Chapter The Dusk Tiara
The Dusk Tiara
Liko quickly established a routine at Schoenfeld’s.
Dane was always up and about at seven, leaving the coffee made.
Liko got up at eight-thirty, had a cup, a bite of something, then he took Salma on a long walk.
No earbuds, no music or podcasts. Just silence and nature and his thoughts tumbling into place for the day.
Untangling plot twists, filling holes in the story, wearily analyzing why the usually brilliant Detective O’Higgins would do a dumb thing like that.
Back at the farmhouse, he showered, made more coffee and ate a more substantial breakfast, answering emails or returning calls.
Then it was ass in chair for a solid three hours, with his phone left in the kitchen and the Wi-Fi turned off on his laptop.
If he got stuck, or bored, or antsy, he went outside.
Sometimes a few deep breaths on the porch could put him back on track.
Sometimes he needed to walk to the duck pond and commune a bit with his creature.
He hit the kitchen garden first to gather peapods and lettuce, because he’d been told bread wasn’t good for ducks.
Jeffrey would eat salad from Liko’s hand, patient and attentive as Liko bitched about the manuscript. Sooner or later, one of the crew would notice him and yell through cupped hands, “Liko, quit fucking around and write.”
He’d wave back with a grimace, or a flipped bird if his mood was particularly sour. After all, he had invited the farm’s workers to use the line whenever they saw him goofing off.
Basil Greenman would call this being hoisted with your own petard.
A break for lunch at noon, then derrière back in chair for another three hours. Then a nap, and when he woke up, Dane was usually coming in.
Today, Liko had caught the edge of a creative comet and rode its tail long past his customary quitting time.
He barely grunted a hello when Dane walked by the office doors.
He pounded the keyboard with gleeful relish, his mind one exquisitely timed word ahead of his fingers.
High on the sick thrill of having scattered a half-dozen themes throughout the story, but now pulling them together and nailing their asses to the page with one, perfect, concise closing sentence.
“That’s how you do it, motherfuckers,” he growled, slapping palms on the desk. He read it over. Yes. This was indeed how it was done. He saved the document, emailed it to William Shepherd, and refrained from typing You’re welcome in the subject line.
“Don’t anticipate a compliment,” Betty Greenman always said. “Because lord, you feel a bit shit when it doesn’t come.”
He went into the kitchen and mixed a gin and tonic. He remembered Dane saying contributions to the farm’s booze supply would be accepted in lieu of rent, and made a mental note to hit the liquor store. He should buy more coffee while he was at it.
Dane came in, wet-haired and chipper. “What’s going on, what are we doing, what’s to eat, are we drinking?”
“A drink is the thing. What can I do you?”
“I’ll have what you’re having. And I’m dying for a burger. That do you?”
“Done.”
They put together massive burgers with melted cheddar and fried onions, and Dane picked lettuce from the garden to layer on top. No fries, but Dane ripped open a new bag of Lays potato chips and they gobbled and crunched.
“I’ll probably hit the sack early,” Dane said, “but want to play a little more of the game?”
“Sure.”
Dane got up, wiping his mouth. “Quick seminar. Hopefully not the John Schoenfeld definition of quick.”
He took a picture down from the wall and set it on the table. A long frame enclosed three pencil sketches of Green Man motifs.
“So when I came to Schoenfeld’s,” Dane said, “John was writing The Journey of the Green Man. I wasn’t anything close to a research assistant, but I knew how to type and I was good at transcribing his scribblings and making sure he backed things up.
Keeping piles of paper from avalanching off the desk, bringing in a sandwich.
He’d share bits of this and that, all the theories about the origin of the Green Man.
Between listening to him and typing up chapters, I learned a lot, and one of my favorite stories comes from the Legend of the Rood. ”
“What’s a rood?”
“A cross.” Dane drew the framed picture closer.
“Sidebar, because I’m a terrible storyteller.
The Green Man has three variations. The Foliate Head, which is completely covered in green leaves.
The Disgorging Head, which has leaves coming only out of his mouth.
And here, the Bloodsucker Head, which has leaves coming out mouth and nose, or mouth and eyes:
“The Foliate Head is nicest to look at,” Dane said, “in my opinion. But Mr. Disgorging and Mr. Bloodsucker align best with the Legend of the Rood. It’s a compilation of medieval tales loosely derived from the Old Testament, and one tale is about Seth.”
“My Old Testament is rusty,” Liko said “Who’s Seth?”
“Adam and Eve’s lesser-known son. Basically the replacement kid after Cain slew Abel.”
“You’re going to hell.”
“Come on, Seth’s the ancestor of Noah so he’s the real father of mankind.
Anyway, when Adam is dying, he sends Seth back to Eden to find an elixir of immortality.
An angel is guarding the gates and won’t let Seth in.
Instead, the angel gives Seth three seeds from the infamous Tree of Knowledge.
Seth returns home and finds Adam has died.
He puts the three seeds under Adam’s tongue before burying him.
Hence…” Dane’s finger tapped the three Bloodsucker Heads.
“Ah,” Liko said. “This is the deceased Adam. The seeds from the Tree of Knowledge are growing from his face.”
“It’s kind of gnarly,” Dane said. “But satisfying in a literary way. What Adam stole from the tree in his life is given back in his death. Threefold, because three trees grew from his face.”
“And three is a magic number.”
“The wood from the trees shows up in other Old Testament tales, but ultimately, it makes the cross that Jesus is crucified on.”
“Well, that comes together neatly.”
“New leaves mean new life for humankind,” Dane said, “growing from the mouth, nose and eyes of the First Man. New chances for redemption from the resulting tree which will bear the fruit of a new savior and… I forgot where I was going with this.”
“Something, something, let’s play Three Hares?”
“Yes,” Dane said, picking up plates and silverware. “Go set up in the den.”
Liko hooked up his laptop to the TV and had the game open when Dane came in. The screen was focused on the ceiling, where the hares were still running the wrong way.
“You got three wisteria seeds in your cache and the tale of Seth,” Dane said. “Figure out what to do yet?”
“I think so.” Liko clicked on one of the seeds and brought it toward the Green Man’s mouth.
Then all at once, the scene was blurred by his tears. He let go the mouse and pressed his forehead into his hands.
“You all right?” Dane asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, I…”
Dane’s palm rubbed slow circles on Liko’s back. “Tell me.”
“Up until now, I only knew what Kyle showed me. I’m going on without him. It’s not his game anymore.”
Dane made a soft hum, his hand warm and strong between Liko’s shoulder blades.
“Shit, this got emotional.”
“For sure.”
“Fuck my life,” Liko said, knuckling his eyes. “All right, I’m doing this.”
“You’re doing it for him.”
“My heart’s pounding,” he mumbled. “This is ridiculous.” Liko carried the seed to the Green Man’s mouth and let go the cursor. “Down the hatch…”
The eyes in the foliate face closed as the leafy jaws chewed and swallowed.
The pagan god belched. A real frat house special. A glut of leaves spewed from his mouth with such unexpected violence, Liko sat back a little. “What the fuck?”
“Disgorging Head,” Dane said.
The leaves whirled in a circle around the Green Man, turning metallic shades of silver, bronze and copper. Gradually they joined, melding into a crown, which slowly lowered onto the altar.
A long beat of silence.
“Okay,” Liko said. “That happened.”
“Seems a good time to remind everyone this entire chamber is a private joke between three people.”
“Hey, don’t harsh my vibe,” Liko said. “I’m the only gamer who’s seen this crown.”
“It’s called the Dusk Tiara,” Dane said, standing up. “Come on, I’ll show you something. Shut down because I’m going to bed after.”
He took Liko upstairs and along the hall to his bedroom.
“Gosh, I get to enter the holy of holies,” Liko said.
“Don’t get ideas.”
“You wish.”
He took in a king-sized bed, a dresser, an open door to an adjoining bath. A large rug over hardwood floors. One wall was painted a deep, smoky orange, but the rest of the room was minimalist and neutral, which made the large canvas between the windows the focal point.
“Wow,” Liko said. “Is that Nomi?”
“The queen,” Dane said.
Queen, hell. This was a bloody empress. She was turned away from the viewer, looking over her shoulder, which rose from a purple froth of wisteria blossoms. Ethan had painted the vines into a garment that wove, coiled and twisted around Nomi’s body, the blossoms spilling in cascades and ruffles and flounces.
Every petal painted so meticulously, so realistically, Liko glanced at the floor beneath the painting, half expecting to see strays scattered.
Memory flicked the edge of his mind: his mother’s signature compliment for a friend’s smart dress.
“Nice frock,” he said softly.
“Isn’t it something?” Dane said. “I swear Ethan could’ve made an equally successful career in fashion. The talented son of a bitch.”
Hares peeked from in between the wisteria flowers, and a golden duck was cradled in Nomi’s arm, also looking at the viewer.
On Nomi’s head was the crown of leaves Liko had just discovered in the Green Man Chamber.
It was bejeweled with smoky pearls and tiny jewels in twilight colors.
Down low in a corner of the painting, Ethan had painted the caption in precise letters: Nomi with Dusk Tiara.
“This is stunning,” Liko said.
“I know,” Dane said. “That’s why it hangs on my bedroom wall.”
“Dusk Tiara,” Liko said. “Annoying anagram, or just another inside joke?”
“Both. But also a real thing.” Dane was opening a dresser drawer and taking out a small drawstring bag. He drew from it the Dusk Tiara.
Liko hardly dared to take it, but he did.
He turned it this way and that, admiring the construction of filigree elm leaves along the base.
Two gingko leaves in beaten gold framed a beautiful gray pearl at the center.
A single delicate oak leaf at the tiara’s apex, and two tinier clusters of oak leaves and acorns at the ends.
“I assume the talented son of a bitch designed this, too,” Liko said.
“In his spare time. In between painting and designing digital art and reading six books a day and teaching himself Japanese. He just threw it together.”
Liko carefully handed it back. “A bit of paste, as Mum would say.”
“Saskia wants it for her wedding day.”
“Of course. It’s an heirloom.”
“And an anagram.”
“Thanks for showing me.”
“You’re welcome.” Dane tilted the tiara back and forth, making the lamplight reflect off the surfaces. “Now get out of my room.”