"Vestrid fairsesh rintrae vulo! Come back!" you say into the phone.

Still silence.

~

You wait against the car as the sun settles behind you and heat bleeds from the air. You don't expect the kid to return. But you're giving him the chance.

Why are you here, Eliot? You see where the organization is going. You know what's coming. Yet here you stand.

(04-21-2015, 08:54 PM)Crowstone Wrote: »Tell us more about Thoreau though, what makes him so scary?

Thoreau is scary precisely because you can't tell anything about him. He's an enigma. It's like there's nothing behind his eyes. Poets are trained to resist setting, sure, but everyone's personality still shines through their eyes. You can always see a little bit of truth through that lens. Not with Thoreau. There's just nothing there. And that's the man in charge of the organization. The man you're all subservient to. It would take... well, it would take a Thoreau to not be scared by that.

In an hour, it'll be dark. Then you'll climb into the car, drive four hours to your hotel, and phone Thoreau. You'll tell him Campbell had not come back, keeping your voice empty, and Thoreau will express his sorrow, in the same tone.

Elise, you think. Where did you go?

Something shimmers on the road. You squint. The haze has lifted, but the wind blows dust into your eyes. Then you're sure: someone is coming. You straighten. You raise a hand. The figure doesn't respond. There's something off about the way it's moving. Its gait is lopsided. Not Campbell? But it has to be. There's no one else out here.

A minute passes. The haze condenses into Campbell. The reason he's lopsided is that he's carrying an ax.

You draw your gun and quickly put in earplugs. By the time you're done, Campbell is two hundred yards away. You can see his expression, his focused emptiness. You cup a hand around your mouth. "Campbell! Stop!"

The kid keeps coming. His shirt is soaked with sweat. Wet, matted hair pokes from beneath the THUNDER FROM DOWN UNDER hat. He's lost a shoe.

"Campbell, drop the ax!"

For a moment, you think the kid is obeying. But no: He's hefting the ax over his shoulder. Fifty yards. Close enough to smell.

(04-22-2015, 02:24 PM)Whimbrel Wrote: »Command words, drop the axe!

"Vestrid fairsesh rintrae vulo! Stop!"

The kid shambles through the words like they're water. You level your gun at him.

"Stop! Campbell, stop! Vulo! Stop! Vulo!"

(04-22-2015, 01:54 PM)Crowstone Wrote: »shoot the hand that's holding the ax!

The kid's lips stretch back. The tendons along his forearms tighten. The ax rises. You squeeze the trigger. The kid grunts as his hand explodes. His expression doesn't change. The ax clatters to the blacktop. He keeps coming at you, hand and bloody stump outstretched, fingers formed into claws.

Unfortunately, the bulky satellite phones they've given you don't come equipped with any recording equipment. You don't have time, anyway - Campbell is closing fast.

You squeeze the trigger twice more. The kid falls to his knees. He tries to rise, grunts again, and falls face forward onto the road.

You sink to your haunches. The sun has almost set. The world is awash in orange. You rise and begin to load the kid's body into the car.

~

You drive through the night. When the city lights rise, you can't stand it anymore, and pull over onto the shoulder and climb out. You lean on the car and dial, inhaling night air. Cars whiz by. "Yes?"

"It's Eliot."

"Ah." You hear a tinkling: ice in glass. "How are things proceeding?"

"Campbell's dead."

You hear Thoreau sip at his drink. "Do you mean he failed to return?"

"I mean I shot him in the chest." You close your eyes, but that's no better, so you open them again. "I mean he came out of there carrying an ax and I shot him."

"You sound unsettled."

You drop the phone from your ear. When you can, you raise it. "I'm fine."

"You're saying Campbell came back insane. Is that correct?"

"Yes. Insane. Compromised. Something."

"Do you know how it happened?"

"He made it to the Emergency Room. We were talking. Then he just stopped."

"How did he sound up to that point?"

"He was cool under pressure."

There's silence. "It's so intriguing," Thoreau says. "What I would give to know what she did in there."

You wait.

"Come home, Eliot. It's been long enough."

"I haven't found Woolf."

"Woolf is dead."

"I don't believe that."

"Stop believing what you want to believe. It's unbecoming. You've found no trace. Your assignment is terminated. Come home."

You lay your head against the cold metal of the car and close your eyes. "Yes, sir."

~

A dot appears in the snowscape. A car? Yes. You check your coat, make sure the gun is out of sight.

Behind you, Nick's footsteps clatter down the airplane steps. That was quick, you think. He must have thought of something.

"I want it to be worth it!" Nick shouts. "Those people who died back there, I need to make myself worth it!"

You don't respond.

"Is that a car?"

Nick's shoes crunch toward you. He stops beside you, hugging himself. You glance at him. "Don't leave me, you motherfucker," Nick says.

"Fine."

"What? So... we're good? We're staying together?"

"Yes."

"Then what the hell was that before? Was that a joke?"

The car slows. You see glassed-in faces gaping at the plane. "This will be easier if you're calm."

"Are you fucking with me now? I'm trying to deal with... magical, killer poets adn you're fucking with me?"

"I reconsidered," you say. "You made a good point." You walk towards the car. "You want to be useful, here's your chance. Get us that car."

~

You sit in a red leather armchair and watch a fish. The fish is in a tall hourglass, with water instead of sand. Every few seconds a drop falls from the top to the bottom with a plink you can hear only because the room is a mausoleum. The fish wanders around, ballooning as it approaches the curved sides and shrinking away again as it nears the center. It doesn't seem to care that its world is shrinking one drop at a time. Maybe it's used to it. When the water level is low enough, the hourglass must tilt, swing the fish to the bottom, and start refilling one drop at a time. Some kind of art, you assume. It's installed in the middle of this room with no other function; it has to be. It's making some point about time or rebirth. You don't know. You shouldn't be thinking about the fish anyway. You're in a situation.

Jane had driven you, deposited you in this room, and clack-clacked off into the depths. She had not spoken during any of this, not one word, even though you tried to provoke her. There was a disturbing softness about Jane this morning. A kind of sympathy in her silence, which you don't like at all.

You wish Jeremy was here. You wish there was some possibility of this day ending in his room, you telling him about it. You would not believe this fish hourglass they had, you'd say. And Jeremy wouldn't say anything but you'd be able to tell he was interested.

Your time at the school is over. That's what Eliot had said. But no one made you leave. They put you in a different room and in the morning a fresh school uniform was hanging on the door. Then Jane, soft and silent. You don't know how to reconcile all this.

You stare at the hourglass. Plink. Plink. You can't see a tilting mechanism. But it must move soon, because the water level is getting pretty low.

You hear heels and identify them as Jane's. Jane emerges and crosses the room without looking at you. She opens a door and waits.

You rise. "Are we leaving?" Jane doesn't respond. She looks at you and her eyes make you feel like maybe you should have run away while you had the chance. But it's too late for that. You'll get out of here one way or another. You always do. "Oookay," you say, and go through the door.

Jane takes you to a stairwell and finally to a door marked ROOF. She opens this and you step out into sunshine.

The roof is maybe a hundred yards to a side, with gardens and a pool and a tennis court. Like a floating resort. And you can see other rooftops floating in the sky around you, and they're all the exact same height, because this is Washington. You marvel at this for a moment and the door clacks shut behind you. You turn and Jane is gone. "Hmm," you say.

You begin to explore the gardens. There's a noise like: schock. Following this, you come upon a man in light gray pants, no jacket, standing with his back to you, straddling a green mat. His knees are slightly bent. He's holding a golf club. You stand very still, because even from here you can tell it's Thoreau, the man Jeremy had promised you you'd never have to speak to, who has shark eyes.

He swings the club. Schock, and a golf ball arcs into the air. You watch it, thinking it's going to land on one of those other buildings, but they're farther away than it seems. The ball falls below the horizon of the low rooftop wall. That'll be kind of dangerous by the time it reaches ground level, you feel. Kind of like a bullet.

Thoreau turns to you. To your enormous relief, he's wearing sunglasses. He almost looks normal. Or not normal, but like a politician - a congressman or senator, someone who might tell you the country needs cleaning up. More solid than normal. He's not smiling but doesn't seem angry, either. He's just looking at you.

What do you do?

Thoreau takes a white cloth and begins to clean the end of his club. This takes a while and his eyes don't move from you, as far as you can tell.

You shift from one foot to the other. "Hello-"

"Vartix ventor mannit wissik. Be still."

Your mouth snaps closed. It happens before you realize what you're doing. The surprise is that it feels like your decision. You really, genuinely want to be still. It's the words, Thoreau, compromising you, you know, but it doesn't feel like that at all. Your brain is spinning with rationalizations, reasons why you should definitely be still right now, why that's a really good move, and it's talking in your voice. You didn't know compromise was like this.

Thoreau takes a golf ball from a basket and drops it to the green mat. He positions himself, raises the club. He strikes the ball and watches it sail into the distance. When it disappears, he returns to the basket and does it again. He's not watching where the balls land, you notice. It's not like he's taking some kind of perverse joy in turning golf balls into bullets. It's more like he doesn't care. You've misjudged this whole situation. You had thought it was going to be about you. That hourglass in the lobby, you realize, that doesn't tilt. It's someone's job to come by twice a day and replace the fish.

Thoreau continues to hit balls, ignoring you.

You fight to move but can't. You feel violated and angry but also ashamed that you can't control your own body. It's humiliating. It's making you reevaluate your relationship with yourself. Breathe fast, you tell yourself, because that's like being still but not exactly. You have to find a place to drive a wedge and work from there. Breathe.

(04-23-2015, 06:03 PM)Mirdini Wrote: »You've got all those words, any way they could help?

Though you probably shouldn't try saying any around this monster.

If you could speak, maybe. But right now you're focusing on breathing, silently screaming on the inside.

Thoreau's head turns to you. What he's thinking, you have no idea. But you have the feeling that the golfing part is over. He returns his club to the bag and lowers himself into a wrought-iron chair and begins to untie his shoelaces. He does this with great care, as if his shoes contain secrets. When this is done, he enters a black glossy pair. Business shoes. Shoes for business. He laces them firmly, and stands, and heads toward you.

You breathe. You can force a tiny amount of air between your teeth, making a hsss you can barely hear. That's it.

Thoreau removes his sunglasses and tucks them into his shirt pocket. His eyes are gray and characterless as stone. There's a flatness to his face. You'd suspect a face-lift if it wasn't crazy for a poet to reveal a mental weakness for vanity. Maybe he'd wanted to erase his expressions. Or maybe he's just like this. If you never smile or laugh or frown, you can believe that this is the kind of face you wind up with, smooth and empty as an undisturbed pond.

He unbuttons his cuffs and begins to roll up his shirtsleeves. He's close enough to scratch or bite of kick in the nuts but you can't do any of that, of course. He is going to kill you! you shriek at yourself, but it makes no difference. Your brain has become very fatalistic. It's telling you you're responsible for Jeremy and deserve whatever you get.

Thoreau folds his hands and closes his eyes. For long seconds he does not move. You think, Is he praying? Because that's what it looks like. He can't be, because the idea of a religious poet is even more ridiculous than a vain one. Belief in God is a mental weakness, revealing a need for a sense of belonging and higher purpose: desires poets are supposed to master. They are potential avenues of attack. They advertise your set. You've been taught this. But Thoreau is giving every indication of communing with a higher power. Your heart thumps painfully. There's nothing about this situation you understand.

"Sss," you say.

His eyes open. "Goodness," he says. You think he's mocking you, but maybe not. His eyes search yours. You feel surveyed, as if by engineers: dispassionately, precisely, with instruments. "I was told your discipline was poor," he says. "But this..."

Moments pass. You can see his nostrils flaring in and out. You say, "Sss."

"You are, supposedly, gifted. You possess an aptitude for attack, considered sufficient to offset your deficiencies in defense. I would see this. Because presently, my dear, I have trouble imagining how this could be true. I will allow you one opportunity to speak to me. Use it to convince me why I should keep you. Vartix ventor mannit wissik. You may speak."