25
T here were several factors in Laurel Aberley’s second death that set her apart from the examples in Eric Brilhart’s diary: the fact that her dying wish was impossible to grant and that she had committed suicide.
“I…” Marin spoke up, his voice small. “I don’t remember much about my previous life, or even how I died, but can tell you for certain: I didn’t kill myself.”
Blake didn’t press, allowing Marin to divulge as much or as little as he wanted. From the backseat, Celeste cleared their throat.
“Well uh,” they continued in a halting, awkward tone. “It seems like both Duarte and Ana?s were able to recall their dying wishes—which is a good thing, because I feel like it would be pretty hard to guess at that.”
But what if it’s something impossible, like Laurel’s wish?
Blake thought, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary.
What if, like her, Marin wanted to see someone who was dead?
Or visit a place that no longer existed?
The possibility that Marin could be punished with death on a technicality was horrifying to him.
Despite himself, Blake shared the fear with the others. It was too late in the game to keep these kinds of concerns close to his breast.
“It’s scary, but it’s possible,” Celeste replied. In the rearview mirror, Blake could see them wincing. “Let me keep reading. The diary isn’t too long and most of the entries are really spaced out—maybe there’s a loophole. I should be able to get through it in a few hours.”
“We should probably stick together for the rest of the night while you read through it,” Marin suggested.
“We can go back to my house,” Celeste offered. “Or…”
“‘Or’?” Blake encouraged.
“Or maybe we could go to your place,” they suggested. “I… I wanted to have that talk with Ryan that you two suggested, if there’s enough time.”
“He doesn’t get home until later, so it should leave you with ample time to go through the book,” Blake nodded, merging onto Highway 50.
“Would it be okay if we stopped for ingredients on the way home?” Marin asked. “I’d like to put together something for dinner.”
“I mean, we definitely need to get something to eat,” Blake admitted with a grimace, recalling the tragically sparse landscape of his kitchen. “But you just went through a lot, Marin. Let me take care of dinner—you’re literally always cooking. I want to take care of you.”
Behind him, Celeste made a heaving sound.
“Excuse me, do you have a problem ?” Blake asked. It was a little early for the tension in the car to be broken by Celeste’s antics. Despite this, Marin muffled a laugh behind the cup of his palm, pointedly staring out of the window.
“Oh I don’t have a problem, but I’ve heard through the grapevine that any and all of your attempts at cooking have resulted in astronomical failures,” Celeste snorted.
“You sure didn’t have any complaints about that porridge I made this morning,” Blake groused.
Celeste ignored him. “If you can stop at the WinCo in Folsom, I’ll pick up some ingredients for meatballs and pasta. I assume you own a knife, pot, and bowl at the very least?”
“Do you think I’m completely inept?” Blake asked.
“Do you want me to answer that question?” Celeste retorted. “Now be quiet, I’m trying to read.”
Blake sighed—so much for trying to honor the somber atmosphere. However, Marin was in better spirits, and that was more important.
Within an hour, they had returned to Blake’s apartment and Celeste had set upon the kitchen with gusto.
“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” Marin asked, hovering at the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room.
“Nope, I got it,” Celeste said, extracting an aging mixing bowl from the depths of the cupboard. “Blake can keep looking over the diary while I cook. Your job is to relax. It’s been an insane day.”
Still, Marin remained firmly glued in place, his mouth a wary slant as he drummed on the countertop. Blake walked up beside him, placing a comforting hand on the small of his back.
“Babe?” he prompted.
“Sorry,” Marin said. “I… I feel like I have to cook every day or someone will get upset.”
“Who’ll get upset?” Celeste asked, shooting an accusatory glare at Blake. “This guy? I’ll beat his ass if he’s been forcing you to cook.”
“No way in hell I’d do that.” Blake scowled. However, he was happier to know that Celeste was so quick to go to Marin’s defense than he was insulted by the accusation that he’d get upset.
“No, no!” Marin shook his head, a deep frown carved onto his face. “I know Blake would never get mad at me for not cooking. I… I feel like there’s this constant risk that if I don’t make food, then there’s going to be a problem.”
“Well that’s absolutely not the case now,” Blake reassured him, giving Marin’s hip a gentle squeeze. “You never have to cook if you don’t want to.”
“Maybe it’s the constant, looming fear of getting poisoned by Blake?” Celeste joked, as they began opening a can of tomatoes. “I’d be scared of that, too.”
“ All right,” Blake huffed. But again, he wasn’t really offended: Marin was laughing.
He glanced at Blake, giving his bicep a comforting pat. “I think your cooking is fine. The porridge you helped make today was delicious.”
“Yeah, under your tutelage,” Blake sighed. “Come on, let’s go sit. I wanted to keep looking through this diary.”
As they settled down on the old, beat-up sleeper couch, Blake opened the drive where Celeste had uploaded the pages.
He was amazed at what he read: over the course of thirty years, Eric Brilhart had traveled the majority of the Eurasian continent in search of pygmalions.
If he had been able to find them before they were reawakened, he would often either purchase or steal them, shipping them back to Switzerland—to a place he referred to as his “Reverie”.
If not, he would detail the stories of the pygmalions and the people who woke them.
It appeared that his entries were so sparse due to the rarity of the phenomena—most were incredibly short, detailing the name, the form the pygmalion took, and where they had been found.
Despite the depravity lurking beneath Eric’s words, he held an honest reverence for each of the pygmalions that he found and displayed genuine distress every time he could not save one.
After skimming the contents, Blake resumed reading where Celeste had left off: there were only two more entries left in the journal. As he read the opening lines, his heart sank in his chest, leaving a hot-cold acidic burn behind.
January 16, 1826
I have reason to question my earlier hypothesis about the quality of a person’s character being the third condition to keep the pugmalion alive. I have, as of late, witnessed the sad case of Elio Bianchi and Aelius.
Following a lead regarding a talking mosaic at an Italian archeological dig, I was led to the Baths of Caracalla in Rome.
Unfortunately, before I was able to take Aelius away to the safety of my Reverie, he had already been reawakened by Mr. Elio Bianchi, the son of the head archeologist, Mr. Giacomo Bianchi?. Aelius had taken the form of a naiad.
(?Mr. Bianchi suspects that Aelius was created around the year 217 A.D. due to his recollection of the death of Emperor Septimus Severus.)
Thankfully, the day I met Mr. Elio Bianchi, Aelius was only on the second day of his reawakening and I was able to inform them of the requirements.
As typical of the four day period, it took another day or so for Aelius’ memories of his previous life to return.
As such, he was able to recall his place of death (beneath a cypress tree on the Via Appia) and dying wish (to worship at the pantheon).
Upon his arrival below the cypress where he was slain, Mr. Aelius asked both myself and the elder Mr. Bianchi to depart, wishing for a moment alone with Mr. Elio.
Once we conceded to Mr. Aelius’ request, I peered over my shoulder to see Aelius and Elio embrace and bestow one another with many kisses.
The elder Mr. Bianchi and I continued on for several more metres, after which I heard Mr. Elio give a great cry of anguish.
When we returned to his side, we found that Mr. Aelius had been rendered to the form of thousands of mosaic tiles scattered over the ground and Mr. Elio’s hands.
Poor young Mr. Bianchi has been inconsolable for the past two weeks.
I am remiss to ask him of what was said in those last moments he spent by Mr. Aelius’ side, not wanting to pry into the matters of a young person’s heart—and one so sorely afflicted by loss.
But ah! If I were to know, perhaps I would be able to discern the reason that the third requirement did not work.
From both my personal observations of Mr. Elio’s character, as well as the vouching of his father, friends, and family, he is a fine young man of great kindness and good breeding and treated Mr. Aelius with nothing but the most tender love and respect.
Perhaps the fates that weigh a person’s worth of love are beyond my understanding, or I have missed an additional requirement in the past. Or maybe there is a component that relies on the pugmalion him or herself that I have hitherto been unaware of, such as the amount of time that the pugmalion has been deceased.
Mlle. Ana?s was only dead for three years before being reawakened by Mlle. Louisa and managed to live on, while Duarte had been gone for fifty. Having previously been alive some sixteen hundred years ago, Mr. Aelius may very well have been deceased far too long to continue living.
In either case, it pains me that I was not able to send Mr. Aelius to my Reverie before Elio awakened him.
E.B.
The entry concluded there, with another dated several days later:
January 20, 1826
Whilst I awaited my carriage in the lobby of the hotel where I have made my dwellings, there was a great commotion at the concierge.
As I left my seat to see what the matter was, imagine my surprise to see Mr. Elio Bianchi desperately seeking myself.
Once I was able to catch his attention, we retired to a brief tea in the parlor in an attempt to ease his nerves.
The information young Mr. Bianchi so eagerly wished to confide in me was the following: that upon returning Mr. Aelius to the place where he had been strangled beneath the cypress tree, Aelius turned to Elio and professed his desire to be with his past lover, Felix.
When Elio cried out that he did not want Aelius to disappear, Mr. Aelius smiled softly and did just that.
I’m uncertain of what this development means.
Was Elio’s desire for Aelius to remain by his side construed by the fates as a selfish desire, rendering him unworthy of Aelius’ love?
Was it Aelius’ desire to depart that caused him to do so?
Or perhaps my previous hypothesis regarding the length of the pugmalion’s death serves as another factor?
I am as of yet uncertain.
If it is some sort of deity of fate who weighs the worthiness of a person’s heart upon a scale, then it is a cruel deity indeed.
If what I have been led to believe is true and a boy as tender as Elio is capable of failing such a test, then in order to be worthy, one’s heart must truly be lighter than a feather.
E.B.
The journal ended there.
Blake stared down at his phone, a tremor working its way out from his heart and into his limbs, the icy numbness of horror diffusing through him.
“Blake?” Marin asked, looking up from the drawing on his iPad. He secured a hand around Blake’s wrist, concern furrowing his brow. His voice sounded a thousand miles away, like he was speaking through a wall or a thick sheet of glass. “Blake, are you okay? What is it?”
“It…” Blake spoke, and even his voice was distant to his own ears. “It was wrong. The conditions in the poem were wrong.”