"how can i hold my soul..."
©Kimber - 2002
Vincent stopped to make notes on the parchment he carried. There may never be a need for the community to expand this far out into the tunnels but having accurate maps of the area as a surety against need is a precaution he had finally convinced Father to take. And, he admitted to himself that even though he missed Catherine during these explorations of the outer tunnels, it was good to have some time alone. There was much to reflect on in his life now and even with his journaling, clarity still eluded him. No matter how he approached it, there seemed to be no acceptable answer to the question haunting his mind..."how can I hold my soul, that it may not be touching yours..." Through their bond he knew her heart and soul. He knew the truth of her feelings for him as well as he knew his own for her. But to accept them. To admit to himself that he was truly worthy of her love...to trust his heart openly to someone again...to face the demons within himself... It was just too much.
As he walked down the dark corridor, holding his lamp out before him, he noticed a white flash on the wall to the left. Moving closer, he almost tripped on a small pile of rubble on the floor. He stepped around it and raised the lantern up to examine the wall more closely. There, in a white, phosphorescent paint were two lines of writing. Vincent realized as he tried to read the phrases that the rubble on the floor was part of the wall that had fallen at some point, taking part of the writing with it. All that was left legible were the words "I am. I was. This way to..." and further down the wall "...roses."
Immediately his curiosity and sense of adventure overrode his own musings and he moved his lantern so he could see further down the corridor ahead. Taking a wary scent of the air and making sure he could hear nothing unusual, Vincent started walking forward. Obviously he wasn't the first human to enter this area of the tunnels and judging by the faded effect of the paint on the wall it had been some time since his predecessor had done so. As he walked, the staleness of the air confirmed this suspicion, peaking his curiosity even more. 'Who has been here before us? What do they want to tell those of us who followed them?'
Fifteen minutes of walking later, Vincent came upon part of the answer to his question. A dusty, tattered Native American blanket hung across an entrance to a chamber where no chamber should be. 'How...?' He knew what it had taken to clear and expand some of the chambers in the early days and he just couldn't imagine someone doing all that by themselves. And from the looks of it, this was the only chamber in this area. He cautiously touched the blanket and watched it disintegrate under his fingers. Stifling a cough, he looked up into the area beyond. Directly across from the entrance was another blanket hanging on the wall. Over the blanket hung a dreamcatcher decorated with beads and eagle feathers. Vincent took a moment to clear his thoughts and then stepped across the threshold of the chamber. Looking around, he saw a sparsely furnished room; pallet bed with more blankets, small camp stove, bookcase packed to straining, small clock radio, a shelf with small knick-knacks and photos, etc.
But against the wall to his right were two neatly kept tables. One had a small shrine of sorts with leather bags and more eagle feathers. Vincent approached this table and examined the contents more closely. Herbs dried now beyond use, empty bottles and blank-paged books with pictograms and text in an olden language he didn't recognize. The other was what looked like a jeweler's bench. A lit-magnifying glass mounted on a swivel arm was attached to the side of it and there were several various sized chisels, mallets and rags in neat slots at the back and on the wall behind. Glancing down at the tall wooden stool, he noticed a crate beside it on the floor, partially underneath the table. He kneeled down and pulled it out. It was about the size of a steamer trunk and half full of raw crystals. Pulling one out he realized that these were from the Crystal Cavern. He contemplated what a trek it would have been to collect this crate-full of crystals as the Cavern was about equidistant from the Home Chambers in the opposite direction.
Walking over to the shelf on the opposite wall, he picked up the only photo in a frame. It was of a lovely young, dark-haired girl standing in a field of daisies. The sun shining behind her, accentuating her figure beneath the simple linen peasant dress she wore and a single pink rose in her hair. A smile touched his lips and put the photo back down. Beside it was a leather-bound journal. Vincent picked it up gently, absently imagining someone in the distant future doing the same to his own journals. He laid open the cover, looking for a name...Dyami Chastain. Firm, steady strokes stood out against the page. 1964. He turned to the back of the book flipping to find the final entry. Three pages from the end he found it. "January 16, 1965 - It is finished, Ayasha. I failed you in life, now I honor you in death. I betrayed your faith in us with my foolish, selfish doubts and left us with nothing but emptiness and regret. I hope with this, my offering to the gods and to you, I can atone for my sin against you, my Ayasha, my love. Please forgive me and wait for me to come."
Vincent felt his hands tremble as he closed the book and replaced it on the shelf. He felt a draft and looked at the blanket on the wall next to him. Reaching up, he removed the dreamcatcher from the hook in the wall and laid it down on the pallet. Then he returned and looked at the blanket. Taking a deep breath, he reached up and loosened it from the hooks as well, lowering it with a feeling akin to reverence. A wooden door was hinged into the rock wall of the chamber, shielding whatever secret Dyami Chastain had created for his lover. Vincent read the words burned into a wooden plaque nailed to the door...'To you who followed and found me here...Welcome. I am. I was. This way to my legacy. Created from my love for her, and her love for the roses.'
Reaching out, he pushed open the door. There was no mechanism to keep it closed. He was shocked at the scent of fresh air and roses that wafted out as it opened. The room inside was lit from nowhere and everywhere. There were no torches, lamps or windows but a pleasant natural light suffused the air all around him. In the center of the circular room was another blanket wrapped around a crumpled pile of clothes in front of a long dead fire. Vincent walked over and knelt down, cocking his head at the scene before him. He lifted his head to gaze around the room and was staggered by what he saw. Level upon level of small, thin shelves carved into the walls around the entire circumference from floor to ceiling. And on these shelves, row upon row of crystal roses. As he circled the room, randomly picking up and examining one rose after another, he realized that they were all exactly the same and all perfectly carved from single crystals. He returned to the front chamber and retrieved the photo from the shelf, bringing it into the room where he could see more of the detail. As he traced the lines of the rose in the girl's hair he confirmed that each rose on each shelf was a perfect duplicate of this one.
The questions tumbled over one another in his brain...the journal was only written 13 odd years ago...the shelves alone would have taken a lifetime to carve, the roses another...there hadn't been enough time for the blanket on the door to deteriorate to the state it was in when he found it let alone the body in the center of the floor here... And then came the other questions...why had he done this at all...why were he and his Ayahsa never together...what kind of doubts could this man have had that would lead to this...
And he stopped. Stopped thinking...stopped walking...stopped breathing...he saw his reflection in the facets of the rose he held in his hand...and in the pile of clothing on the floor. Vincent's breath came back to him in a burst and he turned his back on the small room covering the bed/work chamber in two long strides, grabbing the lantern as he breezed through the entrance and back into the tunnel beyond. By the time he became aware of himself again he was back at the crumbled wall. Tears were streaming down his face unnoticed and his heart was trying to break out of his chest. He railed against the wall and the words that accused him. He picked up the rubble and threw it, piece by piece, trying to eradicate them, screaming out his rage and frustration to the cold, deaf stone.
When he could no longer lift the stones and his throat was hoarse from his cries his limp legs went out from under him and he fell against the wall, sliding then to the floor. It hurt to breath, hurt to move, hurt to think and he held on to that pain like a drowning man to the last rib of a boat. But the knowledge was there now. The truth was a part of him and there was no longer any way for him to deny it. "Catherine..." he rasped out into the dirt on the floor "forgive me."
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Catherine looked up to see the sandwich delivery guy coming over to her desk. Glancing over at her untouched salad, she knew it must be important. Handing him a generous tip she opened the paper wrapper and removed the small note inside. 'Please, rendezvous, balcony, 11:00 p.m. ox V"