Appellere, "drive to" or "come ashore"

by Lise

Chapter XLIV: The Chapter of not Dying a Second Time in the Underworld:

Saith Osiris Ani: "My place of hiding is opened, my place of hiding is revealed! Light hath shone in the darkness. The eye of Horus hath ordered my coming into being, and the god Apuat hath nursed me. I have hidden myself with you, O ye stars that never set. My brow is like unto that of Ra; my face is open; my heart is upon its throne; I utter words, and I know; in very truth, I am Ra himself. I am not treated with scorn, and violence is not done unto me. Thy father, the son of Nut, liveth for thee. I am thy first-born, and I see thy mysteries. I am crowned like unto the king of the gods, and I shall not die a second time in the underworld."

VI.
~

KITTY

*

Things progress; Irene writes page after page of prediction, with someone in attendance the whole time. Her vision gets worse and worse, cataracts setting in. I pretty much have to write down everything she says; the only things her hands are good for are those phantom drawings.

Nate calls them her ghost-sketches. I think she's talented. But she's never been an artist, and is quick to point that out each time one of us says that the face she's drawing is beautiful.

Most of the time, she doesn't recognise her models.

I never knew what I was getting into, asking her to try to write a diary entry. I figured, she'd start from the beginning and work her way through all of the entries I'd already read.

So very wrong.

And now, though we have almost a hundred such predictions, pages and pages and pages of things, I don't recognise any of them. And I can't sort them out.

I don't even have a starting point to begin from.

Nate storms into where we're pouring over my scrawled handwriting, remembering which order each page went in, numbering them and dating them with care. He throws a napkin down, and scowls. His eyes are dark. His face is red. When he put it down, his hand slapped the table and made a booming, causing us to jump.

His napkin says, <and he will not know the destruction and the pain, and the Fathers will terrify the Sons.>

He snarls, "Irene, what the hell does this mean?"

"I--"

"You wrote it," Nate says icily, "right before you passed out yesterday."

I wasn't there, but I heard about it. I guess she clutched for a pen and wrote blindly. The words are scattered and looping all over the paper.

She sags down in her chair. "I-- don't remember. I think, there was a fight. Franklin was hurt, and you-- I don't know."

"Did we die?" He leans over her, looms big and fierce, as he asks. "Did you see Scott? What did you see?"

She shrinks even smaller in her chair, underneath his bulk -- her hair frazzled and eyes grey, misty. Voice muted. "Who's Scott? All I remember is, an army...?"

His voice is low and desperate-- he grabs her and I'm afraid he'll hurt her, trying to get his answers. "Of who? Did they have swords, or were they mutants? Did they win? What happened to this place, Irene?" He's leaning right into her face, terrifying an old woman half to death. "What happened to us?"

I put a hand on his shoulder, try and pull him away. "Stop badgering her, Nate. Let it come."

He rounds on me, throwing my hand off and getting in my face next. "Oh, you're such an expert, are you Kitty, just because you've studied all her books."

I glare, hold my ground. "I know the way these things work, Nate."

He balls up the piece of paper, fists tight and shaking. "And how much have you lost to them?"

I reply softly, "Everything." Irene's head lolls forward in her chair, and then snaps up again. I say, "She's exhausted, Nate. Let her sleep."

Eyes closed, she mutters, "I don't know whose army. I just know-- Nate," she says, a little desperate, "I don't think we won."

He's startled; I'm impressed. His hands still. I open my mouth, when her whole body goes rigid, and her mouth starts mumbling, low-voice, like she's speaking in tongues. I catch a vowel, a phrase here and there, but most of it is nonsense.

Nate suddenly has his arms crossed, and goes to stand by the door, threatening. When she relaxes, suddenly, and puffs out breath, he raises an eyebrow. "Well?"

She turns to me, and I can see her eyes trying to avoid looking at Nate. Not surprising. "I saw you, with a woman. Her skin was blue. You were in a large apartment, and you were... looking at pictures? I think you were afraid."

Irene lets her hands sketch a perfect likeness of Raven in just under thirty seconds. I ask, fearfully, "Is that the woman?"

"Yes. I think so. It's all, so fuzzy."

"Do you think-- did you see Raven coming here?"

"I don't know."

Irene keeps sketching, and then she writes, 'cat shadow, reach inside'. I clap a hand over my mouth to stop from screaming. I remember that. It could have been yesterday. For all I know, in some timeline, it was yesterday.

Those were the first words of Destiny's I ever found.

But something's wrong, there are huge gaps in the books this Irene is writing. Huge chunks of things missing, fallen through the gaps. I say, confused and still frightened out of my wits, "This isn't right. It's, too soon." Softer. "Things are missing."

She stares down at the pen in her hand, and I notice it's shaking as much as my own hands. "What?"

I tell her, "That's already happened. You, you don't understand." My insides twist, and I think I finally understand, maybe a little bit. "This is all backwards."

She looks angry, and snaps the Bic pen in half with a loud pop. My mind is whirling, and I feel sick. If this is too early, and things-- "Give me that other book, Irene. The one before this."

My fingers flip through the pages, as she says, "What are you looking for?"

On page forty six, from not two days ago, I recognise the exact phrasing that stared at me so many times in New Orleans, begging translation yet never revealing what the hell was going on. 'Twelve hours to a day, twelve victims on the block, we are all but puppets on strings.'

I'm not likely to forget something like that. "Do you know what we have here, Irene?"

She's half-impatient, and half-quiet. "No, I don't, Katherine."

My mind whispers, not again. Good lord, please. Not again. I speak slowly, gears grinding and things coming together in my mind with a sick feeling of horror. "Neither do I. But--" and I swallow past the thickness in my throat-- "I think, we might have been approaching this all wrong."

"How so?" And she's curious, cautious.

Nate disappeared silently, some time ago, and I didn't even notice.

I answer, holding up the book in my hands for her to study. "This is supposed to be in book eleven." I grab what she just drew. "This, is book seven."

"Things aren't in chronological order."

"More than that." I pause. "I think. I think, maybe, somehow, you being in the shifts has... changed, things." She keeps looking at me, as if I have the answers. It's painful to continue, "And I don't know how. I have no idea."

~

NATE

*

So I'm just sitting down to dinner when Kitty comes up, face a little ashen, and two of that damned Irene's notes tucked under her arm. Before she reaches me, I hold up a hand. "I'm not interested, Kitty, so don't."

She stops, surprised. "But, I think I might have figured out why Irene is only right half the--"

"STOP." I take a breath, as people start looking at me in the bar. Things are tense enough right now, and I don't need to start a scene.

--since when did I give a fuck about making a scene?

She's subdued. "Fine. But I'm not stopping."

"That's your fucking right, now, isn't it?"

She sits down, regardless, and as I start shoveling food in my mouth again, she continues, "Aren't you even curious what I figured out?"

"No."

It doesn't matter, she's going to tell me anyway. "I think, Irene might be chronologically confused. She's, seeing things that happened, but to other people. Not to us."

"The woman is dangerous," I growl.

"I think we've got a chance to decipher her vision, Nate. I really do." She's very earnest, eager. "I think I've figured out how to see what's going to happen here, what we have to do to fix things--"

"Kitty, I got tired of this weeks ago." Stuff another mouthful into my mouth. "Fuck off."

She leaves, and the soft slapping sound of palm-on-wood doesn't make me jump. I touch my hand to the table, and rap twice with my knuckles. A spider crawls onto my boot, and stares at me, as I finish eating.

~

LORNA

*

"They're not going to listen to me, are they?"

I'm huddled in a kitchen chair. Kitty is sulking at the table. I put a hand on hers, uncertainly, and then withdraw it-- those hands have touched fate. "They are afraid, Kitty."

"I'm afraid too! But I'm not going to give up."

I shiver. "It's easy to be afraid, Kitty. Of, you."

Maybe, some day, she'll understand. I get up again, and as she drinks, I rap the top of the doorframe, so quietly that no one else hears it.

Outside, as I wander through the dark garden, I almost trip over someone.

"Irene. I didn't see you."

She's sitting quietly, under the tree that has become the friend I wished it to, knees curled up to her chest. Her face seems sad. Her hands seem sad; people would laugh to hear that thought aloud. But they appear that way, clasped tightly around her legs, knuckles trying too hard to stay relaxed, yet posture lying about the effort.

She looks up at me, and I think perhaps she's been crying; her eyes are red rimmed. I have a picture of Irene Adler in my mind, a kind older woman with dark glasses, always trying to smile.

Trying. I hunker down, and watch her bony hands wind their way around each other. She seems unwilling to talk; I don't know what to say. Somewhere in the garden, the goats are sleeping.

"Do you know what-- I saw?"

She says it with difficulty. I shake my head, tremble. "No. I don't know."

She pulls her hands apart, rubs them, and absurdly, the thought that she's trying to rub dead skin off them pops into my head. "No, neither do I, Lorna."

My name is strange on her tongue. It's frightening. "Are you-- did you tell someone?"

She waves to the ground beside her. "I wrote it down." Draws her eyebrows together. "Like they want me to."

"Maybe," I start, a little ball forming in my throat. Fear. "Maybe, you don't have to. If you don't want to do it."

She grabs my hand, tightly, swiveling to lock eyes. Irene's grip is strong and it takes me by surprise; no escape, and I feel the lump in my throat get bigger, trembling more violent. Her voice is afraid, hoarse. "I saw him, Lorna. I saw Charles up on a cross, just like Christ."

I pull my hand away, and she sighs, grabs paper and pen in a shaky, bony hand. She has sad hands, I think to myself-- and she adds, "I wrote it down..."

"Are you--" She stands, and I look up at her from the ground. Her eyes squint at me, her hands seem to be the only part of her body with any purpose. I try again, breath coming in uncertainty. "Can you see all right to get back to the house?"

Her eyes close, and her face gets a painful look, a harsh, open look of vulnerability. It's more frightening than her grip on my hand was, and it's almost too open, like she's forgotten I'm here altogether and is admitting she hurts.

She's a proud woman. I feel-- something, even though I don't want to, for her. It might be pity, or, compassion, though I barely recognise the sentiments. I stand up too, and, feather-light, touch her rough fingers. When she doesn't say anything, or move, or breathe, I place them gently on the crook of my arm, and lead her inside.

~

DOMINO

*

Saturday night should be a happy thing. It should be full of joy, and laughter, and rabbits. I'd settle for fucking like rabbits.

Lorna freezes in the doorway to the kitchen, Irene's frail arm wrapped around her elbow for support. I guess seeing Nate, Franklin and I sitting around the table didn't help her courage.

I grin wide. It's nasty. Lorna wants to bolt. I say, "So, girls. What are you doing up?"

Irene is the one to answer me. "I was just going to bed."

"Good, at your age."

"Irene," Kitty says, "Why don't you sit down with us. We were just having some-- well," and she chuckles tightly, "Brown colored, vaguely coffee tasting water, actually."

"Appetizing." But she sits. Lorna, I don't miss, goes straight upstairs without meeting anyone's eyes.

I lean over the table, get in Irene's face. "Nate's been telling me that you've seen some pretty interesting stuff. Said that you fainted, after telling him his father was coming back."

Nate's voice in my head, <<Dom, don't bother. I want to take you upstairs, and if you start to argue with her-->>

<<Rrrow,>> I answer, and wink at him. <<I'll be quick.>>

Irene's watching me carefully. "I did see-- Scott."

It doesn't pass by anyone's notice that the name's unfamiliar to her. I say, a little threatening, "Oh? And you wouldn't happen to be holding anything back."

"Why would I." Her eyes meet mine, steady. Not a challenge, but not backing down. "You don't believe me anyway."

Franklin cuts in. "Guys."

"No, Franklin," Irene says. "It's all right. This is not new."

Kitty's face has a look of profound sympathy for the old woman. She sips her brown shit, and then says quietly, "The two of us have been working on trying to decode her last visions all day. I think we're close--"

"Oh are you." I lean back in my chair. "Do tell."

Franklin stares at me. I guess he thinks I'm being too harsh. Even Nate says, a bit confused, <<Dom, this isn't like you-- this is like me, actually...>>

<<So? I have a goddamned right. Okay? I have a right.>> He puts a hand on mine under the table.

Irene glances at Kitty, and Kitty nods. Irene says, "Well. There are-- signs, that Kitty has identified, that may point to a--" She looks unwilling to speak it. "A resurrection."

I say bluntly, "Of who?"

"Well," and she's hesitant, "It could be... what started this in the first place."

Nate looks at the table, and his fists clench. <<Apocalypse.>>

<<She can't be serious.>> I turn to her. "Are you serious?"

Kitty nods. "The epithets are there. Possibly. Of course, it's very hard to tell because we can't seem to get any handle on how the visions are being manifested. One day might be a hundred years from now. The next line might be tomorrow. It could be a past vision..."

"Or it could be now." Nate shakes his head. "Fuck. I knew if you--"

"Hey!" Kitty looks angry. "This isn't her fault!"

Franklin is quiet through this little argument. His face looks strained-- I guess it's hard for him to see his 'family' fighting. What can he say, really. I stare right at Irene. "So you're saying he's going to be reborn? Come back? What?"

Irene sighs, and rubs her eyes, shrugging to show her uncertainty. Franklin strokes her shoulder sympathetically, ignoring my angry question. "Another headache?"

She rests her head in her hands for a minute, before answering with difficulty, "Of course." She smiles briefly at Kitty, who shakes her shoulders out and looks very uncomfortable. "I think I need glasses."

I drink, quickly, and feel the liquid in my throat, like the poison gas of that shift before Nate found me-- tap my foot against the floor twice. Franklin says, "You know, I can get rid of that for--"

Irene shakes her head, and closes her eyes again, murmuring, "He's going to come. Someone is going to come, a god, or-- it's all so vague. His son, here--" waving her hand at Nate, "--is going to be so very angry with me. But I can't help it. I tried to see it all, and I can't. Tell me, Horus," she asks Nate bitterly, staring right at him, "What will you say the day I die?"

The table is quiet for an awkward minute, and then she stands up stiffly. Kitty says, "Irene--"

"If you'll excuse me. I think I'll go to bed." Another sigh. "I don't see very well in the dark anymore."

~

FRANKLIN

*

Domino and Nate go upstairs to have sex, and it's just Kitty and I in the kitchen.

I've tried to take in all of this with a calm face. I've tried to understand what it is about Irene that makes Nate and Domino so angry, and what it is that makes Kitty believe blindly. But I don't understand. I have empathy for her, because I know what it's like to feel the masses of universes folding in upon itself. It's like a weight in your mind; when you feel that pressure, it's hard to bear up.

I don't have the problem of trying to understand a vision. I just have to keep it all out.

Kitty is frustrated with not having the answers. I can tell because she's the kind of person who needs to figure things out. She can't let something go unanswered.

Irene is a strong woman, but even strong women can't face up to impossible odds. I give Kitty a minute, and say softly, "She needs you, Kit."

She starts to pace, getting a little more worked up. "I know she does, okay? I fucking know."

Hissing, quiet, and scared Dom was going to get up and tell us blearily to go the fuck to bed, I answer, "So what are you going to do about it?"

She covers her face with her hands. "I don't know. I don't-- I don't even know if I believe her anymore."

"Yeah." I pause. "So imagine how she feels."

It makes her think for a second, but she regains her stride. "She's going to pieces, and you know it, Franklin."

I sit calmly and watch her pace in the kitchen, trying to keep my voice low enough so that Mikhail won't wake up and worry. He's started having nightmares. I'm worried about him. "Of course I know it, Kitty."

She is sitting at our pitiful kitchen table, hands clenched in her lap. She looks fragile, and tired, and so angry with me, everything. "We have to do something to stop it."

She stops, stands still, to listen for the noises outside, the people laughing in the garden, the clinking of glasses somewhere far off... the ever-present humming of the borders, far too close for comfort.

I did that, I think. I am the creator of the world-- from myself, comes this.

Last week, a little child wearing a toga and crying called me Jupiter. Last month, it was God, plain and simple. I think of Lorna, asleep with limp green hair, and wonder which goddess she would be. Is that Demeter, flying over the land with command of the green things, all things with magnetics, or her daughter Persephone, taken to be the wife of the lord over the underworld.

I shiver. Kitty is watching me with an expectant look; I say, "I don't know if we can help her. Or if we should."

She stands, proud, Athenian. --Athena, I think stupidly, and she says, "Of course we should. We need what she sees, if I could only figure it OUT. She's, she can, we could..."

She trails off. I nod slowly, as she starts thinking. Her brows furrow, and the little vein in her temple sticks out, pulses. I can feel the threads I cling to, the energy itself. Mikhail is asleep in his bed, where we should be. "Kitty, listen."

She holds a hand up, and gets up. Turns away from me. "I understand, Franklin. You can't think I'm stupid enough not to know that things are the same as before. I know she's not going to be right all the time."

"No, you're not stupid." I put an arm around her. "But I don't know if you've realized what kinds of things she can see." Softly, I continue, "There are a million possibilities for the world, Kitty. The harder you push, the more she can see."

"Her powers haven't changed--"

"No," I tell her. "But the possibilities, the endless fucking possibilities, they have."

I dream that night about eating apples, and I think I talked to a gnome about the color of his hair. Kitty was there, and kept telling me that no, she couldn't do the laundry because the world was going to end, and what was I going to do about it? And I told the gnome that he should dye his hair, because he might be going grey but when he dies, no one will know his age...

In the morning, I hear a wail go up, and imagine it as the cult of Isis right before the volcano hits in Pompeii. I don't know who it is, really. Someone in pain; doesn't narrow it down much.

We seem to be in pain, in this cult, at the edge of this abyss.

[sunday -->]

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