huge stones and mortar, gave the corridor the sense of a medieval castle. The subterranean corridor was almost six feet under the ground level and, as a result, seven rather large steps lay before the door as the access point from which one could descend from the door to the corridor beneath. She carefully descended the stairs (Jordan, ready at a moment’s notice to support her should she fall, lingered a step behind her) and, upon reaching the floor, Ulunya saw the corridor in its entirety. The corridor spanned about fifty meters in length by a width that could uncomfortably contain about five persons abreast. About halfway down the corridor, an intersection was formed where it branched out at right angles into a cross-corridor. The walls joined together in a long, domed ceiling above the corridor, displaying hints of gothic architecture. The two, seeing the priest about halfway down the corridor, pursued him. Every few steps brought the two beneath an arch which, constructed with twelve stones (six on either side of the hall) of identical type and scale to those of which consisted the wall, were capped with a thirteenth stone which was laid according to the classic “keystone” method so that the weight was distributed through the solid “keystone” brick into the two supporting legs. The priest, in his seventy-sixth year, was slower than the two younger persons and, as such, they closed the distance as he reached the opposite side of the corridor. Before them was a set of dark doors of oak which were cut so as to perfectly fit into the shape of the arched corridor. Fr. Freud, upon reaching this set of doors, had only to wait for a moment or two for Jordan and Ulunya to finish closing the distance before the three of them stood before the door. He stood between the two persons and the doors and Jordan, placing his wrists above his knees, bent down to recover his wind. Ulunya, at twenty-four years old, was significantly younger than either of the men.
“What is this place?” asked she with a manner of awe.
“This...,” began the priest turning to the doors and, taking each door by the ringed handles in the middle, pulled with some effort, “...is our own St. Clement’s Cathedral.” The doors groaned as they swung toward the trio, pulled apart by the elderly priest. They entered the building and beheld the cathedral from a perspective from which Ulunya (and certainly Jordan) had never seen it from. The three passed entirely through the doors in single file. The priest, followed by Jordan, led the way, while Ulunya, glancing about herself, was in no way hurried in her steps. When Ulunya was firmly beyond the doors, she and Jordan looked about themselves whilst Fr. Freud carefully closed both doors simultaneously by stretching himself between the two and, making use of his wingspan. The gothic arches in this sanctuary were of grandeur and magnificence. A great dome, in splendor, toward the Heavens did ascend, supported by arches, flying buttresses, and colonnades. It was the ultimate representation of the glory of an empire--the might of humanity to raise up such a structure was stunning. Toward the front of the building hung the great choir loft, upon which sat a seven thousand pipe organ which, when influenced by the skill of an organist, could cause the building the quake at the depth and grandeur of the sound. Above this pipe organ, set within the front wall, loomed a massive rose window--the crown jewel of the front of the building. In brilliant symmetry were hundreds of pieces of colored glass fit together to form the capital mark of the cathedral which had about it a mournful, dejected appearance for lack of the Sun’s illuminating glory. The floor about the perimeter and across the centre aisle of the cathedral was of the same square red brick of which had consisted the floors of the passage from which the trio had just emerged. In careful places, the floor consisted of black and white squared which, set in the pattern of a chessmaster’s board, were dominated as such by the gothic colonnades. These supported the flying buttresses which, in obedience to their own sacred duty, supported the great dome which was decorated with a smaller version of the rose window at the very top and about the sides were constructed, of the same colored glass, the portrait representations of the twelve apostles. Jordan saw the floor, and how the colonnades dominated him in their splendor and magnitude. He was a mere pawn in the presence of an omnipotent and omniscient queen. What glory--what awe--what absolute and utter terror at the height, the depth, and the sheer scale of that which around him loomed. He stepped into a more open space, a little more under the dome, and raised his eyes to that which loomed directly above him. Through the rose window nearly a hundred meters above him he beheld the night sky. The saints, too, though brilliantly crafted, were nothing in the absence of their master. The buttresses--the arches--the innumerable...material--scale...it was far too overwhelming and he was forced to bring his eyes back to the earth, for he became for want of orientation and steadiness as he beheld such things. Jordan was joined by Ulunya and Fr. Freud beside the first wood
Fr. Freud spoke directly as he revealed, from under his black cassock, the black notebook which she had found to be missing: “Miss Reaux, you have had individual and private conversation with Mr.--Jordan--this night (here he paused, chuckling at his own cleverness, to allow the entire meaning to be digested by Ulunya who again flushed a faint shade of red). I, too, now seek an audience with this man, and I beg your gracious...beg that you would excuse us as we go elsewhere to speak. If we do not return, join Jordan on the front steps of the building in (he checked his wrist and, finding that he had not a wristwatch, scowled) seventeen minutes.” Ulunya smiled simply. She looked exhausted, as her posture and expression lacked a certain uprightness and steadfastness. Fr. Freud and Jordan carefully stepped away from Ulunya who, turning toward the altar in recognition that she was in the house and presence of God, dropped a knee to the ground. Her strength failed her momentarily as she attempted to arise and Jordan, intentionally within a near enough vicinity to be of aid, leapt toward her and lent to her his own arm with which she gratefully pulled herself up. She seemed to not even have the energy to look him in the face, and thus, slipped without incident between the first and second pews, carrying the black notebook under her right arm, and her purse-bag slung about her shoulders. Fr. Freud, still within easy ear shot, put in a quick, witty instruction that she was not to lose that black notebook. No sooner had Jordan seen her safely arrived and seated--in a most quiet, humble, and almost dejected manner--then he simply bowed slightly toward the altar toward which Ulunya had genuflected and returned to the side of the priest. The two began to travel about the perimeter of the building.
The wisemen amongst each other took council under the gothic trees,
whilst the damsel in her devotedness then prayed upon her knees.
She prayed for strength and for the grace to part gently from her admired,
but that her shame and guiltiness might never be from her retired.
Her mentor now awake did wander, so she intended to retain
in effort to stay a conscious mind whilst that vigil did still remain.
But not only this night had she battled sleep and hid from its embrace,
But recent nights had she avoided sleep in an insomniac’s craze.
Now failed by energy and devoid of strength she was by her nature betrayed:
Her constitution fell and her body supported by the seat that was before her arrayed.
In unconsciousness did she fall over it, her body desperate for rest.
Her elbows fell down, her shoulders grew loose, her head lay now on her breast.
Once more did her locks her eyes enshroud--beauty by beauty was hidden.
Assuming the innocence and disorder of a child, guilt and blame were from her driven.
The priest and the wiseman could not have been shamed for allowing her thus to collapse,
for they thought she was seated, and their backs were turned toward her as in converse they now did elapse.
So quietly had her decline then been that she knew it not even herself,
And down the ladder to that realm of illusion did her conscience now explore itself.
All the while, whilst Ulunya Reaux fell into such a state of coldness and exhaustion, Jordan and Fr. James Freud took council. Walking the perimeter of the cathedral, they almost constantly passed by windows of coloured, stained glass, similar in design and material to those which Jordan had observed in the rose window at the front of the cathedral and the dome which capped the architectural masterpiece. Jordan walked as a classic gentleman: upright and steady, with his hands behind his back enfolded, his right hand within the open palm of his left. He and the priest had walked in silence for about a hundred and twenty moments whilst Jordan patiently awaited that introduction from the priest which now came.
“Jordan...” began the priest in a jolly, fatherly sort of way, awaiting an acceptance of the conversation from the man. Jordan promptly gave it by reciprocating even the tone and pitch of the priest and, turning slightly toward him, continued his steady pace in a slight side step that he might be oriented toward the priest, “Father!”
“Please, call me James,” Fr. Freud spoke evenly.
Jordan was surprised for a moment as he turned quickly his head as though to verify the priest’s meaning against his expression, finding it calm, collected, and serious--though not at all harsh. “May I ask--why should I call you by your given name when even your own congregation call you by ‘Father’?”
The priest now looked up slightly into Jordan’s face with a note of pleasure. He could hardly contain his exuberance. “Do you now number yourself among my congregation?”
Jordan inhaled sharply through his mouth and, turning away from the priest, closed his eyes as though exhausted by the priest’s energy and disgusted by the priest’s transparent and opportune attempt. The two continually walked. After some brief time, perhaps a matter of ten moments, Jordan returned to the conversation. “I don’t assume that I have the right to place myself within your congregation. Why should I be entitled to decide something of that… of that level of importance?”
Fr. Freud smiled thoughtfully and nodded slightly. “You are an extraordinarily wise man. You have as much a right as any man--and more than most. GOD does not make all minds equally so sharp, and for your’s indeed a certain giftedness has been provided. May I say simply, sir, that your reputation precedes you.”
Jordan was silent, as though he expected the priest to continue; but when he discovered that he was expected, in some way, to respond to this praise, he seemed as though nervous. He laughed uncomfortably, though not boisterously, for he was a calm and collected man, self conscious in character. “Man! What shall a man say to such praise?”
The priest smiled respectfully at the man’s humility in his response. “Your words are sensible, and do you credit. A humble man is always in the presence of God.”
Jordan, with a tilt of his head, bit his lip uncomfortably. As he quickly attempted to regain control of this situation, and hoped that the niceties would soon end. He continued calmly: “Come, Father. I can’t be expected to believe that your object in...in engineering our meeting tonight was to heap upon me such levels of praise. Even that dear lady (he referred with a shake of his head vaguely toward Ulunya--Father Freud’s gaze now passed Jordan as he saw with amazement that the young woman was asleep, but he allowed Jordan to continue) you have brought here when she would much rather be resting. What is your intention? What would you have me do?”
The two now passed before the front of the building, and crossing the central aisle, Father turned a sharp right angle toward the distant altar and, dropping a knee to the floor, crossed himself in homage. Jordan, understanding that this must be some custom, for he had now often seen it repeated, performed a simple bow in the direction of the altar before rejoining the priest.
The priest acknowledged the man’s last statement shortly. “You very quickly cut to the chase!”
Jordan licked his lips sharply as he cut in. “Many would disagree.”
Fr. Freud nodded knowingly, “I’m sure they would!” After a deep breath, he began to outline before Jordan what was to be done: “This all has to do with those things which I spoke of before the…”
“Time travel.” Jordan put in, warming up to the subject.
Fr. Freud looked uncomfortable for a moment as he thought deeply. “I dislike that term. It gives to the subject a certain futurism--a technological sort of shade that it makes me almost disgusted with the concept. This is not science fiction. It is a warping of reality that is not normal. It is a glitch.” The priest was serious and Jordan knew it. “Before I go farther into this, I want to ask you: Why do you humor me with your attention. Surely I must seem lacking in certain mental faculties. Indeed! I may even be mad with delusion.”
Jordan thought deeply as they journeyed slowly about the interior of the building. After some silence he responded, avoiding eye contact with the priest. “I have known and worked with many people--many of them mad, or delusional, or for want of sanity or logic or what have you (he brushed aside the issue with his hand). I mean, I think I would know a madman, and you have not any of the telltale definitions of such--which is… Well I don’t know what to make of that because to any coherent person, you sound just out of this world, and yet… something about what you say resonates so much with me that I can’t do anything. I seem to somehow believe this--and I want to be convinced so… so I need you to guide me if you can… Father.”
Father was silent in respect for the man who had so willingly offered himself as a tool for a mission which he could not foresee or even understand. The faith of such a man as Jordan was so strangely profound and childlike that it had about it such an unreasonable trust that it seemed almost naive. Yet, Jordan trusted in something greater than himself in the belief that his sacrifice could be of value in some way--in some time--to some one. Father moved closer toward Jordan as they reapproached the altar of the cathedral. Ulunya’s frame loomed on the opposite side of the central aisle, in an image of prayer and meditation though, in truth, her conscience was now far from her. Jordan noticed her not and the priest set his priority upon that thing which must be given priority: The primary key to a puzzle that even he could hardly understand. They were two men, working together to make a leap of faith that was so extraordinary and unusual that many a coherent person might well consider them mad beyond reason--wild beyond the taming hand of common sense.
The priest accepted Jordan’s offer: “If you will assist me in this mission, I must ask you this very moment to take the first step. Behold (he gestured to Ulunya here) Miss Reaux now sleeps in the presence of God. She is not yet entirely dead, but as close as any healthy person may journey toward their own end--she sleeps--she dreams--and her unconscious mind dwells upon the things that she has processed this day and combines them most intricately with her immediate surroundings. Her mental faculties will be drawn to resolve those things which rest heavily upon her--the things that are not quite right. For Reaux believes that John Niezche is-quite-dead--and so he is! Reaux also knows that Niezche was hers--and she his. Can such two things be true at the same time? This question I have battled for centuries--I do not walk the earth as mortals and life seems to have lost, for me, all of its meaning outside of this strange shell--you, Niezche, Reaux, Eullidge, Rujard, Kyson, and Koche. I know not what I shall do if I ever resolve such a matter. Perhaps I shall fade away into the dust which I should have decayed within centuries ago. I have seen many moons, and certainly more moons than I wish to. The years seem to run together and the days are disordered and staggered as a result of this most potent poison which I have inflicted upon myself by accident--by chance. Men search to manipulate time, and if they knew truly for what they searched, they would cease entirely to search. I wish now that this thing had never come upon me.”
Jordan was silent for a moment before cleverly speaking, “Frodo and his ring.” Fr. Freud nodded solemnly, motioning Jordan toward the pew on which he and Ulunya had rested immediately following the funeral service the day before. Jordan perceptively slipped between the first and second pews of the cathedral, directly across from the hunched frame of Ulunya. Fr. Freud genuflected customarily before joining Jordan between the pews. He quickly began to detail what was to occur that night: “The issue at hand is this: Ulunya must marry John, and John must die--but not particularly in that order. There’s something--somehow very wrong. It is, as I said before, a glitch in--in what I don’t know exactly but its so strange. So memory, as you know, can be carried forward. Memory, however cannot be carried backward--you can’t remember something that will come later unless the time continuum--something like that--frays and deteriorates. This is what people call desha vu. It occurs only when your memory, for some reason, is being carried backwards through time when it should, if the structure of time is intact, travel forward. You don’t need to understand, but I think you do understand more than anyone else could. If John and Ulunya are to be united as they are so destined, then the events surrounding John’s death must be manipulated and modified. It must, for reasons I’ve already touched upon, be done most carefully. It is most difficult for one to change something without inadvertently altering things which never should have been changed. These events surrounding John’s death are already passed, so they cannot be modified in the conscience world, for the conscience world is governed by time. However, when a person is unconscious--when they dream--hours or even days may seem to pass in the unconscious realm whilst, in the realm of conscience, mere moments or minutes may have elapsed. Thus, since the events surrounding his death cannot be modified in the conscious realm, they must, I believe, be modified in the unconscious realm if this glitch is to be entirely taken advantage of.”
Jordan responded with a simple repetition of that short, uncertain affirmation: “Mhm.” He sat, angled toward Fr. Freud, with his hands clasped upon his right knee which was crossed over the left as he comfortably reclined against the back of the seat. He leaned forward suddenly: “But how come you seem to have done this before and remember all this--if memory--as you say--rarely moves backward without the occurrence of deja vu?”
Fr. Freud, for about three seconds, looked longingly at the vaulted ceilings of the cathedral before responding to the question. “Oh that I could remember… I cannot remember and it is for that purpose that these notebooks have been so useful (he pulled a green composition notebook from inside his cassock). Writing seems to travel backwards through time, so I have made use of the green notebooks--I have dozens--to keep my past self constantly informed, should I be required, again, to attempt this task.”
Jordan nodded thoughtfully. “And you have, in fact, attempted this task a number of times?”
The priest nodded solemnly. Jordan continued: “What makes you think that--why should this attempt succeed when others haven’t?”
“Because I think I might have the correct combination this time… and if I don’t I shall merely try again.”
“What is different--what seems to be the primary key to the puzzle?” Jordan asked, still very solemn and thoughtful. Fr. Freud simply responded: “You.” Jordan closed his eyes and looked at the floor solemnly. Fr. Freud jumped up, excited. “Did you just get deja vu?” Jordan nodded slowly before speaking gravely: “I’ve had this conversation before.”
“In past times--other attempts--you thought me to be mad and considered me little more than a patient.”
“What changed. Why do I seem more willing to… more willing to interact with your… affairs...strategems?” Jordan spoke carefully, constantly thinking of each word before it proceeded from his lips.
“Because this time, you and Miss Reaux have an emotional bond. In parallels, you were mere acquaintances through Mr. Niezche and now… now you are as a father to her. This changes the entire dynamic of your nature coming into this meeting of our’s tonight. You are more caring for her than you are for me--and so you are more willing to take a chance.”
“You told her that she was to meet me in--(he tugged at his left sleeve to check his own wristwatch)--five minutes and not many seconds. Is this a matter that we should concern ourselves with?”
Fr. Freud looked relieved. Now was the time at hand. “I need you to try to fall asleep--or meditate. You must become lucidly unconscious. Most people need to actually sleep but you… you, Mr Jordan, are quite special in that your mind is developed for such as this. Enter into a lucidly unconscious state and be ready to meet her on the steps outside this cathedral. Be sure to remind her about the black notebook. It is the written set of instructions to be delivered to John Niezche so that he can orient himself properly in preparation for his own death. Remember, you, Jordan, are a balancing factor. Ulunya is love--passion and chaos and you are order and logic. You must help her to do this. I leave you now--for this meeting is but one of two meetings which I must attend before the Sun rises. I go and bid you farewell, good luck, and God’s speed…”
Sunday, November 14th, 06.18339 State Street, St. Clement’s Gothic Cathedral, Facade
Jordan
Sounds all about him rang. They rang with such a clatter that he wished only to be away in the silence from which he had just come. Such noise… Oh, God, such noise… Such aimless--useless noise. It may have been like so many doors being repeatedly opened and closed; the titan, Atlas, protesting from beneath his own burden as he supported upon his sinew and might the world and its contents; it may have been the collective moan and wail of a thousand living all buried in the disguise of death--doomed by circumstance to encounter their own coffin before the sweet mercy and embrace of death; or it may have been the clamber--the exultation of a thousand bells whose jubilant tones cut sharply through the monotony--calling the faithful to prayer. A temple? A church? A cathedral? It must be and these must be the stairs which lead me from thence. How came I to this place and for what purpose? Oh, the noise! I must close my eyes and maybe if I really--if I exhaust myself with the effort I may discover where this sound comes from--what it is. How can a noise be so dreadful--so terrible whilst all the while being of jubilation? It’s a contradiction--a contrast--what’s the word? I can’t recall it now. My memory can’t--it isn’t quite right. What is it I most recently recall? There must be some hint for where I came by this place. A cathedral… and a monk--no! A priest. A philosopher! Freud! And these--no matter how terribly dreadful--must be his words. What meaning can they contain? What can they be? Just hear him out.
“Try to fall asleep… Mr Jordan, you are quite unique… you and Miss Reaux… I must ask you to take the first step… was hers, and she is his… this is not science fiction… makes me almost disgusted… you cut very quickly to the chase!” The voices now became so clear and recognizable that he recalled much. They were spoken directly to his own ear, and his audient conscious became alert. “Do you now number yourself among my congregation? (His own voice he could now recognize) I’ve had this conversation before. (Fr. Freud’s voice was now so clear that the dull clatter had been integrated entirely into what seemed like one question in repetition spoken) And if you were to invite me to a dinner, would you do so discreetly?”
How strange it was. Such a question to be repeated once--twice… nay--ten million repetitions and still more. What could it mean? He could not know now and so he must wait.
Sunday, November 14th, 06.14339 State Street, St. Clement’s Gothic Cathedral, Nave-West Transept
Reaux, Jordan
...So quietly had her decline then been that she knew it not even herself,
And down the ladder to that realm of illusion did her conscience now explore itself…
So did she after not long become conscious whilst confined to her repose,
And despite--or because of the boundaries of sleep, she searches the ideas she knows.
Consciousness within subconsciousness: a paradox so intertwined.
And a living dark cloud with a ringed planet within--so omnipotent did such a thing seem.
With a force with a might beyond gravity, it beckoned all things inside.
Her recollection of events and sayings closed all about her in dream.
She heard the notes of human voice distorted, echoed, and all but lovely.
It seemed it might be God’s own judgement, and her fear at it grew doubly.
The clouds about her emanated with light in flashes and bursts,
And that planet within grew larger still as it consumed all even the earth.
It shuddered and quaked and groaned as though the whole universe were within,
And that great dark planet shrieked so horribly that even her mind was pierced by the din.
Then did that orb of lightning and mass rupture at the seams,
And from it, all the things concealed now rushed within her dreams.
They encircle her and rush about, they all wish to be near,
So she sorts them in a hierarchy of the things she holds most dear.
Closest to her are those things that melt her heart with her own sugar,
And she banishes to as far as possible those things of doubt and rigour.
As though in a realm of infinity distance and time prevail,
She believes that she can conceal herself, and in this task does fail:
The last will be first and the first will be last among those things so sorted
And the spectrum of memories and things of pleasure within their order inverted.
Now nearest her were the things she hated--or feared or could not contain
And the chaos about her reigned for a moment before a sweetness began to rain.
As all in this realm seemed to invert, so also did that sound.
What before had seemed so far beyond her now lay near to the ground.
And that voice which had roared with all malignance and had caused her to shudder
Was calmed to a note of gentleness and one thing more did it utter:
“...meet Jordan on the stairs in seventeen minutes.” Ulunya returned to a sense of reality and found that she was kneeling. How long had she been in meditation? She looked about her in search of Jordan and Fr. Freud and found them not there. She arose and, dropping her knee in reverence to the altar, travelled without instance to the front of the building where she found herself in little time descending the stairs. She recognized Jordan immediately, seated with his back to her upon the second stair. His elbows rested upon his knees, and his chin lay upon his folded hands.
“Jordan!” Ulunya burst out upon seeing him, “Have you long awaited me?”
Jordan had turned his head when he had first been addressed, and following the ensuing question, he quickly arose, orienting himself entirely toward her, in gentlemanly recognition that a lady had entered his presence. “Not long--no,” he responded gently. He quickly added, as though bidden to do so, “Have you the black book?”
Ulunya had entirely forgotten about the book, and it occurred to her that she had last consciously put it with her purse-bag upon the pew inside the cathedral. Searching about herself quickly, however, she discovered that she had, in fact, the purse slung about her shoulders and the black notebook conveniently therein. She ceremoniously brought it forth confusedly, and determining that she must merely be lethargic from exhaustion, shook her head rapidly as though to alight a fly that had landed upon her. “Yes!” she responded oddly, “I seem to have it right here.” Jordan merely raised his eyebrows in response. Ulunya, after sufficiently overcoming the oddity of the moment, continued: “Why did Fr. Freud specifically tell me to join you in seventeen minutes--how long has it been?--Did he say anything I should know?”
“Well,” Jordan began carefully, climbing toward her so that they were within an arm’s length, “He certainly said a lot--there’s no doubt about that… It seems we are supposed to deliver that book (he indicated the black notebook that now hung by Ulunya’s left side) to John’s house!” He spoke the final two words with a note of absurdity.
Ulunya slowly nodded her head uncertainly with the air of one who was playing along. “Okay…”
Jordan waited, expecting more, and as he determined that she now awaited his direction, he asked if they should proceed. Ulunya responded sardonically (with an element of wit) that they should, and that there was “nothing quite like a good walk at the crack of dawn.” So they set off toward Jordan’s vehicle which was parked alongside the curb across the street where it had been left in front of the St. Clement’s Cathedral Library. The Sun, indeed, began to break the horizon, though not a quarter of it had risen. The first golden rays of the new day pierced the darkness, inflicting upon it a mortal wound that would eventually take its life, presenting once more the glorious Sun, victorious once more over the dragon of darkness. No mortal being--nor even Reaux or Jordan--could know the speed, direction, or manner in which those two persons travelled. For somehow none of it seemed at all real--and yet it also seemed real in a very strange degree. How can a person know what is real? Where does the conscious world end and the subconscious world begin. What is beyond? What lies between light and shadow? One thing indeed could Reaux know for certain: She and her mentor found themselves before the door of 363 5th Street. The house was small and humble, and lay within a row of houses all quite close together. This was the home of John K. Niezche. They approached the front door. Of dark wood it stood solemnly, and was adorned with eight panes of glass set at the top as a sort of window and a knocker. The base of which was designed with reptilian features and scales and the instrument itself was fashioned in the likeness of a dragon. Jordan, grasping the piece firmly, examined it with interest for little more than a moment before drawing it toward him and striking the door a sound, crisp blow from the head of the creature. His reasoning seemed irrational to Reaux: Was not the master of this house now within a tomb? Yet the door slid open slowly and ominously, and the door fell back widely, eerily bidding the visitors enter.
FrayingNiezche
Niezche arose in the darkness. It surrounded him on all sides. Now behind him was that terrible place of torture and horror. He wore even now that garment which he had retrieved from thence. It was fashioned as a simple tunic of the purest white. It was his--his own--his… precious. He smiled with recollection. He still had wit, and there was something of life in him even in this world of darkness and unlife. He was still dead, and awaited the loving hand of a friend to draw him from thence. The Damned would not have him, and the Redeemed would not suffer him to enter amongst them. For his garment was not as theirs. Of the purest white it was, but it was marked with seven dark stains. Five of them were minute in dimension (one even was hardly existent at all). Yet two were of great dimension--about the size of a human hand. He could not bring himself to glance upon it, for he was so ashamed by it and by the knowledge that the mysterious stains existed; and he seemed to believe that if he would not acknowledge them, then others could not notice them. Fortunately, the darkness that encircled him hid all from anyone--not that there was a person to be seen in that place other than himself. He tried to recall how he had come to this place, but was unable to do so.
The place was small, and before him was constructed what appeared to be a desk. A chair was drawn away and awaited him, and the walls were enclosed about him so that he could not take more than a step in any direction saved toward that chair. It was a simple wooden chair--there was little that was notable about it. It executed its task sufficiently, and it served its purpose sufficiently. The walls, so enclosed about him, were constructed of a smooth, dark wood, as was the desk; and the wall ran toward the desk where the two sides joined together in the middle of the structure which was, itself, built into the corner that was formed. He drew near and, slipping between the chair and the desk, sat slowly into the chair. It suddenly occurred to him that he was now in Confession, and that he should begin by addressing a priest. Such an assumption was extraordinary, and he could give neither reason nor excuse for how he came by it. It simply knew that he must now begin in the manner he had on so many occasions before. His voice came readily and almost shocked him. It was his own voice as he had known it in life, and he would have swelled with joy on account of it had such an emotion been possible in this place.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” He waited with anticipation. What manner of voice awaited him? Would he know it by its tones? Indeed he did, for it was his own beloved priest, Fr. James Freud, who responded with extraordinary steadiness and tranquility. His voice was even as he responded. “Hello, Mr. John Kazmierczak Niezche of St. Kazimierz. How has eternity been treating you?” Before John could respond, Fr. Freud hastily interrupted him, depriving him of the privilege of speech. He now spoke, addressing another. “Doctor, are you present?”
A second voice was heard. It was a timeless voice which revealed not the age of the speaker. The man sounded worn out and tired. “Father… can you do nothing without me?”
Fr. Freud chuckled pleasantly as he responded evenly: “Please, call me James.” The second voice sighed gravelly as, with an exasperated tone, he muttered: “Oh, gosh.”
Fr. Freud answered the question that had been posed by the man: “Because you are the stone upon which I have laid the foundations for all that is to come.”
John wished that he might speak, but found that he was powerless to do so. It was as though his tongue and vocals were no longer bound to his own command. Fr. James Freud was entirely in control of the situation. There was no question of who had orchestrated the entire strategy, as from that moment going forward through time, they were all as pawns under the direction of the priest. Perhaps he, himself, was not entirely under his own will. Perhaps Fr. James Freud was a pawn of still another. “John Niezche, are you ready to undertake your journey?”
John now had the freedom to speak, as it had been yielded unto him by the priest. “Father, I have so many questions that I must ask before I may answer you…” He was suddenly commanded to be silent by the priest who sharply added that none of these questions were now important. “What journey awaits me?” John asked, justifiably in a state of consternation regarding what step was next his to take in this strange, unfolding post-mortem experience.
“You, of course, my son, know that you are dead? (John put in a quick word of agreement) You know that you have seen what it is that people call ‘Hell’? (John acknowledged that he had assumed the same to be true) You have retrieved from the mouth of Hell the white garment which you were commanded to keep pure until you should again bring it before your Lord? (John had) At the time of your passing, you were in a state of grace--though not perfection--and did not believe yourself to be guilty of any High Crimes against the Divine Laws of Morality? (John acknowledged all of this to be true) Then you realize that you are not, by any of your venial or minor transgressions, bound to the realm of which Dante wrote? (John was silent--and the priest continued) Then you realize that, should you appear this moment before your Creator, you would be bound for a certain time to pay the price of your transgressions temporarily before being permitted to rest eternally with the Redeemed. Here is the interesting point (Niezche thought to himself that he hardly believed this to be the point at which his interest arose, for the entire ordeal was of the strangest nature): I have discovered that something went wrong at the moment of your death. You understand, of course, that each man’s course is his own freewill, and yet there are certain things that he will be inclined to find. A man may choose his own way, and find that he was always meant to function in a certain profession--he has natural inclinations that guide him. I now ask you one question, and this question only may you answer: Were you to have survived, what were your intentions regarding the girl?--the lady Miss Ulunya Pamela Reaux of St. Cecilia (Father’s voice was decisive and authoritarian).”
John responded promptly, as though he had become well accustomed to answering this specific question--perhaps he had often asked it of himself. “I believed myself to be in love with her in the truest and deepest state possible. I intended to verify the validity of my affections by an extended period of patience--the same I have done for six years; I intended to request, at an opportune moment, her own permission to formally court her; and later to request her hand in the ceremony and life of matrimony. I intended to do such things with due reverence to our mutual faith and religion and the customs therein (John Niezche might have been a defense attorney, as he spoke quickly and with a certain incendiary nature that the inquisitor had little choice but to remain silently shocked for a moment).” The second man, the “doctor” sharply exhaled as he choked on a note of laughter, and it was then that John knew the identity of the man: It was Dr. Jordan.
Fr. James Freud, upon quickly recovering his senses, was not surprised by the basic truth of the answer, but by the intense, literal and legalistic manner in which the youngest man had responded. It was quite evident that both older men were well impressed by the sense, honesty, and depth that had been evident in John’s response. Fr. Freud continued: “I have studied your case in more ways than you may possibly imagine, and I believe you and Miss Reaux to have been destined for one another (Jordan sounded as though he might be sick). I understand and apologize for the fact that what I am saying may be considered by a critical mind to be “cliche” but the truth of such a fact does still exist, and it is most certainly true for such as yourselves. The purpose of this meeting is this: I wish to obtain your consent to be under my power for nine days. In those nine days, I have organized--through intense study and experiment--a plan which will result in the restoration of an element of your own life and of your potential to be, within your own earthly life, united to Miss Reaux in the ceremony and life of which you spoke so impressively. I await now only two words from you. If you now venture to speak an excess of two words in response, I shall be forced to consider it negatively. Answer me now.”
John, justifiably confused and brimming with so many questions that he could hardly constraint them, seemed to understand that there was a certain seriousness and solemnity regarding this meeting. He knew not how the objective might be attained, nor did he understand how he might be permitted to in some way be returned to the land of the living. He knew one thing: That he was being offered even a chance to be united in life with the girl whom he loved. How could he decline such an offer? He must accept, and he spoke two words in the restricted manner commanded by the priest: “I do.” The statement was so perfect. It answered two questions: It responded primarily to the proposition suggested by Fr. James Freud, and secondarily to the implied question of whether he would “take this woman to be his lawfully wedded wife.”
Fr. Freud now outlined in detail what was to be done: “The issue is, you are bound to pass from the land of the living on the eleventh day of November of the year 2007. This is fate. However, I believe we may be able to manipulate your fate into causing not the death of your entire self, but the death of a version of you. Within the final weeks of your life, you were seeking perfection, and at the moment you passed from the realm of conscience, you were wishing that you’d had that chance to become perfect. That wish travelled with you into the realm of the subconscious--the spiritual realm. The conscious realm is dominated by constraints such a time, speed, and distance. The unconscious realm is not. As you entered eternity, your wish did, too--giving you that chance outside of time and life… you may go back. As you have accepted, you will go back to the ninth day before your own death, and you will attempt by meditation to drive yourself from your nature. You must accept the things that are your tendencies and weaknesses and you must engage them and draw them out. They will take your own form when draw out, and it is this semblance of you that shall be slain upon the eleventh day of November, leaving you alive and well. This is not a question and answer session. You have accepted the terms proposed by myself, and you now shall return. See. Even now logic and love are joined for your sake, and you now require only their arrival to begin…”
Tuesday, November 2nd, 06.14363 5th Street
Reaux, Jordan
Ulunya’s complexion hardened into a form of horror and disbelief. She stared into the dark chasm that lay between the door and the frame. The room was unlit by the dawning Sun, and and there was no evidence for the assumption that an individual entity or person had greeted the arrival of the duet by flinging the door open in welcome--the door now stood open, and it was rather evident that there was not in that room a conscious person. Ulunya’s lips were parted as her jaw fell partially toward the ground. She maintained this expression as she, with a single stride, stepped aside, allowing Jordan to pass before her into the house. She allowed him to maintain two steps within the building before she dared to lick her lips nervously and tilt her head forward in determination as she followed the man.
Once within, she removed her shoes before the door and, abandoning them upon the doormat, she recalled that, within the black notebook, Fr. Freud had bidden that it was not to be disturbed. Directly before it did she stand, facing back toward the door through which she had recently passed, as she stared down at it, wrestling with curiosity and temptation. It lay at her feet, and she could see both it and her feet, clothed in that blue color, within a single glance. She had merely to arrest it from its position as she had the glasses inside Fr. Freud’s demesne. The temptation seemed to consume her as she plotted as to how she might conceal it from Jordan who, unbeknownst to herself, stood less than two meters behind her, observing her in all things. A crafty, nearly sinister smiled curled her lips as she blinked her eyes once, preparing for the action. She would cause the doormat to slide only a little, and thereby would she reveal whatever it concealed. Its red perimeter, inlaid with golden and blue threads, formed a depiction of several suns within one another contained. They made a brilliant target, and as she slightly lifted her foot toward that surface, a pair of black shoes trod thereupon and turned toward her directly. Her eyes were brought up to the face of the man who stood taller than she. Neither her natural beauty, her lips--once more slightly ajar from surprise, nor the slight, sideways tilt of her head could sufficiently make a mockery of innocence. Jordan looked sternly down into her large eyes and slowly shook his head. A moment later, he took her with one arm about the shoulders and corralled her toward an inner door within the house. With his unoccupied hand did he manipulate the simple handle of the door, allowing it to swing inwardly.
He hesitated for several moments, as if to decide whether he or his student should first enter. Then, with a slight nudge, he encouraged her to enter therein. She looked at him inquisitively as he nodded toward the door encouragingly. She turned her head there and stepped within, crying out promptly. Jordan rushed therein and found her bent over a bedframe and mattress in the far corner of the room. Her hands were clasped tightly before her and the telltale locks of hair fell once more before her inclined face. A moment later did Jordan mark, with silence, the reason for her outcry. Within the bed, lying as though asleep, lay the figure of John Niezche. He lay upon his back upon the mattress, his head rested upon his right arm and his left hand rested upon his hip, and one knee was brought out to the side. Jordan immediately marked the threat that might proceed from interacting with the figure of the man, and so he quickly seized her from behind and turned her toward him. Her arms fell about his neck as she drew near, burying her face in his jacket. Jordan consoled her with a twice repeated command that she be quiet, followed by a remark that it was alright. “How… how is he here?” Jordan could hardly have been expected to answer this question in any manner even similar to sufficiency. He merely remarked that “your priest seems to have been well informed when he mentioned that you would see John again soon.”
“I watched him die! I killed him, Jordan. He should not be here,” Ulunya softly protested, still her face buried within his jacket. Jordan merely shook his head, indicating that he could not formulate a response.
Silence reigned supreme for more than a minute before the girl recovered from the original shock of the experience. Withdrawing her face from his jacket, she peered over her shoulder at the figure of John, still asleep upon the bed, as if to verify that he was still so. Jordan spoke quietly: “Where is the black notebook?”
She turned not her head, but insisted upon her glance remaining upon the figure of John as she loosened her arms from about her mentor who straightened at the release from her downward vector. “I left it inside your vehicle.”
Jordan’s lips curled in thought for several seconds as he weighed the risks of leaving Ulunya unsupervised. “Then we shall retrieve it.” Ulunya went before him as the duet retrieved, from the passenger side of the automobile, the black notebook. He allowed her to conduct the notebook once more within the house, walking always closely behind her that he might observe her in all things, should she err in some way and throw the entire plan into dissolution. As they neared the inner door, he muttered that she should keep her eyes from resting upon the sleeping figure of John. “Place the book beside his bed and return to me.” She obeyed his word, and, entering once more the inner room, she intentionally avoided placing her eyes upon anything but the white tiled floors until she had placed the book upon its mark--directly beside the bedframe of John Niezche.
Tuesday, November 2nd, 07.09363 5th Street, Street Front
Niezche,
There was a thought--a spark of intelligence. The darkness was shattered by the arrival of that little spark, and then there was light. The light of a new world dawned on the horizon, and nature breathed from its inner depth that sweet breath of life. Death and darkness were overcome, and the birds sang their joy from the treetops, and the distant hills across the serene blue of the river were illuminated by the golden Sun such that there was a brilliance about the treetops--an aura. Though autumn had come, there was still much life in that great country. The streets bustled with life: A mother brought forth her child in a carriage, a young lad exercised his dog, and the strong man bore the loads of not only his own existence but also of his dependents. Automobiles and vehicles of every kind travelled through that place. The people of the villages travelled into the city to begin their day’s work. Some working in the suburban area, moderately populated and home to those who enjoyed some semblance of space combined with the positive privileges of community life. Some lived within the urban area--where most of the common people enjoyed their events, worked their jobs, and performed their civic and religious duties. Yet, in the heart of all, lay the core of the city--The Downtown. Here stood the tallest buildings, the courts, the corporate offices, the governments, capitals, and magistrates all supremely bound within an area of not more than five square miles. Here was the bustling centre of civilization where space was cramped and the pollution of ten thousand vehicles sent into the air such a stench that one might wish almost that one could be freed from the obligation of even breathing--the air was almost of poison in that place. The Prime Minister and his government presided from this place; the successful and the fortunate built their wealth and distributed it from this point; and the unfortunate, the hungry, and the forsaken chose to roam this area, hoping that some portion of wealth or fortune might be cast their way.
John Niezche’s eyes flickered. His classic alarm clock reproached him loudly from its place beside his bed, and he remembered all. He had been captivated by a new book, authored by a distant associate of Lucus Koche, when exhaustion and the subconscious overtook him, casting him into a realm governed neither by time nor by limitation of any kind. He sat bolt upright in his bed as recollection filled him, and he contrived a thought that his beloved had been there with him not long before. He rebuked himself for such thoughts and put them away from him as he subscribed to the assumption that thoughts of this nature could do him no good at this time--but such a strange intuition had it been! She must have been there… and yet how could she have been? Foolishness! Fool! Get out of your bed and make it! Clean your room! You’ve overslept, and you’re late, and there are people depending upon you! You’re failing them. Even your corner lamp is still illuminated from last night and your clothes are heaped pathetically at the bottom of your bed. The ancient dust has begun once more to cover all, and has assumed the shape and title of one of God’s most delicate creatures: A dust bunny. He leapt from the place of rest and, spreading his bedsheets out upon the bed, brought them simply across the mattress. He next sought and deprived the corner lamp of its own light and, repairing quickly to the broom closet, threw open the door. He ignored the skeleton therein and seized from its place the instrument that has for ages been a symbol of housework and self-respect: the broom. And so he brought order to his place of habitation. The order that he instilled within the place was, however, not excessive, nor was anything set to an obsessively compulsive level of cleanliness. There was logic, reasoning, and sanity, and yet it was a place where there was enough chaos within that he could be well comfortable regarding the fact that he dwelt neither in a garbage dispensary nor in the home of a dictator.
He had completed his tasks quickly and with a purpose, and he softly sank to a seated position upon his bed and, sitting upon his hands, rested that he might refresh his lungs. After about half a minute of peace and restoration, he moved from his position as a shaft from a hunter’s arc. He moved quickly to his telephone which rested upon a dresser set beside the door and, holding the device before him with his dominant right hand, he multitasked with his left as he searched hastily through some scattered bits of paper that lay thereon, pulling out one. It was a torn piece of notebook paper with a scribbled heading: “Seven.” Upon it were six names and a corresponding contact number. He bit his lip nervously as, with his thumb, he input a number into the device. Each button produced a noise of a different pitch and note, causing a simple song to be consequently formed. The line buzzed as he put it to his ear, allowing the piece of paper to fall dejectedly to the floor. He caught himself and, diving to the floor with the device still held tightly to his ear, he retrieved the piece of paper and placed it deliberately upon the dresser as he spoke.
“Hey, Esther?----Yeh?----Yes, I overslept.----Yes, I should… I should… I know… I was thinking that… would you?----Oh! You’re a lifesaver!----Yes, I know that you know, but it’s true.----So I will see you in about fifteen minutes?----Drive safely, Esther.----Yup! Drive safely!----Okay.”
He put away the device and exhaled audibly, travelling from his inner room (a square enclosure within the back left corner of the simple square house consisting of about 35% of it), moved out into his kitchen which consumed about half of the space that did not consist of his bedroom (the other half was an open sitting room which was organized directly before the front door). He sought a quick meal in a large cabinet at the front end of his kitchen and retrieved from there quickly a parcel of canned fish and a half-empty jar of peanut butter. With a dexterous movement of his left hand, he seized from the countertop fruit basket the most commonly thought of species of fruit. His mind briefly pondered the fruit from The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, and quickly thanked his good fortune and benefactors that he was not also naked. He sat at a small, simple wooden table in the middle of the open kitchen and, with a small knife, reduced the fruit to pieces of a manageable size such that they were able to be conveniently fit into the jar of peanut butter. He enjoyed his quick, simple meal, being sure to wash from his mouth with water any remnants of the fish which might later embarrass him should there have remained even a trace therein. As he enjoyed his simple meal, he thought gratefully about all he had in this simple life, and about the friends whom he had been so fortunate as to encounter--friends who supported him when he went astray and fought for him when he struggled--who accompanied him when he was lonely, and laughed at him when he was sad. This last concept might have been negative, were it not the case that he naturally held himself in humility. He had good-naturedly realised that minor self depreciations make one rather relatable to close acquaintances, and caused him to be viewed as an honest and respectable man. He could laugh at his own quirks and flaws--assuming they be not serious or harmful--and if they brought others together for his sake it was all the better.
He arose from his meal and hastily washed the instruments of his refreshment before rushing to his room to repair to its proper place the broom which he had abandoned forgetfully upon the floor. As he did so, his attention was drawn to a black notebook that lay almost beneath his bed frame. He had not seen it there before and, taking it up, looked upon the first page. The writing was not his own but seemed to be a manner of instruction. It was most strange, as it seemed to instruct that the book be placed before his bed with some level of care to avoid disturbing odd things which lay about. He raised his eyebrows with interest as he sat upon his bed, still quite taken with interest at the things within the book. He turned over the first page and found upon it a long message headed with the words: “Dear John.” His first hopes were that it was from the hand of his beloved, but he soon found that his hopes were dashed by the proceeding lines.
“Bring this to me. Bring Doctor Jordan. Today. I will await you at Haven Park for lunch.” The letter was simple and carefully written. A subtitle implored him that he should not turn the page over and view the other side. As it was signed by Fr. James Freud, John closed the book and, taking it into his left hand, he carried it by his side as he sequentially returned the broom to its closet and travelled to the front of the house--toward the front door.
There, a black leather satchel awaited him, and so he delivered the black notebook into one of the two compartments. He hastily added a plastic water bottle before repairing once more to his inner room for the purposes of properly dressing. He emerged from thence not three minutes later, dressed in black formal trousers and a buttoned dusk blue shirt which he tucked into his trousers, finished with a standard black belt with a bronze gilded buckle. Within his satchel, he packed an extra, more durable set of trousers that would be proper for a mountain climbing expedition. As he returned once more to the front door he patted with both hands about his pockets, verifying the possession of his keys, wallet, cellular device, and a folded up piece of notebook paper which he had become accustomed to carrying for convenience sake that he might at any moment use it should he find its expense to be profitable. He finally pulled, from a small closet set into the wall behind the front door, a black jacket with a zip. The garment was a perfect cosmetic hybrid of comfort and appearance. The jacket also featured a chest pocket on the exterior left side guarded by a zip. Within--on the interior--the jacket also featured a left side chest pocket. Thus, the jacket was quite suitable for a man who wished to transport much about him conveniently. He had not, that morning, a wristwatch.
Pulling open the door, he stepped out onto a small, covered concrete porch. He lived within the outer fringes of the urban area--though not quite suburban. His home was nearly two miles from the Cathedral--the steeples of which could be seen above the rooftops even from here--and the sounds of traffic were beyond, as the vehicles travelled about, many venturing farther toward The Downtown. The amount of traffic in the area of his habitation was mostly of this type, and the density at even this time of the morning varied from moderate to meagre. To the left of the front door, a long sitting swing hung from the rafters of the white wooden porch cover. The swing featured an ornate railing that ran about three sides of the swing, serving as a back and armrest. He would often entertain himself upon this bench-swing on warm evenings during the warmer time of the year. Even during the colder months, he might sometimes find it convenient and comfortable to step out onto the porch and enjoy his time--often by reading--upon this bench. This day, however, was rather cold and slightly forgiving. The early morning air was cold inside his nostrils, and he knew that the temperature must be rather low. For his breath emerged from thence and from between his dry lips as a cloud of vapour which lingered before him in bursts. His immediate nature bid him retreat quickly within the confines of his home, but his Spartan instinct prevailed as he brought his arms before him and about his shoulders so as to give him some additional comfort against the cold. He moved toward the swing-bench and sat quite upright upon it as he began to await Esther Rujard, a fine lady of Spanish and French descent who served the “Seven” as a member and treasurer--the position was largely nominal, as the organization rarely coincided with enough money to serve any purposes beside the payment of its members of a sub-decent, sub-par wage and the reservation of conference rooms for their meetings. Yet, Esther handled the little money that they did meet responsibly and honestly. Besides, she was a kind lady with a slightly overwhelming disposition and the habit of attempting to impress upon others gifts and favours to such an extraordinary degree that it was a wonder that she had not been misused by it. In addition, she constantly left her front door unlocked that any poor soul or friend might find refuge there. She enjoyed the maxim that spoke to the understanding that her house was indeed anybody’s house. This attitude extended to all areas of her life--she truly was of the most exemplar, decent, and extraordinary nature. Her old, cream-coloured Buick now turned the corner and began to decelerate as she headed sharply toward the side of the road. John, having spotted her a good distance away,--across several of the simple, modest lawns of dying grass of his neighbours--moved from his porch to the curbside where he awaited her.
Tuesday, November 2nd, 07.39363 5th Street, Street Front
Niezche, Rujard
His satchel bag hung about his shoulders, descending near his left hip, as he came about the back of the vehicle toward the forward passenger side door. He grasped the door handle and pulled it open with his right hand as, with his opposite hand, he lifted from his shoulders the satchel strap, bringing it over his head as he prepared to climb within the vehicle. The driver, Esther Rujard, had taken advantage of the opportune break that had been afforded her and drank briefly from a plastic water bottle before returning the cap and replacing it in the central console, addressing John at the moment before he would begin to collapse his tall frame--somewhat taller than six feet--into the vehicle. At this moment, he stood beside the open door and lifted his left foot to climb within. He often found that a certain effort was required to climb within vehicles. Most people, upon perceiving his height and stature, understood it to be a purely positive personal effect--an undeniable advantage. Though the same was certainly true in given situations, he found his height, perhaps equally often, to be disadvantageous: He often couldn’t fit easily into places where he thought he should. Esther turned her head toward him as she began to speak: “I will say right now that I just drove over your copy of the Daily Gazette.” She featured long, slick black hair and a slightly narrowed face shape--though not extraordinarily so. Her forehead was broad and her eyes were brown, and she had about her a frequent air of carefree joy and positivity. If John’s first language was English his second language would have been facial expression--he replied warmly that it wasn’t a problem and that she shouldn’t worry about it. Esther laughed modestly before explaining that she had intended to stop immediately before the paper but that she was apparently not as good with the brake system as she had expected herself to be.
John had begun to climb into the car when, hearing her make an apologetic mention of her driving skills, he quickly, comedically reversed his actions. “While you’re at it, would you mind running over that paper a couple more times?” His voice had a note of comedy within which made Esther laugh once more as she gestured with her dominant right hand that he should enter the vehicle. He hastily did so as she asked a follow-up question: “So you’re in one of those moods?”
John first responded with a deep, disgusted groan: “Ughh!” He scratched awkwardly behind his ear, emphasising his meaning a moment later when he added: “I just don’t see why the gazettes can’t just give us information without also trying to influence our opinions. (He shook his head thoughtfully before expanding upon his statement) I also just hate that it has become almost a competition: Our city-state endorses a local paper to send information to us; Lucusonia--endorses a Lucusonian paper--to send information to us; and, of course, Tyran-Altuin--endorses an Altuinian paper--to send information to us. Like--I neither want nor need two politically charged opponents feeding us opinion pieces. I’m perfectly capable of formulating an idea based on a piece of information without it being spoon-fed to me.”
John’s speech tended to be emphatic and expressive: as his mouth gave the words, his facial features supported them, giving them a rather comedic, good-natured air. His wavy hair was thick and of dark brown (as were his eyes). It centred slightly to the right side of his left eye and had a natural, uncontrollable tendency to fallout in all directions (including before his eyes) in a manner that distinctly reminded one of an umbrella. To combat this tendency, he would, on occasion, comb the forward elements of his hair back and to the right side so that only the area behind his head and ears featured this tendency, causing his relatively small proportioned forehead to be quite revealed. His eyebrows, too, were notably thick, allowing them to be of great utility when he spoke. He had an average, somewhat angular head shape with a rather pronounced clean-shaven chin and jaw. His earlobes were notably disjointed from his head, and came out somewhat, allowing the hair to fill in uncontrollably behind them. On this particular late day, he had neither the conscientiousness nor the time to modify his personal features, and so his hair did naturally behave in the manner described. Had it been, in length, any longer, it might have threatened to obscure his vision. As it was, it rested just beneath his eyebrows, shading him in the disorganized, youthly mass of locks.
The motor of the vehicle throbbed rhythmically as it turned the corner of 5th Street onto West Maclay Street. The traffic was mild and the roads were narrow--a poor driver would avoid Maclay Street due to the sincere fact that any accidental movement of a vehicle to the right or the left would either send the vehicle into the opposing traffic on one side or onto a sidewalk on the other, and yet many of the drivers who did venture to travel toward the Maclay Street Bridge behaved on that road in an uncautious, reckless, or even reprehensible manner. Firmly aware that this was the case, John sat in an upright, dignified fashion, silently observing his surroundings through the windshield with a strangely serious manner. Such was his habit: To be extraordinarily serious and thoughtful unless directly interacting with another. This habit gave him a deceptively unpredictable air, though he was certainly not so if one took any time at all to grow to know him. Like his beloved, Ulunya, he too had a sense of humour, though his own presented itself more readily than did her’s. He sought readily to enjoy the positive factors of others, and he was always willing to promptly reward the civility of another with a sign of his approval while ungracious or uncivil behaviour would draw from him rarely more than a trademark frown which utilized all of the aforementioned facial features that his Creator had graced him with. The Maclay Street Bridge now lay directly before the cream Buick, opposite to them through a traffic light. Here, Esther was prompted by the light system to stop. Now that her vehicle was stationary, she allowed herself to resume conversation with her passenger. “Are you going to get a car?”
John crossed his arms tightly across his jacket as he sighed. “I really should--shouldn’t I?”
Esther grinned. “I appreciate that you like to walk--and you probably still could--but get a car for instances like this. It’s not that I don’t like driving you about, it's just that...well...maybe there'll come a day when I won’t be here for you.” Her smile deteriorated into a serious expression. John massaged his chin with his left hand (his right arm still crossed over his jacket) as he maintained the serious air of the conversation with a tight-lipped expression in which he brought his mouth into a slight, tight-lipped frown. This expression was his most common, signifying a thoughtful lack of inclination to speak accompanied by a tendency to simply permit the other person the freedom to speak continually. Sometimes, in addition to this, he might raise his eyebrows sharply if an element of the conversation found him unready or surprising. This, however, was not one of those occasions, and his eyebrows remained heavy and serious. The cream Buick now rolled around the corner, turning away from the Maclay Street Bridge as it rolled down State Street, toward the distant cathedral.
This was the oldest part of the town: the sidewalks were of cobblestone and the buildings had a distinct colonial-era appearance and design. Most of these buildings were more than two hundred years old and some of them were more than three hundred years in existence. Not a building on this street remained unrenovated, for many of them had been damaged by flooding at some time in the past (as was inevitable for a city surrounded on three sides by a river) and those that had not had required repairs merely due to the effects of time itself--for all things tend toward dissolution and destruction. The Cathedral now loomed immediately before the Buick, on the opposite side of the road: the stone staircase consisted of seven large stairs which arose toward the great oaken door of the building. The door was contained within a large gatehouse that featured the same medieval and gothic architecture as did the entirety of the building. On either side of the door, a strong wall supported the front of the building which was punctuated by the great rose window which stood within the wall--high above the oaken doors where it loomed ominously above the rooftops of even the tallest nearby buildings. Two large bell towers arose on the two frontal corners of the building. These arose to a point hundreds of feet into the air where they supported two massive bells which, forged of bronze, rang out the Angelic sixth, twelfth, and eighteenth hours--calling the faithful to prayer. The bell also rang out at the fifteenth hour to mark the time and hour of the death of Christ. If one was to gaze up, from the base of the building, toward the Heavens above, he would see the great structure rise ominously and fearfully toward the clouds which travelled endlessly throughout the sky. The sky was, at this time, partly shrouded in clouds that raced about the sky in one common direction. This occurrence had upon a sky gazer the effect of causing one to be disoriented by the constant depth and movement. The steeples of the building seemed to rise therein, and the great crosses which rested upon the rooftops of each bell tower though easily the height of two men set upon one another were, in proportion to the magnificence and scale of the cathedral, little more than mere playthings. The Buick passed between St. Clement’s Cathedral and its library--it passed by many cars parked closely together along the curbside--crammed like proverbial sardines into a can. Esther carefully handled the car, ensuring that it dealt not a glancing blow to any of the cars that resided along the side of the road.
Oftentimes, the organization would use one of the four reservable conference rooms that were available within the library for their meetings. However, such was the case primarily when the organization intended to meet regarding an issue relating to the study and business of literature. Regarding today’s meeting, the organization had determined to meet in the more corporate location of the office space on 1527 Mifflin Avenue” which was located in a cheap office park--for today’s meeting regarded a corporate level issue, and so it was privileged with slightly more formality than their general meetings. As Esther once more halted the vehicle in obedience to a traffic light system--the buildings about them were much taller than those of the quiet communities from which they had travelled--a jungle of metal, and concrete, and steel--she ventured once more to speak to her passenger. “You may be pleased to know that the poles have Minister Venizelos leading comfortably. If any physical conflict arises, it will not likely occur within The Villa.” She referred to the relevant and surrounding city, Villa Harrisae (known traditionally as “Harris’s Burg” or “Harrisburg”), which rested comfortably along the Abenander River—which descended from the reclusive wilderness to the west and crossed the Tranquility River which, itself, descended from beyond the Myhflynn city-state to the north.
John sighed as he hesitated to respond. There were certainly good reasons for his decided indifference toward the politics of the day: He understood (largely from conversations with Jordan) that in his present walk of life he was unable to affect or alter any of the controversial issues that were then occurring in the political realms of the city-states, and that he should attend to his own matters and community by putting into order all the things that were about him before he should seek to expand his influence to greater and more grave affairs. As it then stood, he found that it was better for him to pay minimal attention to the news and media, as he was not in a position of much power and so additional attention toward such things only caused him inordinate levels of heartache and anxiety. After several moments of lip-licking and inner conflict, he submitted reluctantly to concede his naive happiness by asking for additional information: “What of Lucusonia and the Redlands?”
Esther responded with a bright optimism: “You can’t know for sure because the different papers give conflicting information, but the general opinion seems to be that all will remain stable.” John bit his lip pessimistically. Oh, that peace might prevail...
Tuesday, November 2nd, 08.071527 Mifflin Avenue, 2nd Floor, Section B, Office Number 12
Niezche, Rujard, Jordan, Reaux, Eullidge, Kyson, Koche
The dark brown office door opened inwardly, followed promptly by a handsome, quite tall man about six feet and three inches in height. He was professionally dressed in a dusk blue shirt tucked into black trousers. He wore his black jacket loosely undone and a black leather satchel about his shoulders. As he came through the door, he stood quickly off to one side, holding the door ajar so that Esther was unhindered from entering promptly behind him. As she passed by she turned her head sharply toward him and audibly thanked him--he slightly nodded--briskly walking past him and toward the long wooden rectangular table which easily filled the middle of the room. Along each of the longer sides of the table were set five chairs, and along each of the short sides of the table was set an additional chair. The room was long and narrow, with a large window in the side nearest to the door so that almost the entirety of the room could be viewed from the hall without. A small closet was set into the wall behind the door, and on the side of the room opposite the large observation window was set a large window through which one could view the rather small parking space (which surrounded the building) and the distant tall buildings of The Downtown, hardly three miles away. The observation window in the wall beside the door was divided into three frames, each of which was guarded by a system of blinds that could be suitably adjusted for the comfort and privacy of those within.
Jordan had occupied the middle chair on the side of the table with his back toward the outside window, facing the observation window and the door, and he looked quite comfortable, as though he had awaited the late John and Esther for some time. The chair opposite Jordan’s was reserved for the vice-president of the organization, John, and Esther’s seat was immediately to the right of John’s. The naturally delectable Ulunya Reaux sat at Jordan’s left hand, bent facedown upon a short pile of his notebooks and binders which she misused as a support for her forehead. The sheer black-haired Joanna Kyson occupied the chair at John’s left hand, and the middle-aged man, Alistair Eullidge, with shortly cut black hair and stubble (and hints of ageing) sat at Kyson’s left hand. Lucus Koche sat at the head of the table at Eullidge’s left hand--his uneven, sandy brown hair (and facial hair which thinly covered the area about his mouth and jaw) and rough complexion sat nearest to the door. He was a physical man, by far the most rigid member of the congregation. He was a man of few words and even less was he one of positive emotion, with a tendency toward anger but definite reliability and trustworthiness--he was passive by nature but inordinately aggressive when provoked. As Esther occupied her usual position, John waited momentarily by the door, carefully closing it, before following her at a comfortable distance to the table. Pulling from his shoulders both jacket and satchel, he hung the former carelessly over the back of his padded black chair and placed the latter squarely upon the table before him as he shifted quickly into his chair, directly across from Jordan.
Jordan reached over and lightly stroked the back of Ulunya’s red and brown locks with his left hand (careful to not disturb the hairpiece which served as a dam before the flood that would ensue were it to be disturbed), arousing her from her repose. Her head came promptly up as she straightened in her chair, quickly sweeping with both hands elements of her hair which had come loose from their boundary and fallen before her face, tucking them gently away to either side. She smiled vaguely, though no attempt could conceal that she had not been resting well of late. Jordan waited several seconds to ensure that all were sufficiently comfortable and, seeing every member of that table had adopted a sedentary position that they felt comfortable in retaining for an extended period of time, he opened the meeting.
“Right--well--let’s begin. Miss Reaux, please run the tape.” Ulunya abruptly moved into action as though she had forgotten that it was her duty not only to record, by means of a cassette tape recorder, all the proceedings of each meeting but also to transcribe the primary arguments and points made during them. She lifted to her lap, from under her chair, her purple purse-bag (featuring small yellow stars which were inlaid with a blue perimeter) and after not more than a second did she reveal from it a recorder and preloaded tape which she set hastily upon the table. She replaced her purse and, turning her attention quickly to the recorder, caused it with the simple push of a button to begin recording all proceedings. At length did she search her purse-bag for her notebook and, finding it not, turned to the stack of material upon which she had recently been reclined, finding it fourth from the top. During this awkward period of about thirty seconds, the six other members of the group were all quiet, though they varied in expression: Ulunya, of course, was quite flustered, though she did all in her power to retain her calm exterior. Jordan reclined comfortably in his chair, gazing somewhat eerily through the observation window into the hall beyond. Koche had, for his part, originally planned to leap from his own position so that he might sprint about the table to be of aid to her, but her implied control of the situation combined with the apprehension of a strange expression from Alistair Eullidge had caused him to remain still. Eullidge had been slightly amused by what he deemed to be the incompetence of Miss Reaux, though he had about him enough common sense and modesty to refrain from allowing his sentiments to become obvious (though in Koche’s case had he obviously failed). Joanna Kyson had pragmatically taken the opportunity to control her straight, sheer black locks with two small clips--one on either side--so that they were less of an impediment to her. John Niezche, as though connected to Ulunya by an inordinate emotional connection, had felt in agony about any humiliation that she was receiving, and did all he could to refrain from making eye contact with anybody--so he gazed down into the middle of the table giving one the distinct feeling that he was almost ashamed. Esther Rujard, lastly, had taken a pen out of her red, plastic pencil cup and had begun to presently run it between her fingers as she waited patiently.
As soon as Reaux pressed the record button on the cassette recorder, Jordan resumed the meeting: “Right--well--it seems right that we have quite a bit to speak about today: We have, of course, the book in question--(he lifted from the table a small, thick book and elevated it beside his own head) “Decoding Dracula” by Wilhelm Kostcka. I--well--I don’t think I’ll put words into anybody’s mouth but, for me--at least--it’s ordinary and straightforward...it’s a really simple and--and non-controversial assessment of some of the symbolism used in Bram Stoker’s original “Dracula.” The other thing that we should discuss is one that I’ve been considering for some time--and I mean to say that none of this is definite in any way; but it would seem that--well I’m not getting any younger you know--and I’m not...as young as I used to be--of course. Well, I’ve been thinking that, quite honestly, there will soon come a time when I should begin to delegate more of the authority to John--here (expressions of all about the table became, if possible, far more serious: John’s customary frown was eliminated by the surprise and his lips slightly parted--his eyebrows elevating). I will begin to delegate more to him immediately, and I will continue to assess his...qualities--the quality of his work and consider replacing myself with him in say...five to ten months...possibly. Ok. I’ll open to the board for commentary starting with Luke.”
Lucus Koche had folded his hands upon the synthetic wooden table and was now looking very thoughtful--his intimidating demeanour collapsed as he was invited to speak. He looked about the table imperially before beginning: “Well, if Mr John Niezche will lead us as well as Doctor Jordan has, then I will be most pleased to serve him to the end of my days. I would simply ask that you, Jordan, would not remove yourself--or distance yourself too much from us. You would indeed be very missed.” Jordan nodded slowly and humbly. John had somewhat withdrawn his chair from under the table so that he could casually cross his right leg over his left as he turned in his chair toward the left side of the table to greet all the dialogue from that end. Upon the conclusion of the aforementioned statement, Alistair ran his dominant left hand through his thin black and greying hair, all the while looking rather displeased. Kyson nervously set her fingernails to attacking and damaging one another as Jordan began once more: “I will next invite Mr John--Niezche--to comment on this matter...as I perhaps should have done in the first place--before inviting...what would you say?--Additional commentary from his colleagues.”
John frowned deeply, slowly shaking his head negatively. “Will you not speak?” Jordan asked. John fluently continued the gesture. “Then...we shall reserve Assistant Niezche’s right to commentary until a time of his choosing. (Jordan chuckled as he added) Perhaps he means to amaze us with an address of some grandeur in the near future. (John examined the middle button on his dusk blue shirt with some interest--Jordan sighed) Until then…Alistair?--Joanna?” Joanna Kyson determinedly raised her hand as she volunteered to comment next.
“Jordan, Assistant Niezche entertains an obvious and disturbing partiality towards Miss Reaux! I have no reason to trust or believe that he will do anything but use his position and power for his and her advantage. Will you not reconsider?” Jordan rotated slightly in his black padded swivel chair (the only one in the room) as he folded his hands on his lap and looked inquisitively at Ulunya Reaux as if to say: “Did I miss something?” She turned nought but her head and, looking slightly up at him, struggled for words--her lips hanging partially ajar. Her mouth was dry and her tongue was as though paralyzed. Jordan reclined comfortably in his chair--his head off to one side as his eyes met hers. After several moments did she manage a slight shake of her head, their mutual gaze unbroken. Jordan unfolded his clasped hands, palms upward, and extended them toward her as if to invite her to speak. Her eyes moved quickly to John who rested his chin in his hands, allowing his fingers to conceal any emotion which might have been betrayed by his mouth--yet his steady eyebrows were a sufficient traitor to his conceit: He was not surprised by the accusation. She read him well and, turning her head entirely toward him, bound her eyes to his as she silently pleaded from the depths of her soul that he would rescue her from the obligation to defend herself. No sooner was she sure that her meaning was well understood by him when her eyes dropped to staring at the table. John knew that a response was expected from either of them, and he knew well that she was neither confident nor prepared enough to make a statement in her own defence, and so he arose to the occasion. His hand uncovered his mouth (revealing for but a moment an expression which confessed to any focused spectator the fact that he had in some way enjoyed those proceedings) as he cleared his throat, uncomfortably scratching his right ear as he addressed Jordan and, by extension, the persons seated about the table. “Ulunya and I--Miss Reaux and I--don’t have any understanding...” He knew he should say more but could find no words suitable, and feared that any further acknowledgement of the accusation might lend it some validity--so he held his peace uncomfortably, allowing his chin once more to fall into his hand and his fingers to conceal his mouth. He quickly allowed his eyes to bulge dramatically as he turned them toward Ulunya, raising his eyebrows discreetly at her as if to emphasize the stress she had placed solely upon him. The room fell silent as all seven of them hoped that another was confident enough to break the strange peace that had befallen them. Jordan assumed the responsibility and, clearing his throat in preparation, resumed: “Well, let’s discuss the matter of my delegation of authority during tomorrow’s meeting. At the moment, we should discuss this book (he pointed to the book that lay on the table before him, ‘Decoding Dracula’). Miss Joanna Kyson…”
Joanna accepted the invitation quietly, clearly unwilling to dispense with the last subject: “I just want to be clear that it is not you, John, who concerns me the most. You have all the appearances of justice and uprightness in addition to modesty and humility. It is Miss Reaux who causes me great concern.” The moment that she had betrayed the renewal of the subject, the annoyance of John, Esther, and Jordan were all turned against her, as was the wrath of Ulunya who now stared at her with a flame of passion. The moment that Kyson’s remark was completed, the before-mentioned four all chorused with the same word which echoed about the small room (Ulunya’s note was particularly sharp and challenging): “Why?”
Kyson was, for but a moment, put off by the manner in which the room had seemingly turned against her, but a momentary apprehension of Eullidge’s expression confirmed that she had a discreet ally. She continued: “Well, if I must say, it is slightly concerning that John is hardly the reliable type. I mean for GOD’s sake he doesn’t even have a vehicle. If it wasn’t for Mrs Rujard, here, he wouldn’t even be here today! Aside from that, he’s likely to delegate to Miss Reaux here--who is hardly the predictable sort: She is radical, harsh, and passively aggressive. She might at a single moment change from silent, withdrawn, and dull to loud, aggressive, and with the attitude of an absolute…” Jordan abruptly caused her to be silent her in her words with a single, sharp elevation of his hand as if to say “peace.” The room remained silent as Jordan allowed the tension to dissipate for a second, whereafter she calmly and steadily assured them: “We shall discuss this matter...at length--and preferably with some civility--tomorrow. Now…” He paused momentarily, glancing about the room and reading the tension and expressions on the faces of all present. He quietly continued: “...now we shall recess for (he eyed his wristwatch) three-quarters of an hour. I advise you all to be dismissed until then. I certainly shall be.” He briskly pushed back his chair and arose, turning toward the door.
Tuesday, November 2nd, 08.401527 Mifflin Avenue, Parking Lot, Section Back,
Jordan, Reaux
The man, Jordan, rounded the white-finished corner of the tall building, stepping about a small bush that had been planted in the thin level of gravel that encircled the base of the structure. The small stone rattled beneath his feet as he stepped over the large concrete curb and into an empty parking zone. One car, Esther’s cream-coloured Buick, was visible on the distant side of the lot. As he stepped over the concrete slab that served as a boundary between the gravel and the cement, Jordan turned and, formally placing his left hand against the lower back of his black denim jacket, he extended his right hand, offering it to Miss Reaux who gratefully took it, stepping carefully over first the brush and then the same concrete slab. As she landed softly beside him, she consciously tugged at her black pleated skirt, extending it over her knees so that it properly covered them. Bending at the knees, she sat upon the curb, remaining careful that she should not relax into the line of bushes which were planted behind her--Jordan slowly joined her, sitting at her right hand, his ageing frame requiring slightly more time and effort to adopt the position than did her youthful body. As he stiffly stretched his legs from his seated position, Miss Reaux searched her purple purse-bag and retrieved a black plastic spoon which she fit quickly into her jaw where she held it loosely between her teeth, both ends protruding from either side of her pretty complexion. She once more searched his bag from which she at length produced a small plastic cup which she took into her left hand, retrieving once more her plastic spoon. She delicately pulled back the silver seal from the cup as Jordan turned his head slightly toward her.
“You wish to speak?” He asked.
“No,” she moodily responded. She relished the first of her yoghurt. When, after several moments, Jordan turned to look with interest into the distance she relented, brushing several stray locks from her brow: “Yes.”
Jordan turned once more turned toward her, crossing his right leg over his left so that he was naturally adjusted to that side. He yielded the initiative to her that she might have the first word. She merely returned to her cup of yoghurt, relishing a second taste. Jordan understood that he was to speak first.
“That got pretty heated in there--aye?” Jordan prodded.
“Yep,” Ulunya duly replied.
Jordan showed momentary signs of despair before quickly containing himself. “I realise that I am somewhat responsible for placing you in what you might consider a less than optimal scenario.” Ulunya grunted in agreement--Jordan continued: “You know I really had--well I’m sorry for that, but…I had hoped that you might have had the confidence in there to stand up for yourself...it was quite an opportunity.” Ulunya continued to relish each and every taste of her meal as though Jordan were simply not even there. Jordan was not unused to such treatment--especially from her--but he had known her for a long time and known her type for a far longer period of time.
“Why didn’t you?--Defend yourself?”
Ulunya sharply responded: “I don’t know, Jordan.” After a moment she muttered: “I’m sorry I just (she cracked, dropping her spoon into her cup, moments from tears)--I got so nervous in front of them and--and they were all looking at me and I...I know we’ve been talking about this for--for years and I just…” She caught herself on the brink of tears and quickly attempted to calm herself, wiping her forehead with her empty hand and inhaling deeply. She carefully placed her yoghurt cup aside and flicked both her wrists as her breathing evened. “I got walked over didn’t I?”
Jordan scratched his chin thoughtfully before briskly nodding: “Yes. Yes, you did.” After a moment he continued in a positive tone, customarily inclining his head to the right side: “Nice work there, by the way--with the whole calming down. That was really--really quite something there. Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’s not worth it. Just think about it, and consider what you’ll do if you find yourself in that type of situation again--as you likely will. You can talk through it if you like.”
Ulunya repossessed her cup of yoghurt and tasted it once more. The two still had not made eye contact. Jordan had continually looked toward the ground, as had she; but she now looked up at him, her serenity restored. Jordan reciprocated, bringing a gentle smile to Ulunya’s complexion.
“Well…” she began, turning her eyes back to her yoghurt dish which she once more tasted, reducing its contents greatly, “...I wouldn’t have…(she struggled)...what should I have done?”
“Realize, Ulunya, that, uncomfortable as that might’ve been for you, it was hardly what you might call devastating...and yet it paralyzed you. You have the capacity to be disagreeable, as you were when you challenged Kyson when she suggested that you were untrustworthy--you challenged her when you demanded an explanation for her...for her accusation of your apparent lack of integrity--something like that. That is what you should capture and harness for later use. (Ulunya gleefully bit her lip as she recalled that single worded challenge that had caused Kyson to falter: “Why?”) Now you see that you had some strength in that moment? Don’t misuse that strength...don’t abuse it...don’t let it consume you. You must control it. Ultimately that’s what it is: Keep control of yourself and your surroundings to the extent that you can and should.” He emphasised the last two words and saw that she was much restored in her confidence. “Now. What would you do if that happened again?”
After considering for a moment, her words came forth as she crumpled and folded, with her hands, the new empty plastic yoghurt dish. “I shouldn’t have looked to you...probably--and I shouldn’t have looked to John. I forced him into the uncomfortable situation and--and he defended me!--But I also allowed him to steal that from me (Jordan winced, uncomfortable with this assessment)--I gave it away to him and abandoned both my responsibility and him (Jordan nodded confidently). And Kyson (she bit her lip in contempt)--Kyson was rewarded for her behaviour by being permitted to watch me sit there helplessly. I should’ve tried to control the situation by denying them. Is that really it? That easy? Just tell the truth? (she considered for several moments before raising her eyebrows)--Okay.” She swallowed as though she had contained within her mouth the last of her meal throughout the entirety of her analysis.
Jordan nodded confidently. He believed that her assessment was sufficient. “You might consider taking notes on that. That was a...a rather good assessment...I think. Okay. Now…(he wet his lips)...the truth?” He slightly inclined his head toward her as he examined her complexion from a safe distance, looking for anything that might betray her.
Ulunya knew Jordan well enough to know that he behaved thus when he thought that there was a possibility that he was being lied to--or at least not being sufficiently told the truth. She dared not raise her eyes to his, but she looked straight out before her unashamedly. “John?” she clarified, her eyebrows growing heavy and serious.
Jordan cleared his throat: “Mhm.”
Ulunya’s face softened and she presented her teeth, grinning broadly. “No,” she shook her head, “certainly not.” Jordan was unconvinced, half closing his eyes as he peered at her from under his lids. She retained the same expression for several moments, and Jordan permitted her to do so. As she removed her smile from her face with the back end of her arm Jordan, satisfied that she had been permitted a sufficient break, spoke once more: “You clearly think very highly of John Niezche--don’t you? (it was reasonable to take her silence as an affirmation) I don’t wish to prod, and I certainly am not entitled to a response from you but...if you don’t mind, I wonder…” Jordan trailed off. There was no way that he could properly formulate his request to his liking. Thus, he allowed his silence, alone, to speak to her intelligence, knowing well that she would respond if she had a mind to. He decided not to force the subject and turned away from her as he looked at his wristwatch, marking the time--twenty minutes until they were to resume the meeting in a dialogue regarding “Decoding Dracula” by Kostcka.
Miss Reaux secretly held contempt for her secretarial position. She viewed her duties as serval and inferior and so she entertained a natural disdain for her occupation. Her opinions and ideas were, in the organization, regularly disregarded and even condemned not only by Joanna Kyson and Alistair Eullidge (though regularly by them) but also by the others. She tended to view herself as a victim and as one who was nigh useless, and she blamed this uselessness upon the influence of others: Her uncle and anyone else whom she could imagine to be a perpetrator of her harm. Jordan had been nearly a father to her (in lue of her own deceased one) for eight years, and he had used his psycho-analytical skills over the past eight years to help her to slowly overcome these tendencies. She had developed significantly from the point of pathetic insociability to the point of a lack of confidence and purpose, as was at present her affliction. Jordan had regularly delegated to her certain small tasks or chores in the hope that they might aid her in viewing herself as a more useful type of person, and so he had given her the helpful task of documenting and recording all of the organization’s dialogue. He had recently begun to suspect her of a certain contempt and hatred for these tasks, and so he now considered that, by elevating John Niezche, he might encourage Niezche in his strength while secondarily creating space for Ulunya Reaux to be elevated by extension. The probability of this effect was amplified proportionately by the measure of the closeness of Reaux and Niezche’s relationship.
“I think I do.” Jordan jumped at the sound of her voice, interrupting his thought train. Her complexion was serious and open as she confessed, nodding enthusiastically: “I do think very highly of him and he’s just...so--so great...and nice. He’s always been so good to me and I think he likes me a lot...it’s just the way he looks at me and...makes faces at me--trying to make me laugh (she inclined her head to the side in a manner similar to how Jordan often did, smiling once more). I think sometimes when I look at him that it’s just the two of us in all this world...and other times I look at him and I think that he was looking at me only a second before, looking away only when I noticed...and I’m sure everyone can see it…” Suddenly did she stop, looking straight in front of her as she mustered the courage to engage Jordan’s eyes. He had been awfully quiet, and she wondered that he might even be dead. She turned her head and saw that he was gazing into the middle of the parking space. His lips showed hints of a smile and she knew that he smiled for her.
“Should I tell him?” she asked. Jordan responded not. A moment later, Ulunya’s radiance increased hopefully. “Would you tell him?”
Jordan responded promptly: “Take responsibility for this. Take charge and make a plan. It might be that this is worth putting some effort into. Ask yourself: How do you wish to proceed?--Tell him what?--Precisely?” Ulunya was thoughtful for a moment, her chin rested upon her fists which were clasped at an apex between her elbows which rested upon her knees. “I don’t entirely know...I just feel that I should speak to him now...that there’s something which remains unsaid which should be spoken.”
Tuesday, November 2nd, 09.301527 Mifflin Avenue, 2nd Floor, Section B, Office Number 12
Niezche, Rujard, Jordan, Reaux, Eullidge, Kyson, Koche
Jordan leaned into Miss Reaux’s vacant seat at his left hand and, reaching toward the cassette tape recorder, he set it once more into action, causing the white noise of the machine to fill the silent room. The organization had assembled once more in office number twelve of the second floor of 1527 Mifflin Avenue in the absence of Miss Reaux who had been delayed in the laboratory room where she was, at present, going about the business of reproducing, by means of a copying machine, several forms and elements of paperwork which were required by the other members of the organization for the execution of their day’s work. Jordan pulled his black swivel chair comfortably toward the table and, folding his hands presidentially upon the table, addressed the six members of the organization who were gathered according to their customary seating arrangements. All were once more focused upon him. John’s chair was extracted significantly from the table so that he was able to comfortably cross his right leg over his left, his hands folded similarly to Jordan’s.
“Right. As soon as Miss Reaux returns with the paperwork we shall commence with everybody’s favourite element of our occupation (his voice was wry, displaying obvious elements of sarcasm). As we await her...anyone?--Comments?--Concerns?” John declined with a slow shake of his head as he glanced toward the far end of the table in the expectation that Joanna would readily accept the invitation to repeat one or more of the sentiments that had been expressed by her in their recent convening--he was not disappointed. Joanna quietly expressed a wish to speak and was permitted by a slight point from Jordan in her direction to do so.
“What additional duties do you expect to bestow upon Assistant Niezche?--And will he be permitted to delegate?” Jordan raised both his hands before his face as if to request that she slow down. His and John’s eyes obviously met as they traded expressions of silent exasperation. John’s lower lip elevated and he frowned comically as he turned his head toward Joanna Kyson without moving from his comfortable position.
“I will fly about as Jordan’s little minion.” His voice was flat, steady, and dramatically serious. Esther audibly chuckled. Jordan repossessed the attention of the room as he interrupted: “I believe you will, John, by flying to Airee later this month to attend, on my behalf, the Annual Literary and Media Distribution Convention which will be of grave importance to our line of work.”
John and Jordan once more traded expressions as though there were not others in the room. John seemed to ask whether Jordan was serious as his eyebrows elevated dramatically as he understood from the silent engagement that he was, before they both turned back toward the far end of the table. John scratched his brow and behind his ear nervously as Jordan addressed the densely packed corner of the table. “I didn’t intend to make my intentions on that matter clear until tomorrow, when we shall meet at the Haven Park, but I figure that I might as well do so now. Until then, this conversation--(he intensely eyed Joanna particularly as he firmly pronounced the next words)--this conversation and all closely related topics--are over--done. Now…”
Miss Reaux entered the room, ceremoniously bearing with both hands a single, thick pile of white papers which she paraded about the table, coming to her own customary chair where she deposited them upon the table before seating herself quickly. As she travelled about the table and behind Jordan’s position, John’s eyes followed her path and she, upon sitting, recognized his gaze and smiled optimistically in return. He raised his eyebrows at her and she returned the gesture as she became comfortable in her chair. The exchange was done so that it was noticeable to the other persons in the room only on account of their inability to be distracted by anything besides and even then to only the more observant types. Miss Reaux pushed the pile of papers aside to Jordan who quickly organised them, tapped them edgewise against the table for the purpose of causing them to be perfectly aligned with one another, and then passed them across the table to Esther who separated for herself the top three pages and set them aside, passing the larger pile to her left hand where John perpetuated the process. Joanna Kyson muttered something to Eullidge who scratched his stubbled chin thoughtfully. Jordan secretly observed and, with a negative air, generalised his attention to the entire group.
“Thank you, Miss Reaux, for processing these. You are of continued aid and value to this organization...not to mention a pretty face.” Miss Reaux glanced secretly at John who passed the pile of papers to Joanna, secretly acknowledging Ulunya with a slight smile and nod. Joanna perpetuated the process as Jordan continued to speak:
“You all have, hopefully, developed a reasonable and sufficient opinion of the book-- ‘Decoding Dracula’--by Wilhelm Kostcka. It is by no means the most--(Jordan faltered)--deep nor, I might dare to add, the most...interesting. It is also undeniably well thought through even if it might not be exactly what you might call...riveting (a general chuckle emerged from the assembly). Even so, it is--Kostcka is--entitled to the same elements of attention and honesty as any other article or item that we might encounter in our work.”
By now, each member of the organization possessed three pages that were loosely stacked upon one another before each member. Joanna Kyson made a general remark that the pages might have been helpfully segregated and organized by means of a simple staple (yet another assault against the competence or utility of Miss Reaux). Miss Reaux scowled in John’s and Kyson’s direction and was met there by Kyson’s rigid gaze. The eyes of the two ladies met from under their brows, their chins tucked down as they were oriented toward the table. The exchange continued for several seconds before Ulunya identified the conflict as an opportunity. She shifted herself so that she was no longer merely confronting Kyson from under her brow, out of the corner of her eye but now entirely directing toward her, her chin brought confidently up several degrees. Jordan sighed as he suggested briefly that they all begin on the forms before them. He set himself to the task at hand and, seizing from the red pencil cup before him a black pen, he set about on the form:
Name: Jordan (incoherent)
Date: 11/02/2007
Title: Decoding Dracula
Author: Wilhelm…
He had begun to document the author’s last name when he became aware that there was a strange silence about the room. He was accustomed at such times to hear the scratching of six pens (Miss Reaux’s duties were beneath the other’s and so her opinion in matters regarding the business were not official) against the table, but on this day he could only recognize three, and it was then that he became aware that Miss Reaux was oddly rigid beside him when she might ordinarily be occupied in taking notes or some other element of her secretarial position. Jordan determinedly planned his next actions for the purposes of remaining collected and professional: Remained directed toward the forms as though he dared not look up. He replaced the lid on the pen and set it upon his paper, lifting his chin and customarily leaning his head as he beheld those about the table. His eyes first fell upon John who, seated beside Joanna, frowned uncomfortably and stared throughout rolled up eyes at the drop-ceiling above as though he might wish to be anywhere but here. John, upon sensing Jordan’s attention, brought his eyes down and softly locked eyes with him as he dramatically grimaced, practically begging Jordan to intervene. This ridiculous expression did he maintain definitely toward Jordan even after Jordan turned his attention first to Joanna who glared with grim confidence and secondly to Ulunya whose chin was confidently brought high so that her hair reddish fell down behind her shoulders as she and Kyson were locked in a battle of eyes. Neither set of eyes moved as both participants understood that she who wavered first was defeated; and so the fundamental conflict continued as Jordan observed them both with some interest. Esther remained carefully focused on her work as she understood that she had neither right nor interest to participate or share in the conflict. Jordan observed the entire scenario first with some exasperation and then with some interest. John continued to ridiculously grimace at Jordan who, at a certain moment, permitted his expression to convey annoyance to John who immediately removed from his complexion the expression and set about following Jordan’s eyes about the room as he shared interest in the proceeding. Ulunya’s jaw was still firmly set and betrayed no emotion other than a calm, simple endurance. John soon found that he was almost unable to move his eyes from the examination of her--for she was extraordinarily attractive to him for a strange, unexplainable reason which was amplified when she was so determined. Unlike Joanna, her complexion betrayed not tension, nor hatred, nor even dislike but merely unwavering, serene strength. Her lips were set gently against one another. Her shoulders were set back gently and she was not tense in any way but merely...and the red and brown hair and the way that it was in some places uncontrollable and in others so ordered and perfect. She was so well...defined?--and her eyes were so pretty. They were not overtly intense but soft and spoke to an inner serenity and passivity. They were so steady now but they so often floated about with such...beauty and it was so impossible to even...how could he say what it was that made her so pretty. The beauty was beyond words.
The moments were slowed as he lost himself in the beauty of her, and he knew for certain, as he had known many times before, that this was love. Ulunya had sensed his gaze for some time but had determinedly refused to permit his attention to distract her from the contest in which she was at present involved. Yet, for hardly a single moment did her eyes flash toward his and, before she even knew this, did she know that she had lost her battle. Her complexion betrayed, in a moment, a slight note of dismay her lids fell heavily over her eyes and it seemed to John that in that immortal moment she was peacefully asleep. Her lids withdrew as she finished what had seemed to him to be sleep but was, in reality, merely a blink. Joanna’s lips curled triumphantly as the two ladies silently understood that, according to unwritten rules of conflict, Miss Reaux had been bettered. Who now eyed Jordan tentatively as if to search his face for his approval in the matter. Jordan, after a moment of consternation, tightened his lips and returned to his forms. Miss Reaux and Kyson met eyes momentarily with hostile respect before turning, one to her forms and the other to her notebook, schedule, and silent self-reflection.
Tuesday, November 2nd, 09.511527 Mifflin Avenue, 2nd Floor, Section B, Office Number 12
Niezche, Rujard, Jordan, Reaux, Eullidge, Kyson, Koche
Jordan ceremoniously folded and closed the large manilla envelope before placing it in the centre of the table. “Case closed.”
“Why?” asked Kyson.
“Because you have all documented the book and I have received and verified your forms (Jordan pointed to the envelope which now contained the assessments and suggestions of the six councillors regarding the book).”
John interrupted, clearing his throat loudly: “I think that what Councillor Kyson means is that her part of the work may be unsatisfactory. Perhaps you should review it, Jordan?”
Jordan scowled. “I have reviewed it.”
“And was it satisfactory?”
“It was sufficient and…” Jordan shook his head confusedly as he directed his gaze toward John “...what are you doing?”
John kept a steady composure and tone. “Just...checking on the quality of the work done by this firm.”
Jordan formed his next statement for several moments before speaking. “Let me be clear. Mr Niezche…”
“Assistant Niezche,” John corrected him quietly.
Jordan slightly raised his voice as he revised. “Assistant Niezche! Let me be absolutely clear. You are to serve as a superior to your peers only at my bidding. You do not have the privilege of independent discretion.”
John began as though to retort but was silenced by a harsh expression from Miss Reaux. She knew well that he was attempting to protect her, but she never liked to see John and Jordan cross one another--it was particularly painful for her. As soon as she was sure that John had understood her, she allowed her complexion to express to him gratitude and humour--for she had, to a measure, enjoyed the exchange. This style was not uncommon of John and it amounted to a major portion of his personality that favoured comedy, absurdity, and the tendency to go too far.
Jordan spoke, eyeing John sternly: “Assistant Niezche, you have before you the information regarding yet another book which we are to assess. Please read it for us.”
“Of course,” John muttered quietly. He cleared his throat and wet his fingers upon his lower lip before beginning to read the first of three pages which were stapled together.
“Name of the book is...(he stopped and glanced briefly at Miss Reaux from under his brow, smirking)... ‘The Wills,’ by Willma Williams.” He stopped suddenly and raising his hand over his mouth, breathed carefully and steadily that he might control the growing urge to burst into laughter. The room was silent for several more moments before he dared to look from the paper at Miss Reaux, who, upon meeting his eyes, could not contain her own hysteria a moment longer so that first she and then he cracked, betraying their laughter. They held one another's gaze as they regained control, joined naturally by Jordan who was the firstwho appreciatively wiped tears from his eyes with both his hands before calming the two with a downward gesture of his hands. “Continue, please.”
John leaned back in his chair sharply and wiped his sleeve across his eyes, taking a deep breath and exhaling. He reached out and, seizing the pamphlet, comfortably crossed his right leg over his left as he resumed the reading of the pamphlet calmly: “‘Is a narrative story that follows the life of a young girl’--most girls are-- ‘who attends a public school and has a mother and a father.’” He rested the pamphlet on his thigh as he met eyes with Jordan. Jordan’s chin rested in a scholar's cradle that was supported at an apex between his elbows which rested on the table so that his fingers mostly covered his mouth. He mumbled simply in response to John’s gaze: “Gripping.”
John continued: “‘She struggles with her fellow children…’”
Miss Reaux: “Siblings?”
John: “‘...both at home and in the schoolyard. She finds it difficult to obey her parents and teachers and argues with different people. Wilma’…(he grimaced as he silently reread the line)...Woah. She’s her own character? That’s going to be me-ssy. ‘Wilma conflicts with mailmen and pizza delivery people’? ‘as she attempts to balance the difficulties of her home life’? ‘She battles the flu and a nosebleed and never gives up on the things which are most important to her: her village of stuffed animals’! ‘She defends her dolls and stuffed animals from little sister Cyndey’--that’s C-Y-N-D-E-Y, in case you’re interested (Koche coughed violently) ‘who would burn them if she could. The sequel will be about her brother’?” John closed the pamphlet and slapped his knee with it, looking about him comedically as he perceived the bewildered and unenthusiastic expressions of those about him. “This is good stuff!” He exclaimed, nodding with good natured sarcasm.
“Let me know when the movie comes out,” interjected Alistair Eullidge flatly, “In the meantime, can we assess ‘Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day’?”
Miss Reaux expressed, with a nod, her agreement. Joanna Kyson was willing to withhold her apprehension. “Well, wait. Perhaps it’s a narrative short story? I think it might be of a charming little bit of novelty.”
Before she had finished speaking, John had turned over the first page. He sighed and spoke flatly. “It’s eight hundred and twenty-three pages long.” The expressions and groans of dismay that followed were amplified by a quiet gasp from Miss Reaux: “Holy GOD…” her hands covered her forehead and face as her frame slumped lifelessly upon the desk (her forehead made audible contact with the table). Jordan clasped his hands together and concealed his nose and mouth as he bent gravely forward. John frowned deeply, focused comically at the pamphlet in his lap.
Kyson and Eullidge leaned together and a whispered conversation ensued between the two. John remained silent as he stared down at the booklet, allowing himself to be nearly abstract from the room. Esther had been playing with a pen which she now replaced in her red pencil cup. She reached across the table and gently tapped Miss Reaux’s hands. Who was resurrected and smiled thinly at Esther.
“Hey, Esther,” Miss Reaux muttered sleepily.
“Hey, Ulunya,” she replied gently, hesitating momentarily, “you owe me ten dollars.”
Miss Reaux bent her head to one side and slowly began to inquire why. Esther clarified: “The agreement?--The bet?”
Miss Reaux recalled and groaned, collapsing once more upon the table. From her facedown position she blindly reached with her right hand into the purse-bag under her chair and, after some digging, retrieved a single piece of paper money which she pressed with a solid thud upon the table between Esther and herself, remaining upon the table. Esther quietly thanked her, slipping the piece of currency into her chest pocket. Miss Ulunya Reaux and Esther Rujard had an outstanding agreement that, whenever Reaux directly addressed Divinity outside of a religious context, she owed Rujard ten dollars. Thus was Reaux penalized for violating the religious commandment that forbade the taking of the LORD’s name in vain.
Jordan returned from behind his clasped hands and once more addressed the assembly: “Miss Reaux, of course, will digitize and format this information.” He pushed the large manilla envelope toward her so that a corner of it prodded her shoulder. Miss Reaux once more reached blindly into her purse-bag and straightened in her chair as she pressed a second piece of paper money into the table before her so that it was concealed by her wrist. With her free hand did she seize from her red pencil cup a black pen with which she scribed secretively upon the piece of paper money before concealing the pen in her shirtsleeve and passing the second piece of money across the table to Esther. Upon glancing momentarily at the currency, Esther apprehended that the inscription upon it was simple: “To John.” Esther understood that Miss Reaux wished for confidentiality and so she pressed it into John’s hand under the table. He slipped the currency between two pages of the pamphlet which remained still on his lap so that he was able to examine it with great interest without drawing the attention of the others. It read on the opposite side: “My job is your’s.” He glanced secretly at Miss Reaux so that she knew that he had understood. All the while did Jordan continually address the group: “As for the rest of you, I will have Miss Reaux print the transcript of this book so that you may…(he sighed)...begin work on reading this piece of...literature. Until that point, I am inclined to dismiss you all to begin on your own time. Don’t forget to complete your compensation forms. Make sure you are being paid for your pains and efforts.” He dryly licked his lips as John cleared his throat. Jordan nodded quickly to him, indicating permission to speak.
“I’d like to stay late and...you know, maybe help Ulunya with her work.” His eyes flickered about self consciously but he remained oriented toward Jordan, synthesizing confidence.
Jordan was now placed in a difficult situation. “Well, there wouldn’t be any problem with that aside from the simple truth that I need you to focus your working hours on that book. I’m sorry but that’s (John bit his lip and shook his head, interrupting Jordan quietly).”
“I’ll get it done on my own time. Don’t worry about it, man.”
“Well...we—the organization can’t afford to pay you for overtime and Miss Reaux is entitled to 38 hours of—well, this is Mrs Rujard’s department.” Jordan turned to Esther and extended his hands toward her. John’s expression was serious and slightly nervous as he turned his head to Esther on his right side.
She addressed him but remained oriented toward Jordan as though it were he to whom she spoke. “Yes. The organization, unfortunately, cannot afford to compensate any of its employees for overtime. However (she adopted an optimistic note) if Miss Reaux—Ulunya—and you (a general cringe occurred as the two names were compounded) are interested, you two can apply for HR103P.”
Jordan nodded as he led the witness: “And what exactly is that, Esther?”
“The Human Resource Provision for Co-Joint Employee Compensation—it causes them to be paid as a single entity leaving themselves responsible for the deliberation and distribution of their funds.”
“Oh! Is the marriage official then?”Joanna Kyson piped up with a definite note of sarcasm, “And where’s my invitation?”
Miss Reaux scowled timidly at Joanna as Esther responded flatly and professionally: “Although it is true that the Provision for Co-Joint Compensation is most often used in the case of two married individuals, it is not a necessary element that they be so...married. Any two or more persons may apply.”
Jordan had been quiet thoughtfully. Yet, he now became interactive once more as he nodded. “If you would discuss that with them in secluded conference at some time this week I would be most grateful. (He deliberately took a breath) Does anybody have relevant comments or questions?”
Tuesday, November 2nd, 10.201527 Mifflin Avenue, 2nd Floor, Section B, Office Number 12
Niezche, Rujard, Jordan, Reaux, Eullidge, Kyson, Koche
The room began to be emptied as Lucus Koche decided to be the first to rise from his position nearest to the door and set out into the great beyond by himself. He was, by nature, quiet and reserved. However, as has been noted before, he was a loyal man who would unleash his inner shadow upon any entity foolish enough to threaten one of his comrades. Jordan always remained for some time in the room at the conclusion of their meeting in order that any person wishing for private conversation or advice might apply themselves to him during that time. Miss Ulunya Reaux would often spend this time with her practical father provided that nobody remained in the room to apply themselves to him. On this day, none seemed willing to follow Lucus Koche through that door and into the great beyond, and it was clear that Jordan would be the source of much advice this day--and so Miss Ulunya Reaux gathered her purse-bag from under her chair, her numerous folders and files and book from their orderly piles on the table and, discarding them into her purse-bag (which tripled in weight) she rose from her seat and moved about the table clockwise: behind Esther (called by her somewhat lazy associates “Esther”), behind John (whose eyes and head followed her about the table), behind Joanna Kyson (who studied her fingers against the wooden table), behind Alistair Eullidge (who quite possibly stayed in his position due to some connexion to the person at his right hand) and to the door which she opened slightly and slipped through. As she exited the scene, she turned quickly over her shoulder and found that she was conveniently able to make eye contact with John and so, in a small gesture, she nodded her head as if to ask if he was coming with her. He nodded and raised a finger as if to beg for a moment. He turned in his chair slowly toward Jordan as the door softly closed. Esther next rose from her position and followed Miss Reaux through the door.
So the silent contest continued as each in the room sought to be the last and, therefore, the recipient of Jordan’s time and advice. Until addressed, he would sit and shuffle paperwork or read some book on the topics of philosophy, psychology, religion, or neuroscience or he might read one of the many books to which he was charged with assessing and recommending it for public consumption. For in those days the land had changed little but the behaviour of the politicians had transformed that which was once the Great State of Pennsylvania into a censorious and strange realm. The State had been renamed for political purposes, years had been forgotten, and it formed a strange combination every period of time, stripped of its context, bound together. The world had changed as a result of a worldwide phenomenon and things were forgotten which should never have been forgotten—things were changed which need not have been changed, and there had been such instability that to compromise was to alter nearly the nature of the culture itself.
Jordan raised his eyes from his book, glancing briefly at each person before him as he considered his next words.
Tuesday, November 2nd, 12.48Haven Park, Overlook
Niezche
There, before him stretched the Abenander River. Parallel to Front Street, it flowed toward, past, and away from him. Front Street ran before him, parallel to the river, until the two mingled with the horizon, and the bridges that straddled the river were visible in profile--the reddened iron of decades glistening in the noonday light. The weather was warm and dry--such that a person might have mistaken the season for that of Summer. The river, surrounded on each bank by controlled grass and scattered trees, widened slightly as it ran into the distance where it ran under five bridges in total along Front Street and, several miles beyond city limits, two massive bridges which controlled the traffic toward and from the north-eastern counties and city-states. The river ultimately ended before State Street where it was controlled by a thin concrete dam which fortified the entire river bed throughout the city limits. A hand and safety rail was built atop the concrete dam. Behind this railing flourished the Haven Park: a series of paved walks and paths ran between smaller fields and along either side of the river, and it was upon this that he now stood: a thin layer of small stones or gravel separated the path from the railing which overlooked the river. Under him, set into the dam wall that fortified the river bed against the water, were three large steel pipes. These massive gaping holes were a drainage system which allowed the river to flow under the deepest section of the city. Thus, it was, by an underground system, processed for the aquilary needs of the city. He gripped, for a moment, the railing as he bent over it, checking, out of a casual interest, the waterline: Receding--but not dangerously low. It had been a dry season, so it was not surprising that the water line should be a little low. One could always accurately estimate whether the river was higher or lower than usual by the ring of sediment and small debris which accumulated along the concrete wall, an accurate marker for the normal height of the water. Lately, this ring had been often visible, indicating that the river was being fed by its sources significantly less than it had been in past months. He recovered his posture and adjusted the shoulder strap of his canvas satchel as he scanned both sides of the Haven Park, hoping to observe some hint of his affiliate. He was late. In fact, he had nearly forgotten the meeting altogether. Today had not been a good day for him: He’d been late for two meetings, been less apt for comedy than usual, been unusually strange around Ulunya, and--that was Fr. Freud.
He was, himself, just arriving from the left side of the park. John observed Fr. Freud as he crossed the busy intersection of Front Street and Prime Street. He made long strides, his long black cassock flowing between his heels as the aged priest crossed boldly on a crosswalk before several vehicles which awaited the traffic light. He moved with surprising athleticism for his age. He stepped upon the curb on the nearer side of the street and turned sharply toward John’s position. He glanced steadily at the ground before his feet, confident in every movement. He followed the sidewalk toward John. Now, about eighty meters away, he found that the direction of the sidewalk no longer suited him, and so he vacated the path and began to cross directly toward John through a field of grass. He passed under the shade of a tree and took advantage of the shade to glance quickly up, for the first time, toward John. They made eye contact and the priest smiled jovially, elevating his right hand in greeting and blessing as he finished closing the distance. When he was no more than five strides distant, John reoriented his posture from the railing and the scenic river and bridges and green and forested hills beyond--all this he turned away from, toward the priest.
John: “Father!” The two met in a gentle hand shake and John bowed reverently toward the priest, touching his forehead to the man’s hand. John immediately made an effort to be conversational, his expressions, lips, and eyebrows playing like magic across his face, amplifying his good nature. He continued: “I received your note.”
Father nodded uncertainly, and John was surprised to find that the priest seemed to struggle to recollect. The two men turned together toward the railing that they might hold their meeting while enjoying the serene scene before them. John studied, for a moment, the priest’s face: At first did he frown as he brought himself toward the railing. He forced a bright, cheerful expression as he gazed at the picturesque scene before him (John remained discreetly focused upon the priest).
Fr. Freud: “The weather is particularly bright...and warm.”
An awkward silence became evident before John quickly attempted to save the moment. He unenthusiastically nodded as he flatly responded: “Yes. It has been.” John hoped that the priest might speak further. Fr. Freud, however, appeared to remain focused entirely upon the river, the bridges, and the unfolding city and hills. John knew now that this could not continue, and so he forced the subject. “So. Father, why are we here?”
“My son, I must be entirely honest...I’m not entirely sure. I simply came here because...well, I did.”
“You came here because you did?”
“So it seems…--... I will just...check this for a second.” Father reached within his long black cassock and withdrew a green composition notebook which he turned away from John, hunching his shoulders over the book in order that his frantic scrambling of the pages might not be obvious to the younger man--an effort that was likely in vain. John, however, affected his participation in the awkward moment by remaining in silence whilst he observed first the river and view and, second, the sky to his oblique right, his hands wrapped comfortably around the steel railing which barred him from an approximately thirty-meter fall into the water below. The crescented concrete dam beneath him protruded so that, were he to fall, he would be dashed to his injury upon a harder surface, rather than into the watery alternative.
Father muttered as he gathered his wits about him. “It seems I’m meant to meet you (he moved his face closer toward the page so that it was almost touching the page)--and a Dr Jordan at this park. Have you seen the doctor around here? Did you bring him?”
John’s face tightened as he recalled the entirety of the note. He licked his lips nervously and barred them, allowing a slow, drawn-out shake of his head back and forth to express the negative.
Father read from the book as though reading a script: “Were you supposed to?”
John, comically: “My memory isn’t what it used to be. What is the matter of which you read?”
Father, still reading: “Our script. I tend to forget my words before I can say them.”
John’s hands detached from the railing as he cast them with exasperation toward the heavens: “So we’re both losing our minds.”
“I more than you. You’ll want to watch that though. It’ll only get worse.” Father was now oriented toward John who had withdrawn his hands into his pockets where he hid them as entirely as possible, straightening even the elbow in order to take up as much space as possible.
“So are those your words or are they scripted?”
“Both. I usually follow the script but I improvise a little bit... sometimes.”
John was skeptical: “But...you seem to know what I’ll say next. Surely I’m not scripted.”
Father eyed him nervously: “You are.”
John scowled, shocked, as he turned entirely toward the priest. There were no words suitable for the occasion and so he merely licked his lips as he considered his next words. Returning to the conversation several moments later, he found Father to be looking out over the rail toward the opposite direction from which he had come. John followed his gaze, and did after but a moment recognize the figure of the doctor moving their direction. John turned sharply toward the priest and discreetly did the two make eye contact--Father nervously. John maintained a neutral, calm demeanor: “So that is how you’re going to play this?”
Father: “I’m sorry, John—but yes.”
John nodded thoughtfully as he prepared to receive the man. Jordan drew near.
“Father...John (he bowed courteously toward each in turn) I’m sorry that I’m not exactly on time, but there were some delicate matters which required my attention (he nodded sharply). I was surprised to find your letter, John.”
John frowned as Fr. Freud looked on with distinct interest: “My letter?”
Jordan: “Yes, I… (John squinted, pressing his lips tightly together as he tried to recall) John, there was note left for me to meet you here. I found it on the table near your seat.”
John looked down for several seconds as though unconscious. He could not recall having left Jordan a note. As he searched and researched his memory, he found that he had no recollection of leaving the office. He had merely… left—walked out? Not even this, for he was not able to recall anything now of the meeting—but wait awhile. Here something came: Ulunya… he must surely remember her, and indeed he did. The red and brown locks, the soft eyes, and the round complexion. The downcast humility and the lack of confidence which so often set her attention to fly from present conflict to his own eyes where she sought comfort and where he was so willing to give it. Yet, why had he tarried? Indeed, he had procrastinated the confession of his admiration. Did he hide it? Was he ashamed—or embarrassed—or even guilty? Nay! He told himself: “He was merely being prudent.” Yet the answer was insufficient to him, and the more he tried to assure himself of its truth the more he felt a growing anticipation in his soul. He raised his eyes to the two older men, looking between the two evenly spaced gentlemen, and found that fewer than twenty seconds had passed; for the mind is faster than the hourglass, and the soul is deeper than that glistening river which beneath him shimmered.
“Ok.” John nodded. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but... (his voice went dry and he cracked, shaking his head softly and licking his lips sharply) what does your script want me to do next?”
“Read the next page in the black notebook.”
John pulled the satchel toward the front of his person and drew forth the black notebook, flipping open the top, withdrew the black notebook. His satchel fell back to his side as he raised the notebook to his eyes. He glanced briefly at Father and, glancing back down at the notebook, asked: “You know what’s in here?”
Father hesitated: “I--I might.”
“Of course you do,” John muttered, opening the book. He was silent as he read the second page. As he drew nigh to the end of the script, he began to slowly nod his head, the action which steadily accelerated until he finished the article. He looked up to the priest and, still nodding, summarized the letter: “It’s a death threat.” If he was surprised, he made an admirable effect of not showing it, for he remained calm and even cool. Turning the page over and back again, he added: “From you.”
The priest appeared to be mildly confused, though not entirely surprised. John licked his lips and, ruling them into a straight line, he stepped nearer to the priest so that his shape towered over the smaller man and, looking down into his face, revealed the side of John that few men knew. It was gentle but shocking. It was not his ferocity that was dreadful but his peace, and the control with which he held himself as a man not to be crossed. One could hardly imagine him the dealer a blow and yet he was, at moments such as these, the like that few men would dare. His brows were heavy and focused, and he stared out from under them with an alertness which commanded respect.
“Ok Father. This is what we’re going to do. I am going to close this book, and I am going to put it away; and we...are going to pretend that this (he pointed to the book in his left hand) never happened.”
A momentary pause ensued before Father responded: “Ok.”
“Ok,” John confirmed, turning toward Jordan, “Jordan (he pointed to the man), can I catch a ride.”
“Yeah--yes,” Jordan replied quickly.
“Right, let’s go.” John stepped quickly between the two men and was joined by Jordan who quickened his steps that he might catch and maintain pace with the younger man. Jordan looked to John as though he might speak. John watched the ground as he walked briskly away from the priest and the overlook. It was clear that this conversation would not at all be welcome at this time, and so the man, Jordan, held his peace.
He walked down the cobblestone sidewalk. Tall buildings arose about him on every side and at every angle, the historical witnesses of the centuries through which the city had prospered. The modernized streets still swelled with a certain European mood, the remainder of that spirit with which the city had been founded more than two hundred years ago. These streets were not busy: A man and his love passed by arm-in-arm on the opposite sidewalk, blissfully oblivious of anything but the other and the quiet conversation they shared. A handful of parked cars lined the curb, patiently awaiting the return of their masters.
He mentally noted that all (or at least most) of the cars shared a cold colouring, as though even colour itself had been drained of its warmth. The colouring of the vehicles ranged from obsidian black to royal blue, a colour with so very little in common with the standard blue that it had more of a similarity to purple. This attentiveness to odd and otherly things would have been a danger to him had there been more traffic; and yet there was so very little that he was permitted to remain safely within the confines of his distraction. Whether it was distraction or strange attention he knew not and yet it mattered not, as his focus, whatever it be so classified as, was disturbed by the sounds of hasty footsteps behind him. A runner--jogger? His curiosity got the better of him as the steps grew louder--closer. Turning over his left shoulder he saw the running figure for only a second as it collided with him, causing him to stumble for balance--forcing him to make way as he. As he recovered he saw the back of the figure running beyond. Though the man was no doubt running there was a certain, almost desperate haste in his steps as they pounded away upon the cold stone, growing steadily quieter until they faded away completely.
The city returned to its state of silence and quiet. Beyond perhaps a mile or two behind, a car’s tires screeched against the cement, yet he noticed not as his attention returned to other things. Forgotten was his attention to the strange lifelessness of the serene city. He now thought of the man and his love walking down the street in their cold, serene attire--arm-in-arm in blissful obsession with one another. Briefly, as he recalled the coldness of the colour of all about him he sought the Sun and found it not behind--but in front of him, and shielded from view by thick clouds. The clouds did not propose rain and yet covered all, shading them from the warmth and love of that Star beyond. He recalled with a flash the running man and as he recalled to his senses the memory, he noted how the man had broken the rule: he wore the reddest shade possible of that bloody colour: his trousers and hooded jacket covered him in the colour--even the shoes showed forth that colour. only the treading did show a pure, newly bought white. He has not seen the face of the man and yet the idea came to him that he knew him. Wherefrom, he could recall not--and yet, as he attempted to, his focus was broken as he stepped against the cold--deathly cold and stern solidity of a lamppost, placed before him as though for that purpose. He stopped, finding himself in the place he strangely knew he should be. On the left side, immediately beside him rose the steps of the cathedral: regal and ominous in its sheer scale. On the right side of him, across the street, arose a library with gothic architecture which inherently implied a connexion between it and the cathedral--one to his right, and one to his left. Had not this cold bearer of light stopped him in his tracks he would have walked beyond in his distraction. To where--he could not know. He turned to his left and rose before the steps, climbing with haste and checking his watch which showed him that the time was 3:43 PM. He was early.
Friday, November 12th, 15.43
He stood before the heavy, dark oaken doors of the cathedral. Pushing them open, he entered and, finding the church largely empty, he added himself to the queue for that forgiving sacrament: Confession, Reconciliation, Penance--it had several titles and yet, if anyone were mentioned in conversation, there would rarely be any confusion. This was the sacrament where things were corrected--where wrongs were righted and inadequacies made complete. As he awaited the attention of Father, he began to search his conscience for such inadequacies and immediately drifted to that which engulfed his attention most: Ulunya. She was a girl who he knew quite well--who had encaptivated him since the moment he had first laid eyes upon her--and yet, even at the time when he had done so he knew that this did not justify love. For love is patient, and love waits. So he had--waited; and for six years had he waited, knowing her when he could and avoiding her when he must.
Over the past years, they had been good friends and acquaintances--yet he hoped for more: He hope--indeed he prayed that they might become closer--even to the point of becoming what some might call “an item.” The term was somewhat sickening: It implied a great lack of heart. They had first come to know of one another in this very room, under the gaze and judgment of The Almighty; and so had their relationship been confined until, after several weeks, he and Jordan had invited her to take part in the literary and governmental organization of which they were both members. Before she had joined there had been six of them, and they seemed incomplete in some strange and mysterious way. Thus, he had invited her to be the seventh and final number--for seven was the perfect number: three couples and one single who could see all exactly as it was and keep the group within the confines of reason. The single in the group was his dearest friend and advisor, and so the three pairs in the group subjected themselves to the observance of the man who would warn them if he saw a thing out of place--a referee of sorts. The group opened discussion and study of largely two branches: philosophy and literature. They sought, in their private affairs, to freely study the philosophy of the classical philosophers, Plato, Aristotle, and their peers; the philosophers of the 19th and 20th centuries; and the Christian philosophy. Following the addition of Ulunya to the group, it consisted then of two of the Roman Church. The remaining characters varied mildly in belief, regarding as their principle common values those of compatriotism, intellectual honesty, and logic. The most unusual character of the group served as their founder and president. He was of no definite religious conviction, nor did he appreciate being questioned on the matter.
The latter was the man called Jordan, his best friend and advisor. As Jordan had no true alignment toward any Church, in particular, he was adopted as a referee of sorts. He was also the oldest of the group, being twenty and one years older than the second oldest of the group. Jordan, despite his refusal to place himself under the heading of any earthly spiritual leader, held a largely Christian point of view which merged quite nicely with his classical philosophical grounding. Jordan was a man of strong conviction coupled with a strong morality. He was a doctor of the mind as well, with the same being his profession. Thus, he was extraordinarily qualified to be a sort of balancing factor to the group. The door banged open as he realized that the last person in the queue before him was now finished and now walked quietly away, leaving the brown door frame and the darkness within vacant and welcoming. His time had come.
Friday, November 12th, 15.49
He knelt before the screen. Veiled by a purple linen, a certain anonymity was present, disclosing both faces from the other’s. Raising his eyes to the crucifix that hung above the wooden frame, he crossed himself with his right hand: “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two days since my last confession.” Awkwardly, he stopped abruptly as he considered his next words. After several seconds, the calm, age-worn voice of Father came through the screen: “May the Lord loosen your tongue that you may make a good confession.” A second later, and urged by Father’s request, he continued: “Father--there’s this girl I know (Father sighed, exhaling deeply)--I’ve known her for quite some time and we’ve always conducted ourselves with due caution in one another’s presence and--well--lately, I’ve been considering making a proposition to her.”
Father waited cautiously before responding, slightly confused: “And--what seems to be the issue?”
“I simply don’t know if it’s the right decision.”
“Have you prayed regarding this matter? Have you meditated on whether this union would be for the best--for both of you?”
“Father, I have. I just don’t know if I’ve considered it for long enough--if it’s the right commitment right now. Of course--.”
“My child, you understand that if you aren’t certain--if you aren’t entirely sure--regarding this matter, it is not one that should be taken lightly.”
“I understand, Father. I also understand that there are the things that are--and then there are the things that were meant to be.”
After a rather uncomfortable pause, Father continued: “Indeed. My child, as much as I would like to converse with you for all eternity--and I believe I may someday--you have, in fact, stayed too long. I have kept you long enough and you must go. For this is not a place for your conversation to be resolved--you may come and see me at another time but I must kindly command you: confess your sins and leave so that another may take your place. For this is not the place for such a conversation--as another may be in dire need of absolution--waiting outside this door.”
Quickly came the reply from the younger man: “Father, I am the last one.”
Brief and sharp was the tone in which Father responded in his own turn: “My son, if you will persist in refusing to admit the truth to one of my office, then you must at least admit it to yourself. And you are mistaken. Go in the peace of the Lord and return only to this room when you are prepared to confess. Then, and only then, will this matter be resolved. As it is--your penance for the misuse of this time is to pray five decades of the Rosary. Pax Domine sit semper tecum in Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritui Sancto. Your sin is forgiven.”
The young man stood up and, opening the door, slipped out into the light of the church. Aware of Father’s assurance that another awaited the sacrament he held the door and, turning to see for whom he made way, recognized his beloved who, slipping backward into the dark room, gently and slowly pulled the door closed. In beauty she was simple and pure: Her head, naturally quite round (with a definitive cheek and jaw), was wreathed in reddish brown hair which descended from its central point above her left eye in rivers of natural, loose curls which were naturally thick and unruly--as they had about them a certain chaotic and disordered proclivity. Thus, she most often pinned to the central back of her head, with a single hairpiece or ribbon, the flanking locks of her hair (that hung toward the front and obliques of her face) so that they were tightly pulled back and overlapped with the flowing locks beneath. They were little more than shoulder length, permitting the unbound curls behind her ears to fall upon the tops and fronts of her shoulders. Her eyes were bright brown and moderately large in proportion to the scale of her head. Her body was healthy and well-built--with a slight tone to the muscles which implied that she, though delicate, had something of a physical strength about her. In height she was only slightly taller than the average woman by a matter of an inch or two. In demeanour, she was gentle and sweetly-natured to those whom she knew well and trusted. Yet she knew well how to be disagreeable and, lying directly beneath that shy, passively agreeable disposition was one that was stubborn, untrusting, unyielding, vengeful, and defensive. Her head was bent forward intently as she maintained a gentle eye contact with him until the dark door hid her face from him entirely. He thoughtfully made his way to the front of the church and, dropping a knee to the ground, crossed himself once more before sliding into the seats. He sat, considering for a moment. He thought about his conversation with Father, and about the stern nature he had seen today (the sternness which he had never seen from the priest he had known since only a child): Five decades of the Rosary! Indeed it was quite the penance. He did not believe that this slight misuse of the sacrament was a warrant enough for such reparation, especially as he had believed himself to be the last in the line and, therefore, taking time from nobody.
Pulling his Rosary from his pocket, he examined it as though he had not seen it there before--and yet he kept it ever there, within the confines of his clothing, ever awaiting the moment when it might be of use. The Rosary, to an unbeliever, might easily be mistaken for a necklace and yet to use it as such might be considered criminal to the devout. The instrument consisted of sixty beads composed in a large “Q” shape. The tail of the shape featured a Crucifix, a representation of the crucified Son of God, followed by a series of five beads which led to the beginning of five “decades.” A decade consisted of ten “Ave Maria” beads followed by the “Gloria Patri” which, itself, was followed by a “Pater Noster” bead. Combined, these five “decades” formed the entirety of the round part of the “Q” shape, returning finally to the point of origin. The entirety of five decades could take a person easily twenty minutes. Shifting to a kneeling position, he committed to a single decade. Crossing himself once more he began: “Pater Noster, Qui es in Caeli, sanctificetur nomen Tuam…” Four minutes later he rose and, checking his watch noted that he had enough time to run an errand.
Friday, November 12th, 15.59
He glanced quickly at his wristwatch as he exited the holy building. There was something unkind in the act of turning one’s back upon the sanctuary, and yet it must often be done. He rapidly descended the stairs and, upon reaching the curbside, glanced once in both directions before resuming his course: across the street and into the library building across the street. He entered the building which, in conjunction with its outward appearance, gave a medieval impression with its seemingly unmeasurably aisles and shelves. The place, however, was well kept, as it was a respectable institution that shared governance with the Cathedral just across the street.
Approaching a desk, he identified himself and, upon stating the purpose of his visit, awaited the execution of his request. As he did so, he glanced again--though now impatiently--at his wristwatch and marked the time: twelve minutes. Pacing slightly, he came to a display of writing notebooks, and it occurred to him for some strange reason that he would likely have need of one. Determined to purchase one for a modest sum, he settled upon a black-bound book, mentally rebuking the red version as too brilliant and the blue as insufficient. His order was presently delivered to him, whereafter he seized the book. He quickly moved to a nearby table where he carefully placed the book and, opening it to the fourth page, read the first seven lines. Upon the completion of this sample, he quickly closed the book and chuckled: “A wardrobe indeed!” He glanced briefly at his watch: six minutes. Picking up his literary cargo, he strode quickly to the door from which he had entered and upon descending the stairs, began again to cross the street hastily. He watched the second hand on his watch as it climbed toward the top of the instrument. Why did it climb so hastily? What had it so to gain by completing that journey merely to again descend only to repeat its journey for eternity? It climbed to ten--two steps away and indeed it drew closer. Now to eleven it climbed--only moments from victory. Why turn back now when it had only to climb--to glance up once more? A choice: to glance up or to remain within the circuit. At some point, each member of mankind faces this question: whether to glance up toward the goal ahead or to remain comfortably within a familiar cycle.
The familiar pattern breeds a manner of contentment that is predictable and safe. Yet, this contentment may at one moment be as consoling as a mother, whilst at the very next it may be as treacherous as the worst of traitors. Thus, while familiarity is safe, it is not altogether to be trusted and must be accompanied at all times by a bodyguard of the alternative: the unknown--the search for greater things than this. If one does not look for greater things then what has he to gain? Has he not anything but that which may be lost? Indeed it would have been better that, on this day, he had looked ahead for greater things. For on this day, he fixed his gaze upon the circuit--and his watch was not altogether where it should have been; and as the second hand on his wristwatch, at last, reached the final number, so also did his life. The greater thing ahead was, in an indirect manner, the veil beyond which he now travelled: the great unknown. The greater thing ahead was, in a very physical sense, the 1.24-ton vehicle which ended his consciousness: sending him forever to a place that might well grow all too familiar. The vehicle was the only red automobile on that street that he had seen that day: it broke the monotony of the familiar when, driven by the hands of his beloved, it brought the time of men crashing down around him: to what end he had yet to discover.
Saturday, November 13th, 13.37
339 State Street, St. Clement’s Gothic Cathedral, Nave-South Transept
The voice was timeless: the voice of a man who had seen many winters, and yet was not old. Upon this man, time resulted in wisdom without many apparent effects of age:
“...John Niezche: a man of unimpeachable integrity. He never did me harm--not of any kind--and I’ve not heard a bad account of him from any person--not one. He was loved by many, and those who did not love him at least respected him. Indeed, he seemed well on his way to perfection and I believe that, if given the time, he would have achieved something--as close to perfection as any man could attain...had he been given the time.
In my work with him--regarding the organisation of which we were both members… ‘Seven’ (he moodily shifted his feet as he spoke the name)--I found in him a great quality: --one which I have rarely seen so naturally imbued in a man in any of my days as a psycho-analyst: the actual habit of not confronting in others their own faults while confronting in himself all of his own faults! Extraordinary! He was among the most--no, let me rephrase, he actually is...was...the most conscientious man I’ve ever had the privilege to know.”
The speaker was the man, Jordan. His dark hair was somewhat dishevelled. Greying, it aligned so perfectly with the timelessness of his voice that they worked together to reveal him as a man of much knowledge. He was a man who had known many people. Even through his work as a doctor of the mind, he had met nearly every sort and manner of person imaginable and yet he continued to search--to search in order that those who sought his friendship would not be neglected. He was not a man without emotion, and very often allowed them to surface, revealing a highly intricate and sensitive personality with whom many could sympathize. His voice went on, steadily, as he described his fallen comrade as kindly as he could.
“He saw his imperfections as few before him and wished to wrench out of himself, no matter how painfully, those imperfections which weighed upon him. He was not a man who liked easiness...as testified to by his extreme love of walking to wherever he could and even some of those places where he couldn’t. He was a very self-confident man… confident in his strengths while at the same time...well...trying to be wary of his weaknesses. That’s a wise man there (here he pointed to the coffin which laid before the altar). I can only but grieve for all that might have been, had that man had his chance to make an impression--to fully blossom, as he was about to. I’ll leave you with words of wisdom and then with words of hope. Death is not the end but merely where a man discovers what reward is merited by his earthly life, and by his duty toward his responsibilities, and toward that end, I’d say there were few men much greater than John Niezche. As for hope: he always attempted to wrench from himself those things which weighed him down--which were not good for him--he quested for perfection. I think that not even death may be able to stop his quest.”
The man retired from the microphone, respectfully bowing in the centre aisle before the altar of St. Clement’s Cathedral. Whereafter he slipped quickly and quietly into the front row seat beside the grief-stricken Ulunya. As though the passing of her beloved were not cause for grief enough, the effects were amplified by the fact that it had been at her own hand. The habit of a person to entirely blame his or her self is rivalled only by a person’s habit to refuse responsibility of any kind. They sat in silence as the coffin was ceremoniously carried from the building. Slowly and sorrowfully did that train of grief travel--up the aisle and toward the great doors of the cathedral. The remains of the deceased were intended to travel but one journey more, to a small church on the outside of the city. It was in the churchyard of that place that he had intended to rest forever--until the time when he should once more be called upon.
As the coffin slipped from view, behind those great, dark oak doors, she remembered how, not so long ago, he had slipped from her view behind that door as he began his final ambulation to the library across the street, from which he would not return but in death. She choked on a sob as she, a stubborn but sensitive character, determined to save face before the man, Jordan, as though her grief were a just cause to be ashamed. She glanced at him from the peripheral of her vision, seeking to find whether he paid her much notice. She had only known him in a somewhat professional manner, as they had both been members of “Seven,” and his stance was, to her, most surprising: He sat tightly, with his hands clasped upon his lap and his head slightly inclined, appearing as though he, too, were on the brink of tears. He felt her gaze and, turning his head to look indirectly at her, offered her his handkerchief: a gesture that she proudly, though graciously, declined. After several more moments of silence, Jordan quietly spoke: “I hope you know that--should you need anything, I am at your service.” She thanked him and responded, asking only that he would accompany her for some time. He consented silently and resumed his former posture.
“Jordan?” She quickly began, awaiting his acceptance of conversation. He turned his gaze, expressionless, again upon her, silently (and quite eerily) inviting conversation on her terms.
“You have known many men and women. You spoke of him as a truly great man. I do not mean to speak unkindly of the dead, but was such praise warranted?”
Jordan turned his gaze from her as he silently pondered his response. He was as a chess master: thoughtful and ponderous. Without turning back to her, he responded after several moments:
“Potential is the maximum level of greatness which one may attain if given all time to attain it. Niezche, I think, had a very great potential, and he was most definitely directed toward the attainment of that potential. For as good a man as he was--and he was a very good human--he had elements of darkness as we all have but.... as great as his potential for goodness was, his potential for evil was almost as great...and that’s a terrifying thought because he really could’ve been...well...a saint really. That’s why I said what I said: because he was searching in the right direction, and I believe that, given the time, he would’ve become a most good and excellent human. At the time of his passing, he was, though, the most conscientious man I’ve ever known.”
The silence returned as she pondered his words. She expected that he was correct and hated herself. It was such a betrayal: he had been a good and respected person, and Jordan’s testimony of his goodness brought such condemnation upon herself for having removed such a life from this world. It was a killing so dreadful that it could only be overshadowed by the death of GOD himself--or so her mind told her. She blamed herself entirely, and wished that their roles might have been reversed: that he might have been behind the wheel and that she might have been...well...elsewhere. Perhaps that was how it had been meant to be. Perhaps she was never meant to come to the cathedral that day. Perhaps he was never meant to leave the cathedral. Perhaps she had never been meant to wake up that day. Perhaps he had never been meant to ever know her. Perhaps she had never been meant to be even born. The habit of a person to blame themselves is surpassed only by the habit of a person to refuse responsibility of any kind. Indeed she wished that she had never even been…
“Why do you think such dreadful--awful thoughts?” A quiet, compassionate, timeless voice cut her thoughts. She turned to Jordan to find that he was seated perfectly erect: every fibre of his being was focused on her as he read her like a book. She shuddered as she realized that the citadel of secrecy that she had believed her mind to be was truly a mere glasshouse. “Are they not true?” She responded.
“Are they not true?” he repeated in disbelief. He scoffed and glanced away from her as though to seek the light: “They become true only if you wish them to be so. You believe all those dreadful things? What can you have to gain by thinking so? I KNOW what you have to gain: You may either invoke it upon yourself in a manner of self-pity, creating yourself as a victim or even worse...you may believe it? Do you believe it? Do you?”
“Jordan, I understand a lot--and I understand that this is my fault. It’s basically true that, had I never been…”
“Don’t say it.”
“...I’m sorry? Say what?”
“Don’t say that. Whatever happened cannot now be undone--and you were always meant to exist.”
She was silent for several moments as she recovered from his admonishment. When she recovered, she quickly shook from her head the shock of the encounter and glanced at him again and found him, still, watching her most intently. Her expression shattered as she disintegrated before his gaze: “How did you know? Am I not entitled to my own counsel?”
Jordan, naturally, considered briefly before responding: “You are indeed entitled to your ‘own counsel’; but let it be said that your council should not entirely be trusted, and you should also consider the counsel of your friends.”
“Then you tell me,” she began tearfully and bitterly, “If it is not my fault, pray tell whose fault is it.”
A hint of a smile cracked for a mere instant upon Jordan’s face as he leaned sharply forward: “Must it be anybody’s fault? Why must we assign blame to anyone in this given situation? This was a tragedy! Besides (he gasped a little here, perhaps a laugh), there’s more than enough blame to go around.”
The man relaxed once more, permitting a moment of silence to allow this first wave of treatment to take effect before he began again: “I’m assuming you’ve already considered an alternate--a reversed scenario in which John is the killer and you are the victim.” Ulunya attempted and failed to conceal her shock as she sat silently, sniffling a little. Jordan was right, and they both knew it.
“Fine. Let’s consider, for a moment, that scenario. Assume your positions are reversed (he swept his open hand in a circle): he in the car and you--....not. Would you blame him?”
She remained silent and, turning away from her, Jordan relaxed, knowing that his message had been received and understood, for her face--the fibre of her expression was somewhat calmer and more relaxed. Jordan, picked a piece of lint from his lap and, casting it aside, resumed his silence and stillness--deep in thought. The church was silent. The lights dimmed within as the two sat alone, in their own thoughts and silence--full of grief. Outside, Niezche’s body was loaded into a black car. It was to be driven to the place of final repose where it would be interred that evening. Ulunya thought of Jordan's words and considered many possible meanings of the closing line of his oration: That not even death may be able to stop his quest. She considered asking of him now his meaning then, but decided the better of it: allow Jordan to himself. Only the sanctuary lights remained around the altar space, and the entirety of the church benefitted light from it as best it could. Yet there was not enough light to fill all of the place, and darkness settled within the corners and in the areas farthest from the altar.
Jordan noted this, and recognized that a similar darkness resided in all persons who had divorced meaning and life. Meaning--purpose, symbolized by the altar, is the only source of light and, should that source be distanced or, Heaven forbid, altogether removed, there is nought but darkness. So what was the purpose? How could it be defined? Perhaps it was love? This sounded naive and was Perhaps it was God. Perhaps it was anything that gives a person the sense of purpose--but what could give a person a perfect sense of purpose? If love was the answer, and love was God, then purpose was for one to attempt to love GOD as GOD loved one. How could such a task be accomplished?--or even approached? Well...let’s assume that GOD is love, and that all persons have at least a little bit of love within them--some more than others but none completely devoid of it--then it would be true to say that all persons (perhaps even all Creation) have at least piece of GOD within them. Were this the case, purpose would be to seek out and love in all people the elements that were deserving of love. Thus, in order to have purpose one must attempt to seek out and understand love and truth in all things--for love is the truth--and the truth is God. Perhaps it is correct to say that truth, and love, and GOD are all one.
Jordan emerged from the fog and tried to recall where he had begun--what original question had triggered such a chain reaction of ideas. As he did so, the sound of footsteps, fast and deliberate, echoed down the centre aisle--quickly approaching. Rushed, and excited, and possibly desperate. They rang closer until they stopped immediately beside him. “Excuse me,” began a distinctly British accent, “I bear something for Miss Reaux which I believe will be of some interest to her.”
Saturday, November 13th 14.02
339 State Street, St. Clement’s Gothic Cathedral, Nave-South Transept
Both Ulunya and Jordan turned their attentions upon the man and, remaining seated, discovered to their surprise that the interruption had been the doing of Father Freud who carefully carried, with both hands, a black notebook. He carried it as though it were a most holy and important object and, briefly humbling himself before the altar, he moved around the pew upon which the two were seated and, passing in front of the man, Jordan, presented the notebook to Ulunya, slipping it carefully into her hands. She sought his face, intently looking up, silently, for some hint--confused as to what could have inspired him to give to her a seemingly ordinary book. Fr. Freud was quick to input that the book “was indeed quite ordinary and that there was nothing within the notebook. The notebook was entirely blank and it was merely of emotional importance, for which he had given it to her--for John Niezche had died holding this book.”
Ulunya Reaux slightly gasped as she recalled that John had, indeed, been carrying a black notebook at the time of his death. Taking but a moment to recover her senses, she made action as though to open the book, to which Father, calmly but surely placing his hand upon the book as though to prevent its being opened, assured her that: “Indeed it is quite empty, but that she should consider laying it aside as a memory of him who was passed.”
Relaxing, she knew that he was right, and assured him that she would do so. She withdrew her hand and Fr. Freud, after leaving his hand in place upon the book one second more, withdrew it carefully as though ready to pounce again should she again seek to open it: “There is nothing written inside,” he repeated. Ulunya nodded somewhat timidly as she forced a small smile.
Father took a deep breath, perhaps relieved, and turned his attention slightly to Jordan who remained somewhat hunched forward but turned his head up in acknowledgement of the priest. Fr. Freud suddenly shifted his stance toward Jordan and, reaching out his hand, asked that he might make the man’s acquaintance. Jordan remained seated and in much the same position as he reciprocated the gesture, stating his first name followed by an obnoxiously inferior description of himself: “I was a good friend of John’s.” The priest nodded in acknowledgement as he responded: “I am Fr. James Freud. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Jordan, forcing a most ridiculous and exuberant grin which, it would seem, had involved every muscle in his face (for it brought the end of his mouth up toward his nose by about an entire inch) and nodded very quickly as though he could hardly wait to be finished with this nicety. Fr. Freud, it would seem, was in no way rushed, and, settling on the bench between the two, asked Jordan if he had long been a comrade of John’s. Jordan responded shortly that John had been a close acquaintance of his for about five years. After pausing momentarily, as though to see whether the priest intended to continue the conversation, Jordan abruptly rose and, briefly meeting the eyes of Ulunya, he smiled compassionately at her and, ignoring the presence of the priest, bowed in the centre aisle toward the altar. Turning sharply, Jordan began to withdraw from the building by way of the same centre aisle: away and toward the great oak doors. Fr. Freud laid a fatherly hand upon the shoulder of Ulunya who, staring at the floor, smiled briefly in a manner that was sad, discontent, and pathetic in nature. The priest arose and, dropping a knee on the spot of the floor that was almost still warm from the feet of Jordan, he crossed himself and, rising, followed Jordan toward the doors. Though seventy-six years in age, the priest manipulated the length of his legs to quite quickly reduce the distance between himself and the man. Following him carefully through the doors and onto the front steps, he waited until the doors were hardly closed behind them before he hastily called after Jordan: “My good sir!” Jordan turned promptly and, taking a militant step toward him, slanted his head sharply as if to inquire as to the purpose of his pursuit.
“Sir--Jordan--if I may be so bold (here the priest smiled apologetically) I have dug for myself a hole which, I fear, I may require you to dig me out of.” Jordan’s expression, though polite, gave one the distinct feeling that he wished the priest to remain buried; but he politely bid the priest continue. “As you may recall, I have informed Miss Beaux that the notebook which I gave to her was empty, and you must allow me to be blatant in saying that I have misled her--lied...perhaps. You must trust me on this matter--and I am absolutely sure that you are meant to fulfil this task: you must accompany Miss Reaux until she is asleep tonight…” Father continued his instructions to the fullest, whilst Jordan stood by most solemnly, staring quietly at the ground. Once he had, at length, finished, the priest bowed shortly to Jordan before taking his leave and travelling into a nearby alley where he disappeared into the late autumn afternoon.
The Sun, low in the skies, showed forth its orange, golden, and crimson rays but one time more before it sank into the horizon, destined to fight in mortal combat with the darkness until, smitten within the heaven’s, one of those two polarized combatants fell to their demise. An hour later, the light of the Sun remained although the Star, itself, had some time ago fallen. With the final tones of light, John Niezche’s remains were interred in the graveyard of St. George Chapel in the presence of the handful of his closest friends: for most of his acquaintances had bid their farewells at the cathedral earlier that day. Jordan, too, perhaps, might not have been present had it not been for his mysterious assignment. The ceremony was short, as the light was quickly fading in a manner such that, as the first handful of earth was by the hands of Ulunya upon the coffin laid, the light, already, had hardly existed. Thus, the light was completely eradicated by the time that the ceremony was concluded. The group quickly dispersed at the conclusion of the ceremony, driven to their homes by the darkness. Yet Ulunya and Jordan remained, alone, near to the grave. In silence, they sat upon the cold earth, her head upon his shoulder, and silently she wept. Jordan, blankly stared at the dark earth, conversing with himself regarding many relevant subjects. A cold wind crept through the place, causing the trees to sway and rustle in the night air. After many minutes of silence, Jordan rose and, taking the hand of Ulunya, aided her to her feet. Significantly taller than her, he kindly put his arm around her as they returned, across the graveyard and around the small building, to their waiting vehicle. Stepping quickly ahead of her, he opened for her the passenger side car door and, closing it behind her, went ‘round to the driver side door where he entered the vehicle and, after waiting a moment to examine the scenario, started the vehicle. The journey home was silent. The lamps shone eerily in the dark night air and the streets were quite as empty as they had been at the time of John’s death. In the course of their travel, they happened to pass the cathedral which, shrouded in darkness, was illuminated only by its night lights which highlighted its towering steeples against the night sky above. Jordan glanced at the steps of the building, upon which he had been given the commission which he even now was fulfilling: “You must ensure that she does not open the book until tomorrow morning, yet she, when she falls asleep tonight, must be in close contact with it--I believe she must be touching it. You must be her company and you must watch her every move lest she, through curiosity, open that book. It must not be opened before the appointed time...”
These instructions were, in no small way, quite odd; and yet Jordan knew, by something in the air, that this was no ordinary night. He had nothing but pure instinct to base this idea upon, and he understood that the death of his comrade could, indeed, be playing havoc upon his judgement, and yet there was something so sure--so desperate--in the manner of the priest, that he believed that, were he to fail to fulfil the commission, it might yield consequences greater than he could, at this time, foresee. Jordan felt no small amount of awkwardness in that he was now bound to follow the darling of his fallen friend until she passed that night into the unconscious, and yet he did so but swore to himself that he would do so most respectfully and in a rather Spartan manner. Even now he planned: he would keep her in her own sitting-room until she should slip, from sheer exhaustion and grief, into the clutches of sleep.
Saturday, November 13th, 23.41
901 James Street
Reaux, Jordan
The night passed slowly for the two as they sat in silence, Ulunya sought to divorce herself from reality by engrossing herself in the work of one of those writers who had shaped the literary standard to which all future books must naturally be compared: the work of Lovecraft; whose dark and impressionistic writings were quite appealing to her that night. She reclined comfortably in her personal armchair, scanning the pages of Lovecraft’s work in the hopes of confusing herself into a state of dreamy unconscious--the place where she could escape from this lonely reality which had become her’s. For it seemed to her that this world was suddenly a very lonely place, as it now lacked him whom she loved most.
Jordan, similarly, was seated upon a rough kitchen chair from which he could observe Ulunya, regularly checking to assess the grade of her alertness. He disguised himself in the appearance of reading “Crime and Punishment,” a favourite novel of his by the Russian author Fyodor Dostoyevsky. In an effort to disguise his observation, he appeared to read the book, and even did so, taking regular breaks to glance slightly over the edge of the book, noting the progress of his subject in her journey to the unconscious. In the middle of the dining room table lay the black composition notebook which, carelessly deposited there, had been all but forgotten by her to whom it was given. Now she sat...now slouched...now lay upon her armchair, appropriately adjusting the back of the chair to allow her to maintain the posture which felt most comfortable to her as she drifted toward sweet comfort. The time came when Jordan, quite comfortable in the assumption that she was past the point of no return, abandoned the reading of his book and simply observed (with the book still as his disguise) with a soft, compassionate interest as her eyelids flickered whilst she fought to retain consciousness--to focus upon her book until, overwhelmed by those forces which she could not control, her mentality resigned the fight. Her eyes now settled--closed--and her complexion, stressed from the day’s troubles, softened into pure and utter beauty and innocence: the queen was dead. From her hands fell Lovecraft’s novel, and, breathing deeply and steadily, she began the life of the unconscious.
Jordan jumped from his position, seeking to remedy the scenario as he had been instructed by the priest: “You must inform her that, upon waking, she must open the book and read the first page--but not more than that. She must follow the instructions which I have written within, and you both must trust in my many years and wisdom.” Jordan seized the notebook from the middle of the dining room table and, rushing toward the sleeping beauty, placed it within her now empty arms. Bending over her, he touched her tricep arm muscle and he slightly shook her, attempting to awake at least some part of her consciousness. “Ulunya...Ulunya can you hear me?” She murmured incomprehensibly and Jordan, without a moment’s hesitation, informed her that she must open the book that night. Returning to his fully erect height, he observed her but a moment more and, with a thoughtful smile upon his face, spoke gently: “Good night, sweet beauty.” Looking at his watch, he determined to retire to his own business after leaving her a note to call upon him in the morning. Walking from the property to his awaiting vehicle, he left the note folded as a bookmark within the work of Lovecraft which he left closed upon the note on the place where it had fallen upon the floor.
Friday, November 12th, 16.11339 State Street, St. Clement’s Gothic Cathedral, Facade
Niezche, Reaux
It was at that moment when Niezche knew that this was death. The life drained from his body as water from a broken jar. He was broken and shattered, and only his skin did hide from vision the havoc that the vehicle had wrought upon his internals. His entire life had led him to this moment: every event, magnanimous and minuscule alike, had contributed in some way to his arrival at this place and in this time. How could he have been expected to foresee that Death was scheduled to meet him here? How could he save himself? How could it be that cruel? Why had he trusted himself to lead the way? The waiting time for the end of life was long--but not as long as he had expected.
The pavement was cold and hard. Yet, it mattered not for his suffering, he knew, was presently to be ended. He felt that something he had been full of was now draining quite quickly--as though he had been full of this all his life and simply had grown so used to it that he never noticed what it would be to lack it; and now he did lack it--increasingly so each second. Yet there were no seconds: to him, time ended then whilst for the world it continued. He emptied in a strange way, for this substance which from him drained did not pour but was rather swept away in the manner that a spool of thread is unwound. He now was quite empty and, as the last bit of it became loose, it followed the rest as a string.
At the very last moment, he became aware that he was somehow attached to this substance and that his body was left behind. He saw his life as it had been: he had been on a quest for good, and sought through all things the holiest and greatest that he could be. Among men he was respected and never known to do a harmful thing. Yet it was in his mind that he was guilty: he had been arrogant and conceited. He had believed himself to be of the type that could do no evil--a chosen of God--who was so inherently holy that he had not within him the evil to do as those awful human comrades of his did. He was, in this, mistaken, for by underestimating himself, he realized that he had been unjust: the potential in all men to do evil is almost as great as their potential to do good. He had condemned the world as unworthy of himself before he had examined it in its fullness and, in so doing, had failed to show respect for the evil in all men. Thus, he could not know the contrary good in all men--he was the Pharisee in a world of tax collectors. Whilst searching for the truth, he had forgotten to set his own home in order before setting out to repair the world; and it was here, at home, that he had failed, and for his arrogance and conceit he would pay a price.
The coldness of the pavement, replaced by nothing, continued to fade as he wished--begged--for another chance. He could do better--indeed he knew he could do better. He saw his mistakes and would aright them. All of his being wept as it recognized its shortcomings. Would that he had all time to fulfil his quest. The coldness of the pavement was now entirely gone and, as he passed beyond the veil, he hoped still one time more before he was cast into darkness…
Fraying
Niezche
He moved up a corridor. He picked his steps around heaps of cloth that littered the path. The air was sooty and dense. A heat lingered which, as he travelled, grew exceeding in temperature. He wished to stop his journey but realised that he no longer had a will and, thus, was destined to travel toward that great heat. The corridor was narrow and, as he travelled unwillingly toward the heat, he discovered that the heaps of cloth grew closer together and ever deeper. Still unable to see, he continued down the corridor until, striking a wall, he found himself forced to turn. Rounding a corner, he now detected a red light that streamed toward him. In this light, he regained his vision and, stopping momentarily to examine but one of the millions of pieces of cloth that littered the corridor floor, realised to his amazement that they were all garments. In the manner of a tunic, they were long and quite loose, and each tunic was marked by black stains. As he unwillingly resumed his journey toward the red light, the united heap of garments was now so deep--so dense that he was required to abandon all efforts of walking in favour of crawling over them. As he arrived at the end of the corridor, he noted the last garment. In all things was it like the others, and yet he knew, somehow, that it was his. Before him, the corridor opened before a pit of flames. The heat was great—and so unbearable that he was unable to even glance upon the source, as it was so bright that even to gaze upon that pit would be as red hot irons applied to one’s eyes. The place was filled with the most horrible sound. He wished to be away from the place and yet he was bid closer until he was on the very brink of the great chasm. One step more would dash him into the flames. Gazing into the chasm, he wished to shield his eyes—if only he’d had them at his disposal. The pit had neither a definite width nor depth. The heat engulfed him and the poison air filled him and he passed into a world of darkness and hatred. He could think of no words but the most negative, disgusting, and hateful expressions he had ever known. This place dominated him and filled him with the pale gas of damnation. He discovered that the sound, which before had seemed to him a roar, was truly six hundred trillion wails all mingled into one. His soul quaked and he knew that, for all the evil--for all the harm that ever he’d done, he did not deserve this place. It was at this moment that he realized that he was again free: his will was his own once more. Seizing the garment which he knew to be his own, he placed it about his shoulders. He felt himself reconstituted. Slowly, he regained that which had been from him taken--he would have his chance. Why for him? For all those souls which into that pit had been cast--had they, too, received unto them this chance?
Sunday, November 14th, 03.33901 James Street
Reaux, Jordan
She had an idea and, looking down at her hands, Ulunya Reaux found herself holding a composition notebook. As she did so, it occurred to her that she had been told to open the book and “read the first page.” Obediently, she opened the book, expecting to find, written upon the first page, some manner of instruction. As she peered into the open book, she found that there was indeed writing within the book--yet she could read it not. Even the slightest attempt to read from it simply confused her and brought her into such a flustered state that, to focus all effort upon the reading of it--upon focusing enough to make sense of even a single word seemed hopeless. Yet, she tried, and as she attempted to put all of her mental faculties in the comprehension of the document, she grew disoriented and it occurred to her that she was falling.
Moments later, Ulunya awoke and, glancing at her surroundings, (greatly in search of Jordan), found herself alone. She loudly called his name as she gathered her senses about her and, receiving no response, she arose from her armchair, rather stiff. The open composition book fell from her hands and she discovered that there was a handwritten message set upon the first page. With a flash of memory, she recalled her dream which flooded back to her comprehension entirely. She then recalled the events of the night before and, searching hastily for the Lovecraftian novel which had lulled her to sleep, she very quickly discovered it lying on the floor with a note marking her last read page. Smiling slightly, she recovered the book and, pulling from it the note, she examined it briefly on one side before turning it around in her first so that she could read the writing upon it. As she read it from her dominant right hand, she scrubbed from her eyes, with her right hand, the sleep from which she had awoken. The letter was hastily scribbled, revealing something of the mood in which Jordan had left her. It revealed the author to a man quite capable of delicate hand script, should he find himself willing to take the time: “Find me at Cathedral library. Lose no time. _Jordu.”
Seizing her heavy coat from its position, hanging upon the back of the kitchen chair that Jordan had not been seated upon, she stepped out the door and, closing the door behind her, left the house silent for but a moment before the door was hastily reopened. Ulunya rushed within and, dashing to the armchair, seized the black composition notebook. From thence, she retraced her steps to the door, notebook in hand, and once more exited the building, closing the door softly behind her. She stepped out into the dark night, illuminated only by the streetlights and the stars above. Directing her gaze to the Heavens, she noted the belt of Orion: three stars perfectly aligned and outstanding against the night sky. Few star shapes could rival that most enduring and apparent formation. From his belt, on all sides, the stars separated, presenting the limbs and head of the man who had so long ago passed into legend. The man eternally fled from his foe, Scorpius, never confronting that which most conflicted him and thus, he could never advance--could never leave behind that foe which he would never confront. The moon, too, rested indirectly overhead. The clouded veil of the days before had passed away, leaving the night clear and crisp. The Moon could be seen in all its brilliance and the Sun fought with its own perpetual enemy, confronting the Night--forever seeking to destroy the darkness. One night the conflict would end--perhaps tonight was that night. The Earth and its subjects, shrouded in darkness, slept. Kings and common men, the teacher and the scholar, the ingenious and the challenged, the living and the dead. All slept regardless of rank, age, or race. The infant and the ancient alike slept, awaiting the time they should again be called to walk the Earth. Also did John Niezche sleep within the grave. The soil around him was enclosed, blocking him from the outer world by the means of its citadelic wall which, six feet deep, held forever the remains of a man whose plea, by some feat of fate unknown, had surpassed the finite realm and now sought its own completion by whatever means could be found. His castle was marked only by a stone which bore testimony to the person that was John K. Niezche--Born the twenty-first of March, 1984--Died on the twelfth of November, 2007. His testimonial, provided but twelve hours for completion, was basic; yet it was sufficient to relate all that a stranger was entitled to know. For he lived forever and the hearts and minds of those who had thought they’d known him.
Like magnets to one another drawn, so were the implements of his task gathered: Ulunya now to the Cathedral journeyed; and the man, Jordan, slept uneasily within the library awaiting the time that he, too, should again be called to walk the Earth. Entering the library by way of the door that John had used not 48 hours before, she approached the area, set aside for silence and study, and found the man asleep upon a large book. His head rested upon the top of the page and his shoulders and arms fell together, conveying that they had aided the man’s neck in the support of his head. The posture of the man implied that he had, indeed, spent his last moments of consciousness attempting to take in or reflect upon the contents of the book which now beneath him lay.
Approaching the resting man from his front right side, Ulunya Reaux poured momentarily over the book, largely obstructed by the man’s upper body, for the purpose of identifying the topic from which he read. Identifying key words groups such as “Cain and Abel” and “discovery that they were naked” allowed her information to properly assume that he was studying ancient religious and ancestral texts. Tenderly, she touched the back of his shoulder and shook him slightly. The man arose suddenly and with surprisingly clear eyes, as though he had not been sleeping at all (though he clearly had been). His pattern of sitting upright was in a straight and deliberate pattern--his head turned neither to the right nor to the left until he had resumed an entirely upright position. As soon as he had done so, he glanced up from his seated position and engaged the eyes of his visitor, turning his head slightly to the side with a sideways tilt. Ulunya stood straight and stern, her mouth into a straight line was kept, in a manner that implied great severity of occasion in addition to a most profound respect for the man. She stood before him as a soldier before his king: he: comfortable, and the visitor at attention. She informed him directly that she had seen the note which he had left for her and that, though she knew not entirely why he had called upon her, she had no reason to not oblige him. He nodded thoughtfully--slowly, as she quickly added: “Did you intend to spend the night here? I noticed that you directed me to come to this place when I awoke...surely you did not expect me for some time yet.” Speaking for the first time, Jordan responded that “he had indeed intended to spend the night in this place--preferably awake.” He added the last bit with a chuckle which slightly pursed his lips into a grin. He arose in respect for the lady before him and motioned her to a chair on the opposite side of the small table from him. She obliged and as she seated herself, he returned to his position so that the two sat face-to-face with a comfortable two-and-a-half to three meters between them: the table separating. Now came Ulunya’s turn to search Jordan for his reason for bringing her to this place upon her own awakening. She comically (and definitely intentionally) copied Jordan’s customary tilt of the head and rolled back and relaxed shoulders and he, not immune to comedic impressions nor satire, bringing his right hand up from its position upon his lap, pointed briefly at her as he showed his teeth in acknowledgement of her purpose. She pleasantly smiled in return. Jordan quickly recovered his former, serious, state and returned to a that of thoughtful interaction.
“I brought you to this place because…” here he waited several seconds, as was customary to him, to ponder. He brought his hands into a scholar’s cradle upon the desk from which he began to gesticulate as he again began to speak: “Let’s go back a bit--briefly. I was informed by your priest that I should accompany you, and ensure that you had the book near at hand when you retired. He said that, after you fell to sleep, you should read the first page of the book--and apparently only that--in your first moments of consciousness. I can’t understand, entirely, his reasoning for this--is your priest, by any chance...does he have a history of strange behaviour or...madness?” Ulunya shook her head slowly, fully engaged. Her chin rested upon her hands which were clasped at an apex between her elbows which rested upon the table--her beauty and innocence were extraordinarily evident from his posture, as with a childlike attention her large eyes regarded the man whom she trusted as a father figure. Her own father had been from her taken at such an early age that to attach herself to the advice of such a man as Jordan was predictable--if not inevitable. Jordan continued: “His commands to me would have been strange but--and this may be as a result of my work--it somehow made quite some sense. If it had not, you may be entirely sure that I would not have done as he requested. So now, Miss Reaux--Ulunya--(confused by himself he shook his head to stay on topic) I ask if you have any idea what your priest may have meant or intended?” Jordan momentarily looked around as though for a glass of water and, finding not one, he quickly returned to receive the response which he had requested. Her response was an underwhelming repetition of her previous action. Reading slight annoyance on the face of the man, she quickly murmured: “I have none.”
“Then…” Jordan began, “I would say--possibly--we may owe your priest a visit? How do you wish to proceed? Have you read the book?” Ulunya abruptly stiffened for a moment--sitting bolt upright upon her chair. For nought but a brief moment she maintained the posture before, removing her arms from the desk, she reached into her large purse-bag which she had unassumingly placed upon the floor beside her chair. She nearly dove within, returning but several seconds later with the black notebook. Placing it upon the desk she asked him: “What is in it?”
“You were told to read it. I was never given permission--(here he leaned suddenly forward to add emphasis) so I didn’t!”. After an uncertain moment, Ulunya hastily opened the book to find that the page was segregated, by perfectly straight strokes of a pencil, into five sections--each labelled to its contents: Objective, place, time, hazards, constants. The script was precise and deliberate.
“OBJECTIVE:
Deliver the book to the floor beside the bed.
PLACE: Mr Niezche’s place of residence; beside bed; about 2.5 feet from the nearest wall.
TIME: Before he awake. (safely by 7.00)
HAZARDS: The broom closet and the lamp. Find them and avoid them.
CONSTANTS: Everything. Touch not a thing. Ensure that you do not disturb the dust-bunny in the bottom south-west corner of the room nor the lamp in the north-west corner; AND DO NOT read page two of this manual nor should you look under the front doormat.”
Jordan watched Ulunya’s face as she read. By the time she had finished the document, her face exhibited an almost comic confusion at the contents of the book. Looking up from it, she met Jordan’s inquisitive eyes and, believing that the book spoke best for itself, caused the book to slide across the table to Jordan who, receiving it, turned it toward him and briefly read the book in a far more timely fashion than Ulunya had. He nodded thoughtfully as he closed the book--slowly and carefully. Folding his hands upon the closed book, he rejoined his and Ulunya’s mutual glance--clearly confused and nearly laughing at the strange deliberations imposed by the book. He and she shared a glance for a moment, each silently laughing and enjoying the comedic expression of the other. Jordan nodded again as he said, still smiling broadly: “Let’s pay your priest that visit.”
Sunday, November 14th, 04.40
339 State Street, St. Clement’s Gothic Cathedral, Fr. Freud's Demesne
A knock resounded. Two members of very different worlds sought the attention of another member of a world so different from either of their already different universes that he was somewhere joined between the two. It was at this time that the duet--Jordan and Reaux, sought to upgrade the status of their group from that of a duet to that of a triad. They had taken that path that the priest had taken. Like him, they had, upon approaching the Cathedral, rounded it and gone into the alley beyond which led to a place that was, by nature, nearly secret. It was the home of the priest: Fr James Freud. His home was behind the main church building, but not separate from it. It seemed that it also was bound to the sanctuary through a network of stairs, halls, and rooms which led to an adjoining door from which one could easily pass from one building to the other. The abode of the priest was marked only by an outside door which, perched atop four stairs, was the gateway through which the priest could pass into the outer world. It was at this door that the two now sought admission. Reaux was clad in a knitted sweater (done up with buttons) of similar colour to the dusk time sky. She covered herself additionally with a long woolen jacket which proceeded slightly beneath her hips. From there descended a black, pleated skirt which descended to a point an inch or so beneath her knees, and stockings of similar colour to her knitted sweater. The garment protected her well against the cool November night. Jordan, for his part, wore black trousers of denim and a grey semi-formal long sleeve shirt which he covered additionally with a long coat similar to that of Reaux’s. His greying hair was somewhat unkempt, but his short beard and moustache gave him a somewhat imperial bearing. He would have been quite an appropriate sight in any era: then or two hundred years past.
A bolt thudded. A chain rang out in protest at being disturbed from its post. The door opened cleanly; but its course was shortened by the chain which bound it to the frame. For security reasons, Father had kept the security of his home intact as he now examined his visitors through the resulting gap which was left between the door and the frame, maintained by the small chain. The darkness shrouded from his view the visitors, as the poorly lit alley afforded him not the privilege of knowing them by vision. He nervously requested that the visitors identify themselves. He received a soft response from Reaux who serenely identified themselves as "us." Father closed the door and, after undoing the chain, quickly flung the door open widely, allowing his visitors to enter. Stepping aside, his body language bid them enter. As they stepped through the door frame, Father requested that they remove their shoes and leave them before the door. Reaux was quick to comply but Jordan, slightly uncomfortable with the situation, hesitated. Father Freud ignored Jordan as he courteously welcomed Reaux to a small sitting room that spread directly before the door, beseeching her to take the armchair. Fr. Freud followed her and they began to make themselves comfortable whilst Jordan slowly undid the knots upon and removed his shoes, leaving them before the door beside those of Reaux. Fr. Freud rose as Jordan approached and courteously bid him take a seat on a small couch. Moving to the far right side of the couch, he allowed Jordan much room on the opposite side. Jordan stiffly sat down as Reaux began to politely push on toward the purpose of their visit. She began by vocally hoping that she had not awoken the priest, to which the priest responded sardonically (though not lacking in due humour) that he always was awake at such obscure hours. The priest followed his statement with a small chuckle which helped to soften the collective mood. "I don't like to allow shoes beyond the door for sanitation reasons: imagine all the places those shoes have been!" Father put in with a note of apology in his voice. Father’s hair had a long time been grey, and his face, smaller than average, was somewhat wrinkled with age—but not dramatically so.
Reaux exuberantly smiled and nodded as she further attempted to soften the conversation. Jordan, leaning forward and upright, remained ready to engage. He determined to put aside his unreasonable dislike of the priest so that better things might flourish. He took notice of an awkwardness--increasing with each silent moment--and, realizing that he was expected to lead the conversation, began to lay out the reason for their visit:
“Mister...Father (here Fr. Freud nodded encouragingly), we came because we are both rather confused, and I believe that...well, let me put it this way: Ms Reaux and I have been instructed by you and by that book (Jordan motioned toward Reaux’s purse-bag) and we have muddled around with the notion that you had known what you were doing when you told us--told me to behave--to operate in what any rational person would call ‘unusual.’ As an excuse for all this, we’ve nothing more than this book of your’s--apparently of relevance but how--I really just can’t understand.”
Father looked tired as Jordan leaned back into the sofa, still oriented toward the priest so that he sat at something of an angle. The priest was reciprocal of this posture but, being significantly older than Jordan, proved to have much less stamina than the man. For, as he attempted to remain reciprocal to Jordan, it was clear that his years had left him quite lacking that fire which Jordan had about him. It was clear, however, that the priest had, in fact, aged quite well regarding that many of his profession would have retired by the time they had attained to his age. The priest quietly brought himself to his feet and, disappearing into another room, left the man and woman alone. Jordan, turning to Ulunya, raised an eyebrow. The shadows beneath his eyes were evident as he managed a small smile at Ulunya who, quite baffled, smiled back impatiently.
About half a minute later, the priest returned and, asking if either of his visitors would like a drink, apologized for having not done so before and handed to Jordan a composition notebook much like the first one in every way but that this second book was green, whereas the first had been black. Jordan, looking up sharply, agreed to a glass of water and thanked the priest. Father pointed at the book as he turned toward the kitchen. As he did so, he bid Jordan “take a good look at that.” As the priest disappeared once more, Jordan flipped quickly through the book, taking no more than a second on most of the pages but stopping for a slightly longer period of time at certain points as he attempted to mentally grasp the contents of the book in as short a period of time as possible. Ulunya, from her armchair, was incapable of any comprehension of the book but that which could be discovered from Jordan’s face. He focused intensely upon the pages, squinting all the while. As he progressed rapidly through the pages of the book, he rushed to the coffee table, placed centrally between the couch and the armchair, muttering that Ulunya should “see this, hey.” Ulunya moved from her seat as though she had been launched from thence as she rushed to the table to pour over the book. Before her were about two hundred pages of that same type of writing which had been within their own, black, notebook. The contents of this green book were placed with much less diligence and care: scribbled hastily, most of them gave the impression that this book had been authored by a madman. Each page detailed a scenario in a rather similar manner to that scenario upon the first page of their own notebook. However, each page was dated in small digits in the bottom corner closest to the binding--almost hidden. Jordan, noticing this, pointed quickly to the date upon the 26th page, Ulunya moved hastily around the table to get a better view. The date was “10/4/07”, a week before John Niezche’s death. Jordan began to flip forward through the book, quickly noting the date upon each page as it increased sequentially: the fifth, the sixth, the eighth, the tenth...the next page was the eleventh of November, the date of the death of Niezche. After spending but a moment upon this page, Jordan verified that the page was segregated by the same criteria as had been the black notebook and, flipping to the next page, found that it too was dated the eleventh--and the same was true for a third page, flipping still more quickly, the next two pages were revealed to be dated for the twelfth--and one page for the thirteenth (this new day). As he scanned the pages, Jordan confirmed that the dates developed in numerical order (skipping several days between each page), one page after the next, he came finally upon page 159 which was dated for March the 30th of 2013. The entire endeavour was so hastily executed that it had taken no more than thirty seconds for the two of them to comprehend sufficiently: by pointing and muttering had they quickly communicated as they made haste.
Glancing at Jordan, Ulunya formed an inquisitive expression whilst pointing at her head. She wondered if the priest could be, to an extraordinary extent, lacking sanity. In essence, the book appeared to be a diary staged (partially at least) in days not passed. This priest travelled in days not arranged. Indeed, if this book was not evidence of such a truth, then it was evidence of a certain failure of the aged priest’s mental faculty. Regardless, why had he involved them in it? The two individuals repaired to their separate seats and were hardly settled when the priest returned with a glass of clear, colourless fluid in each hand. Extending himself, he handed one to Ulunya who, promptly abandoning it upon the coffee table, watched as the priest handed the other glass to Jordan. Jordan accepted it with both hands cupped, and grinning with the same ridiculous, tightlipped exuberance, nodded rapidly in exactly the same manner he had when first making the priest’s acquaintance in the Church the day before. The expression--however forced, was not entirely insincere. As the priest tasked himself to sitting down, Jordan discreetly made eye contact with the distrustful Ulunya (who was practically cowering within her chair) from over the lip of his drinking glass as he tilted it back, taking a deep, deliberate sip. Returning it from his mouth, he leaned forward and, placing the glass opposite from Ulunya’s, turned his attention to the priest. Fr. Freud awaited the conversation with a strange eagerness--as though he had for a long time anticipated the exchange of speech between himself and Jordan. Ulunya found that she was to be--at this moment in time--nothing more than a pretty complexion on the other side of the room, isolated from the conversation by the two intellectuals. Fr. Freud nodded respectfully toward Jordan and, putting his head down to avoid eye contact, began the conversation: “I assume you have seen all that is to be seen?” Jordan replied that the book seemed so very complex that he could not even dream of understanding all that it meant in the few seconds that he had been afforded. The priest nodded and, rubbing his hairless chin, continued by telling Jordan that the book was a diary of his--a truth which Jordan already comprehended and now sought only an explanation for how--why this man imagined that he was gifted with foresight or such an abuse of an element of existence as essential as that of time. It seemed quite arrogant and yet the priest behaved in a purely rational manner, as though knowledge of future things were mere child’s play.
“Did you see the last pages?” Freud asked. Jordan responded that he had not and repeated that he had not very much time to do more than browse the book. “Then,” Fr. Freud continued, “I insist you pick the book up and allow me to give you a...a...a guided tour of this little wonder.” He gestured toward the book which Jordan, slowly and sceptically, lifted and, looking hastily toward the priest, waited for an instruction which came as a simple number: “160.” Jordan attained to the page most quickly and saw that it was unlike all previous pages in that it was more suitable to be contained within a diary than any of the pages that had come before it. “From here on,” Freud began, “is to guide most directly and carefully through each day.” Jordan looked up quickly at Fr. Freud as though he expected that the priest might betray, with an expression, a joke on his part--yet there was nought but a solemn expression which was revealed.
“So in lay man’s terms this is a…” Jordan halted his speech to permit the priest to answer the question in his own words--a strategy the Jordan had understood to be of great value for many years.
“...A book to tell me the things I forgot when I last visited tomorrow.”
Jordan nodded as though he was determined--he had underlined the issue and now sought merely to eradicate all possible alternatives. His jaw dropped slightly, allowing his mouth to form a slight “O” shape as he maintained a serious expression; for madness is no small matter. Jordan clarified, “So that when tomorrow, and the day after...and even every day (he pointed directly at the book in his left hand with his right hand and maintained eye contact with the priest) you can know what went wrong the last time... (he stammered as he tried to overcome the apparent irrationality which he was dwelling upon)...amend those things which you did not expect to go wrong the last time but can expect to go wrong this time--you’re learning from future mistakes!” The concept was practically hilarious and yet Jordan wondered that it might be so. The priest nodded quickly, quite pleased that Jordan had so quickly warmed up to the subject.
Ulunya observed the exchange from the lonely armchair--each exchange brought her more certainty that the priest was not to be trusted. With little effort--and with certainly very little thought of any kind, she devised a plan which she began to execute. Leaning forward, she lifted from the table the drinking glass and, putting it delicately to her lips, allowed the fluid within to touch for but a moment her closed lips which held fast before the rush of fluid. This action attracted Jordan’s prereferral vision. He glanced briefly at her as she returned the drinking glass to the table, leaving it conveniently within reach. She subtly made eye contact with Jordan and allowed a brief, pleasant smile to be revealed. Jordan made no definite expression as he turned back to the priest who was now speaking.
“See, I’ve lived longer than many men and I believe that I have lived so long for a reason--that I may carry my cross for as long...for as far as possible. I believe that I have lived a good life, but I realize that I am not here merely to make my own life good. I want to make other people’s life...lives good and happy. You see?” Jordan nodded in agreement as he drank quickly from his own drinking glass.
“You believe that if time can be manipulated you can use it to perfect certain things. If something goes wrong, you can simply come back to it hundreds of times until it is fixed?” Jordan’s speech led the priest and the priest followed: “I would not say ‘simply’--time is very stubborn and cannot easily be bent to a person’s will.” Jordan grunted as he quickly nodded, drinking once more from his glass which became as now a permanent accessory inside his left hand--the book lay upon his lap and his right hand was free to make a vast variety of gestures which testified to his many years as a doctor of the mind.
As he withdrew the glass once more, he asked the priest, somewhat in jest, how many times this conversation had occurred between them. “We?” the priest clarified. “I have taken part in this conversation 61 times.” Jordan raised his eyebrows in surprise as he sipped once more from his glass before responding sharply. “And I?”
“This is the third time for you,” the priest responded.
“And I?” Ulunya spoke sharply from her armchair. She seemed relaxed, her right leg was crossed over her left which hung between the floor and the table.
“You, my daughter, are experiencing this conversation for the... (he paused for a moment, bringing his eyes around the room as if to count imaginary objects)...8th time.” He nodded surely. Jordan put his head in his hands and wiped his eyes as Ulunya asked the most predictable question. Why did she not remember it then? Why did she not remember tomorrow? Fr. Freud laughed as though the question were absurd. She was such a silly girl!
“Why...because it hasn’t happened yet my dear!” Fr. Freud revealed to her a paternal smile before turning back to Jordan (Ulunya, quite disgusted, rolled her eyes). Jordan was relaxed as he asked whether it was safe to manipulate time, and how it affected other people when time was altered. For all matters and affairs are connected within an extraordinary network which, should one be, theoretically, rearranged or altered, would render the world a most horrifyingly confusing place. Time would mean nothing--history would be destroyed! Father decisively flicked his wrist and pointed at Jordan:
“This is true. This is why one must isolate and avoid certain constants and causally related factors, for if time is as a string, and as one travels along that string, it frays. Only in fraying can the string alter. Understand this: Whatever happened--it is a chess game. You may alter details within events, but you may not alter the decisive outcome of the event. You have certain roles which must not be changed, as the rope can also tear apart if frayed too much, and that would be universally tragic.” Jordan nodded. After several silent moments, Jordan glanced at Ulunya and found that she already contained him in vision. She was watching him as he had watched her in the church the day before. Her eyes were focused and her mouth and face were expressionless. To the priest, he said: “This is all most interesting.”
Fr. Freud nodded excitedly: “That’s what I thought when I discovered it. Anyway, I actually came back because Niezche...most regrettably died. I shouldn’t even be able to walk right now--it seems that...I can’t even travel in normal methods...such as walking as you might; yet I travel as few do, through time…”
The moment that Jordan had returned his gaze to Father, Ulunya Reaux enjoyed the lack of attention. She casually and carefully lowered her right leg and began to cross her left leg back over her right leg as she readjusted her position to restore comfort. Her left leg now lingered mere inches from the table as the priest’s address continued.
“...See, when Niezche died, I knew that this must come to pass, and yet I also knew that he was meant to marry…” The cup clattered as it fell. Like a crown from a king’s eminence it was cast down, rolling as it lay. From it drained its former contents. Violently did it roll from the glass tabletop to the floor, into which the remainder of its contents now bled. The lake spread across the table as an army, conquering and dominating all that it encountered. Both men now turned their attention suddenly upon Ulunya who sat, unmoved in her seat. Her lips were parted in a mockery of surprise. As they both looked upon her, she stared back innocently, and from between her parted lips came a low, short gush which curled her lower lip in a display of apology: “Awe.” The priest hastily jumped to his feet and, rushing his aged body to the kitchen, declared that it was no matter--he would get a towel immediately. As he stepped carefully from the room, Ulunya's laughter lines animated around her mouth as she withdrew her lower jaw, biting her chin with her top teeth as she attempted and failed to conceal her glee from the man.
Jordan appeared to be greatly unimpressed. He scowled at her as he recognised the intention within her face. Completely baffled and shocked beyond words, his expression implied that it may have been only the distance between himself and his student that had saved her from receiving from him a blow across the cheek. She attempted, immediately, to minimize his offence as she explained that she had done so only because she wanted to inform him in privacy that she had thought the priest to be acting oddly--not himself for quite some time. She knew not when his strange behaviour had begun, but she had first begun to notice it about two months before. This most recent behaviour of his, combined with his explanations, now left her quite certain now that the Father had lost much of his sense, logic, and sanity-- “Is such a man to be trusted.” Jordan did not speak as the priest reentered the room with a dishtowel. As Jordan recognized Fr. Freud’s intention to absorb the lake of water, he quickly arose from his chair and insisted that he might be given the towel, with which he would, himself, clean up after his student. Fr. Freud conceded the towel and Jordan, kneeling on one knee, set about absorbing from the table the water which had so recently been upon it spilt. As he set about absorbing the same from the carpeted floor, Ulunya arose from her chair and carefully knelt adjacent to him upon the floor. She could not bear to allow her beloved and trusted teacher and father to be lower than her, and so she attempted to help him amend that which she had done. Jordan, recognizing her wish, unceremoniously gave to her the towel with which she finished the job as he returned to the couch.
No sooner was Jordan at the couch when Ulunya arose from behind the table and offered to return the towel to the kitchen--an offer which Fr. Freud permitted, adding that it should be placed beside the stoves. She nodded obediently and, upon quickly fulfilling the task, returned to the chair, resuming her former position and posture. She observed the two men: Jordan, removing from his face that unpleasant expression which had developed in response to her antics, turned his attention back to the priest. The priest, his attention now entirely upon Ulunya, asked if he should refill her cup. She kindly declined--displaying the fact that she had, in fact, been brought up according to good manners. The priest began again to speak and, as he did so, Ulunya subtly caught Jordan’s eyes with her own and pointed toward his own drinking glass which he pushed toward her (offering her a drink from his own), continuing to orient himself toward Fr. Freud who was explaining that there were certain things which he had determined to be constants in each given scenario and that, should one such constant or hasard be altered, the entire scenario or even universe would devolve into a state of complete chaos.
“I now need both of you to travel to the day of John Niezche’s death. This was what I had intended when I gave to you that notebook, and so far, I have done my part right. You both, too (he said reassuringly as he glanced at Ulunya and then back to Jordan) have played your roles properly up to this point, but the worst and hardest is yet to come. If this is executed to perfection, I believe John Niezche will come back from the dead…” Ulunya gasped as she repeated the most recent five words in the formulation of a question.
“Yes. I believe you will speak to John very soon, my child...much sooner than you think.” The priest paused to catch his breath and, as he did so, he turned back to Jordan whose brow was deeply furrowed as he examined everything about the scenario with great interest. He saw no reason why the priest should be expressly distrusted. If he was, in the impossible possibilities of chance, reason, and dimension, correct and truthful in these matters, then Jordan knew he must pay heed, for not to do so would be almost criminal. However, if truly mad he was, he was not evidently dangerous, and Jordan thought that he might aid this man in recovering from this mental state into which he had declined. Now, he sought only to understand the man and his condition so that he could proceed properly. As he thought most deeply about these things, the priest was now entertained in reviewing certain pages within the green notebook, being extraordinarily careful to avoid certain other ones. The second drinking glass fell to the floor as Ulunya leapt from her chair. Avoiding eye contact with the priest, she once more caught Jordan’s eye briefly as she rushed from the room, announcing carelessly “so sorry!” as she went to the kitchen to retrieve, once more, the dishtowel. Jordan excused himself and, taking up the empty cup, followed her hastily and met her at the stove.
He was calm and controlled as he questioned her. “What is this about?”
She moved closer toward him so that she could speak quietly. “I don’t like this.”
“There is... definitely something unusual happening here. (He paused thoughtfully) I do not believe him to be dangerous--he’s your priest: You should know him as well as anyone. You should. Now...well...what is it that you don’t trust in him? His case seems, to me, quite understandable. I think that insanity such as his is not to be a surprise...rather, it is sanity that should be surprising. Now would you please tell me...I need to know why you have now spilt water on this poor man’s rug and coffee table two separate times.” He held the empty glass before her as though it were evidence of the crime.
She took from his hands the glass and, holding it with her left hand, pointed at it with her right hand as she accused it: “I think these might be poisoned.”
Jordan was silent.
“You do not think so?” she asked him.
Jordan slowly, stoically shook his head as he looked at the floor. Ulunya hung her head in shame as she realized that her actions must have appeared to the older man to be most childish. He broke the silence by putting his hand paternally on her shoulder as he muttered: “Well...in that case, I think I owe you a bit of gratitude. I still think you could’ve gone about it in a much better manner. Did you not see me drink from the cup? Have you any reason to have suspected him of wishing me harm?”
“Well, he said I’d speak to John very soon, and if that isn’t a threat then I don’t know what it is…”
Jordan quietly interrupted as he suggested that it was merely a display of “poor communication skills.”
“I’m not willing to bet my life on that.”
“Well, you might! After all, I did drink most of it, and it tasted perfectly normal as far as glasses of water are concerned,” Jordan retorted.
“I suspected that it was effective—dangerous—in large quantities.”
“Well, I’ve clearly no evidence to prove that it is not, in fact, dangerous; but I think that either way, you may have somewhat overreacted. I suspect that you enjoyed a certain element of comedy through your...behaviour, and so I hope that you do not expect me to believe that your motive for reacting as you did was...was purely in my interests. Would you say that...in your own opinion--you overreacted at all, or that your motive was guided to some extent by a certain…” Jordan, struggling to define his point, was silent as he hoped that his student had the intelligence and honesty to understand his point. Ulunya knew that the man had nothing to gain from such a confession, and that, for such a question to be asked of her, he did so only in her own interests--a challenge to her honesty. A moment of silence found the two participants silent--staring into one another's face and eyes. Her mouth opened slightly as a silent laugh was exposed. Her lips tightly together came, and her eyes were allowed to wander from the face of the wise man--a silent admission of the truth he spoke. As she avoided the discomfort of an oral admission, she bypassed such a confession.
“When you came after me, I thought you might hit me,” she confessed.
Jordan allowed his lips to crease into a natural smile. “Yeah, well, I was afraid that I might hit you.”
Ulunya reciprocated the smile. She still did not meet his eyes, for he was, in height, more significant than she. If aligned abreast, she was, in entirety, tall enough merely to surpass his shoulders. As her chin drew up, her head inclined that she might see into his face. There remained a comfortable distance--perhaps a meter--between the two, and their relationship was that of a father and daughter. Jordan knew that she had chosen him to replace her father who had, when she was not twelve years of age, been taken from her at the hands of a most beloved, jealous, and deceitful brother--her own blood uncle. For money had been hard in those days for the Reaux family and, as is far too often the case, members of the family put off the bonds of kinsfolk. For her father had been, in comparison to her uncle, quite financially stable and her uncle, becoming reliant upon his funds for his own existence, had deceived her father into bestowing upon him every single coin of inheritance. The will and testament were modified and it not long followed that her father was found dead by a suspicious accident. The forensics found that he had, on a cold December night, been slain by a bullet whilst crossing a street in the Downtown. His life, finance, and country estate splendid were--as the poet would have it--in a moment--a twinkling all utterly ended. All he had had to call his own upon that world was, by law, and will, and testimony the property of his brother.
It then followed that she was to a girls’ home sent,
and in such a domain was her innocence bent.
For she held within her such tones of sorrow
that hatred itself did her own heart borrow.
She wished for justice and dreamed to repay
the murder of her father who’d been taken that day.
and it not long followed that justice was brought,
for truth is unbound and GOD is not mocked.
Her uncle had been a fool to in such a manner behave,
and for the rest of his life, he would in a prison cell rave.
Yet often through justice is not a human heart healed,
for in her own conscience her own wrath was revealed.
She had been fond of uncle and father arrayed,
and their love and trust both had been by him betrayed.
So had it become habit to trust but a few,
and her suspicion, once prompted, like a weed within a garden grew.
It so followed that she had met with Jordan in a clinical setting but a little after her fifteenth birthday. The headmaster of the girls’ home had seen in her a certain darkness that distanced her from all. She spoke nought, she ate little, and drink did she but rarely. Sleep came upon her only by exhaustion. She had worked hard upon all tasks and studies, and was an exemplar student, and yet as far as relationships were concerned, she had nothing. She had captured, by her persistence in all things, the hearts of the teaching staff, and but one thing held her back: For no person can in isolation within civilization prosper; and so, in such context was Jordan brought. She had progressed well by her eighteenth birthday, and upon her own freedom from the girls’ school, she had moved to the suburban area of the city where her abode now dwelt--nearer to Jordan. She had been raised in the Church, and upon her own liberty, she had sought quite quickly to return to the fold. It was at this point within her life that she had met John Niezche. He was a year younger than she. Into the community of St. Clement’s Cathedral had she come as a stranger. Upon arriving within such a congregation, it was evident that many relationships between parishioners were already well-grounded in history and acquaintance, and so she found herself within a position where she must force herself into an already established community. To do such was not her nature, and it was only, by the constant coaching and encouragement of Jordan, that she had been able to make something of herself. John Niezche had been among the first number of the congregation to attempt to establish any acquaintance with her at all, and she had at first shunned him. For she had feared that to place another in her own trust would be to tempt fate to repeat the betrayal of the past. Yet, as time continued and her confidence grew, she found within her the will to allow this young man at least a friendly part of her heart. Fr. Freud, too, had been quick to welcome her, but as a priest in such a congregation, he was necessarily distant, and she could but rarely have five minutes put together to converse with him. Thus, as her trust in him was not nearly as well-grounded as would have been preferable, he needed merely to shake from her those foundations the trust, and the entire structure would collapse. It would seem that, in his most recent behaviours, Fr. Freud had acted and spoken with such strangeness that it had caused Ulunya Reaux to doubt his sanity and even the goodness of his own intentions. All this did Jordan know well. His most recent words lingered as they demanded a reaction from his student: “I was afraid that I might hit you.”
Her chin was drawn up and her head tilted back so that she could into his face look. She spoke with filial affection: “Any lesser man would have.”
Jordan responded quickly with the use of a hybrid reaction: it was a cleared throat and a sharp affirmation combined: “Mhm.” It was as though he meant to confirm her in her most recent assumption without admitting that he was worthy of any high regard, for he had a humility about him. Seizing the towel from the priest’s countertop, Ulunya strode toward the sitting room where the priest waited. Jordan, understanding that the exchange was over, followed her from the kitchen.
Sunday, November 14th, 05.39339 State Street, St. Clement’s Gothic Cathedral, Fr. Freud's Demesne
Into the sitting room strode Ulunya Reaux, followed closely by the man, Jordan. From Ulunya’s right hand hung the dishtowel. She had within her the intention of absorbing from the priest’s sitting room floor and coffee table the contents of a second drinking glass which had been upon it spilt. Yet, as she approached, she was halted by a gesture from Fr. James Freud. He raised his hand as if to command a company of musketeers to cease fire. Jordan and Reaux were both stopped in their tracks as the priest commanded the scene. He remarked that they had for a long time been gone to fetch that towel.
“I--we had trouble finding it,” Ulunya lied, prompting Jordan to hang his head with a certain disgust. For the absence of truth from this statement was so evident that she had but two choices to choose for justification: She had told the untruth without thinking--it was a reaction not very well thought through, or she believed the priest to be devoid of all common sense whatsoever. For had not she been the agent by which the towel had been placed upon the countertop in the first place? And if so, how had she so quickly forgotten the details as to where she had placed it? And why had it required two perfectly competent individuals nearly five minutes to discover its position? Such were the telltale facts that had prompted the man, Jordan, to react with disgust and embarrassment. The priest smiled, perhaps sadly, in response to the lie as he continued. “You shouldn’t have,” he said, “for the water has long since evaporated.” Ulunya edged nearer to the armchair, being careful to remain courteously oriented toward the priest. As she did so, she peered carefully toward the coffee table and discovered that the water had, indeed, remained upon both surfaces. Father chuckled good-naturedly as she did so, for he had intended, by such a remark, to comically exaggerate the extent of the time for which they had been absent. Ulunya awkwardly dried, from the surfaces of the floor and table, the water while the priest asked Jordan if he had slept much that night. Jordan nodded and replied guardedly that he had slept “to a sufficient extent.” The priest nodded as though Jordan had a very good point made. The priest mentioned that he had been given that towel by a certain parishioner, adding cleverly that he was glad that it had enjoyed such profound usefulness that night. Ulunya rose from her task and her cheeks flushed red at the joke of the priest. Was she a glass window? To be spectated upon and comprehended to completion in all things? Was she so predictable? As she subtly glanced at the priest with an air of resentment, for he dared to make her subject of his own comedy and she shared not his enjoyment of the moment, for she believed it to be at her own expense. The priest noticed her not, but was occupied by turning his head manually in different directions to stretch his neck which had become stiff as a board from so long a period remaining sedentary. She turned and, passing by Jordan, began to make her way to the kitchen. The priest looked on with interest and, making and locking eye contact uncomfortably with Jordan, he silently dared Jordan to again follow her. Ulunya, as she passed him by, smiled quite eerily at Jordan and he, retaining eye contact with the priest most uncomfortable, grimaced in response to her expression. He accepted the priest’s challenge and turning, he, too, made his way quickly after her, toward the kitchen.
“There’s another use for that tonight,” Jordan muttered and, snatching, from its dangling position in her right hand, the towel, he lightly rapped her playfully about the back of the head with it, causing her hair to fly about, becoming dishevelled. She turned, quite surprised, as he brushed by her, smirking through a grimace. He quickly deposited the towel on the far side of the kitchen and, returning, found her guarding the kitchen doorway, her hair still dishevelled. The sides had fallen naturally back to their places where they lay loosely and with natural curls upon and in front of her shoulders; but her top hair, usually straight and orderly, was disarrayed such that the forward-most portion of it revealed a proclivity to fall before her face (where it lightly shrouded her right eye). She understood that Jordan had done so in good humour, and with equally good humour did she receive, from a man she owed much, this slight tease. In a mockery of anger did she peer at him from between and around this portion of hair which had before her face fallen. Her hands were outstretched slightly to the side and raised to nearly shoulder height, palms upwards, as if to ask “what was that for?” She turned to remain continually oriented toward him as he passed her by once more. As he did so, he muttered ironically that “you’ve got something on your nose (he pointed to the side of his own to emphasize).” He returned to the sitting room and found Fr. Freud standing before the couch, awaiting their return. Ulunya joined them a moment later after repairing to her hairstyle some semblance of order.
Fr. Freud asked that they follow him and set off toward a simple door set in the back of the house. Jordan promptly followed him, leaving Ulunya, a straggler, to consider for several moments. She glanced about the room and, noticing that she had forgotten her own purse-bag which was set next to the armchair which she had occupied. As she rushed toward the armchair to retrieve that which she had forgotten, Jordan and Fr. Freud unlatched, opened, and passed through the door which was so simply set in the wall. The wall, painted the typical shade of white, contained the door which was painted in a colour quite similar. The paint on this door--and much of the wall for that matter--was noticeably chipped as though it had for many seasons existed. There were almost signs of weathering upon the door which were most confusing, as the door was within and--thus--had seen no exposure to the elements without. Seizing her own purse-bag, she lifted it to her shoulder as she briefly looked within and noted that the black notebook was not to be found within. A momentary visual scan about the room revealed that neither black nor green notebook had not been left. As she turned her attention back toward the door, she found that Jordan had waited and was holding the door ajar for her--for he was a true gentleman. Fr. Freud, it would seem, cared not that his visitors had tarried. He had continued through the door and was several steps down a sort of corridor by the time Ulunya and Jordan had regrouped. She stepped carefully past Jordan and with a strange note of shyness, almost whimpered a brief “thank you.” Jordan nodded silently, quickly adding a caution: “Watch your step.” As she passed through the door, Jordan closed it behind her, and remained as an escort. Before them lay a dark, archaically lit corridor. The floor was that of square red brick and the walls, constructed of huge stones and mortar, gave the corridor the sense of a medieval castle. The subterranean corridor was almost six feet under the ground level and, as a result, seven rather large steps lay before the door as the access point from which one could descend from the door to the corridor beneath. She carefully descended the stairs (Jordan, ready at a moment’s notice to support her should she fall, lingered a step behind her) and, upon reaching the floor, Ulunya saw the corridor in its entirety. The corridor spanned about fifty meters in length by a width that could uncomfortably contain about five persons abreast. About halfway down the corridor, an intersection was formed where it branched out at right angles into a cross-corridor. The walls joined together in a long, domed ceiling above the corridor, displaying hints of gothic architecture. The two, seeing the priest about halfway down the corridor, pursued him. Every few steps brought the two beneath an arch which, constructed with twelve stones (six on either side of the hall) of identical type and scale to those of which consisted the wall, were capped with a thirteenth stone which was laid according to the classic “keystone” method so that the weight was distributed through the solid “keystone” brick into the two supporting legs. The priest, in his seventy-sixth year, was slower than the two younger persons and, as such, they closed the distance as he reached the opposite side of the corridor. Before them was a set of dark doors of oak which were cut so as to perfectly fit into the shape of the arched corridor. Fr. Freud, upon reaching this set of doors, had only to wait for a moment or two for Jordan and Ulunya to finish closing the distance before the three of them stood before the door. He stood between the two persons and the doors and Jordan, placing his wrists above his knees, bent down to recover his wind. Ulunya, at twenty-four years old, was significantly younger than either of the men.
“What is this place?” asked she with a manner of awe.
“This...,” began the priest turning to the doors and, taking each door by the ringed handles in the middle, pulled with some effort, “...is our own St. Clement’s Cathedral.” The doors groaned as they swung toward the trio, pulled apart by the elderly priest. They entered the building and beheld the cathedral from a perspective from which Ulunya (and certainly Jordan) had never seen it from. The three passed entirely through the doors in single file. The priest, followed by Jordan, led the way, while Ulunya, glancing about herself, was in no way hurried in her steps. When Ulunya was firmly beyond the doors, she and Jordan looked about themselves whilst Fr. Freud carefully closed both doors simultaneously by stretching himself between the two and, making use of his wingspan. The gothic arches in this sanctuary were of grandeur and magnificence. A great dome, in splendor, toward the Heavens did ascend, supported by arches, flying buttresses, and colonnades. It was the ultimate representation of the glory of an empire--the might of humanity to raise up such a structure was stunning. Toward the front of the building hung the great choir loft, upon which sat a seven thousand pipe organ which, when influenced by the skill of an organist, could cause the building the quake at the depth and grandeur of the sound. Above this pipe organ, set within the front wall, loomed a massive rose window--the crown jewel of the front of the building. In brilliant symmetry were hundreds of pieces of colored glass fit together to form the capital mark of the cathedral which had about it a mournful, dejected appearance for lack of the Sun’s illuminating glory. The floor about the perimeter and across the centre aisle of the cathedral was of the same square red brick of which had consisted the floors of the passage from which the trio had just emerged. In careful places, the floor consisted of black and white squared which, set in the pattern of a chessmaster’s board, were dominated as such by the gothic colonnades. These supported the flying buttresses which, in obedience to their own sacred duty, supported the great dome which was decorated with a smaller version of the rose window at the very top and about the sides were constructed, of the same colored glass, the portrait representations of the twelve apostles. Jordan saw the floor, and how the colonnades dominated him in their splendor and magnitude. He was a mere pawn in the presence of an omnipotent and omniscient queen. What glory--what awe--what absolute and utter terror at the height, the depth, and the sheer scale of that which around him loomed. He stepped into a more open space, a little more under the dome, and raised his eyes to that which loomed directly above him. Through the rose window nearly a hundred meters above him he beheld the night sky. The saints, too, though brilliantly crafted, were nothing in the absence of their master. The buttresses--the arches--the innumerable...material--scale...it was far too overwhelming and he was forced to bring his eyes back to the earth, for he became for want of orientation and steadiness as he beheld such things. Jordan was joined by Ulunya and Fr. Freud beside the first wood
Fr. Freud spoke directly as he revealed, from under his black cassock, the black notebook which she had found to be missing: “Miss Reaux, you have had individual and private conversation with Mr.--Jordan--this night (here he paused, chuckling at his own cleverness, to allow the entire meaning to be digested by Ulunya who again flushed a faint shade of red). I, too, now seek an audience with this man, and I beg your gracious...beg that you would excuse us as we go elsewhere to speak. If we do not return, join Jordan on the front steps of the building in (he checked his wrist and, finding that he had not a wristwatch, scowled) seventeen minutes.” Ulunya smiled simply. She looked exhausted, as her posture and expression lacked a certain uprightness and steadfastness. Fr. Freud and Jordan carefully stepped away from Ulunya who, turning toward the altar in recognition that she was in the house and presence of God, dropped a knee to the ground. Her strength failed her momentarily as she attempted to arise and Jordan, intentionally within a near enough vicinity to be of aid, leapt toward her and lent to her his own arm with which she gratefully pulled herself up. She seemed to not even have the energy to look him in the face, and thus, slipped without incident between the first and second pews, carrying the black notebook under her right arm, and her purse-bag slung about her shoulders. Fr. Freud, still within easy ear shot, put in a quick, witty instruction that she was not to lose that black notebook. No sooner had Jordan seen her safely arrived and seated--in a most quiet, humble, and almost dejected manner--then he simply bowed slightly toward the altar toward which Ulunya had genuflected and returned to the side of the priest. The two began to travel about the perimeter of the building.
The wisemen amongst each other took council under the gothic trees,
whilst the damsel in her devotedness then prayed upon her knees.
She prayed for strength and for the grace to part gently from her admired,
but that her shame and guiltiness might never be from her retired.
Her mentor now awake did wander, so she intended to retain
in effort to stay a conscious mind whilst that vigil did still remain.
But not only this night had she battled sleep and hid from its embrace,
But recent nights had she avoided sleep in an insomniac’s craze.
Now failed by energy and devoid of strength she was by her nature betrayed:
Her constitution fell and her body supported by the seat that was before her arrayed.
In unconsciousness did she fall over it, her body desperate for rest.
Her elbows fell down, her shoulders grew loose, her head lay now on her breast.
Once more did her locks her eyes enshroud--beauty by beauty was hidden.
Assuming the innocence and disorder of a child, guilt and blame were from her driven.
The priest and the wiseman could not have been shamed for allowing her thus to collapse,
for they thought she was seated, and their backs were turned toward her as in converse they now did elapse.
So quietly had her decline then been that she knew it not even herself,
And down the ladder to that realm of illusion did her conscience now explore itself.
All the while, whilst Ulunya Reaux fell into such a state of coldness and exhaustion, Jordan and Fr. James Freud took council. Walking the perimeter of the cathedral, they almost constantly passed by windows of coloured, stained glass, similar in design and material to those which Jordan had observed in the rose window at the front of the cathedral and the dome which capped the architectural masterpiece. Jordan walked as a classic gentleman: upright and steady, with his hands behind his back enfolded, his right hand within the open palm of his left. He and the priest had walked in silence for about a hundred and twenty moments whilst Jordan patiently awaited that introduction from the priest which now came.
“Jordan...” began the priest in a jolly, fatherly sort of way, awaiting an acceptance of the conversation from the man. Jordan promptly gave it by reciprocating even the tone and pitch of the priest and, turning slightly toward him, continued his steady pace in a slight side step that he might be oriented toward the priest, “Father!”
“Please, call me James,” Fr. Freud spoke evenly.
Jordan was surprised for a moment as he turned quickly his head as though to verify the priest’s meaning against his expression, finding it calm, collected, and serious--though not at all harsh. “May I ask--why should I call you by your given name when even your own congregation call you by ‘Father’?”
The priest now looked up slightly into Jordan’s face with a note of pleasure. He could hardly contain his exuberance. “Do you now number yourself among my congregation?”
Jordan inhaled sharply through his mouth and, turning away from the priest, closed his eyes as though exhausted by the priest’s energy and disgusted by the priest’s transparent and opportune attempt. The two continually walked. After some brief time, perhaps a matter of ten moments, Jordan returned to the conversation. “I don’t assume that I have the right to place myself within your congregation. Why should I be entitled to decide something of that… of that level of importance?”
Fr. Freud smiled thoughtfully and nodded slightly. “You are an extraordinarily wise man. You have as much a right as any man--and more than most. GOD does not make all minds equally so sharp, and for your’s indeed a certain giftedness has been provided. May I say simply, sir, that your reputation precedes you.”
Jordan was silent, as though he expected the priest to continue; but when he discovered that he was expected, in some way, to respond to this praise, he seemed as though nervous. He laughed uncomfortably, though not boisterously, for he was a calm and collected man, self conscious in character. “Man! What shall a man say to such praise?”
The priest smiled respectfully at the man’s humility in his response. “Your words are sensible, and do you credit. A humble man is always in the presence of God.”
Jordan, with a tilt of his head, bit his lip uncomfortably. As he quickly attempted to regain control of this situation, and hoped that the niceties would soon end. He continued calmly: “Come, Father. I can’t be expected to believe that your object in...in engineering our meeting tonight was to heap upon me such levels of praise. Even that dear lady (he referred with a shake of his head vaguely toward Ulunya--Father Freud’s gaze now passed Jordan as he saw with amazement that the young woman was asleep, but he allowed Jordan to continue) you have brought here when she would much rather be resting. What is your intention? What would you have me do?”
The two now passed before the front of the building, and crossing the central aisle, Father turned a sharp right angle toward the distant altar and, dropping a knee to the floor, crossed himself in homage. Jordan, understanding that this must be some custom, for he had now often seen it repeated, performed a simple bow in the direction of the altar before rejoining the priest.
The priest acknowledged the man’s last statement shortly. “You very quickly cut to the chase!”
Jordan licked his lips sharply as he cut in. “Many would disagree.”
Fr. Freud nodded knowingly, “I’m sure they would!” After a deep breath, he began to outline before Jordan what was to be done: “This all has to do with those things which I spoke of before the…”
“Time travel.” Jordan put in, warming up to the subject.
Fr. Freud looked uncomfortable for a moment as he thought deeply. “I dislike that term. It gives to the subject a certain futurism--a technological sort of shade that it makes me almost disgusted with the concept. This is not science fiction. It is a warping of reality that is not normal. It is a glitch.” The priest was serious and Jordan knew it. “Before I go farther into this, I want to ask you: Why do you humor me with your attention. Surely I must seem lacking in certain mental faculties. Indeed! I may even be mad with delusion.”
Jordan thought deeply as they journeyed slowly about the interior of the building. After some silence he responded, avoiding eye contact with the priest. “I have known and worked with many people--many of them mad, or delusional, or for want of sanity or logic or what have you (he brushed aside the issue with his hand). I mean, I think I would know a madman, and you have not any of the telltale definitions of such--which is… Well I don’t know what to make of that because to any coherent person, you sound just out of this world, and yet… something about what you say resonates so much with me that I can’t do anything. I seem to somehow believe this--and I want to be convinced so… so I need you to guide me if you can… Father.”
Father was silent in respect for the man who had so willingly offered himself as a tool for a mission which he could not foresee or even understand. The faith of such a man as Jordan was so strangely profound and childlike that it had about it such an unreasonable trust that it seemed almost naive. Yet, Jordan trusted in something greater than himself in the belief that his sacrifice could be of value in some way--in some time--to some one. Father moved closer toward Jordan as they reapproached the altar of the cathedral. Ulunya’s frame loomed on the opposite side of the central aisle, in an image of prayer and meditation though, in truth, her conscience was now far from her. Jordan noticed her not and the priest set his priority upon that thing which must be given priority: The primary key to a puzzle that even he could hardly understand. They were two men, working together to make a leap of faith that was so extraordinary and unusual that many a coherent person might well consider them mad beyond reason--wild beyond the taming hand of common sense.
The priest accepted Jordan’s offer: “If you will assist me in this mission, I must ask you this very moment to take the first step. Behold (he gestured to Ulunya here) Miss Reaux now sleeps in the presence of God. She is not yet entirely dead, but as close as any healthy person may journey toward their own end--she sleeps--she dreams--and her unconscious mind dwells upon the things that she has processed this day and combines them most intricately with her immediate surroundings. Her mental faculties will be drawn to resolve those things which rest heavily upon her--the things that are not quite right. For Reaux believes that John Niezche is-quite-dead--and so he is! Reaux also knows that Niezche was hers--and she his. Can such two things be true at the same time? This question I have battled for centuries--I do not walk the earth as mortals and life seems to have lost, for me, all of its meaning outside of this strange shell--you, Niezche, Reaux, Eullidge, Rujard, Kyson, and Koche. I know not what I shall do if I ever resolve such a matter. Perhaps I shall fade away into the dust which I should have decayed within centuries ago. I have seen many moons, and certainly more moons than I wish to. The years seem to run together and the days are disordered and staggered as a result of this most potent poison which I have inflicted upon myself by accident--by chance. Men search to manipulate time, and if they knew truly for what they searched, they would cease entirely to search. I wish now that this thing had never come upon me.”
Jordan was silent for a moment before cleverly speaking, “Frodo and his ring.” Fr. Freud nodded solemnly, motioning Jordan toward the pew on which he and Ulunya had rested immediately following the funeral service the day before. Jordan perceptively slipped between the first and second pews of the cathedral, directly across from the hunched frame of Ulunya. Fr. Freud genuflected customarily before joining Jordan between the pews. He quickly began to detail what was to occur that night: “The issue at hand is this: Ulunya must marry John, and John must die--but not particularly in that order. There’s something--somehow very wrong. It is, as I said before, a glitch in--in what I don’t know exactly but its so strange. So memory, as you know, can be carried forward. Memory, however cannot be carried backward--you can’t remember something that will come later unless the time continuum--something like that--frays and deteriorates. This is what people call desha vu. It occurs only when your memory, for some reason, is being carried backwards through time when it should, if the structure of time is intact, travel forward. You don’t need to understand, but I think you do understand more than anyone else could. If John and Ulunya are to be united as they are so destined, then the events surrounding John’s death must be manipulated and modified. It must, for reasons I’ve already touched upon, be done most carefully. It is most difficult for one to change something without inadvertently altering things which never should have been changed. These events surrounding John’s death are already passed, so they cannot be modified in the conscience world, for the conscience world is governed by time. However, when a person is unconscious--when they dream--hours or even days may seem to pass in the unconscious realm whilst, in the realm of conscience, mere moments or minutes may have elapsed. Thus, since the events surrounding his death cannot be modified in the conscious realm, they must, I believe, be modified in the unconscious realm if this glitch is to be entirely taken advantage of.”
Jordan responded with a simple repetition of that short, uncertain affirmation: “Mhm.” He sat, angled toward Fr. Freud, with his hands clasped upon his right knee which was crossed over the left as he comfortably reclined against the back of the seat. He leaned forward suddenly: “But how come you seem to have done this before and remember all this--if memory--as you say--rarely moves backward without the occurrence of deja vu?”
Fr. Freud, for about three seconds, looked longingly at the vaulted ceilings of the cathedral before responding to the question. “Oh that I could remember… I cannot remember and it is for that purpose that these notebooks have been so useful (he pulled a green composition notebook from inside his cassock). Writing seems to travel backwards through time, so I have made use of the green notebooks--I have dozens--to keep my past self constantly informed, should I be required, again, to attempt this task.”
Jordan nodded thoughtfully. “And you have, in fact, attempted this task a number of times?”
The priest nodded solemnly. Jordan continued: “What makes you think that--why should this attempt succeed when others haven’t?”
“Because I think I might have the correct combination this time… and if I don’t I shall merely try again.”
“What is different--what seems to be the primary key to the puzzle?” Jordan asked, still very solemn and thoughtful. Fr. Freud simply responded: “You.” Jordan closed his eyes and looked at the floor solemnly. Fr. Freud jumped up, excited. “Did you just get deja vu?” Jordan nodded slowly before speaking gravely: “I’ve had this conversation before.”
“In past times--other attempts--you thought me to be mad and considered me little more than a patient.”
“What changed. Why do I seem more willing to… more willing to interact with your… affairs...strategems?” Jordan spoke carefully, constantly thinking of each word before it proceeded from his lips.
“Because this time, you and Miss Reaux have an emotional bond. In parallels, you were mere acquaintances through Mr. Niezche and now… now you are as a father to her. This changes the entire dynamic of your nature coming into this meeting of our’s tonight. You are more caring for her than you are for me--and so you are more willing to take a chance.”
“You told her that she was to meet me in--(he tugged at his left sleeve to check his own wristwatch)--five minutes and not many seconds. Is this a matter that we should concern ourselves with?”
Fr. Freud looked relieved. Now was the time at hand. “I need you to try to fall asleep--or meditate. You must become lucidly unconscious. Most people need to actually sleep but you… you, Mr Jordan, are quite special in that your mind is developed for such as this. Enter into a lucidly unconscious state and be ready to meet her on the steps outside this cathedral. Be sure to remind her about the black notebook. It is the written set of instructions to be delivered to John Niezche so that he can orient himself properly in preparation for his own death. Remember, you, Jordan, are a balancing factor. Ulunya is love--passion and chaos and you are order and logic. You must help her to do this. I leave you now--for this meeting is but one of two meetings which I must attend before the Sun rises. I go and bid you farewell, good luck, and God’s speed…”
Sunday, November 14th, 06.18339 State Street, St. Clement’s Gothic Cathedral, Facade
Jordan
Sounds all about him rang. They rang with such a clatter that he wished only to be away in the silence from which he had just come. Such noise… Oh, God, such noise… Such aimless--useless noise. It may have been like so many doors being repeatedly opened and closed; the titan, Atlas, protesting from beneath his own burden as he supported upon his sinew and might the world and its contents; it may have been the collective moan and wail of a thousand living all buried in the disguise of death--doomed by circumstance to encounter their own coffin before the sweet mercy and embrace of death; or it may have been the clamber--the exultation of a thousand bells whose jubilant tones cut sharply through the monotony--calling the faithful to prayer. A temple? A church? A cathedral? It must be and these must be the stairs which lead me from thence. How came I to this place and for what purpose? Oh, the noise! I must close my eyes and maybe if I really--if I exhaust myself with the effort I may discover where this sound comes from--what it is. How can a noise be so dreadful--so terrible whilst all the while being of jubilation? It’s a contradiction--a contrast--what’s the word? I can’t recall it now. My memory can’t--it isn’t quite right. What is it I most recently recall? There must be some hint for where I came by this place. A cathedral… and a monk--no! A priest. A philosopher! Freud! And these--no matter how terribly dreadful--must be his words. What meaning can they contain? What can they be? Just hear him out.
“Try to fall asleep… Mr Jordan, you are quite unique… you and Miss Reaux… I must ask you to take the first step… was hers, and she is his… this is not science fiction… makes me almost disgusted… you cut very quickly to the chase!” The voices now became so clear and recognizable that he recalled much. They were spoken directly to his own ear, and his audient conscious became alert. “Do you now number yourself among my congregation? (His own voice he could now recognize) I’ve had this conversation before. (Fr. Freud’s voice was now so clear that the dull clatter had been integrated entirely into what seemed like one question in repetition spoken) And if you were to invite me to a dinner, would you do so discreetly?”
How strange it was. Such a question to be repeated once--twice… nay--ten million repetitions and still more. What could it mean? He could not know now and so he must wait.
Sunday, November 14th, 06.14339 State Street, St. Clement’s Gothic Cathedral, Nave-West Transept
Reaux, Jordan
...So quietly had her decline then been that she knew it not even herself,
And down the ladder to that realm of illusion did her conscience now explore itself…
So did she after not long become conscious whilst confined to her repose,
And despite--or because of the boundaries of sleep, she searches the ideas she knows.
Consciousness within subconsciousness: a paradox so intertwined.
And a living dark cloud with a ringed planet within--so omnipotent did such a thing seem.
With a force with a might beyond gravity, it beckoned all things inside.
Her recollection of events and sayings closed all about her in dream.
She heard the notes of human voice distorted, echoed, and all but lovely.
It seemed it might be God’s own judgement, and her fear at it grew doubly.
The clouds about her emanated with light in flashes and bursts,
And that planet within grew larger still as it consumed all even the earth.
It shuddered and quaked and groaned as though the whole universe were within,
And that great dark planet shrieked so horribly that even her mind was pierced by the din.
Then did that orb of lightning and mass rupture at the seams,
And from it, all the things concealed now rushed within her dreams.
They encircle her and rush about, they all wish to be near,
So she sorts them in a hierarchy of the things she holds most dear.
Closest to her are those things that melt her heart with her own sugar,
And she banishes to as far as possible those things of doubt and rigour.
As though in a realm of infinity distance and time prevail,
She believes that she can conceal herself, and in this task does fail:
The last will be first and the first will be last among those things so sorted
And the spectrum of memories and things of pleasure within their order inverted.
Now nearest her were the things she hated--or feared or could not contain
And the chaos about her reigned for a moment before a sweetness began to rain.
As all in this realm seemed to invert, so also did that sound.
What before had seemed so far beyond her now lay near to the ground.
And that voice which had roared with all malignance and had caused her to shudder
Was calmed to a note of gentleness and one thing more did it utter:
“...meet Jordan on the stairs in seventeen minutes.” Ulunya returned to a sense of reality and found that she was kneeling. How long had she been in meditation? She looked about her in search of Jordan and Fr. Freud and found them not there. She arose and, dropping her knee in reverence to the altar, travelled without instance to the front of the building where she found herself in little time descending the stairs. She recognized Jordan immediately, seated with his back to her upon the second stair. His elbows rested upon his knees, and his chin lay upon his folded hands.
“Jordan!” Ulunya burst out upon seeing him, “Have you long awaited me?”
Jordan had turned his head when he had first been addressed, and following the ensuing question, he quickly arose, orienting himself entirely toward her, in gentlemanly recognition that a lady had entered his presence. “Not long--no,” he responded gently. He quickly added, as though bidden to do so, “Have you the black book?”
Ulunya had entirely forgotten about the book, and it occurred to her that she had last consciously put it with her purse-bag upon the pew inside the cathedral. Searching about herself quickly, however, she discovered that she had, in fact, the purse slung about her shoulders and the black notebook conveniently therein. She ceremoniously brought it forth confusedly, and determining that she must merely be lethargic from exhaustion, shook her head rapidly as though to alight a fly that had landed upon her. “Yes!” she responded oddly, “I seem to have it right here.” Jordan merely raised his eyebrows in response. Ulunya, after sufficiently overcoming the oddity of the moment, continued: “Why did Fr. Freud specifically tell me to join you in seventeen minutes--how long has it been?--Did he say anything I should know?”
“Well,” Jordan began carefully, climbing toward her so that they were within an arm’s length, “He certainly said a lot--there’s no doubt about that… It seems we are supposed to deliver that book (he indicated the black notebook that now hung by Ulunya’s left side) to John’s house!” He spoke the final two words with a note of absurdity.
Ulunya slowly nodded her head uncertainly with the air of one who was playing along. “Okay…”
Jordan waited, expecting more, and as he determined that she now awaited his direction, he asked if they should proceed. Ulunya responded sardonically (with an element of wit) that they should, and that there was “nothing quite like a good walk at the crack of dawn.” So they set off toward Jordan’s vehicle which was parked alongside the curb across the street where it had been left in front of the St. Clement’s Cathedral Library. The Sun, indeed, began to break the horizon, though not a quarter of it had risen. The first golden rays of the new day pierced the darkness, inflicting upon it a mortal wound that would eventually take its life, presenting once more the glorious Sun, victorious once more over the dragon of darkness. No mortal being--nor even Reaux or Jordan--could know the speed, direction, or manner in which those two persons travelled. For somehow none of it seemed at all real--and yet it also seemed real in a very strange degree. How can a person know what is real? Where does the conscious world end and the subconscious world begin. What is beyond? What lies between light and shadow? One thing indeed could Reaux know for certain: She and her mentor found themselves before the door of 363 5th Street. The house was small and humble, and lay within a row of houses all quite close together. This was the home of John K. Niezche. They approached the front door. Of dark wood it stood solemnly, and was adorned with eight panes of glass set at the top as a sort of window and a knocker. The base of which was designed with reptilian features and scales and the instrument itself was fashioned in the likeness of a dragon. Jordan, grasping the piece firmly, examined it with interest for little more than a moment before drawing it toward him and striking the door a sound, crisp blow from the head of the creature. His reasoning seemed irrational to Reaux: Was not the master of this house now within a tomb? Yet the door slid open slowly and ominously, and the door fell back widely, eerily bidding the visitors enter.
FrayingNiezche
Niezche arose in the darkness. It surrounded him on all sides. Now behind him was that terrible place of torture and horror. He wore even now that garment which he had retrieved from thence. It was fashioned as a simple tunic of the purest white. It was his--his own--his… precious. He smiled with recollection. He still had wit, and there was something of life in him even in this world of darkness and unlife. He was still dead, and awaited the loving hand of a friend to draw him from thence. The Damned would not have him, and the Redeemed would not suffer him to enter amongst them. For his garment was not as theirs. Of the purest white it was, but it was marked with seven dark stains. Five of them were minute in dimension (one even was hardly existent at all). Yet two were of great dimension--about the size of a human hand. He could not bring himself to glance upon it, for he was so ashamed by it and by the knowledge that the mysterious stains existed; and he seemed to believe that if he would not acknowledge them, then others could not notice them. Fortunately, the darkness that encircled him hid all from anyone--not that there was a person to be seen in that place other than himself. He tried to recall how he had come to this place, but was unable to do so.
The place was small, and before him was constructed what appeared to be a desk. A chair was drawn away and awaited him, and the walls were enclosed about him so that he could not take more than a step in any direction saved toward that chair. It was a simple wooden chair--there was little that was notable about it. It executed its task sufficiently, and it served its purpose sufficiently. The walls, so enclosed about him, were constructed of a smooth, dark wood, as was the desk; and the wall ran toward the desk where the two sides joined together in the middle of the structure which was, itself, built into the corner that was formed. He drew near and, slipping between the chair and the desk, sat slowly into the chair. It suddenly occurred to him that he was now in Confession, and that he should begin by addressing a priest. Such an assumption was extraordinary, and he could give neither reason nor excuse for how he came by it. It simply knew that he must now begin in the manner he had on so many occasions before. His voice came readily and almost shocked him. It was his own voice as he had known it in life, and he would have swelled with joy on account of it had such an emotion been possible in this place.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” He waited with anticipation. What manner of voice awaited him? Would he know it by its tones? Indeed he did, for it was his own beloved priest, Fr. James Freud, who responded with extraordinary steadiness and tranquility. His voice was even as he responded. “Hello, Mr. John Kazmierczak Niezche of St. Kazimierz. How has eternity been treating you?” Before John could respond, Fr. Freud hastily interrupted him, depriving him of the privilege of speech. He now spoke, addressing another. “Doctor, are you present?”
A second voice was heard. It was a timeless voice which revealed not the age of the speaker. The man sounded worn out and tired. “Father… can you do nothing without me?”
Fr. Freud chuckled pleasantly as he responded evenly: “Please, call me James.” The second voice sighed gravelly as, with an exasperated tone, he muttered: “Oh, gosh.”
Fr. Freud answered the question that had been posed by the man: “Because you are the stone upon which I have laid the foundations for all that is to come.”
John wished that he might speak, but found that he was powerless to do so. It was as though his tongue and vocals were no longer bound to his own command. Fr. James Freud was entirely in control of the situation. There was no question of who had orchestrated the entire strategy, as from that moment going forward through time, they were all as pawns under the direction of the priest. Perhaps he, himself, was not entirely under his own will. Perhaps Fr. James Freud was a pawn of still another. “John Niezche, are you ready to undertake your journey?”
John now had the freedom to speak, as it had been yielded unto him by the priest. “Father, I have so many questions that I must ask before I may answer you…” He was suddenly commanded to be silent by the priest who sharply added that none of these questions were now important. “What journey awaits me?” John asked, justifiably in a state of consternation regarding what step was next his to take in this strange, unfolding post-mortem experience.
“You, of course, my son, know that you are dead? (John put in a quick word of agreement) You know that you have seen what it is that people call ‘Hell’? (John acknowledged that he had assumed the same to be true) You have retrieved from the mouth of Hell the white garment which you were commanded to keep pure until you should again bring it before your Lord? (John had) At the time of your passing, you were in a state of grace--though not perfection--and did not believe yourself to be guilty of any High Crimes against the Divine Laws of Morality? (John acknowledged all of this to be true) Then you realize that you are not, by any of your venial or minor transgressions, bound to the realm of which Dante wrote? (John was silent--and the priest continued) Then you realize that, should you appear this moment before your Creator, you would be bound for a certain time to pay the price of your transgressions temporarily before being permitted to rest eternally with the Redeemed. Here is the interesting point (Niezche thought to himself that he hardly believed this to be the point at which his interest arose, for the entire ordeal was of the strangest nature): I have discovered that something went wrong at the moment of your death. You understand, of course, that each man’s course is his own freewill, and yet there are certain things that he will be inclined to find. A man may choose his own way, and find that he was always meant to function in a certain profession--he has natural inclinations that guide him. I now ask you one question, and this question only may you answer: Were you to have survived, what were your intentions regarding the girl?--the lady Miss Ulunya Pamela Reaux of St. Cecilia (Father’s voice was decisive and authoritarian).”
John responded promptly, as though he had become well accustomed to answering this specific question--perhaps he had often asked it of himself. “I believed myself to be in love with her in the truest and deepest state possible. I intended to verify the validity of my affections by an extended period of patience--the same I have done for six years; I intended to request, at an opportune moment, her own permission to formally court her; and later to request her hand in the ceremony and life of matrimony. I intended to do such things with due reverence to our mutual faith and religion and the customs therein (John Niezche might have been a defense attorney, as he spoke quickly and with a certain incendiary nature that the inquisitor had little choice but to remain silently shocked for a moment).” The second man, the “doctor” sharply exhaled as he choked on a note of laughter, and it was then that John knew the identity of the man: It was Dr. Jordan.
Fr. James Freud, upon quickly recovering his senses, was not surprised by the basic truth of the answer, but by the intense, literal and legalistic manner in which the youngest man had responded. It was quite evident that both older men were well impressed by the sense, honesty, and depth that had been evident in John’s response. Fr. Freud continued: “I have studied your case in more ways than you may possibly imagine, and I believe you and Miss Reaux to have been destined for one another (Jordan sounded as though he might be sick). I understand and apologize for the fact that what I am saying may be considered by a critical mind to be “cliche” but the truth of such a fact does still exist, and it is most certainly true for such as yourselves. The purpose of this meeting is this: I wish to obtain your consent to be under my power for nine days. In those nine days, I have organized--through intense study and experiment--a plan which will result in the restoration of an element of your own life and of your potential to be, within your own earthly life, united to Miss Reaux in the ceremony and life of which you spoke so impressively. I await now only two words from you. If you now venture to speak an excess of two words in response, I shall be forced to consider it negatively. Answer me now.”
John, justifiably confused and brimming with so many questions that he could hardly constraint them, seemed to understand that there was a certain seriousness and solemnity regarding this meeting. He knew not how the objective might be attained, nor did he understand how he might be permitted to in some way be returned to the land of the living. He knew one thing: That he was being offered even a chance to be united in life with the girl whom he loved. How could he decline such an offer? He must accept, and he spoke two words in the restricted manner commanded by the priest: “I do.” The statement was so perfect. It answered two questions: It responded primarily to the proposition suggested by Fr. James Freud, and secondarily to the implied question of whether he would “take this woman to be his lawfully wedded wife.”
Fr. Freud now outlined in detail what was to be done: “The issue is, you are bound to pass from the land of the living on the eleventh day of November of the year 2007. This is fate. However, I believe we may be able to manipulate your fate into causing not the death of your entire self, but the death of a version of you. Within the final weeks of your life, you were seeking perfection, and at the moment you passed from the realm of conscience, you were wishing that you’d had that chance to become perfect. That wish travelled with you into the realm of the subconscious--the spiritual realm. The conscious realm is dominated by constraints such a time, speed, and distance. The unconscious realm is not. As you entered eternity, your wish did, too--giving you that chance outside of time and life… you may go back. As you have accepted, you will go back to the ninth day before your own death, and you will attempt by meditation to drive yourself from your nature. You must accept the things that are your tendencies and weaknesses and you must engage them and draw them out. They will take your own form when draw out, and it is this semblance of you that shall be slain upon the eleventh day of November, leaving you alive and well. This is not a question and answer session. You have accepted the terms proposed by myself, and you now shall return. See. Even now logic and love are joined for your sake, and you now require only their arrival to begin…”
Tuesday, November 2nd, 06.14363 5th Street
Reaux, Jordan
Ulunya’s complexion hardened into a form of horror and disbelief. She stared into the dark chasm that lay between the door and the frame. The room was unlit by the dawning Sun, and and there was no evidence for the assumption that an individual entity or person had greeted the arrival of the duet by flinging the door open in welcome--the door now stood open, and it was rather evident that there was not in that room a conscious person. Ulunya’s lips were parted as her jaw fell partially toward the ground. She maintained this expression as she, with a single stride, stepped aside, allowing Jordan to pass before her into the house. She allowed him to maintain two steps within the building before she dared to lick her lips nervously and tilt her head forward in determination as she followed the man.
Once within, she removed her shoes before the door and, abandoning them upon the doormat, she recalled that, within the black notebook, Fr. Freud had bidden that it was not to be disturbed. Directly before it did she stand, facing back toward the door through which she had recently passed, as she stared down at it, wrestling with curiosity and temptation. It lay at her feet, and she could see both it and her feet, clothed in that blue color, within a single glance. She had merely to arrest it from its position as she had the glasses inside Fr. Freud’s demesne. The temptation seemed to consume her as she plotted as to how she might conceal it from Jordan who, unbeknownst to herself, stood less than two meters behind her, observing her in all things. A crafty, nearly sinister smiled curled her lips as she blinked her eyes once, preparing for the action. She would cause the doormat to slide only a little, and thereby would she reveal whatever it concealed. Its red perimeter, inlaid with golden and blue threads, formed a depiction of several suns within one another contained. They made a brilliant target, and as she slightly lifted her foot toward that surface, a pair of black shoes trod thereupon and turned toward her directly. Her eyes were brought up to the face of the man who stood taller than she. Neither her natural beauty, her lips--once more slightly ajar from surprise, nor the slight, sideways tilt of her head could sufficiently make a mockery of innocence. Jordan looked sternly down into her large eyes and slowly shook his head. A moment later, he took her with one arm about the shoulders and corralled her toward an inner door within the house. With his unoccupied hand did he manipulate the simple handle of the door, allowing it to swing inwardly.
He hesitated for several moments, as if to decide whether he or his student should first enter. Then, with a slight nudge, he encouraged her to enter therein. She looked at him inquisitively as he nodded toward the door encouragingly. She turned her head there and stepped within, crying out promptly. Jordan rushed therein and found her bent over a bedframe and mattress in the far corner of the room. Her hands were clasped tightly before her and the telltale locks of hair fell once more before her inclined face. A moment later did Jordan mark, with silence, the reason for her outcry. Within the bed, lying as though asleep, lay the figure of John Niezche. He lay upon his back upon the mattress, his head rested upon his right arm and his left hand rested upon his hip, and one knee was brought out to the side. Jordan immediately marked the threat that might proceed from interacting with the figure of the man, and so he quickly seized her from behind and turned her toward him. Her arms fell about his neck as she drew near, burying her face in his jacket. Jordan consoled her with a twice repeated command that she be quiet, followed by a remark that it was alright. “How… how is he here?” Jordan could hardly have been expected to answer this question in any manner even similar to sufficiency. He merely remarked that “your priest seems to have been well informed when he mentioned that you would see John again soon.”
“I watched him die! I killed him, Jordan. He should not be here,” Ulunya softly protested, still her face buried within his jacket. Jordan merely shook his head, indicating that he could not formulate a response.
Silence reigned supreme for more than a minute before the girl recovered from the original shock of the experience. Withdrawing her face from his jacket, she peered over her shoulder at the figure of John, still asleep upon the bed, as if to verify that he was still so. Jordan spoke quietly: “Where is the black notebook?”
She turned not her head, but insisted upon her glance remaining upon the figure of John as she loosened her arms from about her mentor who straightened at the release from her downward vector. “I left it inside your vehicle.”
Jordan’s lips curled in thought for several seconds as he weighed the risks of leaving Ulunya unsupervised. “Then we shall retrieve it.” Ulunya went before him as the duet retrieved, from the passenger side of the automobile, the black notebook. He allowed her to conduct the notebook once more within the house, walking always closely behind her that he might observe her in all things, should she err in some way and throw the entire plan into dissolution. As they neared the inner door, he muttered that she should keep her eyes from resting upon the sleeping figure of John. “Place the book beside his bed and return to me.” She obeyed his word, and, entering once more the inner room, she intentionally avoided placing her eyes upon anything but the white tiled floors until she had placed the book upon its mark--directly beside the bedframe of John Niezche.
Tuesday, November 2nd, 07.09363 5th Street, Street Front
Niezche,
There was a thought--a spark of intelligence. The darkness was shattered by the arrival of that little spark, and then there was light. The light of a new world dawned on the horizon, and nature breathed from its inner depth that sweet breath of life. Death and darkness were overcome, and the birds sang their joy from the treetops, and the distant hills across the serene blue of the river were illuminated by the golden Sun such that there was a brilliance about the treetops--an aura. Though autumn had come, there was still much life in that great country. The streets bustled with life: A mother brought forth her child in a carriage, a young lad exercised his dog, and the strong man bore the loads of not only his own existence but also of his dependents. Automobiles and vehicles of every kind travelled through that place. The people of the villages travelled into the city to begin their day’s work. Some working in the suburban area, moderately populated and home to those who enjoyed some semblance of space combined with the positive privileges of community life. Some lived within the urban area--where most of the common people enjoyed their events, worked their jobs, and performed their civic and religious duties. Yet, in the heart of all, lay the core of the city--The Downtown. Here stood the tallest buildings, the courts, the corporate offices, the governments, capitals, and magistrates all supremely bound within an area of not more than five square miles. Here was the bustling centre of civilization where space was cramped and the pollution of ten thousand vehicles sent into the air such a stench that one might wish almost that one could be freed from the obligation of even breathing--the air was almost of poison in that place. The Prime Minister and his government presided from this place; the successful and the fortunate built their wealth and distributed it from this point; and the unfortunate, the hungry, and the forsaken chose to roam this area, hoping that some portion of wealth or fortune might be cast their way.
John Niezche’s eyes flickered. His classic alarm clock reproached him loudly from its place beside his bed, and he remembered all. He had been captivated by a new book, authored by a distant associate of Lucus Koche, when exhaustion and the subconscious overtook him, casting him into a realm governed neither by time nor by limitation of any kind. He sat bolt upright in his bed as recollection filled him, and he contrived a thought that his beloved had been there with him not long before. He rebuked himself for such thoughts and put them away from him as he subscribed to the assumption that thoughts of this nature could do him no good at this time--but such a strange intuition had it been! She must have been there… and yet how could she have been? Foolishness! Fool! Get out of your bed and make it! Clean your room! You’ve overslept, and you’re late, and there are people depending upon you! You’re failing them. Even your corner lamp is still illuminated from last night and your clothes are heaped pathetically at the bottom of your bed. The ancient dust has begun once more to cover all, and has assumed the shape and title of one of God’s most delicate creatures: A dust bunny. He leapt from the place of rest and, spreading his bedsheets out upon the bed, brought them simply across the mattress. He next sought and deprived the corner lamp of its own light and, repairing quickly to the broom closet, threw open the door. He ignored the skeleton therein and seized from its place the instrument that has for ages been a symbol of housework and self-respect: the broom. And so he brought order to his place of habitation. The order that he instilled within the place was, however, not excessive, nor was anything set to an obsessively compulsive level of cleanliness. There was logic, reasoning, and sanity, and yet it was a place where there was enough chaos within that he could be well comfortable regarding the fact that he dwelt neither in a garbage dispensary nor in the home of a dictator.
He had completed his tasks quickly and with a purpose, and he softly sank to a seated position upon his bed and, sitting upon his hands, rested that he might refresh his lungs. After about half a minute of peace and restoration, he moved from his position as a shaft from a hunter’s arc. He moved quickly to his telephone which rested upon a dresser set beside the door and, holding the device before him with his dominant right hand, he multitasked with his left as he searched hastily through some scattered bits of paper that lay thereon, pulling out one. It was a torn piece of notebook paper with a scribbled heading: “Seven.” Upon it were six names and a corresponding contact number. He bit his lip nervously as, with his thumb, he input a number into the device. Each button produced a noise of a different pitch and note, causing a simple song to be consequently formed. The line buzzed as he put it to his ear, allowing the piece of paper to fall dejectedly to the floor. He caught himself and, diving to the floor with the device still held tightly to his ear, he retrieved the piece of paper and placed it deliberately upon the dresser as he spoke.
“Hey, Esther?----Yeh?----Yes, I overslept.----Yes, I should… I should… I know… I was thinking that… would you?----Oh! You’re a lifesaver!----Yes, I know that you know, but it’s true.----So I will see you in about fifteen minutes?----Drive safely, Esther.----Yup! Drive safely!----Okay.”
He put away the device and exhaled audibly, travelling from his inner room (a square enclosure within the back left corner of the simple square house consisting of about 35% of it), moved out into his kitchen which consumed about half of the space that did not consist of his bedroom (the other half was an open sitting room which was organized directly before the front door). He sought a quick meal in a large cabinet at the front end of his kitchen and retrieved from there quickly a parcel of canned fish and a half-empty jar of peanut butter. With a dexterous movement of his left hand, he seized from the countertop fruit basket the most commonly thought of species of fruit. His mind briefly pondered the fruit from The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, and quickly thanked his good fortune and benefactors that he was not also naked. He sat at a small, simple wooden table in the middle of the open kitchen and, with a small knife, reduced the fruit to pieces of a manageable size such that they were able to be conveniently fit into the jar of peanut butter. He enjoyed his quick, simple meal, being sure to wash from his mouth with water any remnants of the fish which might later embarrass him should there have remained even a trace therein. As he enjoyed his simple meal, he thought gratefully about all he had in this simple life, and about the friends whom he had been so fortunate as to encounter--friends who supported him when he went astray and fought for him when he struggled--who accompanied him when he was lonely, and laughed at him when he was sad. This last concept might have been negative, were it not the case that he naturally held himself in humility. He had good-naturedly realised that minor self depreciations make one rather relatable to close acquaintances, and caused him to be viewed as an honest and respectable man. He could laugh at his own quirks and flaws--assuming they be not serious or harmful--and if they brought others together for his sake it was all the better.
He arose from his meal and hastily washed the instruments of his refreshment before rushing to his room to repair to its proper place the broom which he had abandoned forgetfully upon the floor. As he did so, his attention was drawn to a black notebook that lay almost beneath his bed frame. He had not seen it there before and, taking it up, looked upon the first page. The writing was not his own but seemed to be a manner of instruction. It was most strange, as it seemed to instruct that the book be placed before his bed with some level of care to avoid disturbing odd things which lay about. He raised his eyebrows with interest as he sat upon his bed, still quite taken with interest at the things within the book. He turned over the first page and found upon it a long message headed with the words: “Dear John.” His first hopes were that it was from the hand of his beloved, but he soon found that his hopes were dashed by the proceeding lines.
“Bring this to me. Bring Doctor Jordan. Today. I will await you at Haven Park for lunch.” The letter was simple and carefully written. A subtitle implored him that he should not turn the page over and view the other side. As it was signed by Fr. James Freud, John closed the book and, taking it into his left hand, he carried it by his side as he sequentially returned the broom to its closet and travelled to the front of the house--toward the front door.
There, a black leather satchel awaited him, and so he delivered the black notebook into one of the two compartments. He hastily added a plastic water bottle before repairing once more to his inner room for the purposes of properly dressing. He emerged from thence not three minutes later, dressed in black formal trousers and a buttoned dusk blue shirt which he tucked into his trousers, finished with a standard black belt with a bronze gilded buckle. Within his satchel, he packed an extra, more durable set of trousers that would be proper for a mountain climbing expedition. As he returned once more to the front door he patted with both hands about his pockets, verifying the possession of his keys, wallet, cellular device, and a folded up piece of notebook paper which he had become accustomed to carrying for convenience sake that he might at any moment use it should he find its expense to be profitable. He finally pulled, from a small closet set into the wall behind the front door, a black jacket with a zip. The garment was a perfect cosmetic hybrid of comfort and appearance. The jacket also featured a chest pocket on the exterior left side guarded by a zip. Within--on the interior--the jacket also featured a left side chest pocket. Thus, the jacket was quite suitable for a man who wished to transport much about him conveniently. He had not, that morning, a wristwatch.
Pulling open the door, he stepped out onto a small, covered concrete porch. He lived within the outer fringes of the urban area--though not quite suburban. His home was nearly two miles from the Cathedral--the steeples of which could be seen above the rooftops even from here--and the sounds of traffic were beyond, as the vehicles travelled about, many venturing farther toward The Downtown. The amount of traffic in the area of his habitation was mostly of this type, and the density at even this time of the morning varied from moderate to meagre. To the left of the front door, a long sitting swing hung from the rafters of the white wooden porch cover. The swing featured an ornate railing that ran about three sides of the swing, serving as a back and armrest. He would often entertain himself upon this bench-swing on warm evenings during the warmer time of the year. Even during the colder months, he might sometimes find it convenient and comfortable to step out onto the porch and enjoy his time--often by reading--upon this bench. This day, however, was rather cold and slightly forgiving. The early morning air was cold inside his nostrils, and he knew that the temperature must be rather low. For his breath emerged from thence and from between his dry lips as a cloud of vapour which lingered before him in bursts. His immediate nature bid him retreat quickly within the confines of his home, but his Spartan instinct prevailed as he brought his arms before him and about his shoulders so as to give him some additional comfort against the cold. He moved toward the swing-bench and sat quite upright upon it as he began to await Esther Rujard, a fine lady of Spanish and French descent who served the “Seven” as a member and treasurer--the position was largely nominal, as the organization rarely coincided with enough money to serve any purposes beside the payment of its members of a sub-decent, sub-par wage and the reservation of conference rooms for their meetings. Yet, Esther handled the little money that they did meet responsibly and honestly. Besides, she was a kind lady with a slightly overwhelming disposition and the habit of attempting to impress upon others gifts and favours to such an extraordinary degree that it was a wonder that she had not been misused by it. In addition, she constantly left her front door unlocked that any poor soul or friend might find refuge there. She enjoyed the maxim that spoke to the understanding that her house was indeed anybody’s house. This attitude extended to all areas of her life--she truly was of the most exemplar, decent, and extraordinary nature. Her old, cream-coloured Buick now turned the corner and began to decelerate as she headed sharply toward the side of the road. John, having spotted her a good distance away,--across several of the simple, modest lawns of dying grass of his neighbours--moved from his porch to the curbside where he awaited her.
Tuesday, November 2nd, 07.39363 5th Street, Street Front
Niezche, Rujard
His satchel bag hung about his shoulders, descending near his left hip, as he came about the back of the vehicle toward the forward passenger side door. He grasped the door handle and pulled it open with his right hand as, with his opposite hand, he lifted from his shoulders the satchel strap, bringing it over his head as he prepared to climb within the vehicle. The driver, Esther Rujard, had taken advantage of the opportune break that had been afforded her and drank briefly from a plastic water bottle before returning the cap and replacing it in the central console, addressing John at the moment before he would begin to collapse his tall frame--somewhat taller than six feet--into the vehicle. At this moment, he stood beside the open door and lifted his left foot to climb within. He often found that a certain effort was required to climb within vehicles. Most people, upon perceiving his height and stature, understood it to be a purely positive personal effect--an undeniable advantage. Though the same was certainly true in given situations, he found his height, perhaps equally often, to be disadvantageous: He often couldn’t fit easily into places where he thought he should. Esther turned her head toward him as she began to speak: “I will say right now that I just drove over your copy of the Daily Gazette.” She featured long, slick black hair and a slightly narrowed face shape--though not extraordinarily so. Her forehead was broad and her eyes were brown, and she had about her a frequent air of carefree joy and positivity. If John’s first language was English his second language would have been facial expression--he replied warmly that it wasn’t a problem and that she shouldn’t worry about it. Esther laughed modestly before explaining that she had intended to stop immediately before the paper but that she was apparently not as good with the brake system as she had expected herself to be.
John had begun to climb into the car when, hearing her make an apologetic mention of her driving skills, he quickly, comedically reversed his actions. “While you’re at it, would you mind running over that paper a couple more times?” His voice had a note of comedy within which made Esther laugh once more as she gestured with her dominant right hand that he should enter the vehicle. He hastily did so as she asked a follow-up question: “So you’re in one of those moods?”
John first responded with a deep, disgusted groan: “Ughh!” He scratched awkwardly behind his ear, emphasising his meaning a moment later when he added: “I just don’t see why the gazettes can’t just give us information without also trying to influence our opinions. (He shook his head thoughtfully before expanding upon his statement) I also just hate that it has become almost a competition: Our city-state endorses a local paper to send information to us; Lucusonia--endorses a Lucusonian paper--to send information to us; and, of course, Tyran-Altuin--endorses an Altuinian paper--to send information to us. Like--I neither want nor need two politically charged opponents feeding us opinion pieces. I’m perfectly capable of formulating an idea based on a piece of information without it being spoon-fed to me.”
John’s speech tended to be emphatic and expressive: as his mouth gave the words, his facial features supported them, giving them a rather comedic, good-natured air. His wavy hair was thick and of dark brown (as were his eyes). It centred slightly to the right side of his left eye and had a natural, uncontrollable tendency to fallout in all directions (including before his eyes) in a manner that distinctly reminded one of an umbrella. To combat this tendency, he would, on occasion, comb the forward elements of his hair back and to the right side so that only the area behind his head and ears featured this tendency, causing his relatively small proportioned forehead to be quite revealed. His eyebrows, too, were notably thick, allowing them to be of great utility when he spoke. He had an average, somewhat angular head shape with a rather pronounced clean-shaven chin and jaw. His earlobes were notably disjointed from his head, and came out somewhat, allowing the hair to fill in uncontrollably behind them. On this particular late day, he had neither the conscientiousness nor the time to modify his personal features, and so his hair did naturally behave in the manner described. Had it been, in length, any longer, it might have threatened to obscure his vision. As it was, it rested just beneath his eyebrows, shading him in the disorganized, youthly mass of locks.
The motor of the vehicle throbbed rhythmically as it turned the corner of 5th Street onto West Maclay Street. The traffic was mild and the roads were narrow--a poor driver would avoid Maclay Street due to the sincere fact that any accidental movement of a vehicle to the right or the left would either send the vehicle into the opposing traffic on one side or onto a sidewalk on the other, and yet many of the drivers who did venture to travel toward the Maclay Street Bridge behaved on that road in an uncautious, reckless, or even reprehensible manner. Firmly aware that this was the case, John sat in an upright, dignified fashion, silently observing his surroundings through the windshield with a strangely serious manner. Such was his habit: To be extraordinarily serious and thoughtful unless directly interacting with another. This habit gave him a deceptively unpredictable air, though he was certainly not so if one took any time at all to grow to know him. Like his beloved, Ulunya, he too had a sense of humour, though his own presented itself more readily than did her’s. He sought readily to enjoy the positive factors of others, and he was always willing to promptly reward the civility of another with a sign of his approval while ungracious or uncivil behaviour would draw from him rarely more than a trademark frown which utilized all of the aforementioned facial features that his Creator had graced him with. The Maclay Street Bridge now lay directly before the cream Buick, opposite to them through a traffic light. Here, Esther was prompted by the light system to stop. Now that her vehicle was stationary, she allowed herself to resume conversation with her passenger. “Are you going to get a car?”
John crossed his arms tightly across his jacket as he sighed. “I really should--shouldn’t I?”
Esther grinned. “I appreciate that you like to walk--and you probably still could--but get a car for instances like this. It’s not that I don’t like driving you about, it's just that...well...maybe there'll come a day when I won’t be here for you.” Her smile deteriorated into a serious expression. John massaged his chin with his left hand (his right arm still crossed over his jacket) as he maintained the serious air of the conversation with a tight-lipped expression in which he brought his mouth into a slight, tight-lipped frown. This expression was his most common, signifying a thoughtful lack of inclination to speak accompanied by a tendency to simply permit the other person the freedom to speak continually. Sometimes, in addition to this, he might raise his eyebrows sharply if an element of the conversation found him unready or surprising. This, however, was not one of those occasions, and his eyebrows remained heavy and serious. The cream Buick now rolled around the corner, turning away from the Maclay Street Bridge as it rolled down State Street, toward the distant cathedral.
This was the oldest part of the town: the sidewalks were of cobblestone and the buildings had a distinct colonial-era appearance and design. Most of these buildings were more than two hundred years old and some of them were more than three hundred years in existence. Not a building on this street remained unrenovated, for many of them had been damaged by flooding at some time in the past (as was inevitable for a city surrounded on three sides by a river) and those that had not had required repairs merely due to the effects of time itself--for all things tend toward dissolution and destruction. The Cathedral now loomed immediately before the Buick, on the opposite side of the road: the stone staircase consisted of seven large stairs which arose toward the great oaken door of the building. The door was contained within a large gatehouse that featured the same medieval and gothic architecture as did the entirety of the building. On either side of the door, a strong wall supported the front of the building which was punctuated by the great rose window which stood within the wall--high above the oaken doors where it loomed ominously above the rooftops of even the tallest nearby buildings. Two large bell towers arose on the two frontal corners of the building. These arose to a point hundreds of feet into the air where they supported two massive bells which, forged of bronze, rang out the Angelic sixth, twelfth, and eighteenth hours--calling the faithful to prayer. The bell also rang out at the fifteenth hour to mark the time and hour of the death of Christ. If one was to gaze up, from the base of the building, toward the Heavens above, he would see the great structure rise ominously and fearfully toward the clouds which travelled endlessly throughout the sky. The sky was, at this time, partly shrouded in clouds that raced about the sky in one common direction. This occurrence had upon a sky gazer the effect of causing one to be disoriented by the constant depth and movement. The steeples of the building seemed to rise therein, and the great crosses which rested upon the rooftops of each bell tower though easily the height of two men set upon one another were, in proportion to the magnificence and scale of the cathedral, little more than mere playthings. The Buick passed between St. Clement’s Cathedral and its library--it passed by many cars parked closely together along the curbside--crammed like proverbial sardines into a can. Esther carefully handled the car, ensuring that it dealt not a glancing blow to any of the cars that resided along the side of the road.
Oftentimes, the organization would use one of the four reservable conference rooms that were available within the library for their meetings. However, such was the case primarily when the organization intended to meet regarding an issue relating to the study and business of literature. Regarding today’s meeting, the organization had determined to meet in the more corporate location of the office space on 1527 Mifflin Avenue” which was located in a cheap office park--for today’s meeting regarded a corporate level issue, and so it was privileged with slightly more formality than their general meetings. As Esther once more halted the vehicle in obedience to a traffic light system--the buildings about them were much taller than those of the quiet communities from which they had travelled--a jungle of metal, and concrete, and steel--she ventured once more to speak to her passenger. “You may be pleased to know that the poles have Minister Venizelos leading comfortably. If any physical conflict arises, it will not likely occur within The Villa.” She referred to the relevant and surrounding city, Villa Harrisae (known traditionally as “Harris’s Burg” or “Harrisburg”), which rested comfortably along the Abenander River—which descended from the reclusive wilderness to the west and crossed the Tranquility River which, itself, descended from beyond the Myhflynn city-state to the north.
John sighed as he hesitated to respond. There were certainly good reasons for his decided indifference toward the politics of the day: He understood (largely from conversations with Jordan) that in his present walk of life he was unable to affect or alter any of the controversial issues that were then occurring in the political realms of the city-states, and that he should attend to his own matters and community by putting into order all the things that were about him before he should seek to expand his influence to greater and more grave affairs. As it then stood, he found that it was better for him to pay minimal attention to the news and media, as he was not in a position of much power and so additional attention toward such things only caused him inordinate levels of heartache and anxiety. After several moments of lip-licking and inner conflict, he submitted reluctantly to concede his naive happiness by asking for additional information: “What of Lucusonia and the Redlands?”
Esther responded with a bright optimism: “You can’t know for sure because the different papers give conflicting information, but the general opinion seems to be that all will remain stable.” John bit his lip pessimistically. Oh, that peace might prevail...
Tuesday, November 2nd, 08.071527 Mifflin Avenue, 2nd Floor, Section B, Office Number 12
Niezche, Rujard, Jordan, Reaux, Eullidge, Kyson, Koche
The dark brown office door opened inwardly, followed promptly by a handsome, quite tall man about six feet and three inches in height. He was professionally dressed in a dusk blue shirt tucked into black trousers. He wore his black jacket loosely undone and a black leather satchel about his shoulders. As he came through the door, he stood quickly off to one side, holding the door ajar so that Esther was unhindered from entering promptly behind him. As she passed by she turned her head sharply toward him and audibly thanked him--he slightly nodded--briskly walking past him and toward the long wooden rectangular table which easily filled the middle of the room. Along each of the longer sides of the table were set five chairs, and along each of the short sides of the table was set an additional chair. The room was long and narrow, with a large window in the side nearest to the door so that almost the entirety of the room could be viewed from the hall without. A small closet was set into the wall behind the door, and on the side of the room opposite the large observation window was set a large window through which one could view the rather small parking space (which surrounded the building) and the distant tall buildings of The Downtown, hardly three miles away. The observation window in the wall beside the door was divided into three frames, each of which was guarded by a system of blinds that could be suitably adjusted for the comfort and privacy of those within.
Jordan had occupied the middle chair on the side of the table with his back toward the outside window, facing the observation window and the door, and he looked quite comfortable, as though he had awaited the late John and Esther for some time. The chair opposite Jordan’s was reserved for the vice-president of the organization, John, and Esther’s seat was immediately to the right of John’s. The naturally delectable Ulunya Reaux sat at Jordan’s left hand, bent facedown upon a short pile of his notebooks and binders which she misused as a support for her forehead. The sheer black-haired Joanna Kyson occupied the chair at John’s left hand, and the middle-aged man, Alistair Eullidge, with shortly cut black hair and stubble (and hints of ageing) sat at Kyson’s left hand. Lucus Koche sat at the head of the table at Eullidge’s left hand--his uneven, sandy brown hair (and facial hair which thinly covered the area about his mouth and jaw) and rough complexion sat nearest to the door. He was a physical man, by far the most rigid member of the congregation. He was a man of few words and even less was he one of positive emotion, with a tendency toward anger but definite reliability and trustworthiness--he was passive by nature but inordinately aggressive when provoked. As Esther occupied her usual position, John waited momentarily by the door, carefully closing it, before following her at a comfortable distance to the table. Pulling from his shoulders both jacket and satchel, he hung the former carelessly over the back of his padded black chair and placed the latter squarely upon the table before him as he shifted quickly into his chair, directly across from Jordan.
Jordan reached over and lightly stroked the back of Ulunya’s red and brown locks with his left hand (careful to not disturb the hairpiece which served as a dam before the flood that would ensue were it to be disturbed), arousing her from her repose. Her head came promptly up as she straightened in her chair, quickly sweeping with both hands elements of her hair which had come loose from their boundary and fallen before her face, tucking them gently away to either side. She smiled vaguely, though no attempt could conceal that she had not been resting well of late. Jordan waited several seconds to ensure that all were sufficiently comfortable and, seeing every member of that table had adopted a sedentary position that they felt comfortable in retaining for an extended period of time, he opened the meeting.
“Right--well--let’s begin. Miss Reaux, please run the tape.” Ulunya abruptly moved into action as though she had forgotten that it was her duty not only to record, by means of a cassette tape recorder, all the proceedings of each meeting but also to transcribe the primary arguments and points made during them. She lifted to her lap, from under her chair, her purple purse-bag (featuring small yellow stars which were inlaid with a blue perimeter) and after not more than a second did she reveal from it a recorder and preloaded tape which she set hastily upon the table. She replaced her purse and, turning her attention quickly to the recorder, caused it with the simple push of a button to begin recording all proceedings. At length did she search her purse-bag for her notebook and, finding it not, turned to the stack of material upon which she had recently been reclined, finding it fourth from the top. During this awkward period of about thirty seconds, the six other members of the group were all quiet, though they varied in expression: Ulunya, of course, was quite flustered, though she did all in her power to retain her calm exterior. Jordan reclined comfortably in his chair, gazing somewhat eerily through the observation window into the hall beyond. Koche had, for his part, originally planned to leap from his own position so that he might sprint about the table to be of aid to her, but her implied control of the situation combined with the apprehension of a strange expression from Alistair Eullidge had caused him to remain still. Eullidge had been slightly amused by what he deemed to be the incompetence of Miss Reaux, though he had about him enough common sense and modesty to refrain from allowing his sentiments to become obvious (though in Koche’s case had he obviously failed). Joanna Kyson had pragmatically taken the opportunity to control her straight, sheer black locks with two small clips--one on either side--so that they were less of an impediment to her. John Niezche, as though connected to Ulunya by an inordinate emotional connection, had felt in agony about any humiliation that she was receiving, and did all he could to refrain from making eye contact with anybody--so he gazed down into the middle of the table giving one the distinct feeling that he was almost ashamed. Esther Rujard, lastly, had taken a pen out of her red, plastic pencil cup and had begun to presently run it between her fingers as she waited patiently.
As soon as Reaux pressed the record button on the cassette recorder, Jordan resumed the meeting: “Right--well--it seems right that we have quite a bit to speak about today: We have, of course, the book in question--(he lifted from the table a small, thick book and elevated it beside his own head) “Decoding Dracula” by Wilhelm Kostcka. I--well--I don’t think I’ll put words into anybody’s mouth but, for me--at least--it’s ordinary and straightforward...it’s a really simple and--and non-controversial assessment of some of the symbolism used in Bram Stoker’s original “Dracula.” The other thing that we should discuss is one that I’ve been considering for some time--and I mean to say that none of this is definite in any way; but it would seem that--well I’m not getting any younger you know--and I’m not...as young as I used to be--of course. Well, I’ve been thinking that, quite honestly, there will soon come a time when I should begin to delegate more of the authority to John--here (expressions of all about the table became, if possible, far more serious: John’s customary frown was eliminated by the surprise and his lips slightly parted--his eyebrows elevating). I will begin to delegate more to him immediately, and I will continue to assess his...qualities--the quality of his work and consider replacing myself with him in say...five to ten months...possibly. Ok. I’ll open to the board for commentary starting with Luke.”
Lucus Koche had folded his hands upon the synthetic wooden table and was now looking very thoughtful--his intimidating demeanour collapsed as he was invited to speak. He looked about the table imperially before beginning: “Well, if Mr John Niezche will lead us as well as Doctor Jordan has, then I will be most pleased to serve him to the end of my days. I would simply ask that you, Jordan, would not remove yourself--or distance yourself too much from us. You would indeed be very missed.” Jordan nodded slowly and humbly. John had somewhat withdrawn his chair from under the table so that he could casually cross his right leg over his left as he turned in his chair toward the left side of the table to greet all the dialogue from that end. Upon the conclusion of the aforementioned statement, Alistair ran his dominant left hand through his thin black and greying hair, all the while looking rather displeased. Kyson nervously set her fingernails to attacking and damaging one another as Jordan began once more: “I will next invite Mr John--Niezche--to comment on this matter...as I perhaps should have done in the first place--before inviting...what would you say?--Additional commentary from his colleagues.”
John frowned deeply, slowly shaking his head negatively. “Will you not speak?” Jordan asked. John fluently continued the gesture. “Then...we shall reserve Assistant Niezche’s right to commentary until a time of his choosing. (Jordan chuckled as he added) Perhaps he means to amaze us with an address of some grandeur in the near future. (John examined the middle button on his dusk blue shirt with some interest--Jordan sighed) Until then…Alistair?--Joanna?” Joanna Kyson determinedly raised her hand as she volunteered to comment next.
“Jordan, Assistant Niezche entertains an obvious and disturbing partiality towards Miss Reaux! I have no reason to trust or believe that he will do anything but use his position and power for his and her advantage. Will you not reconsider?” Jordan rotated slightly in his black padded swivel chair (the only one in the room) as he folded his hands on his lap and looked inquisitively at Ulunya Reaux as if to say: “Did I miss something?” She turned nought but her head and, looking slightly up at him, struggled for words--her lips hanging partially ajar. Her mouth was dry and her tongue was as though paralyzed. Jordan reclined comfortably in his chair--his head off to one side as his eyes met hers. After several moments did she manage a slight shake of her head, their mutual gaze unbroken. Jordan unfolded his clasped hands, palms upward, and extended them toward her as if to invite her to speak. Her eyes moved quickly to John who rested his chin in his hands, allowing his fingers to conceal any emotion which might have been betrayed by his mouth--yet his steady eyebrows were a sufficient traitor to his conceit: He was not surprised by the accusation. She read him well and, turning her head entirely toward him, bound her eyes to his as she silently pleaded from the depths of her soul that he would rescue her from the obligation to defend herself. No sooner was she sure that her meaning was well understood by him when her eyes dropped to staring at the table. John knew that a response was expected from either of them, and he knew well that she was neither confident nor prepared enough to make a statement in her own defence, and so he arose to the occasion. His hand uncovered his mouth (revealing for but a moment an expression which confessed to any focused spectator the fact that he had in some way enjoyed those proceedings) as he cleared his throat, uncomfortably scratching his right ear as he addressed Jordan and, by extension, the persons seated about the table. “Ulunya and I--Miss Reaux and I--don’t have any understanding...” He knew he should say more but could find no words suitable, and feared that any further acknowledgement of the accusation might lend it some validity--so he held his peace uncomfortably, allowing his chin once more to fall into his hand and his fingers to conceal his mouth. He quickly allowed his eyes to bulge dramatically as he turned them toward Ulunya, raising his eyebrows discreetly at her as if to emphasize the stress she had placed solely upon him. The room fell silent as all seven of them hoped that another was confident enough to break the strange peace that had befallen them. Jordan assumed the responsibility and, clearing his throat in preparation, resumed: “Well, let’s discuss the matter of my delegation of authority during tomorrow’s meeting. At the moment, we should discuss this book (he pointed to the book that lay on the table before him, ‘Decoding Dracula’). Miss Joanna Kyson…”
Joanna accepted the invitation quietly, clearly unwilling to dispense with the last subject: “I just want to be clear that it is not you, John, who concerns me the most. You have all the appearances of justice and uprightness in addition to modesty and humility. It is Miss Reaux who causes me great concern.” The moment that she had betrayed the renewal of the subject, the annoyance of John, Esther, and Jordan were all turned against her, as was the wrath of Ulunya who now stared at her with a flame of passion. The moment that Kyson’s remark was completed, the before-mentioned four all chorused with the same word which echoed about the small room (Ulunya’s note was particularly sharp and challenging): “Why?”
Kyson was, for but a moment, put off by the manner in which the room had seemingly turned against her, but a momentary apprehension of Eullidge’s expression confirmed that she had a discreet ally. She continued: “Well, if I must say, it is slightly concerning that John is hardly the reliable type. I mean for GOD’s sake he doesn’t even have a vehicle. If it wasn’t for Mrs Rujard, here, he wouldn’t even be here today! Aside from that, he’s likely to delegate to Miss Reaux here--who is hardly the predictable sort: She is radical, harsh, and passively aggressive. She might at a single moment change from silent, withdrawn, and dull to loud, aggressive, and with the attitude of an absolute…” Jordan abruptly caused her to be silent her in her words with a single, sharp elevation of his hand as if to say “peace.” The room remained silent as Jordan allowed the tension to dissipate for a second, whereafter she calmly and steadily assured them: “We shall discuss this matter...at length--and preferably with some civility--tomorrow. Now…” He paused momentarily, glancing about the room and reading the tension and expressions on the faces of all present. He quietly continued: “...now we shall recess for (he eyed his wristwatch) three-quarters of an hour. I advise you all to be dismissed until then. I certainly shall be.” He briskly pushed back his chair and arose, turning toward the door.
Tuesday, November 2nd, 08.401527 Mifflin Avenue, Parking Lot, Section Back,
Jordan, Reaux
The man, Jordan, rounded the white-finished corner of the tall building, stepping about a small bush that had been planted in the thin level of gravel that encircled the base of the structure. The small stone rattled beneath his feet as he stepped over the large concrete curb and into an empty parking zone. One car, Esther’s cream-coloured Buick, was visible on the distant side of the lot. As he stepped over the concrete slab that served as a boundary between the gravel and the cement, Jordan turned and, formally placing his left hand against the lower back of his black denim jacket, he extended his right hand, offering it to Miss Reaux who gratefully took it, stepping carefully over first the brush and then the same concrete slab. As she landed softly beside him, she consciously tugged at her black pleated skirt, extending it over her knees so that it properly covered them. Bending at the knees, she sat upon the curb, remaining careful that she should not relax into the line of bushes which were planted behind her--Jordan slowly joined her, sitting at her right hand, his ageing frame requiring slightly more time and effort to adopt the position than did her youthful body. As he stiffly stretched his legs from his seated position, Miss Reaux searched her purple purse-bag and retrieved a black plastic spoon which she fit quickly into her jaw where she held it loosely between her teeth, both ends protruding from either side of her pretty complexion. She once more searched his bag from which she at length produced a small plastic cup which she took into her left hand, retrieving once more her plastic spoon. She delicately pulled back the silver seal from the cup as Jordan turned his head slightly toward her.
“You wish to speak?” He asked.
“No,” she moodily responded. She relished the first of her yoghurt. When, after several moments, Jordan turned to look with interest into the distance she relented, brushing several stray locks from her brow: “Yes.”
Jordan turned once more turned toward her, crossing his right leg over his left so that he was naturally adjusted to that side. He yielded the initiative to her that she might have the first word. She merely returned to her cup of yoghurt, relishing a second taste. Jordan understood that he was to speak first.
“That got pretty heated in there--aye?” Jordan prodded.
“Yep,” Ulunya duly replied.
Jordan showed momentary signs of despair before quickly containing himself. “I realise that I am somewhat responsible for placing you in what you might consider a less than optimal scenario.” Ulunya grunted in agreement--Jordan continued: “You know I really had--well I’m sorry for that, but…I had hoped that you might have had the confidence in there to stand up for yourself...it was quite an opportunity.” Ulunya continued to relish each and every taste of her meal as though Jordan were simply not even there. Jordan was not unused to such treatment--especially from her--but he had known her for a long time and known her type for a far longer period of time.
“Why didn’t you?--Defend yourself?”
Ulunya sharply responded: “I don’t know, Jordan.” After a moment she muttered: “I’m sorry I just (she cracked, dropping her spoon into her cup, moments from tears)--I got so nervous in front of them and--and they were all looking at me and I...I know we’ve been talking about this for--for years and I just…” She caught herself on the brink of tears and quickly attempted to calm herself, wiping her forehead with her empty hand and inhaling deeply. She carefully placed her yoghurt cup aside and flicked both her wrists as her breathing evened. “I got walked over didn’t I?”
Jordan scratched his chin thoughtfully before briskly nodding: “Yes. Yes, you did.” After a moment he continued in a positive tone, customarily inclining his head to the right side: “Nice work there, by the way--with the whole calming down. That was really--really quite something there. Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’s not worth it. Just think about it, and consider what you’ll do if you find yourself in that type of situation again--as you likely will. You can talk through it if you like.”
Ulunya repossessed her cup of yoghurt and tasted it once more. The two still had not made eye contact. Jordan had continually looked toward the ground, as had she; but she now looked up at him, her serenity restored. Jordan reciprocated, bringing a gentle smile to Ulunya’s complexion.
“Well…” she began, turning her eyes back to her yoghurt dish which she once more tasted, reducing its contents greatly, “...I wouldn’t have…(she struggled)...what should I have done?”
“Realize, Ulunya, that, uncomfortable as that might’ve been for you, it was hardly what you might call devastating...and yet it paralyzed you. You have the capacity to be disagreeable, as you were when you challenged Kyson when she suggested that you were untrustworthy--you challenged her when you demanded an explanation for her...for her accusation of your apparent lack of integrity--something like that. That is what you should capture and harness for later use. (Ulunya gleefully bit her lip as she recalled that single worded challenge that had caused Kyson to falter: “Why?”) Now you see that you had some strength in that moment? Don’t misuse that strength...don’t abuse it...don’t let it consume you. You must control it. Ultimately that’s what it is: Keep control of yourself and your surroundings to the extent that you can and should.” He emphasised the last two words and saw that she was much restored in her confidence. “Now. What would you do if that happened again?”
After considering for a moment, her words came forth as she crumpled and folded, with her hands, the new empty plastic yoghurt dish. “I shouldn’t have looked to you...probably--and I shouldn’t have looked to John. I forced him into the uncomfortable situation and--and he defended me!--But I also allowed him to steal that from me (Jordan winced, uncomfortable with this assessment)--I gave it away to him and abandoned both my responsibility and him (Jordan nodded confidently). And Kyson (she bit her lip in contempt)--Kyson was rewarded for her behaviour by being permitted to watch me sit there helplessly. I should’ve tried to control the situation by denying them. Is that really it? That easy? Just tell the truth? (she considered for several moments before raising her eyebrows)--Okay.” She swallowed as though she had contained within her mouth the last of her meal throughout the entirety of her analysis.
Jordan nodded confidently. He believed that her assessment was sufficient. “You might consider taking notes on that. That was a...a rather good assessment...I think. Okay. Now…(he wet his lips)...the truth?” He slightly inclined his head toward her as he examined her complexion from a safe distance, looking for anything that might betray her.
Ulunya knew Jordan well enough to know that he behaved thus when he thought that there was a possibility that he was being lied to--or at least not being sufficiently told the truth. She dared not raise her eyes to his, but she looked straight out before her unashamedly. “John?” she clarified, her eyebrows growing heavy and serious.
Jordan cleared his throat: “Mhm.”
Ulunya’s face softened and she presented her teeth, grinning broadly. “No,” she shook her head, “certainly not.” Jordan was unconvinced, half closing his eyes as he peered at her from under his lids. She retained the same expression for several moments, and Jordan permitted her to do so. As she removed her smile from her face with the back end of her arm Jordan, satisfied that she had been permitted a sufficient break, spoke once more: “You clearly think very highly of John Niezche--don’t you? (it was reasonable to take her silence as an affirmation) I don’t wish to prod, and I certainly am not entitled to a response from you but...if you don’t mind, I wonder…” Jordan trailed off. There was no way that he could properly formulate his request to his liking. Thus, he allowed his silence, alone, to speak to her intelligence, knowing well that she would respond if she had a mind to. He decided not to force the subject and turned away from her as he looked at his wristwatch, marking the time--twenty minutes until they were to resume the meeting in a dialogue regarding “Decoding Dracula” by Kostcka.
Miss Reaux secretly held contempt for her secretarial position. She viewed her duties as serval and inferior and so she entertained a natural disdain for her occupation. Her opinions and ideas were, in the organization, regularly disregarded and even condemned not only by Joanna Kyson and Alistair Eullidge (though regularly by them) but also by the others. She tended to view herself as a victim and as one who was nigh useless, and she blamed this uselessness upon the influence of others: Her uncle and anyone else whom she could imagine to be a perpetrator of her harm. Jordan had been nearly a father to her (in lue of her own deceased one) for eight years, and he had used his psycho-analytical skills over the past eight years to help her to slowly overcome these tendencies. She had developed significantly from the point of pathetic insociability to the point of a lack of confidence and purpose, as was at present her affliction. Jordan had regularly delegated to her certain small tasks or chores in the hope that they might aid her in viewing herself as a more useful type of person, and so he had given her the helpful task of documenting and recording all of the organization’s dialogue. He had recently begun to suspect her of a certain contempt and hatred for these tasks, and so he now considered that, by elevating John Niezche, he might encourage Niezche in his strength while secondarily creating space for Ulunya Reaux to be elevated by extension. The probability of this effect was amplified proportionately by the measure of the closeness of Reaux and Niezche’s relationship.
“I think I do.” Jordan jumped at the sound of her voice, interrupting his thought train. Her complexion was serious and open as she confessed, nodding enthusiastically: “I do think very highly of him and he’s just...so--so great...and nice. He’s always been so good to me and I think he likes me a lot...it’s just the way he looks at me and...makes faces at me--trying to make me laugh (she inclined her head to the side in a manner similar to how Jordan often did, smiling once more). I think sometimes when I look at him that it’s just the two of us in all this world...and other times I look at him and I think that he was looking at me only a second before, looking away only when I noticed...and I’m sure everyone can see it…” Suddenly did she stop, looking straight in front of her as she mustered the courage to engage Jordan’s eyes. He had been awfully quiet, and she wondered that he might even be dead. She turned her head and saw that he was gazing into the middle of the parking space. His lips showed hints of a smile and she knew that he smiled for her.
“Should I tell him?” she asked. Jordan responded not. A moment later, Ulunya’s radiance increased hopefully. “Would you tell him?”
Jordan responded promptly: “Take responsibility for this. Take charge and make a plan. It might be that this is worth putting some effort into. Ask yourself: How do you wish to proceed?--Tell him what?--Precisely?” Ulunya was thoughtful for a moment, her chin rested upon her fists which were clasped at an apex between her elbows which rested upon her knees. “I don’t entirely know...I just feel that I should speak to him now...that there’s something which remains unsaid which should be spoken.”
Tuesday, November 2nd, 09.301527 Mifflin Avenue, 2nd Floor, Section B, Office Number 12
Niezche, Rujard, Jordan, Reaux, Eullidge, Kyson, Koche
Jordan leaned into Miss Reaux’s vacant seat at his left hand and, reaching toward the cassette tape recorder, he set it once more into action, causing the white noise of the machine to fill the silent room. The organization had assembled once more in office number twelve of the second floor of 1527 Mifflin Avenue in the absence of Miss Reaux who had been delayed in the laboratory room where she was, at present, going about the business of reproducing, by means of a copying machine, several forms and elements of paperwork which were required by the other members of the organization for the execution of their day’s work. Jordan pulled his black swivel chair comfortably toward the table and, folding his hands presidentially upon the table, addressed the six members of the organization who were gathered according to their customary seating arrangements. All were once more focused upon him. John’s chair was extracted significantly from the table so that he was able to comfortably cross his right leg over his left, his hands folded similarly to Jordan’s.
“Right. As soon as Miss Reaux returns with the paperwork we shall commence with everybody’s favourite element of our occupation (his voice was wry, displaying obvious elements of sarcasm). As we await her...anyone?--Comments?--Concerns?” John declined with a slow shake of his head as he glanced toward the far end of the table in the expectation that Joanna would readily accept the invitation to repeat one or more of the sentiments that had been expressed by her in their recent convening--he was not disappointed. Joanna quietly expressed a wish to speak and was permitted by a slight point from Jordan in her direction to do so.
“What additional duties do you expect to bestow upon Assistant Niezche?--And will he be permitted to delegate?” Jordan raised both his hands before his face as if to request that she slow down. His and John’s eyes obviously met as they traded expressions of silent exasperation. John’s lower lip elevated and he frowned comically as he turned his head toward Joanna Kyson without moving from his comfortable position.
“I will fly about as Jordan’s little minion.” His voice was flat, steady, and dramatically serious. Esther audibly chuckled. Jordan repossessed the attention of the room as he interrupted: “I believe you will, John, by flying to Airee later this month to attend, on my behalf, the Annual Literary and Media Distribution Convention which will be of grave importance to our line of work.”
John and Jordan once more traded expressions as though there were not others in the room. John seemed to ask whether Jordan was serious as his eyebrows elevated dramatically as he understood from the silent engagement that he was, before they both turned back toward the far end of the table. John scratched his brow and behind his ear nervously as Jordan addressed the densely packed corner of the table. “I didn’t intend to make my intentions on that matter clear until tomorrow, when we shall meet at the Haven Park, but I figure that I might as well do so now. Until then, this conversation--(he intensely eyed Joanna particularly as he firmly pronounced the next words)--this conversation and all closely related topics--are over--done. Now…”
Miss Reaux entered the room, ceremoniously bearing with both hands a single, thick pile of white papers which she paraded about the table, coming to her own customary chair where she deposited them upon the table before seating herself quickly. As she travelled about the table and behind Jordan’s position, John’s eyes followed her path and she, upon sitting, recognized his gaze and smiled optimistically in return. He raised his eyebrows at her and she returned the gesture as she became comfortable in her chair. The exchange was done so that it was noticeable to the other persons in the room only on account of their inability to be distracted by anything besides and even then to only the more observant types. Miss Reaux pushed the pile of papers aside to Jordan who quickly organised them, tapped them edgewise against the table for the purpose of causing them to be perfectly aligned with one another, and then passed them across the table to Esther who separated for herself the top three pages and set them aside, passing the larger pile to her left hand where John perpetuated the process. Joanna Kyson muttered something to Eullidge who scratched his stubbled chin thoughtfully. Jordan secretly observed and, with a negative air, generalised his attention to the entire group.
“Thank you, Miss Reaux, for processing these. You are of continued aid and value to this organization...not to mention a pretty face.” Miss Reaux glanced secretly at John who passed the pile of papers to Joanna, secretly acknowledging Ulunya with a slight smile and nod. Joanna perpetuated the process as Jordan continued to speak:
“You all have, hopefully, developed a reasonable and sufficient opinion of the book-- ‘Decoding Dracula’--by Wilhelm Kostcka. It is by no means the most--(Jordan faltered)--deep nor, I might dare to add, the most...interesting. It is also undeniably well thought through even if it might not be exactly what you might call...riveting (a general chuckle emerged from the assembly). Even so, it is--Kostcka is--entitled to the same elements of attention and honesty as any other article or item that we might encounter in our work.”
By now, each member of the organization possessed three pages that were loosely stacked upon one another before each member. Joanna Kyson made a general remark that the pages might have been helpfully segregated and organized by means of a simple staple (yet another assault against the competence or utility of Miss Reaux). Miss Reaux scowled in John’s and Kyson’s direction and was met there by Kyson’s rigid gaze. The eyes of the two ladies met from under their brows, their chins tucked down as they were oriented toward the table. The exchange continued for several seconds before Ulunya identified the conflict as an opportunity. She shifted herself so that she was no longer merely confronting Kyson from under her brow, out of the corner of her eye but now entirely directing toward her, her chin brought confidently up several degrees. Jordan sighed as he suggested briefly that they all begin on the forms before them. He set himself to the task at hand and, seizing from the red pencil cup before him a black pen, he set about on the form:
Name: Jordan (incoherent)
Date: 11/02/2007
Title: Decoding Dracula
Author: Wilhelm…
He had begun to document the author’s last name when he became aware that there was a strange silence about the room. He was accustomed at such times to hear the scratching of six pens (Miss Reaux’s duties were beneath the other’s and so her opinion in matters regarding the business were not official) against the table, but on this day he could only recognize three, and it was then that he became aware that Miss Reaux was oddly rigid beside him when she might ordinarily be occupied in taking notes or some other element of her secretarial position. Jordan determinedly planned his next actions for the purposes of remaining collected and professional: Remained directed toward the forms as though he dared not look up. He replaced the lid on the pen and set it upon his paper, lifting his chin and customarily leaning his head as he beheld those about the table. His eyes first fell upon John who, seated beside Joanna, frowned uncomfortably and stared throughout rolled up eyes at the drop-ceiling above as though he might wish to be anywhere but here. John, upon sensing Jordan’s attention, brought his eyes down and softly locked eyes with him as he dramatically grimaced, practically begging Jordan to intervene. This ridiculous expression did he maintain definitely toward Jordan even after Jordan turned his attention first to Joanna who glared with grim confidence and secondly to Ulunya whose chin was confidently brought high so that her hair reddish fell down behind her shoulders as she and Kyson were locked in a battle of eyes. Neither set of eyes moved as both participants understood that she who wavered first was defeated; and so the fundamental conflict continued as Jordan observed them both with some interest. Esther remained carefully focused on her work as she understood that she had neither right nor interest to participate or share in the conflict. Jordan observed the entire scenario first with some exasperation and then with some interest. John continued to ridiculously grimace at Jordan who, at a certain moment, permitted his expression to convey annoyance to John who immediately removed from his complexion the expression and set about following Jordan’s eyes about the room as he shared interest in the proceeding. Ulunya’s jaw was still firmly set and betrayed no emotion other than a calm, simple endurance. John soon found that he was almost unable to move his eyes from the examination of her--for she was extraordinarily attractive to him for a strange, unexplainable reason which was amplified when she was so determined. Unlike Joanna, her complexion betrayed not tension, nor hatred, nor even dislike but merely unwavering, serene strength. Her lips were set gently against one another. Her shoulders were set back gently and she was not tense in any way but merely...and the red and brown hair and the way that it was in some places uncontrollable and in others so ordered and perfect. She was so well...defined?--and her eyes were so pretty. They were not overtly intense but soft and spoke to an inner serenity and passivity. They were so steady now but they so often floated about with such...beauty and it was so impossible to even...how could he say what it was that made her so pretty. The beauty was beyond words.
The moments were slowed as he lost himself in the beauty of her, and he knew for certain, as he had known many times before, that this was love. Ulunya had sensed his gaze for some time but had determinedly refused to permit his attention to distract her from the contest in which she was at present involved. Yet, for hardly a single moment did her eyes flash toward his and, before she even knew this, did she know that she had lost her battle. Her complexion betrayed, in a moment, a slight note of dismay her lids fell heavily over her eyes and it seemed to John that in that immortal moment she was peacefully asleep. Her lids withdrew as she finished what had seemed to him to be sleep but was, in reality, merely a blink. Joanna’s lips curled triumphantly as the two ladies silently understood that, according to unwritten rules of conflict, Miss Reaux had been bettered. Who now eyed Jordan tentatively as if to search his face for his approval in the matter. Jordan, after a moment of consternation, tightened his lips and returned to his forms. Miss Reaux and Kyson met eyes momentarily with hostile respect before turning, one to her forms and the other to her notebook, schedule, and silent self-reflection.
Tuesday, November 2nd, 09.511527 Mifflin Avenue, 2nd Floor, Section B, Office Number 12
Niezche, Rujard, Jordan, Reaux, Eullidge, Kyson, Koche
Jordan ceremoniously folded and closed the large manilla envelope before placing it in the centre of the table. “Case closed.”
“Why?” asked Kyson.
“Because you have all documented the book and I have received and verified your forms (Jordan pointed to the envelope which now contained the assessments and suggestions of the six councillors regarding the book).”
John interrupted, clearing his throat loudly: “I think that what Councillor Kyson means is that her part of the work may be unsatisfactory. Perhaps you should review it, Jordan?”
Jordan scowled. “I have reviewed it.”
“And was it satisfactory?”
“It was sufficient and…” Jordan shook his head confusedly as he directed his gaze toward John “...what are you doing?”
John kept a steady composure and tone. “Just...checking on the quality of the work done by this firm.”
Jordan formed his next statement for several moments before speaking. “Let me be clear. Mr Niezche…”
“Assistant Niezche,” John corrected him quietly.
Jordan slightly raised his voice as he revised. “Assistant Niezche! Let me be absolutely clear. You are to serve as a superior to your peers only at my bidding. You do not have the privilege of independent discretion.”
John began as though to retort but was silenced by a harsh expression from Miss Reaux. She knew well that he was attempting to protect her, but she never liked to see John and Jordan cross one another--it was particularly painful for her. As soon as she was sure that John had understood her, she allowed her complexion to express to him gratitude and humour--for she had, to a measure, enjoyed the exchange. This style was not uncommon of John and it amounted to a major portion of his personality that favoured comedy, absurdity, and the tendency to go too far.
Jordan spoke, eyeing John sternly: “Assistant Niezche, you have before you the information regarding yet another book which we are to assess. Please read it for us.”
“Of course,” John muttered quietly. He cleared his throat and wet his fingers upon his lower lip before beginning to read the first of three pages which were stapled together.
“Name of the book is...(he stopped and glanced briefly at Miss Reaux from under his brow, smirking)... ‘The Wills,’ by Willma Williams.” He stopped suddenly and raising his hand over his mouth, breathed carefully and steadily that he might control the growing urge to burst into laughter. The room was silent for several more moments before he dared to look from the paper at Miss Reaux, who, upon meeting his eyes, could not contain her own hysteria a moment longer so that first she and then he cracked, betraying their laughter. They held one another's gaze as they regained control, joined naturally by Jordan who was the firstwho appreciatively wiped tears from his eyes with both his hands before calming the two with a downward gesture of his hands. “Continue, please.”
John leaned back in his chair sharply and wiped his sleeve across his eyes, taking a deep breath and exhaling. He reached out and, seizing the pamphlet, comfortably crossed his right leg over his left as he resumed the reading of the pamphlet calmly: “‘Is a narrative story that follows the life of a young girl’--most girls are-- ‘who attends a public school and has a mother and a father.’” He rested the pamphlet on his thigh as he met eyes with Jordan. Jordan’s chin rested in a scholar's cradle that was supported at an apex between his elbows which rested on the table so that his fingers mostly covered his mouth. He mumbled simply in response to John’s gaze: “Gripping.”
John continued: “‘She struggles with her fellow children…’”
Miss Reaux: “Siblings?”
John: “‘...both at home and in the schoolyard. She finds it difficult to obey her parents and teachers and argues with different people. Wilma’…(he grimaced as he silently reread the line)...Woah. She’s her own character? That’s going to be me-ssy. ‘Wilma conflicts with mailmen and pizza delivery people’? ‘as she attempts to balance the difficulties of her home life’? ‘She battles the flu and a nosebleed and never gives up on the things which are most important to her: her village of stuffed animals’! ‘She defends her dolls and stuffed animals from little sister Cyndey’--that’s C-Y-N-D-E-Y, in case you’re interested (Koche coughed violently) ‘who would burn them if she could. The sequel will be about her brother’?” John closed the pamphlet and slapped his knee with it, looking about him comedically as he perceived the bewildered and unenthusiastic expressions of those about him. “This is good stuff!” He exclaimed, nodding with good natured sarcasm.
“Let me know when the movie comes out,” interjected Alistair Eullidge flatly, “In the meantime, can we assess ‘Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day’?”
Miss Reaux expressed, with a nod, her agreement. Joanna Kyson was willing to withhold her apprehension. “Well, wait. Perhaps it’s a narrative short story? I think it might be of a charming little bit of novelty.”
Before she had finished speaking, John had turned over the first page. He sighed and spoke flatly. “It’s eight hundred and twenty-three pages long.” The expressions and groans of dismay that followed were amplified by a quiet gasp from Miss Reaux: “Holy GOD…” her hands covered her forehead and face as her frame slumped lifelessly upon the desk (her forehead made audible contact with the table). Jordan clasped his hands together and concealed his nose and mouth as he bent gravely forward. John frowned deeply, focused comically at the pamphlet in his lap.
Kyson and Eullidge leaned together and a whispered conversation ensued between the two. John remained silent as he stared down at the booklet, allowing himself to be nearly abstract from the room. Esther had been playing with a pen which she now replaced in her red pencil cup. She reached across the table and gently tapped Miss Reaux’s hands. Who was resurrected and smiled thinly at Esther.
“Hey, Esther,” Miss Reaux muttered sleepily.
“Hey, Ulunya,” she replied gently, hesitating momentarily, “you owe me ten dollars.”
Miss Reaux bent her head to one side and slowly began to inquire why. Esther clarified: “The agreement?--The bet?”
Miss Reaux recalled and groaned, collapsing once more upon the table. From her facedown position she blindly reached with her right hand into the purse-bag under her chair and, after some digging, retrieved a single piece of paper money which she pressed with a solid thud upon the table between Esther and herself, remaining upon the table. Esther quietly thanked her, slipping the piece of currency into her chest pocket. Miss Ulunya Reaux and Esther Rujard had an outstanding agreement that, whenever Reaux directly addressed Divinity outside of a religious context, she owed Rujard ten dollars. Thus was Reaux penalized for violating the religious commandment that forbade the taking of the LORD’s name in vain.
Jordan returned from behind his clasped hands and once more addressed the assembly: “Miss Reaux, of course, will digitize and format this information.” He pushed the large manilla envelope toward her so that a corner of it prodded her shoulder. Miss Reaux once more reached blindly into her purse-bag and straightened in her chair as she pressed a second piece of paper money into the table before her so that it was concealed by her wrist. With her free hand did she seize from her red pencil cup a black pen with which she scribed secretively upon the piece of paper money before concealing the pen in her shirtsleeve and passing the second piece of money across the table to Esther. Upon glancing momentarily at the currency, Esther apprehended that the inscription upon it was simple: “To John.” Esther understood that Miss Reaux wished for confidentiality and so she pressed it into John’s hand under the table. He slipped the currency between two pages of the pamphlet which remained still on his lap so that he was able to examine it with great interest without drawing the attention of the others. It read on the opposite side: “My job is your’s.” He glanced secretly at Miss Reaux so that she knew that he had understood. All the while did Jordan continually address the group: “As for the rest of you, I will have Miss Reaux print the transcript of this book so that you may…(he sighed)...begin work on reading this piece of...literature. Until that point, I am inclined to dismiss you all to begin on your own time. Don’t forget to complete your compensation forms. Make sure you are being paid for your pains and efforts.” He dryly licked his lips as John cleared his throat. Jordan nodded quickly to him, indicating permission to speak.
“I’d like to stay late and...you know, maybe help Ulunya with her work.” His eyes flickered about self consciously but he remained oriented toward Jordan, synthesizing confidence.
Jordan was now placed in a difficult situation. “Well, there wouldn’t be any problem with that aside from the simple truth that I need you to focus your working hours on that book. I’m sorry but that’s (John bit his lip and shook his head, interrupting Jordan quietly).”
“I’ll get it done on my own time. Don’t worry about it, man.”
“Well...we—the organization can’t afford to pay you for overtime and Miss Reaux is entitled to 38 hours of—well, this is Mrs Rujard’s department.” Jordan turned to Esther and extended his hands toward her. John’s expression was serious and slightly nervous as he turned his head to Esther on his right side.
She addressed him but remained oriented toward Jordan as though it were he to whom she spoke. “Yes. The organization, unfortunately, cannot afford to compensate any of its employees for overtime. However (she adopted an optimistic note) if Miss Reaux—Ulunya—and you (a general cringe occurred as the two names were compounded) are interested, you two can apply for HR103P.”
Jordan nodded as he led the witness: “And what exactly is that, Esther?”
“The Human Resource Provision for Co-Joint Employee Compensation—it causes them to be paid as a single entity leaving themselves responsible for the deliberation and distribution of their funds.”
“Oh! Is the marriage official then?”Joanna Kyson piped up with a definite note of sarcasm, “And where’s my invitation?”
Miss Reaux scowled timidly at Joanna as Esther responded flatly and professionally: “Although it is true that the Provision for Co-Joint Compensation is most often used in the case of two married individuals, it is not a necessary element that they be so...married. Any two or more persons may apply.”
Jordan had been quiet thoughtfully. Yet, he now became interactive once more as he nodded. “If you would discuss that with them in secluded conference at some time this week I would be most grateful. (He deliberately took a breath) Does anybody have relevant comments or questions?”
Tuesday, November 2nd, 10.201527 Mifflin Avenue, 2nd Floor, Section B, Office Number 12
Niezche, Rujard, Jordan, Reaux, Eullidge, Kyson, Koche
The room began to be emptied as Lucus Koche decided to be the first to rise from his position nearest to the door and set out into the great beyond by himself. He was, by nature, quiet and reserved. However, as has been noted before, he was a loyal man who would unleash his inner shadow upon any entity foolish enough to threaten one of his comrades. Jordan always remained for some time in the room at the conclusion of their meeting in order that any person wishing for private conversation or advice might apply themselves to him during that time. Miss Ulunya Reaux would often spend this time with her practical father provided that nobody remained in the room to apply themselves to him. On this day, none seemed willing to follow Lucus Koche through that door and into the great beyond, and it was clear that Jordan would be the source of much advice this day--and so Miss Ulunya Reaux gathered her purse-bag from under her chair, her numerous folders and files and book from their orderly piles on the table and, discarding them into her purse-bag (which tripled in weight) she rose from her seat and moved about the table clockwise: behind Esther (called by her somewhat lazy associates “Esther”), behind John (whose eyes and head followed her about the table), behind Joanna Kyson (who studied her fingers against the wooden table), behind Alistair Eullidge (who quite possibly stayed in his position due to some connexion to the person at his right hand) and to the door which she opened slightly and slipped through. As she exited the scene, she turned quickly over her shoulder and found that she was conveniently able to make eye contact with John and so, in a small gesture, she nodded her head as if to ask if he was coming with her. He nodded and raised a finger as if to beg for a moment. He turned in his chair slowly toward Jordan as the door softly closed. Esther next rose from her position and followed Miss Reaux through the door.
So the silent contest continued as each in the room sought to be the last and, therefore, the recipient of Jordan’s time and advice. Until addressed, he would sit and shuffle paperwork or read some book on the topics of philosophy, psychology, religion, or neuroscience or he might read one of the many books to which he was charged with assessing and recommending it for public consumption. For in those days the land had changed little but the behaviour of the politicians had transformed that which was once the Great State of Pennsylvania into a censorious and strange realm. The State had been renamed for political purposes, years had been forgotten, and it formed a strange combination every period of time, stripped of its context, bound together. The world had changed as a result of a worldwide phenomenon and things were forgotten which should never have been forgotten—things were changed which need not have been changed, and there had been such instability that to compromise was to alter nearly the nature of the culture itself.
Jordan raised his eyes from his book, glancing briefly at each person before him as he considered his next words.
Tuesday, November 2nd, 12.48Haven Park, Overlook
Niezche
There, before him stretched the Abenander River. Parallel to Front Street, it flowed toward, past, and away from him. Front Street ran before him, parallel to the river, until the two mingled with the horizon, and the bridges that straddled the river were visible in profile--the reddened iron of decades glistening in the noonday light. The weather was warm and dry--such that a person might have mistaken the season for that of Summer. The river, surrounded on each bank by controlled grass and scattered trees, widened slightly as it ran into the distance where it ran under five bridges in total along Front Street and, several miles beyond city limits, two massive bridges which controlled the traffic toward and from the north-eastern counties and city-states. The river ultimately ended before State Street where it was controlled by a thin concrete dam which fortified the entire river bed throughout the city limits. A hand and safety rail was built atop the concrete dam. Behind this railing flourished the Haven Park: a series of paved walks and paths ran between smaller fields and along either side of the river, and it was upon this that he now stood: a thin layer of small stones or gravel separated the path from the railing which overlooked the river. Under him, set into the dam wall that fortified the river bed against the water, were three large steel pipes. These massive gaping holes were a drainage system which allowed the river to flow under the deepest section of the city. Thus, it was, by an underground system, processed for the aquilary needs of the city. He gripped, for a moment, the railing as he bent over it, checking, out of a casual interest, the waterline: Receding--but not dangerously low. It had been a dry season, so it was not surprising that the water line should be a little low. One could always accurately estimate whether the river was higher or lower than usual by the ring of sediment and small debris which accumulated along the concrete wall, an accurate marker for the normal height of the water. Lately, this ring had been often visible, indicating that the river was being fed by its sources significantly less than it had been in past months. He recovered his posture and adjusted the shoulder strap of his canvas satchel as he scanned both sides of the Haven Park, hoping to observe some hint of his affiliate. He was late. In fact, he had nearly forgotten the meeting altogether. Today had not been a good day for him: He’d been late for two meetings, been less apt for comedy than usual, been unusually strange around Ulunya, and--that was Fr. Freud.
He was, himself, just arriving from the left side of the park. John observed Fr. Freud as he crossed the busy intersection of Front Street and Prime Street. He made long strides, his long black cassock flowing between his heels as the aged priest crossed boldly on a crosswalk before several vehicles which awaited the traffic light. He moved with surprising athleticism for his age. He stepped upon the curb on the nearer side of the street and turned sharply toward John’s position. He glanced steadily at the ground before his feet, confident in every movement. He followed the sidewalk toward John. Now, about eighty meters away, he found that the direction of the sidewalk no longer suited him, and so he vacated the path and began to cross directly toward John through a field of grass. He passed under the shade of a tree and took advantage of the shade to glance quickly up, for the first time, toward John. They made eye contact and the priest smiled jovially, elevating his right hand in greeting and blessing as he finished closing the distance. When he was no more than five strides distant, John reoriented his posture from the railing and the scenic river and bridges and green and forested hills beyond--all this he turned away from, toward the priest.
John: “Father!” The two met in a gentle hand shake and John bowed reverently toward the priest, touching his forehead to the man’s hand. John immediately made an effort to be conversational, his expressions, lips, and eyebrows playing like magic across his face, amplifying his good nature. He continued: “I received your note.”
Father nodded uncertainly, and John was surprised to find that the priest seemed to struggle to recollect. The two men turned together toward the railing that they might hold their meeting while enjoying the serene scene before them. John studied, for a moment, the priest’s face: At first did he frown as he brought himself toward the railing. He forced a bright, cheerful expression as he gazed at the picturesque scene before him (John remained discreetly focused upon the priest).
Fr. Freud: “The weather is particularly bright...and warm.”
An awkward silence became evident before John quickly attempted to save the moment. He unenthusiastically nodded as he flatly responded: “Yes. It has been.” John hoped that the priest might speak further. Fr. Freud, however, appeared to remain focused entirely upon the river, the bridges, and the unfolding city and hills. John knew now that this could not continue, and so he forced the subject. “So. Father, why are we here?”
“My son, I must be entirely honest...I’m not entirely sure. I simply came here because...well, I did.”
“You came here because you did?”
“So it seems…--... I will just...check this for a second.” Father reached within his long black cassock and withdrew a green composition notebook which he turned away from John, hunching his shoulders over the book in order that his frantic scrambling of the pages might not be obvious to the younger man--an effort that was likely in vain. John, however, affected his participation in the awkward moment by remaining in silence whilst he observed first the river and view and, second, the sky to his oblique right, his hands wrapped comfortably around the steel railing which barred him from an approximately thirty-meter fall into the water below. The crescented concrete dam beneath him protruded so that, were he to fall, he would be dashed to his injury upon a harder surface, rather than into the watery alternative.
Father muttered as he gathered his wits about him. “It seems I’m meant to meet you (he moved his face closer toward the page so that it was almost touching the page)--and a Dr Jordan at this park. Have you seen the doctor around here? Did you bring him?”
John’s face tightened as he recalled the entirety of the note. He licked his lips nervously and barred them, allowing a slow, drawn-out shake of his head back and forth to express the negative.
Father read from the book as though reading a script: “Were you supposed to?”
John, comically: “My memory isn’t what it used to be. What is the matter of which you read?”
Father, still reading: “Our script. I tend to forget my words before I can say them.”
John’s hands detached from the railing as he cast them with exasperation toward the heavens: “So we’re both losing our minds.”
“I more than you. You’ll want to watch that though. It’ll only get worse.” Father was now oriented toward John who had withdrawn his hands into his pockets where he hid them as entirely as possible, straightening even the elbow in order to take up as much space as possible.
“So are those your words or are they scripted?”
“Both. I usually follow the script but I improvise a little bit... sometimes.”
John was skeptical: “But...you seem to know what I’ll say next. Surely I’m not scripted.”
Father eyed him nervously: “You are.”
John scowled, shocked, as he turned entirely toward the priest. There were no words suitable for the occasion and so he merely licked his lips as he considered his next words. Returning to the conversation several moments later, he found Father to be looking out over the rail toward the opposite direction from which he had come. John followed his gaze, and did after but a moment recognize the figure of the doctor moving their direction. John turned sharply toward the priest and discreetly did the two make eye contact--Father nervously. John maintained a neutral, calm demeanor: “So that is how you’re going to play this?”
Father: “I’m sorry, John—but yes.”
John nodded thoughtfully as he prepared to receive the man. Jordan drew near.
“Father...John (he bowed courteously toward each in turn) I’m sorry that I’m not exactly on time, but there were some delicate matters which required my attention (he nodded sharply). I was surprised to find your letter, John.”
John frowned as Fr. Freud looked on with distinct interest: “My letter?”
Jordan: “Yes, I… (John squinted, pressing his lips tightly together as he tried to recall) John, there was note left for me to meet you here. I found it on the table near your seat.”
John looked down for several seconds as though unconscious. He could not recall having left Jordan a note. As he searched and researched his memory, he found that he had no recollection of leaving the office. He had merely… left—walked out? Not even this, for he was not able to recall anything now of the meeting—but wait awhile. Here something came: Ulunya… he must surely remember her, and indeed he did. The red and brown locks, the soft eyes, and the round complexion. The downcast humility and the lack of confidence which so often set her attention to fly from present conflict to his own eyes where she sought comfort and where he was so willing to give it. Yet, why had he tarried? Indeed, he had procrastinated the confession of his admiration. Did he hide it? Was he ashamed—or embarrassed—or even guilty? Nay! He told himself: “He was merely being prudent.” Yet the answer was insufficient to him, and the more he tried to assure himself of its truth the more he felt a growing anticipation in his soul. He raised his eyes to the two older men, looking between the two evenly spaced gentlemen, and found that fewer than twenty seconds had passed; for the mind is faster than the hourglass, and the soul is deeper than that glistening river which beneath him shimmered.
“Ok.” John nodded. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but... (his voice went dry and he cracked, shaking his head softly and licking his lips sharply) what does your script want me to do next?”
“Read the next page in the black notebook.”
John pulled the satchel toward the front of his person and drew forth the black notebook, flipping open the top, withdrew the black notebook. His satchel fell back to his side as he raised the notebook to his eyes. He glanced briefly at Father and, glancing back down at the notebook, asked: “You know what’s in here?”
Father hesitated: “I--I might.”
“Of course you do,” John muttered, opening the book. He was silent as he read the second page. As he drew nigh to the end of the script, he began to slowly nod his head, the action which steadily accelerated until he finished the article. He looked up to the priest and, still nodding, summarized the letter: “It’s a death threat.” If he was surprised, he made an admirable effect of not showing it, for he remained calm and even cool. Turning the page over and back again, he added: “From you.”
The priest appeared to be mildly confused, though not entirely surprised. John licked his lips and, ruling them into a straight line, he stepped nearer to the priest so that his shape towered over the smaller man and, looking down into his face, revealed the side of John that few men knew. It was gentle but shocking. It was not his ferocity that was dreadful but his peace, and the control with which he held himself as a man not to be crossed. One could hardly imagine him the dealer a blow and yet he was, at moments such as these, the like that few men would dare. His brows were heavy and focused, and he stared out from under them with an alertness which commanded respect.
“Ok Father. This is what we’re going to do. I am going to close this book, and I am going to put it away; and we...are going to pretend that this (he pointed to the book in his left hand) never happened.”
A momentary pause ensued before Father responded: “Ok.”
“Ok,” John confirmed, turning toward Jordan, “Jordan (he pointed to the man), can I catch a ride.”
“Yeah--yes,” Jordan replied quickly.
“Right, let’s go.” John stepped quickly between the two men and was joined by Jordan who quickened his steps that he might catch and maintain pace with the younger man. Jordan looked to John as though he might speak. John watched the ground as he walked briskly away from the priest and the overlook. It was clear that this conversation would not at all be welcome at this time, and so the man, Jordan, held his peace.