Woo Hoo! the story really feels like it is chugging along now. Happy Saturday!
Day 7
The letter was still in his bag. He picked it up with his mail the day before and then forgot about it until this morning. Then of course there were other things to see to and the letter once again fell out of his mind. Now he slipped the letter out of the bag and took it to his favorite reading chair. He flopped down into it and looked at the envelope.
The handwriting was Garana’s. While he knew he was bad with relationships, his with Garana lasted longer than any other. In the end she too grew tired of in inability to change and moved on. Even though he saw it coming, it hurt more than he expected it would. More than any of the others who likewise left him when they realized he had no intention of changing.
He knew he would lose her if he didn’t change and for the first time, Ames actually considered change. He never moved past the considering stage and by the time he decided the changes might be worth keeping Garana in his life, she was already leaving.
His protests about being willing to change seemed only like desperation as she headed out of the door. Then she was gone. Ames did what he always did. He tried to forget she existed and threw himself into work. He had more published articles in the time she had been gone than he had in the past two years combined. The Dean was thrilled, his name was rising through the ranks and most of his friends commented that Garana had clearly been holding him back.
None of them seemed to realize he was simply filling the void she left behind.
Ames studied the envelope. Her handwriting was achingly familiar, but the envelope was a plain white one. The address was crisply written. It was addressed to Dr. A Stosia. Sent from Dr. G Marsto. There were no extra swirls on the letters that he knew she added when she was excited. Just the bare bones. When he flipped the envelope over there was no additional personal message on the back. No hearts. No sentiment.
Ames found himself lifting the envelope to his nose and sniffing. It smelled like paper. He sighed and opened the envelope. The letter was one page and when Ames sniffed it he could smell the light scent of the hand cream she used. It was softly scented, barely there and as much as he wanted to delude himself into thinking she scented the note for him as some sort of romantic or even reconciliatory gambit, he knew it was simply a transfer from when she wrote it.
Ames opened the page and read.
‘Ames,’ she wrote. ‘I know you always dismissed my gut feelings as whimsy or unwarranted sensitivity and my dreams nothing more than the manifestation of my subconscious fears. Whether you believe me or not, I could not rest easy if I didn’t offer you a warning. Something is coming. I fear you will be at the center of it. My dreams tell me you need to use your protections, the strongest ones you know, the ones you filed away for potential use later. This is the time they are needed. Don’t dismiss the warnings you see or justify them as something else, heed them. I believe in the very depths of my being this is the only way you will survive what is to come. Despite everything, I find I want very much for you to survive. Whether you take this warning to heart or dismiss it entirely, I feel easier having given it. Take care of yourself. Garana’
Ames sat with the letter reading several times slowly, savoring each word. Memories swam through the words. Silvery fish flashing scenes of his laughter at her strange dreams, dismissing them when they tied to an event. Claiming she was looking for a connection just to prove herself right.
While Ames always explained away the coincidences, he couldn’t help but tally them up. She didn’t have the dreams often, but when she did, they always lined up with something. He still thought part of seeing the connections was looking for them but the fact that she had one of her dreams about him and thought to warn him sent a shiver down his spine.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a second. As he did he saw Folson’s wrist, the sygil marked in red on his wrist. He chuckled to himself as he opened his eyes. This time, he really didn’t need the warning. He could see potential danger even without prophetic dreams. Ames looked again at the page he still held. There were no endearments. There were no embellishments.
He tried telling himself it was because she wanted him to take his warning seriously and not cloud it with sentimentality. Still the lack of sentiment seemed to scrape against the still raw spot inside. He folded the letter and slipped it into the envelope. He then stood and went to the bookshelf. Ames Slipped the envelope between a couple of heavy books. He didn’t want to throw it away, but at the same time, he didn’t want it where he could see it.
With the letter put away, Ames let his thoughts turn back to Folson. He stepped away from the shelves and went to the spare room he turned into his at home office. On the shelves in here wre reports and research materials. Some were in regular books, others were files of photocopied articles or reprints of artifacts or even the glyphs carved into walls. No matter how straighten up the room was, the files on the shelves with the books always gave them a slightly messy look. He thought about putting the loose pages he consulted the most in binders at some point, but he knew where the files were and could lay his hands on any piece of information he needed in moments so he never bothered.
The information he needed to look up wasn’t on the shelves. Ames opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a box. In the box were a collection of thumb drives. Some had articles he knew he could never submit because they went against what was considered acceptable. Others contained research. Most of his research was located on two separate drives. On one he put all the information gleaned from a specific location. Occasionally more than one site went onto a drive.
He also had the information split out by subject matter. It made the number of drives he kept in the box multiply so much that the box lid merely rested on top of the box instead of closing all the way, but it ensured that each piece of information was stored in two separate locations in case any of the files became corrupted.
All of the information was also saved on an external drive he kept in a safety deposit box at the bank as extra back up. The information wasn’t illegal. At best he knew that if it got out he might lose his position at the university and possibly his standing in the academic community along with it. He would more than likely no longer be able to work in his field. It made it something to keep hidden. But like the small cup he stole from the dig site, Ames felt the driving need to have the information in more than one place and to make certain it was secure.
He rummaged around in the box until he came up with the drive he wanted. It was blue with silver stars decorating it. He turned on his computer as he put the box with the rest of the drives away. When the computer was ready to work, Ames inserted the drive and pulled up the file index.
These files fell into the oral history category. They were the stories he collected over the years from people who were willing to talk to him because of the way he looked even though they wouldn’t talk to others. Ames knew that these stories would be discredited not only because they didn’t match the stories the others knew but because they would be upset that he was able to collect them when they were not.
‘Not publishing them,’ Ames reminded himself. His research tonight was about the Couran. While he may use them to spice up a lecture or make an article about ancient trade routes more exciting, most of Ames’ research and work didn’t touch on them. He collected the stories because of his grandmother. Because they matched the stories she told him and because he still wore the charm she gave him to protect him from the Couran when his nightmares came.
This file contained all the stories he collected about the Couran. They were conflicting and varied. Over all they showed the Couran as more complicated an idea than simple demons to explain disease to people without modern medical knowledge. They were listed in the file by the date he collected the stories and Ames decided to simply start at his oldest stories and work his way forward.
He set a notebook and b=pen beside his keyboard and began to work.
At first Ames wasn’t entirely certain what he was looking for. It was not an entirely unexpected route for him to take. Sometimes he had only the briefest notion of what sort of article he wanted to write. Then he would take the idea and keep it in his mind as he started to page through mountains of research. He jotted down notes as he worked and usually after a few hours his thoughts coalesced into an actual thesis he could use as the base of his article.
Then of course there was more in depth research. He referenced, cross referenced and documented everything as he worked. He knew people would check. Even if no one focused on the pre -empire checked, Bacol would check and he would be certain to report anything that seemed like supposition and not well documented fact.
Still, when he started he liked to take the idea and drift through the material as though surrounding himself with the culture about which he was writing before he actually got down to any actual writing. It was part of his process.
Even though he knew this would not be an article, Ames began the same way. Things filtered through his brain and down to his notebook as he read the stories. He, unsurprisingly, found himself focusing on the stories that involved the sort of markings he saw on Folson’s wrist. The descriptions were always the same. They were red sigils like burns that never faded from scorched skin that varied slightly in design based on which of the Couran marked the person in question. The design shifted, but the markings themselves didn’t.
‘Always skin like a red burn that never heals even though the person it is on shows no sign of pain.’ Ames thought the sigil was like the old fashioned wax seals that ancient earthers used to use. Then they pressed a metal design into hot wax to hold their letters closed. Her the mark was burned into flesh but as the stories claimed the marks designated those who they claimed as their own, Ames thought the comparison held.
“The person marked was like a spy for the Couran that marked them.” Aimes mused as he leaned back. His notebook now had several pages worth of notes. Ames frowned. Opinions differed on that depending on the story. They generally fell into two categories. Either the symbol simply denoted that the person was the property of the Couran and bound to do the Couran’s bidding, or the symbol let the Couran listen to everything the person heard and even see through their eyes.
Looking through his collection, Ames found the stories for each possibility were about equal. “I suppose it would be best to assume that both are true. The marked person not only serving the Couran but the Couran able to see and hear through them.”
Ames shook his head. “Not that it is anything more than stories.”
The sight of the mark flashed into his brain and Ames sighed and rubbed his eyes. He took a deep breath and dropped his hands. He opened his eyes.
“As this is not for publication and not for a lecture, I will proceed as though this is all true simply so I don’t cause my brain fits,” Ames announced to the quiet room. “I know scientifically that it isn’t true, but I will proceed as if it is while researching.”
He decided the distinction would keep him from feeling foolish and having to remind himself every few hours that it wasn’t anything more than ancient mythology. “It will let me get on with my research while adding fewer interruptions to it.” He smiled. “And no one has to know.”
Ames doubted Bacol reached the point where he was planting listening devices in his apartment.
