Aestas Invictus: Attitude of Silence
by Demeter

chapter two

In the attitude of silence the soul finds the path in a clearer light, and what is elusive and deceptive resolves itself into crystal clearness.
--Mahatma Gandhi (1869-1948)

Joan picked up some extra shifts at the bookstore over the weekend in hopes of learning something more about the mysterious cult leader but apparently the universe didn't feel it should be that easy. Consequently, Joan found herself tired and frustrated at the end of the weekend.

There is only so much Monday one can take without a lingering sense of weekend well-being and so Joan found herself trudging down the hallway towards Price's office after falling asleep in biology.

She stopped short outside his door, her hand poised to knock, as she heard Adam's voice from within, angry as the last time she had heard it.

"It's just a drawing, Mr. Price." His voice was indignant, offended, quivering with rage. He sounded outside himself, detached from his usual calm acceptance.

"Considering the events of this weekend, Mr. Rove, I would say it is most decidedly not just a drawing." Mr. Price spoke with almost jovial outrage. Joan could almost see his feral grin.

"Look at the date!" raged Adam, "I did it weeks ago! Before anyone knew about Father Constance!"

"Ahhh, but perhaps not before you knew." There was a deafening silence. For a moment, Joan knew she had to burst in and defend Adam, his pain pulling her like a magnet, but it passed.

"Mr. Price," Adam's voice was ground glass, "this drawing is a piece of art. It is not a plan, it is not a priest."

"No, it's a girl," said Price. "Hardly any better."

Joan felt a familiar sinking sensation in her belly without realizing exactly why.

"St. Joan?" Price sneered. "Not exactly a subtle title."

Ahhh, she thought, falling back into a chair in the hall. There it is.

The stubborn silence from within the office suggested that Adam was done listening. Indeed, just then the door swung open with a bang.

"Adam." Joan wasn't aware of having spoken his name aloud until it was too late. It felt strange in her mouth. She had said it in so many ways before—pleading, sorrow, delight, surprise, passion. Now there was nothing. It was as if everything she wanted to say with that one sacred word, the hundreds of intonations and expressions of his name that had been continually in her mind, cancelled each other out. It was flat, asking only for recognition.

Adam looked up at her.

She froze, her mouth opening soundlessly. It was a little like being caught in a flood. So long as she kept above the tide, she'd be fine, but if she jumped in, she would be carried away in the current and the water would swallow any words she had. All she could think was that, for the first time, he saw her. He was looking right at her. She was really there. There were a few moments; while he struggled to find his anger at Joan and reconnect with the pain she had caused him, where she felt like Jane again. The feeling quickly passed as he closed himself off and Joan tore her eyes away, catching sight of the drawing that had caused him so much trouble.

He turned on his heel, leaving her quickly, but she could still see the stark pencil lines, the dark shadows, the empty spaces, a negative imprinted on her mind, like she had been staring at the sun. There was a pyre, leaping flames, black sky, and her face, clearly visible, contorted with agony.

"Ah, Ms. Girardi," said Price from his doorway. "What is it now?"

"I think I'm going to be sick," Joan choked out and ran for the bathroom.

Joan clutched the toilet long after she had thrown up everything in her stomach. She took a deep, hitching breath and sighed, wishing her body had more manageable responses to pain. The unstoppable tears were bad enough, but this new barfing development really wasn't good for her. She couldn't even summon the energy to pull herself off the floor when the door opened.

"Girardi? Those your feet?" It was Grace.

Joan gave a noncommittal groan, which Grace took for confirmation, pushing the unlocked door open.

She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Gross, Girardi!" She gingerly reached over and flushed the toilet, handing Joan her water bottle.

"Thanks," said Joan, rinsing her mouth before wiping her face and sitting up.

"Y'know, you could have just broken something or yelled at someone. These digestive pyrotechnics were not necessary."

Joan laughed in spite of herself. "I'll remember that next time someone wants me dead."

Grace grew serious. "He doesn't want you dead, Joan."

"How do you know," Joan asked without enthusiasm.

"How d'you think I knew where you were? Rove said he got in trouble with Price over a drawing and that you might have seen it."

"Did you…did he show it to you?"

Grace nodded hesitantly. "It was pretty intense. Honestly, I might have tossed my cookies, too, if I were you."

Joan didn't smile.

"Look," said Grace, clearly uncomfortable as a go- between, "it was right after…whatever happened with you guys. He was really angry. I've never seen Rove angry like that. I think he just needed a way to let it out without letting it out at you."

Joan nodded. "I know. I get it. It's just…seeing that…it was…" She found that there were absolutely no words.

"Yeah," said Grace. "Come on, Joan," she said, offering a hand as the bell rang. "Monday's finished, the worst is over."

Joan straightened herself out in the mirror. "Hey, Grace?" she began.

"Yeah?" Grace answered cautiously.

"Thanks." Joan smiled at Grace in the mirror.

"You're welcome," replied Grace without sarcasm.

"So do we hug?" asked Joan with a grin.

Grace gave her a look as she held the door.

"Right," said Joan. "We're far too cool."

Grace grabbed her hand as she walked by, giving it a little squeeze. "Way too cool," she agreed with mock severity.

Joan grinned. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Grace flicked a little salute as she walked off that Joan recognized as characteristically Luke. She was happy for them, but today it was bittersweet.

Joan was taking her time getting home, walking through town, window-shopping. She stopped across the street from Mel's Diner. Without a second thought, she darted across the street. Pulling up a stool at the counter, she ordered a chocolate milkshake, her spirits lifting for the first time in a long while.

It was quiet in the diner, so the jingle of the doorbell was jarring and Joan looked up sharply as the man walked into the diner. It was him, the same nondescript face. She fumbled in her pocket to find the photo. She shoved it back in her pocket as, to her horror, the man took the seat next to her.

He smiled kindly. "Joan, isn't it? I remember you from the book store. I'm Joe." He stuck out his hand in a congenial manner. Joan shook it hesitantly, her stomach roiling in confusion and fear.

"Do you still work there?" he asked innocently.

Joan made a decision. Dangerous or no, God had asked her to learn all she could so she would.

"Sure," she said, surprised how calm she sounded, "a few days a week. You bought a Bible, right?"

Joe looked surprised. "You've got quite a memory."

Joan smiled benignly, "Well, it's nice to see that people still believe, you know? There's so much evil in the world." Joan swallowed nervously, "Especially after this weekend…" She watched carefully for the man's reaction.

"Yes." Joe shook his head sadly. "Such a tragedy. Father Constance was a good man, a true friend." Joe laughed bitterly, "I had few enough already. It's hard to believe that a person could do such a thing." There was no pretending the kind of hurt and anger in Joe's voice. He was really upset about what happened, and Father Constance was his friend.

Joan was confused. This man couldn't have been involved with the death of Father Constance, could he? Joan didn't think anyone was that good of an actor? Could God have been wrong? Joan stood up, distractedly fishing some coins from her pocket.

"Sorry," she mumbled absently, "I have to go. I'm late." She tossed the coins on the counter and left without her milkshake. She wandered the streets of Arcadia, mulling over what she had learned. From long experience, she had learned it was never a good thing to ignore God, but Joe was simply a lonely man missing his friend. It couldn't be him. He couldn't be responsible for anything as horrible as the death of Father Constance. It couldn't be him.

"It's him." It was the Woman in Red again.

Joan jumped in surprise; she hadn't heard the Lady approach.

"Are you sure?" said Joan. "He was a friend of Father Constance. He was really upset."

"I'm omniscient, Joan," said the Lady patiently. "I know what I know."

"But…he bought a Bible." She was fishing for some facts to back up her gut feeling. "Why would someone who's leading a satanic cult buy a Bible?"

"You know I can't tell you, Joan," said the Lady shortly.

"You're asking a lot of me here," said Joan sharply. She couldn't remember ever feeling this angry with God. She was so sure the He was wrong. "I think you can at least explain to me why Joe is the right guy! Why can't you tell me?"

The Lady sighed in resignation. "Things aren't always what they seem, Joan. Sometimes you have to look beyond the exterior. Have a little faith in me."

Joan took a few calming breaths and sighed. Things never went well when she disobeyed God. She set aside her feelings of mistrust; after all, it was God. "I do have faith. It's just that…my instincts are telling me one thing while you are telling me something different."

"It's always important to listen to your instincts, Joan," said the Lady, "even when they're wrong. You want to believe he's innocent so that you won't have to complete your task."

Joan thought this rather unfair, but swallowed her anger and tried to think reasonably about what the Lady was saying. "But why is he so upset about what happened if he did it? Why did he tell me he was Father Constance's friend?"

"The devil is the most convincing fraud, Joan. An innocent façade often hides evil intentions."

Joan considered the Lady's words for a few moments. She remembered Father Mallory saying something similar about the devil. Even if her own instincts were telling her that the man was innocent, who was she to place that above the word of God? She exhaled slowly.

"So what do I do?" she asked uncertainly, for the first time not really wanting an answer. "My imagination is failing here."

"Walk beside me for a while, Joan. You have some time." The Lady in Red headed down the street with long, sultry strides as Joan trotted alongside her.

"Maybe I could tell my Dad about this guy. The only thing is that I don't see how I could do that without letting him know it was me. Then what's to stop him from coming after me? Beyond that, I'm out of ideas. Give me a clue here," Joan rattled on, feeling small and awkward, a feeling she didn't remember from any of her other encounters with God.

"Joan, sometimes I ask difficult things of those who serve me," the Lady in Red said calmly.

Joan nodded. "I understand that. So you want me to tip off my Dad, even if it means this guy finds out it was me," her voice quavered bravely.

"No, Joan. I want you to kill him."

Joan stopped dead. "What!"

"I am asking you to make a great sacrifice to save many lives," the Lady in Red said patiently.

"But…I mean, one of the Ten Commandments say `Thou shalt not kill,' doesn't it?" Joan floundered in confusing, her mind racing.

"Yes. But one of the commandments also says `Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife' and there's a lot of coveting going around." The Lady gave her a cheeky smile.

"But that doesn't make it right!" Joan was trying to get her head around the conversation, her sense of unease and confusion growing by the second.

"Listen," the Lady sounded exasperated, "trust in me and do what I ask, and everything will be okay." She held out her hand to Joan. In it was a silver revolver, glinting in the sunlight.

Joan felt oddly compelled to take it. It was as if an invisible hand had grabbed hold of her and was pulling her towards the gun. Before she knew what was happening, she was reaching towards it. With great effort, she dropped her hand to her side, shaking with the effort.

"No," she said firmly, lifting her chin decisively.

"No?" The Lady in Red was incredulous. "You dare to disobey your lord?"

"I'm exercising my free will," said Joan fiercely. "You always…" she trailed off, looking at the woman carefully, the pieces falling into place with an almost audible click. Suddenly, Joan was terrified.

"You're not God." It was as if her entire world had shrunken to a point and all there was was the Lady in Red and her fear.

"Well, damn," the Lady in Red said, pointing the gun casually at Joan. "Was it the gun?" With a little flick of her wrist, it disappeared. "Or was it my outfit?" she pouted coyly.

Joan watched in horror, as the Woman in Red seemed to burn in darkness, a flame that stole heat and light. Joan backed away, looking around frantically but the world passed on obliviously around them.

"Joan, Joan, Joan." The Lady shook her head. "Nobody will help you. Your God gave them free will and they choose to be selfish."

Joan shook her head in mute denial. She couldn't believe that she had been so easily fooled.

"So young." The Lady reached out a hand, caressing a strand of Joan's hair. Joan shrank away, shuddering. The Lady smirked, amused. "So innocent. So afraid. A lamb to the slaughter. I'll be seeing you, Joan. Tell your boss I said hi." She raised her arms to the sky, gathering the dark flames around her like a mantle.

With an incongruous little wave of her fingers, a great darkness swelled forth from the Lady. It reared up, filling Joan's vision, and rushed at her. Joan raised her arms in futile defense, but it passed through her, over her, around her. It swallowed her whole and spit her back up.

For a moment, all she could hear was screaming. She blankly realized it was her. Then it passed and she was left feeling sick, desecrated, like she would never be worthy again. People gathered on the sidewalk where the lady in red had fallen. Empty now, a shell, her eyes were dark, her life hollowed out. A puppet with broken strings.

Joan heard them ask her what happened as if from under water. She shook her head. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. She couldn't make her mouth work. She was consumed with a need to leave. She pushed through the crowd and ran. No one stopped her.

She ran and ran and ran until her lungs burned and she could hardly breathe. She fell to the ground, retching for the second time that day, but she was empty, nothing left to give. She lifted her head, finally noticing where she was. Adam's house. She drew herself up, struggling to her feet to leave, but it was too late. Adam opened the door of his shed and walked out almost directly in front of her. There was nowhere to hide.

Adam felt like he had walked into a really bad noir movie. Joan was on his lawn, crumpled and crying, and he, the reluctant leading man in this cinematic disaster, was going to help her, despite the fact that he promised himself he wouldn't.

"Are you okay?" It was a reluctant question; he didn't want to ask it.

She shook her head. She didn't look injured, so Adam made the most obvious connection.

"About the drawing…" He really didn't know where he was going with that, so he was glad she cut him off.

"No…"

He should have known that nothing about Joan would ever be predictable.

"I'm afraid." Her voice trembled.

"Of what? What happened?" Concerned now, despite himself, Adam took a step towards her.

She looked up at him, searching his face, trying to find the right words, but it was unexplainable. She sighed in resignation. "I can't tell you."

"What!" Adam was incredulous. To think he had been so close to forgiving, or at least moving on. "D'you think that's funny, Joan?" He spat out her name and she looked at him like he's slapped her. At that moment, he almost wished he had. "Get out of here." He turned away from her, slamming his fist into the shed with bruising force.

Joan cried out, "Adam!"

"Go away!" he screamed at her, on the verge of tears. "I don't know what game you think you're playing but I'm done with it. I'm done with you!"

"It's not a game," Joan shouted back at him, trying to punch through his anger.

He looked at her in surprise, finding it much more unpleasant that he thought to be yelled at.

"It was never a game," Joan repeated quietly. "I know you think…what I did…I did to hurt you, but I never stopped loving you. Not for a second." She found herself struggling to speak through tears. She swallowed a gasping breath. "I wish it could be different. I know this won't mean much to you, but I promise that I'll explain it all to you one day."

Adam listened to her in spite of himself. He slumped down against the wall, defeated. "Explain it to me now, Joan," he pleaded.

"I can't," sobbed Joan. "I can't and I hate it. I hate that I hurt you. I hate that you never look at me anymore. I hate not being with you. And I hate that you're angry. But I still can't."

He sat in silence for a moment, his head in his hands.

"You need to leave," he said finally, sounding tired more than anything else.

"Adam, I…"

"No. I can't do it. I can't bend that far or I will break."

Fighting tears, Joan nodded and walked off home without a word.

Adam sat on the grass long after she left, composing better scenarios in his head, where he found the right words to make her trust him, where she told him whatever was going on in her life. Where he took her into his arms and said, "I forgive you, Jane."

He scrubbed his dry eyes against his palms and sighed, pulling himself off the ground and returning to his shed.

Joan spent the rest of the week on edge. Between her encounter with the Lady in Red and the scene at Adam's, she was a wreck.

It was the end of the week before she spoke to God again. She was staying after school, helping her mother put up posters for the winter semi-formal, this year's "Winter Wonderland" theme only marginally better than last year's "Crystal Ball." A child of around seven wandered down the hallways.

"Well, hi there," said Joan with a smile. "Are you lost?"

"No, I've been looking for you, Joan." The little boy smiled.

"Is…is it really You?" asked Joan, setting down her stack of posters.

"Think about it for a minute, Joan. You already know."

Joan found that yes, she did know. "Oh thank…well, You," Joan sighed in relief.

"I'm here," began God, "to answer some questions for you."

"I thought you didn't answer questions," said Joan suspiciously.

"Well, not the big ones, Joan. But answers that don't deny the need for faith? That's just teaching. So I'm here to teach you. If you prefer."

"About…that…thing?"

God nodded solemnly.

"Was that…the Devil?"

"Yes and no," God replied.

"Yes and no?" Joan shrieked. "What kind of answer is that?"

"An interrupted one," said God, looking at her with incongruously experienced eyes.

"Sorry," whispered Joan.

"It was not the Devil in the sense of fallen angel, Lord of Darkness, fire and brimstone. That is really just a little argument that got blown way out of proportion," God said peevishly. "But," He continued, "in an ultimate evil kind of sense, it is a comparable term."

"Ultimate evil?" Joan squeaked.

"Joan, you will never have to face it alone. Whether you know it or not, I will always be with you. This first battle was yours alone. You needed to know that you could face this with your own strength."

Ha!" Joan laughed. "You saw me after. I crumpled like a little girl and went running to Adam who, incidentally, isn't there for me anymore."

"There's no need to be snippy, Joan," said God. "You are strong. You resisted the pull of the Darkness."

"The Darkness?" Joan questioned.

"It's a bit complicated," said God slowly, "but I'll try to explain." He sat cross-legged on the floor. Joan followed suit.

"Story time?" she asked cheekily. God gave her a look. "Sorry," she muttered.

"Most of the greatest elements of life can be separated into two poles," God began, "Light and Dark, Life and Death, Peace and Conflict, Organization and Chaos, Happy and Sad and so on. For life to be worth living, there must be both. That is how the system was created. I am the embodiment of the positive end of the spectrum. I abide in the good impulses of all creatures. I am comfort, I am peace. I am the Way and the Light. Just as there is a light, there must be a darkness. It is not an entity in the same sense as I am, but it thinks, it knows, it is. It is the embodiment of evil, the negative side of the spectrum, thriving on the misdeeds of man, chaos, fear."

Joan sat in silence for a moment, trying to absorb this. "Wait," she said, picking up on an earlier part of the conversation, "the first battle? There's more?"

God grew serious. "There is worse to come, Joan. The Darkness feeds off the evil inside the hearts of man and the world has been a dark place as of late. The Darkness is growing and therefore becoming more powerful. It acts through taking life, hollowing out the soul of a human being, as you have seen. This is how it spreads chaos and despair. You are not my only instrument, Joan, but you are my most effective. I tried to explain to you once how far the effects of your actions go, even within your town, but they go much farther than that. Through you, I am able to do great things. The rising Dark has found you, Joan, and so I need you to destroy it, restore the balance. It must be you and it must be soon for having failed once to end your influence, it will try again and try harder. There are dark days ahead for you, Joan, but I will be by your side."

Joan sat in silence for a long moment. "So," she said finally, "I really am supposed to save the world, huh?"

God smiled at her. "You never know who will end up doing great things until the circumstances are thrust upon them."

At last she spoke, with none of her usual sarcasm. "I'm afraid," she said, "but I choose freely to be Your instrument and I will do all I can for You."

God looked at her with great pride. "That, Joan, is all I can ask of anyone."

tbc

return to Tales of Arcadia