Cheyenne Street/ Ambrosia: Slightly Tilted 1
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Cheyenne Street/ Ambrosia: Slightly Tilted 1 Chapter 1 Robert This is not the beginning of the story. This story began long ago, before anyone can remember, and after everyone else forgot. But for this chapter, it began with Robert. Robert McWerein was twenty-five and trembling as he stood in the cool-autumn dimness of the Vault. Darkish-sand hair curled damply around mildly obtrusive ears, and eyes narrow and grey opened too wide as he stared at the scrolls. Soft hands attached to bony wrists opened and closed nervous fingers. He wet his lips with his tongue, swallowing the fluttering in his stomach. He could do this. It was not as damp or as musty in the Vault as Robert had imagined. The huge underground archive, part cave, part construct, was bricked and tiled, and the air was fresh and dry and smelled strongly of leather and thick, old paper. The chamber was wide and tall, the Cheyenne Street/ Ambrosia: Slightly Tilted 2 rows upon rows of bookshelves dwindling off in all directions, becoming part of the shadows. The only light came from round glass lamps along the tops of the shelves and at the bottom of the staircase Robert had just walked from. Gold and silver writing on the spines of the innumerable books followed Robert when he moved, like eyes of somber owls written in a foreign script. And there were the scrolls. All thirteen, lined up in black granite cylinders embellished with golden caps. Each cap came to a needle-sharp point, and each scroll balanced impossibly on one of those points. They stood silent and immobile atop basalt pillars, illuminated by an indeterminate ambient light. Beneath each scroll was the name of its author, one of the Poet Laureates. The silence became almost too heavy to breathe, and Robert found himself gasping heavily against the queasiness rising in his throat. He could do it, yes. He had to. But he could wait a moment longer. The work it had taken Robert to be in this very position was measured in years not months, and he wanted to savor his victory. Once, very long ago, the ancestors of the same Poets who now called the Guild their home, were respected and powerful. They had wielded a force so great, so dreadful, that they chose to stop practicing it. Something that had been a marvelous art was now all but lost. When Robert first discovered he had the Poet‟s gift, his master, Yosoki, explained gently that Poets no longer write and read their Poems. “It will drive you to madness…” Robert remembered his master‟s dark face, eyes deep and sad, “there is not a one of us who dares to read them anymore. Since the Laureates left, our power has slowly faded into that of the insane.” He told Robert the life of the modern Poet was that of the humble scholar, and to take pride in his purpose. Cheyenne Street/ Ambrosia: Slightly Tilted 3 Robert had taken pride, and secretly, in the forest outside the city, he learned to read the old Poems. Five years ago, Robert started small, simple lines of crude words. At the coaxing of his voice, a clamshell shuttered, cracked, became a silver rose blossom, before withering into ashes. The Sunday paper unfolded into a swarm of butterflies, the headlines looping across their surprised new wings. The dead, the non-living, Robert had given them new souls. And now, he was going to read a scroll, a real scroll, and no one in the Guild would doubt him again. A deep, raw emotion tightened in Robert‟s chest. Here, today, he, a lowly student of the Guild of Poets, was going to read one of the Thirteen Ambrosia Scrolls. Several times his fingers crept towards one scroll or another, but he didn‟t take one. He wanted this to be perfect, he wanted to enjoy this moment for as long as he could, but if he waited much longer, he feared he might lose his nerve. The words of his oath whispered faintly out of the darkness. “I swear, upon my life and by my death, to protect the ancient knowledge beneath these floors…” Protect. Protect. When he swore that oath of service and fidelity to the Guild, he had understood them to signify protection from outsiders, people who would use them to terrible ends. Now he understood that protection of an ancient art also meant preservation and understanding, something the Poets didn‟t seem to want to accept. But still, every time his fingertips brushed a cylinder, the sweat on his palms gathered into beads. The hands that wrote those scrolls belonged to being who might as well be gods. The world is only limited by the imagination of its author, that‟s what was said about the Laureates. Robert was doing his duty…he wasn‟t stealing…just borrowing a scroll. Just one. And he was going to make history. Cheyenne Street/ Ambrosia: Slightly Tilted 4 Had minutes passed? Hours? In the Vault, time did not matter. There was no sun, no moon, no people but himself and the memories left behind in ink and illumination. At last, he chose the scroll he wanted to read. Of the Thirteen, most were not well known among the Guild. If he was going to do this, really do it, he needed to do it right. Why select one of the lesser- known scrolls, like Number VII or Number XI? If he was going to read one of the Ambrosia Scrolls, he needed to read one the Guild would never forget. Reaching out, Robert suppressed a shudder as his hands closed around the cold black cylinder. Removing it slowly, he wondered at how light the granite was, how glassy smooth. The soft, ambient glow dimmed where the scroll no longer stood. As long as his forearm, and not much thicker, the cylinder was so plain, it almost brought a pang of disappointment. Rolling the tube in his hands, Robert read the surface with his fingers, finding the small carved seal which read; Ambrosia Number XIII. This cylinder was just like the others in every detail, except this one had not been signed with the Laureate‟s elegantly carved name. Instead, bold, blood-red letters painted in a jagged hand read GARTH. No first name, no last name, just GARTH. Who, or maybe what, Garth had been, Robert didn‟t really know, only that the Poets of the Guild spoke of him in pinched sentences, hushed voices, and eyes darting warily. Apparently, when the other twelve Laureates went back to wherever they came from, Garth stayed behind. He was a shadow in history, and a leering face in the nightmares of younger Poets, Robert was tired of fearing him. If Garth was still alive, he would be proud someone sought to preserve the Poet‟s art, would smile upon Robert‟s courageousness. That‟s what Robert told himself. The scroll slid almost too easily into Robert‟s book bag. All thirteen flights of stairs out of the Vault and into the basement of the Guild were easier than they should have been. On the ground floor of the Guild, civilians milled about the bookshelves or spread lethargically across Cheyenne Street/ Ambrosia: Slightly Tilted 5 leather couches, reading. Poets in their dark purple and gold coats fanned their faces against the warm June day and heavy clothing. They smiled at Robert as he walked by, and he smiled back. Swinging through the glass-windowed double doors, Robert took in a deep breath of the warm, ocean-air Wednesday, soaking in the bustle of Dale Port‟s streets. Robert walked at a mellow pace down Garden Street, taking in the smells and sounds, and countless colors of the biweekly market. Venders beneath canvas roofs called out their wares; fresh fish from the bay, blood oranges from the east, apples, pears, clothing, perfume, jewelry, tourist knickknacks, and small, exotic pets. Usually the clamor from the market and the resulting traffic put Robert in a stale mood, but today he bought three oranges from a fat, ugly man with half a smile, and a cup of microbrew mead from a woman with dark skin and a bright face. Robert knew where he wanted to read. The fluttering in his stomach had become more pleasant than nauseating, and the walk to Lighthouse Point, a usual destination of Robert‟s, was ripe with purpose. He took his time, waiting for large families and people with canes and walkers to cross the street before he did. He looked up at the gaudy architecture of the city, buttressed arches and high, multi-paned windows. Ugly gargoyles seemed almost to smile, and the chirps of swallows sounded oddly musical. Trolleys rambled colorfully up and down the busy cobbled streets, and every so often, a street performer presented some trick. Rooting in his pants pocket, as he was not wearing his Poet‟s coat today, Robert handed a few coins to a juggler. Over the trestle and along the cliffs, Robert stood in the shadow of the lighthouse almost too soon. Lighthouse Point, an actual point, was the northernmost tip of Cheshire Bay, on clear days giving a sweeping view of the long, crescent shores. Today the blue sea opened up, and in the distance, Robert could just make out a twinkling of sun on windows in Sortello across the bay. Gulls wailed, ships spread egg-shell white sails, and the warm wind pulled on the curls of Cheyenne Street/ Ambrosia: Slightly Tilted 6 Robert‟s hair with sensual fingers.