A Fractured Conjuring Page 4
“You’re reading my thoughts.”
“It’s your dream. You’re reading your own thoughts.” He chuckles.
“Well…why are you here? Or not here. I mean, why am I dreaming you?”
He shrugs. “I was just thinking about that time a few months ago at our place. Remember? When you and Dray came for the weekend? What a time we had. I was thinking about it earlier tonight after…after I hit that poor man. I felt so dirty, and something about wanting to not feel dirty made me think of the night we dined in such high style. And later, in the library. That, my dear, was sophistication. I thought you might want to remember, too.”
Chloe knows she is dreaming, but this feels so much like real conversation. Dray lies next to her, breathing easily. Everything in the room seems normal. Except for Dray’s boss, sitting at the foot of the bed, one hand resting now on her foot, the one that always ends up peeking out from under the covers.
He gives her foot a squeeze and says, “I knew Dray would tell you about my lapse in character—no secrets between lovers, yes?—and I guess my subconscious was bothered that anyone not there wouldn’t really understand how it was.” He chuckles again. “Only it isn’t my subconscious, is it? It’s yours. Maybe something in you needs to see me contrite, and to remember how I am when I’m not hitting people. I wasn’t myself. Something in you needed to hear me say that.”
“Oh honey, I understand. I never gave it a thought.” Chloe leans forward and the sheet falls away. “I have nothing but respect for you, you have to know that.”
He smiles again, and this time she thinks she can actually see it. It’s a warm smile, grateful and a little sad, the kind of smile one gives when they recognize a gentle lie on their behalf. His eyes drop to her naked breasts. “Lovely,” he says, his voice a sigh, in the way one might express appreciation for a particularly fine sunset.
He raises his eyes, squeezes her foot again, gives the toes a wiggle. “You’re a doll to say so. I’ll leave you to your rest, hon. Just do me a favor and remember that night. How it was, how we were. The bits we learned about one another. What high living that was and what fools we would be not to do it again.”
Then he is gone.
Chloe blinks, looks at her toes where Florent touched them, a shaft of early evening sun warming her bare foot where it rests on the seat across from her—
She is no longer in bed. She is on a train, forty minutes out of White Plains, swaying with the rhythm, dozing to the soporific hum and click of the wheels on the rails. Dray is next to her, reading a Larry McMurtry novel, eyes half-lidded, head drooping.
She’ll be asleep in a few minutes, Chloe thinks, and smiles to herself. We’re on our way, Florent. I’m remembering…
. . . . .
They were invited to spend the weekend with Florent and his partner, Henri Andrepont, at their sprawling Victorian home in White Plains. It was something of a coup to get invited to the boss’s place for the weekend, Dray told her. Chloe knew better. Dray was Florent’s favorite—his best dancer, best employee, and probably his closest female friend.
That first evening was one of luxurious indulgence. After a dinner that included beluga caviar and Bollinger Blanc champagne, Henri waved them away from table clean-up, urging Florent in broken English to “escort the ladies on the nickel tour.” Florent took to the task with gusto, revealing each nook and length of dentil molding with a flourish. Chloe found this to be not so much pretension as childlike excitement. His way of saying, Look at my new toy! Isn’t this neat? Isn’t that the coolest thing you ever saw?
At last, standing before a set of dark wood double-doors, he drew a deep breath and said, “And now, my dears, I give you the heartbeat of our home, the very nerve center of this humble abode.” Then he swung the doors open on a library that took Chloe’s breath away. At once gothic and oddly comforting, the room had the aura of a black-and-white movie set. With its overstuffed leather chairs, brass pipe stands, crystal decanters full of dark liquid, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, it was like something out of an old horror film.
Chloe leaned into Dray and whispered, “I think I could stay in this room forever, at least until the ghosts started rattling around.”
Florent overheard and said, “Nothing but friendly spirits here.” He cocked an eyebrow and mimed puffing on a pipe. “I like to play landed gentleman,” he said, then pointed to what he called his favorite collection of literature. Displayed in a glass-fronted case, dimly lit, were several first-editions of Chloe’s own books, some that had done well and some that had vanished from print. The Wrath of Dragons, Juking the Jester, a half dozen others. There was even a slim volume of poetry Chloe barely remembered writing. She pulled the book out and ran her fingers across the cover. Flowers from a Sunless Garden.
“Talk about a blast from the past.” She laughed and slid the book back on the shelf. “Those are indeed first editions, but I hope you are not disappointed to learn that they are the only editions.”
Florent lowered his gaze at her, knowing her self-deprecation for the lie it was, and urged her to sign the books (“No generic ‘best wishes’ crap, my dear, I want it personalized ‘to my very good friend Florent, my fire and my muse’”). She had only met Florent recently, but signed them as requested, enjoying the act more than she ever had. She was capping the pen when she saw a large book with a gilded cover glinting from under a glass dome on a pedestal in the far corner.
Florent saw where she was looking and said, “Ah, that. Come closer.” They approached the pedestal with almost reverential slowness. Florent lifted the glass and set it aside carefully. He put a slender finger to his lips and said, “Don’t let Henri know I touched this. It’s his pride and joy; the one true relic from his professorship at Université de Paris. I think it may be the only thing in this world he loves more than me.”
The book was covered with symbols impossible for Chloe to decipher. “What language is that? Is it a language?”
Florent glanced toward the door, then said in a whisper: “It’s Akkadian. The language is extinct now, but it was the earliest Semitic language spoken in ancient Mesopotamia. They used a cuneiform writing system—that’s all those symbols, my dear—which was also used to write the Sumerian language. For centuries Akkadian was the lingua franca in Mesopotamia and the Ancient Near East.” He stopped, his pale skin blushing pink when he noticed Chloe glancing toward the door. “I’m boring you.”
“Not at all. I would just hate for Henri to catch you being naughty.” She reached toward the volume, then drew her hand back. “May I?”
Florent shook his head. “Best not, my dear. Here. Allow me.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gingerly lifted the cover to reveal what served as a title page. There was a bold row of marks that looked like arrows or golf tees all connected and pointing in different directions, and underneath, in beautiful calligraphy, a string of words written in French: Le Codex des Savoirs Interdits.
Chloe laughed. “Wheels within wheels,” she said. “My French is pretty much nonexistent. I know what a codex is, but I can’t get the rest. I’m assuming that’s the translation of the line above?”
Florent nodded and gently closed the cover. “It is, or as close as they could get. The Codex of Forbidden Knowledge. Some think there’s a subtitle buried in the original cuneiform scribblings, suggesting that Forbidden Knowledge could also be translated as something like Things Known and Unknown, Things Seen and Unseen. Something along those lines. People who claim to know how to read Akkadian in cuneiform are few and far between, and none of them agree. The basic idea—and most scholars agree on this—is that these writings are about subjects and, uh, preoccupations that genteel folk had no business knowing or discussing.”
“So it’s ancient porn,” Dray said.
Chloe elbowed her and Florent slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. “Not quite, my dear. This is serious stuff. Very dark, and full of the deeper superstitions and doings of a peopl
e just learning to exist in a civilized manner.” He laid a hand reverently on the cover. “This is extremely rare. As far as anyone knows, this is the oldest existing translation of The Codex of Forbidden Knowledge. The translation is believed to have been commissioned by Gilles de Montmorency-Laval, also known as baron Gilles de Rais. Baron de Rais, a Breton knight and companion-in-arms of Joan of Arc, is said to have been something of a student of the occult. He is best known by his reputation and conviction as a prolific serial killer of children.”
“Jesus,” Chloe said.
“Indeed. Assuming its rumored origin is correct, this volume dates back to the mid-15th century, which makes it practically showroom-fresh considering the original would’ve been compiled somewhere around 2,000 BC.”
Dray yawned theatrically. “So that would be roughly around the time we walked into this room.”
Florent laughed, replaced the dome, and then a bell sounded. “Ah. That will be Henri in the drawing room with the brandy and cigars. Ladies?”
Chloe’s mind remained in the library throughout the evening and the remainder of the weekend. She watched for an opportunity to revisit the room alone, but it never came. Even if the opportunity had presented itself, she wouldn’t have been able to invade their privacy so profoundly.
Before the weekend concluded, she managed to get Florent alone. “Any idea at all where I might find a copy of the codex? Something someone may have put together in English?”
Florent had eyed her with amused curiosity. “Dark subject matter, my dear. I can’t help but wonder as to the appeal.”
She’d shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s intriguing in and of itself of course, but also the type of thing that might bear consideration when I’m writing something about how modern society acts in very un-modern ways.”
He’d seemed impressed, and told her he thought he knew of someone who might at least have an inkling. “Young Cokely expressed the same interest a year or so back when he was visiting. He studied Ancient Languages and Mysticism under Henri in Paris, majoring in this very subject. He and his chick du jour joined us here for brunch last Spring. We had to almost literally pry him away from the library. Of course he knew about the book from his own studies but had never seen a copy. Not many have.”
“This is Jesse Cokely, the bartender at the Rumpus Room?”
Florent smiled. “Indeed. He’s a complex fellow. Like you, I’d say he is wise beyond his years. A fresh face can sometimes hide an old soul. His primary field of study now, when he’s not tending bar, is something called Chronic Mysticism.” He held up a hand and smiled again. “Please don’t ask because I’m not sure I could illuminate the subject. He could explain it better and may be able to provide more information on the codex. But I’d think long and hard before absorbing too much of that particular material, my dear. Very long and hard.”
Returning home, she found it virtually impossible to get the book out of her mind.
The Codex of Forbidden Knowledge. Things Known and Unknown, Things Seen and Unseen. The darkest thoughts of an ancient civilization. A translation commissioned by a wicked man with a reputation akin to that of Vlad the Impaler. Could there be anything more appealing to a writer concerned with the dark doings of modern society?
Unable to let it go—and not wanting to tip her hand to Dray should Jesse Cokely make mention of her interest—she went on an online hunt. She found a trove of convoluted information regarding the ancient Sumerians and their variant cousins the Assyrians and Babylonians, but zero information as to anyone who had taken the time to translate the codex into English.
That left Jesse. Florent had been right. Jesse not only knew of an English translation of the codex, he had one in the form of a PDF file that he claimed was as close to the original as one could get. He had translated it himself.
The phone call had been brief, Jesse immediately understanding her request for discretion. They exchanged emails and he sent her a copy of the PDF. Even in English there were whole passages that were nearly incomprehensible. More emails were exchanged, eventually leading to several quiet meetings over coffee. Jesse’s dark eyes sparkled at the subject, one he knew well and found endlessly fascinating. It was more than clear that he found Chloe fascinating as well. His delicate fingers would brush her hand a little more often than was likely by accident, and Chloe was aware that he was falling for her. She had explained how things were with Dray, a fact he already knew too well.
“You have a beautiful mind, Chloe,” he’d told her. “I guess I’m a bit infatuated with your brain.” Then he smiled and Chloe decided she was okay with the idea—intelligence was attractive, and he had more than his share. She found the notion of a gay woman being intellectually in love with a heterosexual man exciting; the sharing of ideas and passions that couldn’t lead to anything.
“So tell me about Chronic Mysticism.”
“Ah, I see Florent has been telling my secrets.” He’d hesitated, seeming almost embarrassed at first, then warming to the subject. “You won’t find C. M. on any curriculum. I coined the term to try to explain—to myself, I guess—how certain ideas or beliefs come to be. More than that, how they linger, you know? For instance, we’re all familiar with the standard idea that departed spirits leave an imprint, right? Whether through trauma at time of death, or unresolved issues, whatever. They supposedly leave a psychic imprint that hangs around and it’s what we think of as ghosts. That type of thing doesn’t really interest me. What C. M. questions is how the belief itself came to be; it investigates the hypothesis—my hypothesis—that long-held beliefs can actually create the thing or entity in question. Similar to the idea of a protracted belief a person holds of being ill actually making that person sick. We already know that thoughts are energy and have creative power. But can a chronic belief in, say, vampires actually make them real? We can scoff at the notion, but we don’t really know. Vampires, ghosts, demons. We’re talking many thousands of years of deep-seated fears. There is no stronger—and more creatively deadly—emotion than fear. In some ways it’s very simple. The proof of fearful creation is all around us. Hold fast to a paralyzing fear that you’re going to die of a heart attack and odds are you will.”
He’d smiled, shrugged. “Sorry, I get carried away with this stuff.”
She laid her fingers on his hand. “Don’t be sorry. It really is fascinating.”
Eyes fixed on her fingers on the back of his hand, he whispered, “‘By believing passionately in something that still does not exist, we create it. The nonexistent is whatever we have not sufficiently desired.’”
She drew her hand back, hearing something beneath his words.
He continued to stare at his hand where her fingers had been. Then his eyes raised to hers. “Sorry. Carried away again.”
She nodded, understanding more than she wanted to. “Was that Nietzsche?”
“Kafka.” He laughed softly. “Who would know better than Kafka?”
At their last meeting—Chloe made it clear they were pushing their luck—she handed Jesse a flash drive as a thank you.
“What’s this?”
“Some of my writings. Experimental stuff. Prose poems, stream of consciousness, stuff like that. Stuff I can’t really do anything with.” She laughed. “Basically shit that would give my agent hives. I honestly don’t know what all is on there. If you stumble on anything really embarrassing, keep it to yourself.”
He had looked at her, mouth open and eyes shining. For a second she thought he might cry. “I…you have no idea what this means to me.”
She did know, because she knew what his friendship meant to her. It was the only secret she had ever knowingly kept from Dray, and something in its clandestine nature made the friendship especially sweet. She nodded and waived off his appreciation. Then they stood and hugged and, without knowing she was going to do it, she took his face in her hands and kissed him long and soft and slow.
He was smiling and crying when she left, and that was the last she eve
r saw of him.
For the next few weeks she buried herself in the file, reading until her eyes could no longer remain open, taking millennia-old deprivations with her into sleep, night after night, demons and conjurings and…
. . . . .
…Chloe’s eyes open, but she is not awake and sees nothing of the apartment. She is elsewhere.
A dream-memory floats through her mind. Florent’s voice from the foot of the bed, leaking sadness: “Such a sweet, tormented soul.”
Why would he think that? Still asleep, her feet swing to the floor. He didn’t think that. I did.
She stands and approaches her laptop.
7
The child sits on a filthy mattress in the corner of a cavernous space, a dark echo chamber of whispering drips and creaks, imagined sighs and groans that can only be the building settling, deteriorating walls swaying under a weight of years and decay. A deep, mournful moaning calls from far off, a sound some distant part of her recognizes as a ferry’s horn.
Mr. Junker is just outside the large room, in the hallway, cursing softly as he roots through one of the many piles of debris they had to stumble through on their way to this room.
Beyond Mr. Junker’s scrapes and mutters are numerous hallways and corridors, all seeming to stretch away from this central chamber—like the legs of a massive spider expanding out from its belly, where the child now sits, arms clasped around her knees.
Mr. Junker’s voice seems to come from everywhere as he says, “Ha, found you, you little bastard.” There is a quick scratching sound, then a hiss and a soft whump immediately followed by the glow from a small flame blossoming to life.
Mr. Junker steps through the doorway just ahead of a scatter of dancing shadows thrown by the propane lantern he holds out before him. As he approaches, the draft-tossed flame pitches flicker-shadows into the deep hollows of his face and eyes, making him appear ancient and haggard, devoid of compassion—