Wyland, after an uncomfortable night in an unfamiliar bed, with heavy thoughts and what felt like twenty tons of guilt and embarrassment weighing on his chest, got up and went back to New Scotland Yard. He felt like the courage he had felt last night had dissolved completely, with regret and embarrassment left behind.
Connie was there, and seemed relieved to see Wyland at her office door. She smiled sheepishly, and apologized for the previous night. She said she had been "unprofessional", a term that Wyland despised. Professionalism, in Wyland's mind, was simply a way to maintain hierarchies and keep minions in their place. It was a mechanism of social control. It had no place in love or lust, whatever this had been.
Wyland stopped her from making more awkward excuses by gently grabbing her shoulders, sitting her down, and telling her his story. A story he'd never told anyone before. He told her of early successes, a bright, good-looking and promising student with a beautiful fiance, who had, one day, lost damn near everything, and hadn't really regained it since. He didn't know why it happened, but it wasn't her fault. He was cursed to fail; at love, at work, at life.
Connie listened intently, with a deep caring in her eyes. After he finished, tears streamed down her face as she said "Oh god, Wy, I had no idea. I'm so sorry." Wyland was extremely relieved to see that she genuinely believed him.
Then he said "I have to find out what this curse is. I don't care if I die in the process. All there is left for me is to solve this... maybe I can get my life back if I do, and if not, I haven't really lost much. You can help me. You're the only person who can help me."
She sighed, a deep, rattling sigh, and nodded silently. She pulled up the files on Crom and Oliver, printed them and handed them to Wyland. "Please destroy these once you've memorized them, I'm not really supposed to do this."
She continued "There's something else. A work acquaintance of theirs, Stephen McAlerod, was killed yesterday morning, in a most unlikely fashion. An old satellite fell on the house where he and his mother were staying. A Russian satellite with a hot nuclear core. We had to evacuate half the bloody town of Winterbourne. He and his mother were the only casualties, though it started several fires, and several people are still being monitored for radiation exposure." She went quiet, staring out the window, though there wasn't much of a view.
After a while, she continued "I... I heard about it this morning. My boss wants to reopen the case, but we haven't yet. These idiots are dangerous. They're trying to figure out a way to bring them in without allowing them to speak. Tranqs and tasers, we're thinking. They're deathly afraid of these little cunts." She crossed her arms, and shook her head. "Stupid people with power are the worst kind. That's why we don't allow many guns here. It's the stupid ones that ruined it for everyone else. You Yanks would do well to learn that."
After her little commentary, she went back to professional mode. "We pulled Mr. McAlerod's comms history, sorry, um... e-mails, phone calls and such." Wyland nodded, he knew what she meant the first time. She went on "I haven't had time to look at them, but I had the copy center make you up a copy." She handed him a thick manila envelope. "what's immediately apparent is that he knew he was cursed."
"The Cunninghill brothers are currently at work, in a quarry outside Lanark, Scotland. It's all in the case files. Mr. McAlerod left the site a little more than a week ago. An eyewitness in Winterbourne reported that he arrived there the next day looking quite ill, and barely left the house once he arrived. There's quite an extensive internet record in there, I think that's all he did in his final days was search the internet. He had booked a plane ticket stateside, to Detroit, and was slated to leave today."
She looked exceptionally competent and professional as she briefed Wyland, and he could feel the lust for her welling up in him again, and had to stifle it, beat it down, and maintain a calm demeanor. All he wanted to do was grab her and passionately kiss her, but he didn't. He just sat there listening to her, until finally, she dropped another large envelope in his lap. "A copy of all our... more esoteric research associated with the case. I assume you're already familiar with most of it. We will move on the Cunninghills within the next few days, we're still coordinating with the northern police force in Edinburgh. Be careful and stay out of the way."
"Thanks" Wyland said as he stacked everything in his shoulder bag, an old leather case that reminded him of a large purse. He probably would have taken crap for wearing a man purse from his friends, except he never really had any good friends to give him shit like that.
He stood up, and puffed his chest out, trying to look brave and determined, but she could see the fear in his eyes. She smiled at him again, a sexy, sultry smile. He was really going to do this, and she knew she would never see him again, at least not alive. The thought was nostalgic, somehow, like watching a warrior march off to a battle he was sure to lose, but did so anyway, for honor and glory, for king and country. She thought it was excruciatingly sexy of him. She felt like it was 1939, and war was coming, and nobody knew just how bad it might get.
He turned to go, but she stopped him, grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. "Good luck" she said sincerely, then kissed him, deeply and passionately. He tasted salt as a tear fell to their lips. He could feel her slender frame against him, and the warmth of soft skin beneath the silk shirt she was wearing. They lingered there for a moment, breathing each others' air and tasting each others' lips, then they finished, her lips grabbing his as they broke off. Wyland looked at the ground, shouldered his bag, said "thanks again" and left.
After grabbing lunch, Wyland purchased a self defense taser and some duct tape, then boarded the train at King's Cross, bound for Edinburgh. He felt like the weight had been lifted, like he was going to his death with a clean conscience.
Friday, September 27, 2013
Ch.17: An unsuccessful, lonely, loveless life awaits
Connie left the hotel disappointed. Wyland sat on the bed, feeling worse that he had in a long time. He couldn't get it up. Limp as a wet fucking towel. God, how cruel life could be!
She was sexy; A lithe and beautiful figure underneath the boring business suit, with a thick, gorgeous mane of silky, dirty greyish blond hair above and a smaller but equally beautiful tuft of dark blond below. Her breasts were small, with tiny nipples, that were still beautiful and perky, untouched by the cruelty of gravity that so afflicts larger breasted women. Her butt was perfectly round and shapely. She even danced naked for him, a drunken, silly, off balance dance, but still... nothing had worked. He had tried using his tongue and hands to please her, but it was insufficient. She got sick of the embarrassing display he had put on, and got dressed and left, herself feeling dejected and unattractive. She went home, drank some more wine, and went to sleep.
Wyland was there in the hotel room, feeling as lonely as one can, also crying. He hadn't been with a willing girl in years, perhaps a decade, and now it was like his body didn't remember how it worked. No, he was hard at the restaurant, that couldn't have been it. He had been so horny and ready to explode that he was worried about endurance, which after the fact, seemed like a silly thing to worry about. He was still too young to need a pill.
She had seemed genuinely attracted to him. He had pulled off his shirt, and she had growled a little kitten growl at him, and pawed at him, and gotten even more horny than she was before. She had been dripping wet; The whole room smelled of her sex.
He was definitely attracted to her. She was fun and beautiful and friendly.
Why?!? Why had this happened!?
His mind raced from embarrassment, to anger, to thoughts of suicide, and then back to the quiet, empty room, seen through tear stained eyes. It had to be a curse. He was convinced now. Was he getting closer, and now the world was actively mocking him, instead of the passive insults he had endured before? Wyland got a sudden urge to punch a hole through the wall, angry and impotent rage welling up inside him. He screamed at the empty air, pounding the soft bed with his fists, and then, head in hands, really started to cry. A whimpering, toneless cry into a hotel pillow.
After a little while, he remembered what she had told him at the restaurant. The Cunninghill brothers. They might know, they certainly were involved somehow. If they could throw a curse, they should know how to lift one. He didn't even care anymore. He didn't have a life worth living if he didn't solve this, so he wasn't worried about the consequences. An unsuccessful, lonely, loveless life awaited him if he chickened out now. His dejection and despair fluidly turned to resolve and courage. He straightened up, sniffed back the snot in his nose, and pulled out his laptop to look up who these god-damned worthless shit-stains were.
She was sexy; A lithe and beautiful figure underneath the boring business suit, with a thick, gorgeous mane of silky, dirty greyish blond hair above and a smaller but equally beautiful tuft of dark blond below. Her breasts were small, with tiny nipples, that were still beautiful and perky, untouched by the cruelty of gravity that so afflicts larger breasted women. Her butt was perfectly round and shapely. She even danced naked for him, a drunken, silly, off balance dance, but still... nothing had worked. He had tried using his tongue and hands to please her, but it was insufficient. She got sick of the embarrassing display he had put on, and got dressed and left, herself feeling dejected and unattractive. She went home, drank some more wine, and went to sleep.
Wyland was there in the hotel room, feeling as lonely as one can, also crying. He hadn't been with a willing girl in years, perhaps a decade, and now it was like his body didn't remember how it worked. No, he was hard at the restaurant, that couldn't have been it. He had been so horny and ready to explode that he was worried about endurance, which after the fact, seemed like a silly thing to worry about. He was still too young to need a pill.
She had seemed genuinely attracted to him. He had pulled off his shirt, and she had growled a little kitten growl at him, and pawed at him, and gotten even more horny than she was before. She had been dripping wet; The whole room smelled of her sex.
He was definitely attracted to her. She was fun and beautiful and friendly.
Why?!? Why had this happened!?
His mind raced from embarrassment, to anger, to thoughts of suicide, and then back to the quiet, empty room, seen through tear stained eyes. It had to be a curse. He was convinced now. Was he getting closer, and now the world was actively mocking him, instead of the passive insults he had endured before? Wyland got a sudden urge to punch a hole through the wall, angry and impotent rage welling up inside him. He screamed at the empty air, pounding the soft bed with his fists, and then, head in hands, really started to cry. A whimpering, toneless cry into a hotel pillow.
After a little while, he remembered what she had told him at the restaurant. The Cunninghill brothers. They might know, they certainly were involved somehow. If they could throw a curse, they should know how to lift one. He didn't even care anymore. He didn't have a life worth living if he didn't solve this, so he wasn't worried about the consequences. An unsuccessful, lonely, loveless life awaited him if he chickened out now. His dejection and despair fluidly turned to resolve and courage. He straightened up, sniffed back the snot in his nose, and pulled out his laptop to look up who these god-damned worthless shit-stains were.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Ch. 16: Chocolate martinis and roast duck
The rich smell of Indian curry hit their noses as the door opened to the restaurant. The cab ride had been pleasant enough, Wyland and Connie mostly exchanging complaints of office life and deeply entrenched bureaucracy. Wyland hadn't mentioned the case to her since they left the office. Connie had warmed considerably towards him, and he found that they got along quite well.
The maitre'd ushered them in and seated them near the windows of the colorful and brightly lit space. It was still early, so there were few other patrons about, and they mostly had the place to themselves. There were colored lamps, and rich burgundy carpet, and the tables were made of some dark and beautiful hardwood.
Connie asked about what lawyering in the states was like, and Wyland answered, almost rhyming as he said it, that "it was like being surrounded by fools, everyone hates being there, and they're all playing a game where no one knows the rules". She laughed deeply in response to this, a genuine laugh, slightly roguish but still feminine in character. Wyland described how much lawyers were hated, and she agreed that it was the same in England. Wyland, sensing her character, then pulled out the old "two thousand lawyers at the bottom of the sea" joke (a good start), to which she laughed even harder, so much so that she snorted, and had to put her hand over her mouth to avoid spitting tea everywhere.
They ordered, Connie requesting roast duck in a curry sauce and Wyland getting tandoori chicken. They munched on naan and sipped tea, chatting about inane differences in culture and dress between their two countries. She had much to say about the British opinion of Americans and the U.S. in general; a strange mixture of guilt that America is a direct descendant of the U.K. and it's political philosophy, and disgust at the rampant stupidity of U.S. imperial interests. The Brits had already been there and done that, and the fall of an empire is a painful experience. She said that most Brits wonder why on earth the Yanks hadn't learnt from the earlier mistakes of Britain. The only possible answer? Straight up stupidity and brash ignorance to the lessons of history. Wyland had never thought about it before, but he knew she was right.
Wyland was rapt. She was funny, and smart, with a cutting wit. Wyland felt better than he had in quite some time, sitting here enjoying the company of a still lovely and intelligent woman who actually seemed to tolerate him. The food was outstanding, far and away the best Indian food Wyland had ever had. They ordered chocolate martinis for dessert.
Sated now, and slightly buzzed, Wyland decided, against his better judgement, to bring up curses. But Connie was much happier and looser now, and freely gave her opinion.
She said "It's all foolishness, if you ask me. I'm tempted to believe the claims, but what're we to do about such-a-thing?" She was slurring a little as she said this, with an sudden accent Wyland couldn't place. She went on, "I'd prefer to stay as far away from the whole thing as possible. Quite a few people in the case have died, and the timing, more than anything, says curses are real. If you really want to pursue this, I'd wager you'll be cursed, too, and die in some strange and horrible way." She looked at the floor, a little girlish, like she had said something embarrassing.
Wyland had a deep, concerned look on his face as she looked back up at him. It was humid, even in the restaurant, and the bald spot on his head reflected the multicolored chandelier above them, and he looked to her like he might have a little pastel halo hanging over his head. He said "I have to pursue this. For a variety of reasons I'll not go into, I have to."
She got quiet now, and leaned in so close to him he could smell the curry on her breath. He could also smell something else beneath the curry, sex and pheromones and perfume, that sent his mind reeling. She put her hand on his chest. He could see right down her shirt to the soft curves of her small breasts in a black bra, and he could feel himself getting hard.
She steadied herself, pressing harder into his chest, looked a bit cross-eyed at him, and closely whispered into his face: "there were two men seen in the vicinity of Petrovik and Steins before their deaths. Scotsmen. We looked them up, didn't bring them in, it just seemed too risky if they really can kill with a word. Cunninghill, I think. Crom and Oliver Cunninghill. Steins never said a word about 'em, and we let it drop there." He could feel her hair on his forehead, it was soft as silk. Her hand slid down his chest, and her fingernails ran gently along his thigh before she leaned back and sat down, still looking a bit cross-eyed at him.
Wyland ordered another round of martinis, silently, by holding up two fingers while making eye contact with the waiter. When it was brought out, Connie slammed it down in one shot, without grimacing at all. Wyland also drank his down quickly, his mind going from disbelief to excitement and back again, trying to drunkenly process multiple bits of information all at once. It resulted in a mostly blank mind and a peace he hadn't felt before.
The check came, and it was for nearly one hundred pounds. Wyland showed Connie the check, and she seemed genuinely impressed when he paid for it without a second thought, and left a massive tip for the waiter, who was kind and had mostly let them be.
As they got up, she smiled at him, a wry smile that held a potential Wyland hadn't seen in far too long. She said to him, "Well, I'm far too drunk to go back to work, so what shall we do now?"
Wyland, smiling ear to ear, took her by the hand and led her out to a taxi, thanking whatever gods there might be for the reprieve.
The maitre'd ushered them in and seated them near the windows of the colorful and brightly lit space. It was still early, so there were few other patrons about, and they mostly had the place to themselves. There were colored lamps, and rich burgundy carpet, and the tables were made of some dark and beautiful hardwood.
Connie asked about what lawyering in the states was like, and Wyland answered, almost rhyming as he said it, that "it was like being surrounded by fools, everyone hates being there, and they're all playing a game where no one knows the rules". She laughed deeply in response to this, a genuine laugh, slightly roguish but still feminine in character. Wyland described how much lawyers were hated, and she agreed that it was the same in England. Wyland, sensing her character, then pulled out the old "two thousand lawyers at the bottom of the sea" joke (a good start), to which she laughed even harder, so much so that she snorted, and had to put her hand over her mouth to avoid spitting tea everywhere.
They ordered, Connie requesting roast duck in a curry sauce and Wyland getting tandoori chicken. They munched on naan and sipped tea, chatting about inane differences in culture and dress between their two countries. She had much to say about the British opinion of Americans and the U.S. in general; a strange mixture of guilt that America is a direct descendant of the U.K. and it's political philosophy, and disgust at the rampant stupidity of U.S. imperial interests. The Brits had already been there and done that, and the fall of an empire is a painful experience. She said that most Brits wonder why on earth the Yanks hadn't learnt from the earlier mistakes of Britain. The only possible answer? Straight up stupidity and brash ignorance to the lessons of history. Wyland had never thought about it before, but he knew she was right.
Wyland was rapt. She was funny, and smart, with a cutting wit. Wyland felt better than he had in quite some time, sitting here enjoying the company of a still lovely and intelligent woman who actually seemed to tolerate him. The food was outstanding, far and away the best Indian food Wyland had ever had. They ordered chocolate martinis for dessert.
Sated now, and slightly buzzed, Wyland decided, against his better judgement, to bring up curses. But Connie was much happier and looser now, and freely gave her opinion.
She said "It's all foolishness, if you ask me. I'm tempted to believe the claims, but what're we to do about such-a-thing?" She was slurring a little as she said this, with an sudden accent Wyland couldn't place. She went on, "I'd prefer to stay as far away from the whole thing as possible. Quite a few people in the case have died, and the timing, more than anything, says curses are real. If you really want to pursue this, I'd wager you'll be cursed, too, and die in some strange and horrible way." She looked at the floor, a little girlish, like she had said something embarrassing.
Wyland had a deep, concerned look on his face as she looked back up at him. It was humid, even in the restaurant, and the bald spot on his head reflected the multicolored chandelier above them, and he looked to her like he might have a little pastel halo hanging over his head. He said "I have to pursue this. For a variety of reasons I'll not go into, I have to."
She got quiet now, and leaned in so close to him he could smell the curry on her breath. He could also smell something else beneath the curry, sex and pheromones and perfume, that sent his mind reeling. She put her hand on his chest. He could see right down her shirt to the soft curves of her small breasts in a black bra, and he could feel himself getting hard.
She steadied herself, pressing harder into his chest, looked a bit cross-eyed at him, and closely whispered into his face: "there were two men seen in the vicinity of Petrovik and Steins before their deaths. Scotsmen. We looked them up, didn't bring them in, it just seemed too risky if they really can kill with a word. Cunninghill, I think. Crom and Oliver Cunninghill. Steins never said a word about 'em, and we let it drop there." He could feel her hair on his forehead, it was soft as silk. Her hand slid down his chest, and her fingernails ran gently along his thigh before she leaned back and sat down, still looking a bit cross-eyed at him.
Wyland ordered another round of martinis, silently, by holding up two fingers while making eye contact with the waiter. When it was brought out, Connie slammed it down in one shot, without grimacing at all. Wyland also drank his down quickly, his mind going from disbelief to excitement and back again, trying to drunkenly process multiple bits of information all at once. It resulted in a mostly blank mind and a peace he hadn't felt before.
The check came, and it was for nearly one hundred pounds. Wyland showed Connie the check, and she seemed genuinely impressed when he paid for it without a second thought, and left a massive tip for the waiter, who was kind and had mostly let them be.
As they got up, she smiled at him, a wry smile that held a potential Wyland hadn't seen in far too long. She said to him, "Well, I'm far too drunk to go back to work, so what shall we do now?"
Wyland, smiling ear to ear, took her by the hand and led her out to a taxi, thanking whatever gods there might be for the reprieve.
Friday, August 16, 2013
Ch. 15: Connie
Wyland paid the cabbie using the company credit card, and stepped out into the verdant green of St. James Park, quietly nodding thanks to the dingy man with red eyes as he drove off.
Tourists milled about in the thick air and green grounds, snapping pictures of the towering, gilded statues of Victoria Memorial and stately Buckingham Palace behind it. The palace guards stood still and silent. Somehow, they managed to look dignified in their ridiculous red uniforms and over-sized fuzzy hats.
Wyland had decided, on a whim, that he had time to walk through the grounds of The Mall. He hadn't been here in many years, and it was a lovely place, full of pomp and national pride. Here, at least, the British Empire still flourished, although the sun now set daily upon Her Majesties' lands.
He walked through green fields full of art installations and old statues and columns. He walked over busy roads and round-a-bouts, past police camera towers and lazy Bobbies enjoying cheap coffee. He stolled past several beggars and street performers, all hoping for tourists' money. One man caught Wyland's eye, as he stood noble and erect, posing ridiculously in full costumed regalia, recounting Shakespeare's "The Tempest", as a woman equally costumed, or maybe it was a man dressed as a woman, stood by, listening over-intently:
"Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies
Brought to this shore; and by my prescience
I find my zenith doth depend upon
A most auspicious star, whose influence
If now I court not but omit, my fortunes
Will ever after droop."
Tourists milled about in the thick air and green grounds, snapping pictures of the towering, gilded statues of Victoria Memorial and stately Buckingham Palace behind it. The palace guards stood still and silent. Somehow, they managed to look dignified in their ridiculous red uniforms and over-sized fuzzy hats.
Wyland had decided, on a whim, that he had time to walk through the grounds of The Mall. He hadn't been here in many years, and it was a lovely place, full of pomp and national pride. Here, at least, the British Empire still flourished, although the sun now set daily upon Her Majesties' lands.
He walked through green fields full of art installations and old statues and columns. He walked over busy roads and round-a-bouts, past police camera towers and lazy Bobbies enjoying cheap coffee. He stolled past several beggars and street performers, all hoping for tourists' money. One man caught Wyland's eye, as he stood noble and erect, posing ridiculously in full costumed regalia, recounting Shakespeare's "The Tempest", as a woman equally costumed, or maybe it was a man dressed as a woman, stood by, listening over-intently:
"Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies
Brought to this shore; and by my prescience
I find my zenith doth depend upon
A most auspicious star, whose influence
If now I court not but omit, my fortunes
Will ever after droop."
Wyland walked on past him as Prospero's flowery words of prophesy faded from his ears, thinking about the bard's callous disregard for the characters in his own plays. Although "The Tempest" has a happy ending, most of the bard's great plays do not. He remembered, as he walked dreamily through the greens, of poor Hamlet, set upon by the greed of his kin, driven half mad, dying of poison and blood loss along with all the people he loves, revenge and cold steel his final gift to his treacherous uncle, Claudius. As a young man in high school, Wyland was insulted by the evil of Claudius and more appalled still when Hamlet was killed for standing up for what was, after all, his rightful throne. Wyland identified with the brooding, sullen prince and raged against his completely unjust fate.
He had grown up in Maine, and as a child, he daydreamed about being king of his own little cloud covered, rich, verdant green kingdom. The brutal truth of ruling a kingdom was brought home as he read Hamlet in high school. After reading that, he didn't have any more daydreams of being a king.
He had grown up in Maine, and as a child, he daydreamed about being king of his own little cloud covered, rich, verdant green kingdom. The brutal truth of ruling a kingdom was brought home as he read Hamlet in high school. After reading that, he didn't have any more daydreams of being a king.
This deep childhood reverie brought him all the way through the park, across a couple city blocks, and up to the landing of New Scotland Yard. It is a massively imposing glass and steel building on bustling Broadway, near the heart of London. He could smell the strange, almost fishy smell of the river Thames in the distance, mixed with all the other various city smells; diesel fuel and motor oil, food, urine, vomit, and sweat.
He had a meeting and was, as usual, a little late.
Wyland sailed smoothly through the security check, as the security officer just grunted at him and went back to watching some show on his phone. He knew that no one in their right mind would dare try anything funny here at the heart of the state's power, and was sick to death of this futile job. This particular security guard used to have the night shift, and got paid to sleep the night away, but was eventually caught sleeping and thrown on day shift as a reprimand. Two years later, he would be shot and killed sitting in almost the same spot he now sat, and would be hailed as a hero, this lazy, stupid, sullen brick of a man.
Wyland inquired at the front counter, and was pointed to the elevator, and given a name and office number on a little card.
He had a meeting and was, as usual, a little late.
Wyland sailed smoothly through the security check, as the security officer just grunted at him and went back to watching some show on his phone. He knew that no one in their right mind would dare try anything funny here at the heart of the state's power, and was sick to death of this futile job. This particular security guard used to have the night shift, and got paid to sleep the night away, but was eventually caught sleeping and thrown on day shift as a reprimand. Two years later, he would be shot and killed sitting in almost the same spot he now sat, and would be hailed as a hero, this lazy, stupid, sullen brick of a man.
Wyland inquired at the front counter, and was pointed to the elevator, and given a name and office number on a little card.
Arriving at the office with Constance "Connie" Oglevie painted on the door, he knocked hesitantly. The door opened to show the humorless face of Connie, a middle aged detective, now more of an office drone than a real detective. She was robbed of a previously enjoyable "street-beat" job by the age of constant computerized surveillance, robot eyes and high tech forensics. Her whole job could be done from her office console now.
She wore a drab business suit, wore thin rimmed glasses, and had dirty grey blond hair wrapped in a bun. She had a thin frame and a slight paunch. She had beautiful, unblemished skin, save for a small mole on her left brow. She appeared entirely unimpressed by Wyland.
"Mr. Blake, come in. You're late." She said this with consternation in her voice. Her face showed slight anger.
He smiled sheepishly. "I apologize, I hoped I had time to walk through the park. It really is a beautiful place."
She said nothing to this, but smiled slightly. It was a librarian's smile, very slight and soft, somehow quiet, and completely insincere. While standing, She typed smoothly into her computer, bringing the screen around to face them as they both sat down at her little desk. A case file with a mug shot of a normal looking, dark haired Russian man stared back at him. His brow looked angry, but his mouth was smiling a strange smile in the picture, his teeth were showing, but one side of his mouth crooked up, the other crooked down.
Connie straightened up and began: "As per your e-mail request, I've pulled all our records on Ivan Petrovik. He's clean as a whistle, other than the dropped charges for hate speech and harassment and such. An old public intoxication charge from up in Moscow, but that's it. Our prosecutor thought better of trying him in open court, and let him go. There was absolutely nothing directly tying him to Mr. Jamesson's death. The official stance is that the event at the wedding and the event in the Bahamas are completely unrelated."
Wyland got the feeling she had given a version of this speech before, like this was a press release and no questions would be taken afterwards. Her silence afterwards, along with a patient but piercing gaze from deep, green eyes magnified by a stiff ocular prescription, confirmed this.
Wyland smiled lightly, and looked at his shoes. "I'm aware of the official stance, Mrs. Oglevie. I, as you know, have been tasked with investigating a similar circumstance stateside. I'm here to see if I can uncover any truth to the claim that curses may be real, and if so, how to legally prove such a thing. I am legally bound not to share any information with outside sources such as the media. Any information you might be able to provide may assist our entire nation, no, both our nations, to prevent future occurrences of curses, if this is, in fact, what they are." Wyland had anticipated her response, and this, he decided, was the most careful and diplomatic wording he could use to glean any new information.
She appeared to soften slightly, her shoulders moved back, and she leaned backwards in her chair. She lightly smiled at him, appearing perhaps just a little impressed by his diction and tact. She then shrugged her shoulders and lazily said "well, Mr. Petrovik is dead, killed unceremoniously in a car accident. The Jamesson's are dead, and the original lead investigator is dead. So I don't..."
Wyland cut her off there. "Wait, the lead investigator wasn't you, originally?"
"No, Mr. Steins originally had the case. He died of a heart attack almost immediately after being given the case. They suspect, superstitious idiots that they are, that Petrovik was cursed, and perhaps Steins as well, although he was not a healthy man and it could have been natural. My superiors decided I should not press my luck, and the prosecutor backed off the case. I think he feared for his life, and for mine. I don't know what to think, but honestly, I was relieved that I didn't have to worry about it, at least, that is, until I received your e-mail."
She tensed back up, and Wyland felt he was losing her and tried to cut her off again. He failed, and she continued, "if curses are real, Mr. Blake, then this is something orchestrated by someone who knows far more than we do on the subject, so we stand naked against them. There is nothing that can stop them from cursing you, from you dying a strange death at their hands. Or I, for that matter, and I have no intention of dying from such idiocy. Our legal framework has no protections from such things, and if this is anything besides stupendous coincidence, then it's surely quite lethal. I urge you to board a plane immediately, and cease all further investigations."
Wyland glanced at the clock behind her. Almost lunchtime. So he smiled at her, and said "very well, perhaps you're right. I'm no cop, just a lawyer. I do, however, have a company card and unlimited expense account privileges, so perhaps you'd like to go get a bite to eat? Just as a friendly thank you for your time and patience?"
She smiled at him, but it was a tired, grey smile, but then, suddenly, it brightened. "Ok, but only if we can go to the best Indian restaurant in London." A mischievous glint in her eye told Wyland all he needed to know. "Of course", he smiled crookedly back at her, and they gather up their things and left her office.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Ch. 14: The Alvanic Chant
Crom and Oliver Cunninghill sat in a large, beautifully decorated room, at an impressively large granite table, mottled in brown and pink, with flecks of mica. The table had deep channels cut into it in intricate shapes, and looked like the sort of obelisk on which one might perform a human sacrifice. The two men were sipping peat brown glasses of 20 year-old Laphroaig whiskey.
Sitting opposite them was an older man in a brown suit. His right hand showed the hint of an unintelligible tattoo under his suit cuffs. He had a friendly, grandfatherly face, and before him on the granite slab were notes, maps, books, and an e-tablet.
"Fascinating!" The old man said enthusiastically. "A defunct Russian spy satellite! And none of your men, nor you, pictured that sort of thing happening, I take it?"
They both shook their heads. Crom said "Naw, I pictured a lorry full 'a petrol bearin' down on 'im. Explodin' in right ball a' flame n' carnage."
Oliver added "yeah, 'n I thought 'a his shit stain of a tent burnin' to cinders, wit him inside, 'course."
The old man nodded while shuffling through his notes to find a map. "Intriguing. Well, we found the tracking telemetry for that satellite. Not an easy thing to do, mind you. The Russians prefer to keep their secrets. And the really fascinating thing is; it should have landed 70 miles out to sea, off the coast of Madagascar, two months from now. The orbit began to deviate, it appears, at the precise moment the curse was uttered! The orbit decayed, quite unexpectedly, to intercept your poor friend hundreds of miles away and weeks in the future. I've never been privy to such a clear example of a change in one's Wyrd." The look on the old man's face was one of wonderment and excitement. Then, he looked up from the map and addressed Oliver, "were you able to obtain the coroner's report?"
"Aye, 'tis there with the other notes. 'E died hungry an' in bloody flames, just as we planned. 'Is mum, too."
The old man looked satisfied. "Excellent work, boys, although I don't remember agreeing to allow you to murder an old maid. I should suppose she was included in the voicing?" He raised his brow, and Crom and Oliver shifted uncomfortably in their seats, looking slightly guilty. Crom nodded slowly. "I suppose perhaps you are further along than we anticipated." He smiled. "Although for your hatred for this young man to include the murder of his mother... good lord, Crom, remind me not to cross you." Crom smiled at the backhanded compliment, showing his missing tooth as black against crooked yellow.
"Now, I've arranged for your payments to be wired direct to the accounts you've given me. I expect, as always, the utmost discretion from you in this matter. You know the value of this project, so you must know, like before, that you are not allowed to use the Alvanic chant without our prior approval."
Crom and Oliver both looked disappointed by this, and Crom opened his mouth to protest. The old man stopped him with a gesture, stood up and began pacing the room, then continued, "I would ask that you return the sheet with the chant itself, that it might be destroyed. But, you know by now that the sheet and the technical description are not important, it is the strength of your will that brings forth a curse. You need only mean it, truly and deeply, and the words will freely come. Your aptitude with the other curses suggests you already know this, and your viciousness with Mr. McAlerod and his mother suggests your willingness to use it again."
He paused here and leaned on his chair. "You must control your anger. You are free to use conventional methods to settle any disputes, but as we recently found, people have begun to take notice, and we can't have more mistakes like Ivan." He put his hands on the table, and looked at the men with all seriousness, "You know what happened there. Ivan was sloppy, he let his anger get to him, and he knew the curse to use. And as a result, we had to eliminate Ivan. I think, in hindsight, that too was sloppy, but a necessity none-the-less. Not on your part, mind you, you boys did just as you were told, I simply think the council failed to anticipate the... unintended consequences. Bloody cameras and witnesses and press. Bad news for covert investigations such as this."
"I like you boys, and your father, but as you know, if you muck this up, we will be forced to kill you." He said this with a matter-of-fact look on his face. The Cunninghill boys believed him wholeheartedly. Crom pulled out the piece of paper and tossed it, dejectedly, on the table.
The old man sat back down, smiled gently and said "Well, then, unless there is other business, I bid you boys farewell."
Crom stood up, but Oliver remained seated. Oliver said "Yah, one more ting, professa'. Why did ya 'ave us record it when ya know it ain't nutin' but static?"
"Well, Oliver, excellent question." He intertwined his fingers, sat up straight, and took on his educator pose. "This has been a source of consternation for us. There is no good reason to expect that we will hear anything but static. The druid would likely have an accurate idea, but she is no longer part of the council of Eulinga, and would not help us if she could. Philosophically, we have no idea why we can write it and speak it, but not record it. We suspect there may be some fundamental truth that says reality is not reproducible after the fact, our studies on the nature of the Wyrd may suggest that, although the potency of written words and runes confounds that idea. Or it may simply be that it is not reproducible digitally."
Oliver sat for a moment. "well, 'den, why don't ya try analog? Ya know, cassette tapes an' such?"
The professor was taken aback. He thought to himself, how could this idiot have thought of that, and we didn't? The Council cannot know, and must not find out if he's right. He smiled at Oliver and said "good question, young man. Let's keep that between us for the time being." He winked generously at Oliver, and the meeting was over.
Sitting opposite them was an older man in a brown suit. His right hand showed the hint of an unintelligible tattoo under his suit cuffs. He had a friendly, grandfatherly face, and before him on the granite slab were notes, maps, books, and an e-tablet.
"Fascinating!" The old man said enthusiastically. "A defunct Russian spy satellite! And none of your men, nor you, pictured that sort of thing happening, I take it?"
They both shook their heads. Crom said "Naw, I pictured a lorry full 'a petrol bearin' down on 'im. Explodin' in right ball a' flame n' carnage."
Oliver added "yeah, 'n I thought 'a his shit stain of a tent burnin' to cinders, wit him inside, 'course."
The old man nodded while shuffling through his notes to find a map. "Intriguing. Well, we found the tracking telemetry for that satellite. Not an easy thing to do, mind you. The Russians prefer to keep their secrets. And the really fascinating thing is; it should have landed 70 miles out to sea, off the coast of Madagascar, two months from now. The orbit began to deviate, it appears, at the precise moment the curse was uttered! The orbit decayed, quite unexpectedly, to intercept your poor friend hundreds of miles away and weeks in the future. I've never been privy to such a clear example of a change in one's Wyrd." The look on the old man's face was one of wonderment and excitement. Then, he looked up from the map and addressed Oliver, "were you able to obtain the coroner's report?"
"Aye, 'tis there with the other notes. 'E died hungry an' in bloody flames, just as we planned. 'Is mum, too."
The old man looked satisfied. "Excellent work, boys, although I don't remember agreeing to allow you to murder an old maid. I should suppose she was included in the voicing?" He raised his brow, and Crom and Oliver shifted uncomfortably in their seats, looking slightly guilty. Crom nodded slowly. "I suppose perhaps you are further along than we anticipated." He smiled. "Although for your hatred for this young man to include the murder of his mother... good lord, Crom, remind me not to cross you." Crom smiled at the backhanded compliment, showing his missing tooth as black against crooked yellow.
"Now, I've arranged for your payments to be wired direct to the accounts you've given me. I expect, as always, the utmost discretion from you in this matter. You know the value of this project, so you must know, like before, that you are not allowed to use the Alvanic chant without our prior approval."
Crom and Oliver both looked disappointed by this, and Crom opened his mouth to protest. The old man stopped him with a gesture, stood up and began pacing the room, then continued, "I would ask that you return the sheet with the chant itself, that it might be destroyed. But, you know by now that the sheet and the technical description are not important, it is the strength of your will that brings forth a curse. You need only mean it, truly and deeply, and the words will freely come. Your aptitude with the other curses suggests you already know this, and your viciousness with Mr. McAlerod and his mother suggests your willingness to use it again."
He paused here and leaned on his chair. "You must control your anger. You are free to use conventional methods to settle any disputes, but as we recently found, people have begun to take notice, and we can't have more mistakes like Ivan." He put his hands on the table, and looked at the men with all seriousness, "You know what happened there. Ivan was sloppy, he let his anger get to him, and he knew the curse to use. And as a result, we had to eliminate Ivan. I think, in hindsight, that too was sloppy, but a necessity none-the-less. Not on your part, mind you, you boys did just as you were told, I simply think the council failed to anticipate the... unintended consequences. Bloody cameras and witnesses and press. Bad news for covert investigations such as this."
"I like you boys, and your father, but as you know, if you muck this up, we will be forced to kill you." He said this with a matter-of-fact look on his face. The Cunninghill boys believed him wholeheartedly. Crom pulled out the piece of paper and tossed it, dejectedly, on the table.
The old man sat back down, smiled gently and said "Well, then, unless there is other business, I bid you boys farewell."
Crom stood up, but Oliver remained seated. Oliver said "Yah, one more ting, professa'. Why did ya 'ave us record it when ya know it ain't nutin' but static?"
"Well, Oliver, excellent question." He intertwined his fingers, sat up straight, and took on his educator pose. "This has been a source of consternation for us. There is no good reason to expect that we will hear anything but static. The druid would likely have an accurate idea, but she is no longer part of the council of Eulinga, and would not help us if she could. Philosophically, we have no idea why we can write it and speak it, but not record it. We suspect there may be some fundamental truth that says reality is not reproducible after the fact, our studies on the nature of the Wyrd may suggest that, although the potency of written words and runes confounds that idea. Or it may simply be that it is not reproducible digitally."
Oliver sat for a moment. "well, 'den, why don't ya try analog? Ya know, cassette tapes an' such?"
The professor was taken aback. He thought to himself, how could this idiot have thought of that, and we didn't? The Council cannot know, and must not find out if he's right. He smiled at Oliver and said "good question, young man. Let's keep that between us for the time being." He winked generously at Oliver, and the meeting was over.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Ch. 13 : Prex Alva
A few miles off the M4 corridor is the lovely little town of Winterbourne. An upscale town on the outskirts of Bristol, in the district of South Gloucestershire. It is green, quaint, and peaceful. It is a normal British town, excepting that the sun will, on some winter days, still show her bright, orange face to the predominately pale, pink inhabitants.
There, a small, frail lady in a retirement home, is pulling a previously frozen microwave dinner out of her microwave. Her adult son is in the next room.
He says to her, "Mum, Dos things'll kill ya. Der's no nutrition in 'em." He is smoking a cigarette as he says this.
She smiles to herself, sets the hot dish aside to cool, and puts one in the microwave for him.
"Dear..." She says, as noble as the queen herself, "I've survived much worse than this."
"But Mum, you'uv all people should know 'bout right eatin'."
He's right, he thinks to himself. She barely survived scurvy in the waining days of the last World War. She's old, pale, frail, and not long for this world. She insists that she survived by the grace of the Lord, though her son is sure that the Americans and their shipments of rations after the war had something to do with it. He worries about her, especially now.
She brushes off his concern with a hand gesture, like she's shooing a fly. "I'm fine, dear, now, you said you had found more work, then?"
He runs his thick hands through his curly reddish-blond hair. "Yes'um" is his answer. His short, formal reply does not satisfy, and her face reflects this.
He sighs. "'Tis up north-ways. Its back'un Scotland."
His mother scowls. "I'll be back teh visit'ya on holidays." He says this, pleading in his eyes, but he knows he's lying. He intends to never see her again. Perhaps he can protect her this way. She's the only family he has. He has a bad feeling she's part of this, too.
"It's not at that same damned quarry near Edinburgh, is it?" She says with the worried look of a disappointed mother.
"Aye, 'tis." He's lying again. He can never show his face there again, not after what happened. He'll go to the states, and he'll talk to the one woman who he hopes can save him. His research over the last week suggested that there is hope, that a learned druid in Michigan had overcome a curse herself. But time is of the essence, he should still have a week or so.
His mother, sternly says "but you hate it up there."
"Aye, again, Mum. 'tis work, though. An' they given me a raise!"
She scowls again, but this is also because the Scot accent reminds her of his father. "Well, I should hope so! That quarry is nothing but trouble, I assure you. You looked terrible when you came back from there last week. Like death himself. Why would you subject yourself to such suffering? For money?!?"
"Aye. I'm leavin' tomorrah" He says quietly, staring at the floor. So long as she buys it, it's OK. It's for her own safety, after all.
They sit in silence for a moment, her staring at the wall, him staring at the floor. And then, the beeping of the microwave can be heard in the kitchen. She goes to get up, but he stops her.
"I'll get 'er, Mum. You stay put."
As he walks into the kitchen, a thunderous boom echoes from the north. The rafters of the little kitchenette creak, and he can hear the dishes rattling in their cupboards. Out the window, he sees a bright orange flash from the corner of his eye. His mother obviously didn't hear it. He runs to the window just in time to see a column of smoke and bright orange flame careen through the grey-blue sky.
His first response is excitement. He decides to pull his phone out and record the event, maybe he'll make the news. But as he watches, before his hand reaches his pocket to pull out the phone, he remembers his fear, and begins to take notice of the path the object is taking through the sky. Almost curving towards him, it seems. Like it's being drawn by a magnet, slowing up, billowing and belching light and smoke.
It's much closer now, near where the jetliners fly. There's another bright flash, followed by a second, much louder and more terrifying boom. The windows rattle and bow, as though made of thin, transparent metal.
He hears his sweet mother's last words: "What on God's green earth?"
Then he hears the words that haunt him, that have terrorized his dreams, that have been on his mind since he left the camp.
He hears it in the deep, booming, otherworldly voice that he originally had heard it, though the man who spoke it had a nasal voice and a thick accent.
He hears the words in English, but they aren't in English. They are in a strange language Stephen has never heard before, but somehow understands. He knows now what it is. The Curse...
"Kentu Ba'al-alenda, Kentu Denoch, Kentu Alva. Rerok Harva. Rerok Despa. Rerok Morthen. Donnu-al Despa Harva Warra Pyren Angon. Pellu Stephen Warren McAlerod. Pellu Kinrecht. Kentu Alva. Prex Alva"
There are hisses and gurgles and crackling noises in the pronunciation of the words. Some of the words don't sound like words at all, and they are words; Stephen understands them as words, but they are also feelings, hunches, visions, complicated emotions cutting deep into his psyche. "Kentu Ba'al-alenda" sounds like cold wind whipping through an dark, empty graveyard, like water gurgling through a sterile cave deep under the earth that has never felt the touch of light or life. "Kentu Denoch" sounds like a newborn child's thick, wet, labored, dying breath and like the mother's impotent, almost silent, desperate whine in answer. "Kentu Alva" sounds like the hot, sinister crackle of lightning before the boom of the thunder, like a predator hungrily crunching the skull of it's prey in it's mouth, heard from the perspective of the prey.
"Prex Alva", or rather the horrid, driving, grating, crunching sound "Prex Alva" makes when spoken aloud, echoes through Stephen's mind, as though chanted by a million souls from the pits of hell, the sound bouncing off the flaming, cavernous walls of Hades. All he hears now is the chanting, over and over again. He can almost feel the teeth of some monstrous creature digging into his temples and slowly feeling his skull give way, a bit at a time, under the pressure. He can almost feel it drooling on him, as sweat drips down his forehead.
Above him, the flame and smoke finally resolve into a shape. His feet feel like they are glued to the floor. His hands are numb.
The last vision that Stephen McAlerod has is of a large, flaming metallic superstructure, with CCCP written on the side in bold, red letters.
He feels his stomach rumble. His mind is an empty hall that should have held the accomplishments of his life. But there is nothing. He tries to think of old girlfriends, the taste of a cold beer, childhood memories. Nothing comes to him; Just a cold, empty feeling, all over.
Then, searing heat, then pain all over, and terrible noise.
All goes black. He feels his heart stop beating. He realizes he isn't breathing.
Then, nothing.
There, a small, frail lady in a retirement home, is pulling a previously frozen microwave dinner out of her microwave. Her adult son is in the next room.
He says to her, "Mum, Dos things'll kill ya. Der's no nutrition in 'em." He is smoking a cigarette as he says this.
She smiles to herself, sets the hot dish aside to cool, and puts one in the microwave for him.
"Dear..." She says, as noble as the queen herself, "I've survived much worse than this."
"But Mum, you'uv all people should know 'bout right eatin'."
He's right, he thinks to himself. She barely survived scurvy in the waining days of the last World War. She's old, pale, frail, and not long for this world. She insists that she survived by the grace of the Lord, though her son is sure that the Americans and their shipments of rations after the war had something to do with it. He worries about her, especially now.
She brushes off his concern with a hand gesture, like she's shooing a fly. "I'm fine, dear, now, you said you had found more work, then?"
He runs his thick hands through his curly reddish-blond hair. "Yes'um" is his answer. His short, formal reply does not satisfy, and her face reflects this.
He sighs. "'Tis up north-ways. Its back'un Scotland."
His mother scowls. "I'll be back teh visit'ya on holidays." He says this, pleading in his eyes, but he knows he's lying. He intends to never see her again. Perhaps he can protect her this way. She's the only family he has. He has a bad feeling she's part of this, too.
"It's not at that same damned quarry near Edinburgh, is it?" She says with the worried look of a disappointed mother.
"Aye, 'tis." He's lying again. He can never show his face there again, not after what happened. He'll go to the states, and he'll talk to the one woman who he hopes can save him. His research over the last week suggested that there is hope, that a learned druid in Michigan had overcome a curse herself. But time is of the essence, he should still have a week or so.
His mother, sternly says "but you hate it up there."
"Aye, again, Mum. 'tis work, though. An' they given me a raise!"
She scowls again, but this is also because the Scot accent reminds her of his father. "Well, I should hope so! That quarry is nothing but trouble, I assure you. You looked terrible when you came back from there last week. Like death himself. Why would you subject yourself to such suffering? For money?!?"
"Aye. I'm leavin' tomorrah" He says quietly, staring at the floor. So long as she buys it, it's OK. It's for her own safety, after all.
They sit in silence for a moment, her staring at the wall, him staring at the floor. And then, the beeping of the microwave can be heard in the kitchen. She goes to get up, but he stops her.
"I'll get 'er, Mum. You stay put."
As he walks into the kitchen, a thunderous boom echoes from the north. The rafters of the little kitchenette creak, and he can hear the dishes rattling in their cupboards. Out the window, he sees a bright orange flash from the corner of his eye. His mother obviously didn't hear it. He runs to the window just in time to see a column of smoke and bright orange flame careen through the grey-blue sky.
His first response is excitement. He decides to pull his phone out and record the event, maybe he'll make the news. But as he watches, before his hand reaches his pocket to pull out the phone, he remembers his fear, and begins to take notice of the path the object is taking through the sky. Almost curving towards him, it seems. Like it's being drawn by a magnet, slowing up, billowing and belching light and smoke.
It's much closer now, near where the jetliners fly. There's another bright flash, followed by a second, much louder and more terrifying boom. The windows rattle and bow, as though made of thin, transparent metal.
He hears his sweet mother's last words: "What on God's green earth?"
Then he hears the words that haunt him, that have terrorized his dreams, that have been on his mind since he left the camp.
He hears it in the deep, booming, otherworldly voice that he originally had heard it, though the man who spoke it had a nasal voice and a thick accent.
He hears the words in English, but they aren't in English. They are in a strange language Stephen has never heard before, but somehow understands. He knows now what it is. The Curse...
"Kentu Ba'al-alenda, Kentu Denoch, Kentu Alva. Rerok Harva. Rerok Despa. Rerok Morthen. Donnu-al Despa Harva Warra Pyren Angon. Pellu Stephen Warren McAlerod. Pellu Kinrecht. Kentu Alva. Prex Alva"
There are hisses and gurgles and crackling noises in the pronunciation of the words. Some of the words don't sound like words at all, and they are words; Stephen understands them as words, but they are also feelings, hunches, visions, complicated emotions cutting deep into his psyche. "Kentu Ba'al-alenda" sounds like cold wind whipping through an dark, empty graveyard, like water gurgling through a sterile cave deep under the earth that has never felt the touch of light or life. "Kentu Denoch" sounds like a newborn child's thick, wet, labored, dying breath and like the mother's impotent, almost silent, desperate whine in answer. "Kentu Alva" sounds like the hot, sinister crackle of lightning before the boom of the thunder, like a predator hungrily crunching the skull of it's prey in it's mouth, heard from the perspective of the prey.
"Prex Alva", or rather the horrid, driving, grating, crunching sound "Prex Alva" makes when spoken aloud, echoes through Stephen's mind, as though chanted by a million souls from the pits of hell, the sound bouncing off the flaming, cavernous walls of Hades. All he hears now is the chanting, over and over again. He can almost feel the teeth of some monstrous creature digging into his temples and slowly feeling his skull give way, a bit at a time, under the pressure. He can almost feel it drooling on him, as sweat drips down his forehead.
Above him, the flame and smoke finally resolve into a shape. His feet feel like they are glued to the floor. His hands are numb.
The last vision that Stephen McAlerod has is of a large, flaming metallic superstructure, with CCCP written on the side in bold, red letters.
He feels his stomach rumble. His mind is an empty hall that should have held the accomplishments of his life. But there is nothing. He tries to think of old girlfriends, the taste of a cold beer, childhood memories. Nothing comes to him; Just a cold, empty feeling, all over.
Then, searing heat, then pain all over, and terrible noise.
All goes black. He feels his heart stop beating. He realizes he isn't breathing.
Then, nothing.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Ch. 12: Via
Wyland awoke after a restless sleep to find he was still thirty thousand feet in the air, suspended by speed, wind, and a massive torrent of heat from the fuel burning in the turbine engines outside the little tube of a cabin. Out the little porthole window, clouds and ocean appeared suspended in the dawn light, un-moving yet whisking past at six hundred miles per hour.
He was disheveled, what hair was left on his head was going every which way, and his traveling suit, a loose two piece that never fit quite right, now bunched at odd angles, forcing him to readjust himself in his seat as he sat up.
His mind went immediately to young Jonathan. The poor boy had been unable to accurately describe the experience of hearing the curse. He had babbled about a sound, a word, a feeling, all of those, all at once. A grating, head-ache inducing, crunching noise. The sound of a meat grinder, but words, also, in a foreign language.
Almost none of the words Jonathan remembered hearing were real curse words. It was all gibberish, save one. Roland had immediately checked the recorder, and only on one word had it faded and warbled and cracked. He knew the name. He wrote down everything Jonathan said, was able to write it out on paper with no problems.
It was a word he knew from an old book on hermetic philosophy. A tense tome of old hybrid Hebrew/Christian demonology and mysticism, full of line drawings and recipes and obscure poems, astrology and morality and obtuse references. The book was written in the 2nd century, translated from the original Hebrew by a Rabbi in the 1970's, and was now a standard text for mystics and conspiracy theorists. It contained many references to an order of "keepers", with an insignia not unlike the sign for the Freemasons, that held deep insights from before the time of Solomon.
It had described the angel of death in that book. He/She/It had the body of a raven, cloven hooves, and a skeletal face. It hungered for life "like a predator hungers for flesh." It was a keeper of damned souls, like the devil, but also took life directly, like the angel of death. The book implied that it was this demon who took Jesus from the cross, and ushered The Lord to hell before His resurrection. Its name, pronounced directly as it was in the original Hebrew, was Alva. The Rabbi had entered a footnote regarding the name: "For although it is with consternation that I even write the true name of this daemon, or any daemon for that matter, it occurs to me that the Roman/Latin/Germanic root of 'evil' is a close bastardization of this terrible daemon's name, and is thus useful for more than simple linguistic purposes, and the use of the bastardization by society in general may be indicative of a deeper truth of the general fear of death and of God's wrath."
The book instructed a learned soul to protect against the name, never to speak it aloud, and it showed a rune to protect a magi against the angel.
Jonathan had spoken the name aloud, but it didn't sound like the noise he described. It was just a word then, not the curse. What was missing that made it a curse? Was Jonathan now destined to die?
As dark thoughts ran through Wylands head, this old book now rested, half open, in Wyland's lap. The page it was open to described the hermetic science and the mysterious "star of Solomon", how to study the stars and planets for prophesy, and of the wheel of the gods. The gods, as near as Wyland could tell, were thoughts as much as beings, feelings made real, demons and angels in the minds of mankind, and each had a counter god or demon that kept the wheel in balance. Against Alva on the wheel was the god of birth, Via. There were gods of war and of peace, anger and consolation, love and hate, poverty and wealth, failure and success, and so on, and in the center of the wheel, the creator god. This creator god was un-named, though the book implied that a learned man should already know the name, and could speak it under the right circumstances to return all things to balance.
But Wyland was not a student of religion, he was a student of law. He had been asked only once, sincerely, what his opinion on God was, and he responded truthfully:
"Fuck if I know."
It always made him smile ironically that he had placed his hand on a bible and been sworn in so many times. Why would a man who thinks this book is gibberish, written by inbred goat herders from two thousand years off, worry about lying under it's oath? Why would a murderer worry about a book that condones the murder of "God's enemies?" Rape and slavery and murder could be justified using the text of the bible. That our legal system essentially rested on the hope that a criminal might be cowed into telling the truth because of an old, contradictory, violent and fucked up religious book was laughable, were it not such a serious lapse of reason.
Religion. It was all foolishness, or so he thought, until recently. Now he was beginning to wonder if maybe someone, somewhere, had actually gotten it right? The bible, of course, offered no hints, other than a set of psalms that sounded an awful lot like a true curse, but heard from a bystander's viewpoint. Curses and daemons and the god of death. Wyland shivered involuntarily.
But this dark and evil thought brought a new thought, a brighter thought, that crested on Wyland like a dreamscape; Wondrous and new and clean. What about blessings? If curses could be spoken aloud, then blessings should be, too. He thought a moment... he now knew a name, a counter curse, the opposing, balancing god's name. He spoke it aloud: "Via."
He said it again, with more force: "Via!"
A chubby woman sitting next to him with deep, sweet brown eyes, a massive bosom and a pastel flowery dress stared at him with a puzzled smile on her face.
He looked at her and asked "sorry, what word did you just hear?"
"Pardon?" She laughed a girlish, nervous laugh behind this question.
"What word did you just hear me speak? I'm just curious."
"You said something like via, like the Roman word, yes?"
"What Roman word?" He said, innocently.
"Oh, you know, via, like a road. Like Via Appia, the main road in ancient Rome."
"Oh, ok. Sorry to disturb you." She closed her eyes and pretended to drift off to sleep, assuming she had never woken up and this was just another weird dream.
Wyland dejectedly shifted his weight in the maddeningly small cloth chair and stared out the little window. Dammit, what's missing?
Land was visible below them now, a flat, green country. He could feel the lumbering jetliner start to descend, flying now through thicker, more turbulent air. He watched the wings bend and sway in the invisible and churning wind, and could hear the faint rattle and boom of the air-frame as it solidly took this invisible thrashing.
Off in the distance, to the far north, Wyland could see an odd cloud formation, like a jet contrail, but sloped downward, slicing from high above, going through the clouds all the way down to the ground. He thought maybe he saw a small orange glow on the ground where cloud met ground, but he couldn't be sure. Soon enough, the strange cloud was out of his sight, and his mind turned to the task at hand.
An hour later, Wyland stepped out of the terminal to the waiting queues of buses and taxis. They all had a boxy, regal look to them, strangely foreign, and an odd sensation of place fell upon him. Just by the cars around him, he could tell he wasn't in the states, and everything looked so damn... English. Pictures of the royal guard in their fuzzy hats welcomed him to the British Isles. He hailed a cab driving past, but failed, and then stepped to a waiting cab. A dingy man with bloodshot eyes looked him over and waved him into the cab. He didn't attempt to help Wyland with his luggage, just sat there silent. Wyland slumped into the seat.
"Westminster, please." And they were off.
He was disheveled, what hair was left on his head was going every which way, and his traveling suit, a loose two piece that never fit quite right, now bunched at odd angles, forcing him to readjust himself in his seat as he sat up.
His mind went immediately to young Jonathan. The poor boy had been unable to accurately describe the experience of hearing the curse. He had babbled about a sound, a word, a feeling, all of those, all at once. A grating, head-ache inducing, crunching noise. The sound of a meat grinder, but words, also, in a foreign language.
Almost none of the words Jonathan remembered hearing were real curse words. It was all gibberish, save one. Roland had immediately checked the recorder, and only on one word had it faded and warbled and cracked. He knew the name. He wrote down everything Jonathan said, was able to write it out on paper with no problems.
It was a word he knew from an old book on hermetic philosophy. A tense tome of old hybrid Hebrew/Christian demonology and mysticism, full of line drawings and recipes and obscure poems, astrology and morality and obtuse references. The book was written in the 2nd century, translated from the original Hebrew by a Rabbi in the 1970's, and was now a standard text for mystics and conspiracy theorists. It contained many references to an order of "keepers", with an insignia not unlike the sign for the Freemasons, that held deep insights from before the time of Solomon.
It had described the angel of death in that book. He/She/It had the body of a raven, cloven hooves, and a skeletal face. It hungered for life "like a predator hungers for flesh." It was a keeper of damned souls, like the devil, but also took life directly, like the angel of death. The book implied that it was this demon who took Jesus from the cross, and ushered The Lord to hell before His resurrection. Its name, pronounced directly as it was in the original Hebrew, was Alva. The Rabbi had entered a footnote regarding the name: "For although it is with consternation that I even write the true name of this daemon, or any daemon for that matter, it occurs to me that the Roman/Latin/Germanic root of 'evil' is a close bastardization of this terrible daemon's name, and is thus useful for more than simple linguistic purposes, and the use of the bastardization by society in general may be indicative of a deeper truth of the general fear of death and of God's wrath."
The book instructed a learned soul to protect against the name, never to speak it aloud, and it showed a rune to protect a magi against the angel.
Jonathan had spoken the name aloud, but it didn't sound like the noise he described. It was just a word then, not the curse. What was missing that made it a curse? Was Jonathan now destined to die?
As dark thoughts ran through Wylands head, this old book now rested, half open, in Wyland's lap. The page it was open to described the hermetic science and the mysterious "star of Solomon", how to study the stars and planets for prophesy, and of the wheel of the gods. The gods, as near as Wyland could tell, were thoughts as much as beings, feelings made real, demons and angels in the minds of mankind, and each had a counter god or demon that kept the wheel in balance. Against Alva on the wheel was the god of birth, Via. There were gods of war and of peace, anger and consolation, love and hate, poverty and wealth, failure and success, and so on, and in the center of the wheel, the creator god. This creator god was un-named, though the book implied that a learned man should already know the name, and could speak it under the right circumstances to return all things to balance.
But Wyland was not a student of religion, he was a student of law. He had been asked only once, sincerely, what his opinion on God was, and he responded truthfully:
"Fuck if I know."
It always made him smile ironically that he had placed his hand on a bible and been sworn in so many times. Why would a man who thinks this book is gibberish, written by inbred goat herders from two thousand years off, worry about lying under it's oath? Why would a murderer worry about a book that condones the murder of "God's enemies?" Rape and slavery and murder could be justified using the text of the bible. That our legal system essentially rested on the hope that a criminal might be cowed into telling the truth because of an old, contradictory, violent and fucked up religious book was laughable, were it not such a serious lapse of reason.
Religion. It was all foolishness, or so he thought, until recently. Now he was beginning to wonder if maybe someone, somewhere, had actually gotten it right? The bible, of course, offered no hints, other than a set of psalms that sounded an awful lot like a true curse, but heard from a bystander's viewpoint. Curses and daemons and the god of death. Wyland shivered involuntarily.
But this dark and evil thought brought a new thought, a brighter thought, that crested on Wyland like a dreamscape; Wondrous and new and clean. What about blessings? If curses could be spoken aloud, then blessings should be, too. He thought a moment... he now knew a name, a counter curse, the opposing, balancing god's name. He spoke it aloud: "Via."
He said it again, with more force: "Via!"
A chubby woman sitting next to him with deep, sweet brown eyes, a massive bosom and a pastel flowery dress stared at him with a puzzled smile on her face.
He looked at her and asked "sorry, what word did you just hear?"
"Pardon?" She laughed a girlish, nervous laugh behind this question.
"What word did you just hear me speak? I'm just curious."
"You said something like via, like the Roman word, yes?"
"What Roman word?" He said, innocently.
"Oh, you know, via, like a road. Like Via Appia, the main road in ancient Rome."
"Oh, ok. Sorry to disturb you." She closed her eyes and pretended to drift off to sleep, assuming she had never woken up and this was just another weird dream.
Wyland dejectedly shifted his weight in the maddeningly small cloth chair and stared out the little window. Dammit, what's missing?
Land was visible below them now, a flat, green country. He could feel the lumbering jetliner start to descend, flying now through thicker, more turbulent air. He watched the wings bend and sway in the invisible and churning wind, and could hear the faint rattle and boom of the air-frame as it solidly took this invisible thrashing.
Off in the distance, to the far north, Wyland could see an odd cloud formation, like a jet contrail, but sloped downward, slicing from high above, going through the clouds all the way down to the ground. He thought maybe he saw a small orange glow on the ground where cloud met ground, but he couldn't be sure. Soon enough, the strange cloud was out of his sight, and his mind turned to the task at hand.
An hour later, Wyland stepped out of the terminal to the waiting queues of buses and taxis. They all had a boxy, regal look to them, strangely foreign, and an odd sensation of place fell upon him. Just by the cars around him, he could tell he wasn't in the states, and everything looked so damn... English. Pictures of the royal guard in their fuzzy hats welcomed him to the British Isles. He hailed a cab driving past, but failed, and then stepped to a waiting cab. A dingy man with bloodshot eyes looked him over and waved him into the cab. He didn't attempt to help Wyland with his luggage, just sat there silent. Wyland slumped into the seat.
"Westminster, please." And they were off.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)