APRIL 12th CHALLENGE

A MIGHTY STRANGER

by JoAnn Baca

If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.
Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

The descent to the Catacombs was difficult, even dangerous, for a man still recovering from a broken hip, especially without a strong companion to steady him. Vincent would have done it gladly. But this night he could not ask his son to accompany him. This night he had to go alone. For the history of the grave he sought was unknown to Vincent, and must remain so.

Water dripped from unseen sources, and torchlight was sporadic so far from the Hub. The transformation – so gradual it was almost imperceptible – from the warmth and vitality of the Hub to the desolation of this place never failed to unnerve him. Jacob’s footsteps echoed in a lonely cadence as he made his way, a stagger here, a lurching footstep there, trying to keep upright, trying to hold his balance, leaning heavily on his newly acquired cane.

On the rare occasions when a funeral was held Below, the Tunnel community ventured here, but otherwise the Catacombs were rarely visited. Most inhabitants had neither the time nor the inclination to commune with the bones of lost friends. It seemed almost frivolous to expend the energy and the hours in such reminiscence. Too much in the present awaited their attention, too many living inhabitants needed the work of their hands. Jacob himself rarely came. A host of memories always crowded his mind here, and some were the kind best forgotten.

Like the one that drew him down on this chill February evening.

It had been thirty years ago tonight, an awful anniversary, and one for which Jacob suspected he would not be alone in his visitation. In that he was correct. Still, he nearly stumbled down the last few uneven steps as a shadow suddenly loomed against the rock walls before him.

“Ahhh, so you came.” The tall, imposing figure clad in black did not hold out an arm to assist him.

Jacob set his teeth and managed to prevent a headfirst fall. When he had righted himself, he ground out a polite, “John.” He could say nothing else and be truthful – no “It’s a pleasure to see you,” nor a “I hope you have been well.” It had been thirty years, but the passing of time could not erase the enmity between them.

The smirk he received showed him that his former friend had caught the lack of niceties…and was amused by it.

“I’m surprised you came,” Jacob added. “I’ve never known you to be sentimental.”

The taller man smiled. “Oh, I’m not. But you are, and I have a particular reason to be here tonight.”

“Besides the anniversary of your wife’s…very sudden death?” Jacob’s sarcastic tone implied more than he said about the “how” of Anna’s passing.

John Pater inclined his head. “Well, yes.” He studied his former friend’s face for a moment before adding, “Anna’s untimely demise was unfortunate…but necessary.”

If he thought he would gain the satisfaction of a look of outrage or anger, he was mistaken, for Jacob was now prepared for the other man’s verbal jabs, and had schooled himself to react with only a shake of the head.

“John, I pity you. You killed the only person who truly loved you. The only one.”

That earned him a snort of laughter. “Love is a sentimental construct. But never mind that. I didn’t come here to battle that old war.”

Jacob shrugged. “We have nothing else to battle over.”

“You have so often been wrong, old friend, and you are yet again. We have the thing that started us down the road to acrimony. My son.”

His last words sent a shiver down Jacob’s spine. Decades had gone by, yet the man persisted in his delusions. John had pronounced the adoption only weeks before the murder of his wife had led to him being banished, and he had been expelled with only the clothes on his back. Certainly there had been no question of the child joining him in exile. The adoption had been expunged from their records, along with all mention of John’s name. He had been stripped of all property, all rights, as part of the only punishment the shocked community could devise. 

Jacob had felt compelled by circumstance and by necessity to take the baby under his wing despite already having the responsibility of another child in his care, so Jacob was the only adoptive father Vincent had known. To hear John now claim the custodial rights which had been stripped from him was nonsense…but troubling nonsense.

There was a bench along one wall. It was rickety and splintered but Father desperately needed to take weight off his still-healing hip, so he settled down on it. He couldn’t prevent the grunt of relief from leaving his lips, but he turned it into a sigh before remarking, “You mean my son.”

“Trying to justify kidnapping doesn’t become you, Jacob, not even after three decades.” John ran one finger across the name Anna Pater carved into the stone beside him, then wiped it on his pristine black jacket, leaving damp and dirt in its wake. “He was mine until she found a willing co-conspirator in you.”

Father shook his head, dismissing the allegation. “She was heroic. I know how much she wanted to keep the boy, to raise him. But you made that impossible with your wild plans. She sacrificed her own happiness to save Vincent.”

John’s response was ground out, his furrowed brow reflecting a gathering emotional storm. “She sacrificed her life…for betraying me. She owed her loyalty to me, first and last.”

“She wasn’t some…some subject, John, and you certainly were no king.” Jacob stiffened his spine, both hands folded over the top of his cane to aid him in sitting ramrod straight.

The anger in John disappeared as suddenly as it had emerged, like a spigot turned off, and it was replaced by an oily smile. “Well, the boy became a man in the intervening years. No longer in need of raising or guidance.” The storm clouds appeared once more. “No longer needing…a father.”

Eyebrows raised, his former friend asked, “I’m interested. What do you think he is in need of?”

A smile of delight spread across John’s face, as if he had manipulated Jacob into asking the very question he’d anticipated. “Why…the truth, of course.”

John’s rapidly shifting emotional state had begun to worry Jacob, but his concern was being replaced by the beginnings of fear. He had come alone to mark this anniversary, with no one aware of his destination; he knew how to avoid the sentries as easily as the man who had created the sentry system. What did his friend-turned-nemesis have in mind with this meeting? Jacob sensed no physical threat, but the man was mercurial, half-mad.

Feigning nonchalance despite his growing concerns, Jacob asked, “What truth is that, pray tell?”

The chuckle that emanated from the other man’s mouth raised the hair on Jacob’s arms. “You’ve kept certain…details from the boy. You’ve indoctrinated him with that fairy tale about the alley behind St. Vincent’s Hospital. What will he think of you once he hears…everything, do you suppose?”

Father’s blood chilled, and it had nothing to do with the cold breeze wafting through this shadowy place. “You…you wouldn’t dare.”

John shrugged.

Anger began to build as Jacob challenged the man. “What possible benefit would there be in that?”

The truth…their truth…about Vincent was the one thing that had remained unspoken when all else had fallen apart because of Anna’s murder. It was too volatile a secret to expose – back then when the boy was a babe, and especially now that Vincent was capable of understanding all the implications…and the depth of culpability that still bound the two men now facing each other in the Catacombs.

John cocked his head as if thinking. “Let’s see… Perhaps it would be beneficial to find out that the man he thinks of as his father is a liar? Hmmm?”

Fury now boiled in the seated man, completely eliminating the chill of moments before. He lifted his cane and smacked it hard on the stone floor. “I forbid it!”

John leaned his head back and barked a laugh before saying, “That’s rich. No king, indeed!” Then he leaned forward and down, his face coming quite close to his old compatriot’s. “Don’t go into apoplexy. My fairy tale won’t be true either.”

“What?”

Confused, Father rose to his feet, causing John to step back sharply. It threw him off his game just a bit. He let his façade slip, spitting out, “You fool! It would benefit neither of us to tell him the actual truth! My gods, can you imagine what he might do with that information?”

John shuddered then, not noticing the relief in the other man’s eyes at hearing his latest words.

“No, my old friend, my once-dearest companion who stabbed me in the heart with his treachery…no. I merely plan to replace one simplistic fantasy with another, darker one. Something more…tailored, shall we say, to his deepest fears.” His eyelids lowered as he gazed at the shorter man with contempt. “He desires that ‘truth’ and I shall deliver it. Someday.”

“You won’t have the chance,” Father sputtered. “You are watched, you know. And I keep Vincent close.”

“Oh, there will come a time…” John produced a gold coin and flipped it expertly through his fingers. “I have laid my plans. But I wanted to come here tonight, on the anniversary of my duplicitous wife’s death, to tell you…so that you might wait and worry…and know that still, you will not see it coming.”

Suddenly a cloud of sparks enveloped Father and he batted at them, fearful of his clothing catching fire. The sparks died away, and when their smoke dissipated, he was alone. No sound of footsteps echoed. All was as silent as the tomb.

Father hobbled to Anna’s gravestone and placed one trembling hand upon it. He leaned forward and rested his forehead on the back of his fingers.

“Oh, Anna… On this night of all nights, I had hoped to conjure you, to sit with your spirit, with your memory, just for a while. I’ve missed you…missed your wisdom, your smile. Instead…I need you to tell me…what do I do now?”

But there was only the silence…only the cold…only the guilt. What was it John had said? To wait…for how long? And yet not to see it coming…

Accompanied only by shadows, Jacob made the long, lonely trek back home.

A MIGHTY STRANGER

by JoAnn Baca

If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.
Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

The descent to the Catacombs was difficult, even dangerous, for a man still recovering from a broken hip, especially without a strong companion to steady him. Vincent would have done it gladly. But this night he could not ask his son to accompany him. This night he had to go alone. For the history of the grave he sought was unknown to Vincent, and must remain so.

Water dripped from unseen sources, and torchlight was sporadic so far from the Hub. The transformation – so gradual it was almost imperceptible – from the warmth and vitality of the Hub to the desolation of this place never failed to unnerve him. Jacob’s footsteps echoed in a lonely cadence as he made his way, a stagger here, a lurching footstep there, trying to keep upright, trying to hold his balance, leaning heavily on his newly acquired cane.

On the rare occasions when a funeral was held Below, the Tunnel community ventured here, but otherwise the Catacombs were rarely visited. Most inhabitants had neither the time nor the inclination to commune with the bones of lost friends. It seemed almost frivolous to expend the energy and the hours in such reminiscence. Too much in the present awaited their attention, too many living inhabitants needed the work of their hands. Jacob himself rarely came. A host of memories always crowded his mind here, and some were the kind best forgotten.

Like the one that drew him down on this chill February evening.

It had been thirty years ago tonight, an awful anniversary, and one for which Jacob suspected he would not be alone in his visitation. In that he was correct. Still, he nearly stumbled down the last few uneven steps as a shadow suddenly loomed against the rock walls before him.

“Ahhh, so you came.” The tall, imposing figure clad in black did not hold out an arm to assist him.

Jacob set his teeth and managed to prevent a headfirst fall. When he had righted himself, he ground out a polite, “John.” He could say nothing else and be truthful – no “It’s a pleasure to see you,” nor a “I hope you have been well.” It had been thirty years, but the passing of time could not erase the enmity between them.

The smirk he received showed him that his former friend had caught the lack of niceties…and was amused by it.

“I’m surprised you came,” Jacob added. “I’ve never known you to be sentimental.”

The taller man smiled. “Oh, I’m not. But you are, and I have a particular reason to be here tonight.”

“Besides the anniversary of your wife’s…very sudden death?” Jacob’s sarcastic tone implied more than he said about the “how” of Anna’s passing.

John Pater inclined his head. “Well, yes.” He studied his former friend’s face for a moment before adding, “Anna’s untimely demise was unfortunate…but necessary.”

If he thought he would gain the satisfaction of a look of outrage or anger, he was mistaken, for Jacob was now prepared for the other man’s verbal jabs, and had schooled himself to react with only a shake of the head.

“John, I pity you. You killed the only person who truly loved you. The only one.”

That earned him a snort of laughter. “Love is a sentimental construct. But never mind that. I didn’t come here to battle that old war.”

Jacob shrugged. “We have nothing else to battle over.”

“You have so often been wrong, old friend, and you are yet again. We have the thing that started us down the road to acrimony. My son.”

His last words sent a shiver down Jacob’s spine. Decades had gone by, yet the man persisted in his delusions. John had pronounced the adoption only weeks before the murder of his wife had led to him being banished, and he had been expelled with only the clothes on his back. Certainly there had been no question of the child joining him in exile. The adoption had been expunged from their records, along with all mention of John’s name. He had been stripped of all property, all rights, as part of the only punishment the shocked community could devise. 

Jacob had felt compelled by circumstance and by necessity to take the baby under his wing despite already having the responsibility of another child in his care, so Jacob was the only adoptive father Vincent had known. To hear John now claim the custodial rights which had been stripped from him was nonsense…but troubling nonsense.

There was a bench along one wall. It was rickety and splintered but Father desperately needed to take weight off his still-healing hip, so he settled down on it. He couldn’t prevent the grunt of relief from leaving his lips, but he turned it into a sigh before remarking, “You mean my son.”

“Trying to justify kidnapping doesn’t become you, Jacob, not even after three decades.” John ran one finger across the name Anna Pater carved into the stone beside him, then wiped it on his pristine black jacket, leaving damp and dirt in its wake. “He was mine until she found a willing co-conspirator in you.”

Father shook his head, dismissing the allegation. “She was heroic. I know how much she wanted to keep the boy, to raise him. But you made that impossible with your wild plans. She sacrificed her own happiness to save Vincent.”

John’s response was ground out, his furrowed brow reflecting a gathering emotional storm. “She sacrificed her life…for betraying me. She owed her loyalty to me, first and last.”

“She wasn’t some…some subject, John, and you certainly were no king.” Jacob stiffened his spine, both hands folded over the top of his cane to aid him in sitting ramrod straight.

The anger in John disappeared as suddenly as it had emerged, like a spigot turned off, and it was replaced by an oily smile. “Well, the boy became a man in the intervening years. No longer in need of raising or guidance.” The storm clouds appeared once more. “No longer needing…a father.”

Eyebrows raised, his former friend asked, “I’m interested. What do you think he is in need of?”

A smile of delight spread across John’s face, as if he had manipulated Jacob into asking the very question he’d anticipated. “Why…the truth, of course.”

John’s rapidly shifting emotional state had begun to worry Jacob, but his concern was being replaced by the beginnings of fear. He had come alone to mark this anniversary, with no one aware of his destination; he knew how to avoid the sentries as easily as the man who had created the sentry system. What did his friend-turned-nemesis have in mind with this meeting? Jacob sensed no physical threat, but the man was mercurial, half-mad.

Feigning nonchalance despite his growing concerns, Jacob asked, “What truth is that, pray tell?”

The chuckle that emanated from the other man’s mouth raised the hair on Jacob’s arms. “You’ve kept certain…details from the boy. You’ve indoctrinated him with that fairy tale about the alley behind St. Vincent’s Hospital. What will he think of you once he hears…everything, do you suppose?”

Father’s blood chilled, and it had nothing to do with the cold breeze wafting through this shadowy place. “You…you wouldn’t dare.”

John shrugged.

Anger began to build as Jacob challenged the man. “What possible benefit would there be in that?”

The truth…their truth…about Vincent was the one thing that had remained unspoken when all else had fallen apart because of Anna’s murder. It was too volatile a secret to expose – back then when the boy was a babe, and especially now that Vincent was capable of understanding all the implications…and the depth of culpability that still bound the two men now facing each other in the Catacombs.

John cocked his head as if thinking. “Let’s see… Perhaps it would be beneficial to find out that the man he thinks of as his father is a liar? Hmmm?”

Fury now boiled in the seated man, completely eliminating the chill of moments before. He lifted his cane and smacked it hard on the stone floor. “I forbid it!”

John leaned his head back and barked a laugh before saying, “That’s rich. No king, indeed!” Then he leaned forward and down, his face coming quite close to his old compatriot’s. “Don’t go into apoplexy. My fairy tale won’t be true either.”

“What?”

Confused, Father rose to his feet, causing John to step back sharply. It threw him off his game just a bit. He let his façade slip, spitting out, “You fool! It would benefit neither of us to tell him the actual truth! My gods, can you imagine what he might do with that information?”

John shuddered then, not noticing the relief in the other man’s eyes at hearing his latest words.

“No, my old friend, my once-dearest companion who stabbed me in the heart with his treachery…no. I merely plan to replace one simplistic fantasy with another, darker one. Something more…tailored, shall we say, to his deepest fears.” His eyelids lowered as he gazed at the shorter man with contempt. “He desires that ‘truth’ and I shall deliver it. Someday.”

“You won’t have the chance,” Father sputtered. “You are watched, you know. And I keep Vincent close.”

“Oh, there will come a time…” John produced a gold coin and flipped it expertly through his fingers. “I have laid my plans. But I wanted to come here tonight, on the anniversary of my duplicitous wife’s death, to tell you…so that you might wait and worry…and know that still, you will not see it coming.”

Suddenly a cloud of sparks enveloped Father and he batted at them, fearful of his clothing catching fire. The sparks died away, and when their smoke dissipated, he was alone. No sound of footsteps echoed. All was as silent as the tomb.

Father hobbled to Anna’s gravestone and placed one trembling hand upon it. He leaned forward and rested his forehead on the back of his fingers.

“Oh, Anna… On this night of all nights, I had hoped to conjure you, to sit with your spirit, with your memory, just for a while. I’ve missed you…missed your wisdom, your smile. Instead…I need you to tell me…what do I do now?”

But there was only the silence…only the cold…only the guilt. What was it John had said? To wait…for how long? And yet not to see it coming…

Accompanied only by shadows, Jacob made the long, lonely trek back home.