Novel Excerpts

Chapter 3 – I am. What Am I.

Background: Set in the 1600's, inexplicably, we find Agamem, 200 years later, searching for his father.

132.1600.

The sky wears hopelessness on its grey, weathered face. A downy laurel-like cloud rests off- kilter on top of the cloud’s markedly, wrinkled forehead, with its woolly eyebrows and sunken, dark oval eyes. The grizzled, wiry bunching clouds study the tiny, solitary traveller journeying on half-ploughed, feudal lands, looming over the traveller, puffing out stale air from its ancient lungs.

The traveller staggers through the empty, patchy green field. Behind the thickets and foliage, the animals murmur from their hidden place. The ground is disturbed and littered with the debris of war. Clumps of earth lay overturned, mangled with tarnished, broken armaments. He follows the path of destruction and the shafts of light escaping the sky’s grey shroud, shafts that pour down like celestial slides to the castle in the distance.

Approaching the main gates to the city, he passes through the garden. Undisturbed by his appearance, the Gardener snips the dead veins from branches, wiping the blade with each cut, leaving the limbs intact. The traveller arrives at the main gates.

"Who are you stranger?" The guard says, leaning on his bladed staff.

He does not answer. The guards look at each other. One guard steps forward.

"Your name, foreigner," he says.

He does not answer.

The guard stomps the staff on the cobblestone. "Your name! I shan’t ask again!" He declares.

Silence.

The guard flips his staff around as if he were about to poke the traveller with its blade."I said," he begins, as the traveller in one motion, deflects the blade with his forearm gliding his hand down the wood and catches the wooden staff below the blade. His arm extends forward, locking the staff and the guard’s movement. Four guards rush unsheathing their swords and surround the traveller. The guards threaten to throw him in the moat if he remains at the gates. Approaching from behind the guards, the head guard removes his glove and pushes the bladed staff away, offering his unarmed hand to the traveller.

"I know that mark," he says, pointing at the half-revealed tree on his arm, the family coat-of-arms displaced from his ragged shirt.

Escorting the traveller to the castle, they pass through the morose village, the villagers stop to observe, feebly looking up. In the market, guards patrol on horses, looking back at the traveller, as if there were something familiar about him. Passing through the great hall in the castle, he seems to recognize a lady in black, she bows as he passes with the guards even though – by all accounts – he is a foreigner, his strange clothes in tatters.

They enter the King’s hall.

The hall is adorned with red fabric, draped in rising and falling waves along all the walls, as well as the Kingdom’s banners. Interspersed among the banners, are mounted the gold-framed paintings of past Kings and ancient weapons and artefacts.

"They say, you have your father’s mark," the King says, coming closer. "His eyes as well. Your father said you may come looking for him. Know you are welcome in this Kingdom."

A hunched man peeks from the shadows. The King periodically glances towards the hunched man in the darkness. Turning from the shadows to the traveller, the King smirks. The traveller senses a familiarity with this room. The small assembly of courtiers and royal guards nod slightly, shrugging off the uncanny similarities between the son before them and his father, their friend. But they remain content that the son of a great warrior and loyal subject has returned; content a glimmer of light has been cast on their Kingdom during these dark days.

An official of the court enters with news for the King.

"There will be time to speak," the King says. "Come to me later, we have much yet to speak of."

The King nods to the servants, "They will take care of you," he says.

The King excuses himself, as the servants begin to lead the traveller out of the hall.

"Your name. You father never said your name," the King calls out.

"Agamem," the traveller says.

"Very well Agamem, son of Iapyx," the Kings says. "Until then. As God wills it."

Agamem bows and follows the servants as more courtiers and officials enter the hall.

"Why are you in the throes of War? Your people have barely the strength to lift their heads let alone arms," Agamem asks the servant.

From the servant, Agamem learns that it has been months since the attack where they suffered their most notable losses. "We’ve lost both loyal stewards of the kingdom and our sense of invincibility. We have been free from war for many years. It has been three years since it first began, they are but a shadow, attacking without reason. Now there is word that they are at the King’s throat. But you are a guest, I dare not concern you with the winds of the castle," the servant says. "Let me show you to the baths."

On the way to the private bath, Agamem rubs shoulders with a group of six, hooded monks. A monk looks back over his shoulder from the dark, cloth cavern, and continues to walk. Agamem watches them disappear around the bend of the corridor. The servant takes him to the private bath and whispers instructions to an attendant. The servant turns his back as Agamem’s tattered clothes are removed by the attendants. Hands direct Agamem to step deeper into the water until he is ankle deep. As water is poured over his body, he can see the outline of a woman’s body on a nearby wall. Agamem focuses on the shadows of a breast.

***

Agamem experiences a series of unlikely images, images of being cradled within the crevices of elbows, and nestled against the bronze breasts of celestial nursemaids. The nursery is bright white, with sheer curtains drifting from a ceiling-less room. A golden figure enters the nursery and walks towards the bassinette, causing the light to resonate in the white room, eventually saturating the whiteness so only the silhouette of the figure and the companion that rested on their shoulder is seen.

***

Meanwhile in modern times, from the CEO’s suite on the twenty-fourth floor of Stillwater Corporation, the Steward overlooks the city of Richmond from their Head Office in Virginia. The door to his office opens.

"I’ll not continue to suffer conjecture much longer," the steward says, continuing to look out the window.

"It has been confirmed."

He turns his head slightly, almost as if to reduce the path the employee’s words would require to reach his ear.

"New York. He flew out of New York. He travelled under the name Adam Em. But there are no records of an Adam Em."

"Contact New York. Let them know that they may yet redeem themselves. Have the helicopter ready."

"We are loading as we speak."

"Good. Very Good."

***

In the damp bowels of the castle, the servant leads Agamem through the corridors under the castle to Iapyx’s quarters. He bows to Agamem and closes the door. Wrapped in a robe, Agamem dusks under the cobweb hanging from the door frame and sits on the bed, surveying his father’s room. A strange room for a skilled and noted warrior, Agamem thinks. It is a simple room with a single torch perched between the bevelled mirror and the bed. He runs his hand across the dressed bed. It is cold and dusty. He claps the dust from his hands. A mouse scurries out from under the pillow, and across the floor, under the wardrobe cabinet. He lifts the pillow to see a sizeable stockpile of seeds. Against the wall, a staff leans adjacent to an empty, bronze-buttoned quiver.

Agamem sifts through the nearly empty cabinet, holding up what few chemises and tunics that remain. As he disrobes, disconnected images flash before him. The unknown faces twirl about him, like smoke without a fire. He breathes steadily and disconcertedly, still unable to recollect his father.

Curiously, the mouse patters along the dark cobblestone to Agamem’s feet. Once Agamem’s attention is confirmed, the mouse seemingly retraces its path to the wall beside the cabinet slowly and deliberately, pausing every few steps as if it were fearful of Agamem’s ability to follow. Agamem squats down and follows the critter into its hole. Agamem sees an obstruction to the left of the hole. On all fours, he reaches in but cannot clasp it. Oddly, the mouse nudges it forward. As Agamem pulls it out, the mouse pokes out of its hole to watch Agamem dust off the pouch and untie the string. In the pouch, he finds a key on a necklace with a note: "For my son."

Wearing the concealed necklace under his tunic, Agamem departs his quarters, looking for one of the servants where, in the Castle corridor, he is stopped by the lady in black.

"Agamem, forgive me," she says. "I have but only learned of your name. I had to see the son of my husband. I am Clymestra, daughter of Andemis."

Agamem tilts his head slightly and pauses. He has no memory of his father.

"The arrow of sorrow has pierced us both. For your loss, I am nevertheless sorry. I am sure that he was a good husband. He was a good father. I will honour him as he honoured me."

Slightly surprised by his detachedness, she reaches her hand out for Agamem to take.

"Naturally, you held no knowledge of our marriage. Of your return, your father spoke only of hope. Tis a mercy I no longer hold forfeit. But forgive me, there is something that troubles me. Son, of what age are you?"

"My Lady," the king’s servant bows. "Master Agamem, the King asks of your presence."

"Of coarse," Agamem says. He turns to bow to Clymestra. "Mother, until later."

"As god wills it," she says.

"As god wills it."

As the servant leads Agamem away, Agamem swivels his head back, looking at the shadows in the corridor, sensing that someone was there. Following the servant, Agamem watches the walls melt away, replaced by four visions involving his father, beginning with an undisturbed field, forty yards in front of the city’s gates at the feet of the kingdom.

From the end of the caravan, he sees Clymestra running towards the caravan. Elders, women and children throw petals at the feet of the returning soldiers, some of whom dismount to embrace their families. Cymestra searches all of their faces, pausing in disbelief as if they were all strangers.

She nears the caravan’s center, frantically running between the slow trotting horses, lifting the blankets from the injured, sleeping soldiers. She lifts the heads of the wounded one by one. She shakes her head mouthing "no", as the dead bodies are carted by.

A soiled and blood encrusted hand dangles from underneath a blanket, jutting out between the dark, planks of wood and the piled mass of bodies.

"No. No. No," she mouthes. She tries to run past Iapyx, but Iapyx stops her. She wrestles away and races to the lifeless hand. She falls to her knees crying, cupping and rubbing the hand from different angles, trying to warm the cold, spotted and muddy hand - the silver band still brilliant.

Iapyx sinks to his knees beside her, pulling her head into his chest. Her arms wrap half around him, her fingers curling in horror. Other than her head, the rest of her body seems paralysed, causing all of her weight to fall on Iapyx.

Months after Clymestra’s husband’s death, Iapyx returns with Clymestra’s short-haired son, walking by her room, the door ajar where Clymestra, with her back towards the door, faces the window, her veil draped from head to waist, the wash bowl beside her bed left unfilled.

Just beyond the kingdom’s gates, more months have passed as Iapyx plays with Clymestra’s now medium-haired boy on top of a small hill. The rectangular kite, flutters in the wind, soaring wildly from left to right. Clymestra appears unexpectedly, and places her hand on Iapyx’s shoulder and smiles. The son, seeing his mother, runs to her as if he had not seen her in a long time.

Three months later, Iapyx joins Clymestra and the son for dinner. Upon finishing dinner, the son kisses his mother and races to his room. Immediately, he races back and kisses Iapyx. Iapyx laughs but Clymestra’s face turns red as she gently chides her son on the bum as he passes, returning to his room. Head down, her face continues to blush. Concerned, Iapyx lifts her face up. He tilts his head, signifying the needlessness of feeling ashamed. Directed by his hand, she looks up. And they kiss.

Agamem wakes up from the visions as they return to the king’s hall.

"Your quarters are satisfactory?" the King asks as the servant bows and retreats to the entryway of the hall.

"Quite, my lord," Agamem replies.

"The same ilk, are you and your father. Any other man would consider such quarters a dungeon. Nevertheless, for the earlier interruption, my apologies, these are dark days," the King says, motioning Agamem to follow him to the terrace.

They stand against the carved alabaster balustrade, looking into the countryside. Dusk, like a malformed crown, sinks around the surrounding hillside, as a tippet-like mist slinks around the hill’s neck, dropping to its elbows. The crimson moon hangs like a ruby brooch, on Evening’s dark collar-bone.

"The moon is restless. It is changing. Of what it will become, only god knows," the King says.

"There is a veil of darkness cast across your domain. I too noticed it when I entered," Agamem says.

He pauses. "Where is my father, my lord?"

The King stretches his palms wide on the railing of the terrace.

"Guards, leave us," the King says.

The guards leave and bow as they close the door. Not knowing from whence to begin, the King pauses and then turns to face Agamem, his back leans against the railing.

"Your father died two months ago. Injured, he fell from Portsmouth’s ledge and into the sea. There was no body to bury. The sea ushered his ascension into the heavens. It was a terrible battle with many casualties on both sides," the king says placing his hands on Agamem’s shoulders. "Your father was a brave man and a good friend. I am truly sorry."

"They suffered heavy losses, for once your father passed, the fighting died down. It is only under the cloak of the last two fortnights that they return. They turn from numbers, to stealth, infiltrating the kingdom in search of something. And now I am told that my life is in danger," the King says.

Agamem whinces slightly with the mention of the last two fortnights.

"There is something else," he hesitates, placing both hands on Agamem’s shoulder. "When I saw it, I thought my eyes deceived me."

Continuing to listen to the King, Agamem looks out into the darkling countryside when he notices the King avert his eyes from Agamem, instead directing to the sound of the hall’s double door opening. Agamem squints. Disturbed by the uncertainty in the King’s face, Agamem turns around and watches six monks enter the room, two of whom immediately barricade the door. The other four remove their robes and unsheathe hidden daggers from their inner thighs. From the guard’s hilts and fists, the door rattles like a hundred horsemen galloping across the Kingdom’s drawbridge, the hoofs beating through the door: "assassins."