Chapter 15

Chapter 15: Mondieu

Saturday

If then, if you have lived in despair, then whatever else you won or lost, for you everything is lost, eternity does not acknowledge you, it never knew you, or, still more dreadful, it knows you as you are known, it manacles you to your self in despair.

Soren Kierkegaard – Sickness Unto Death

There was no heaven, only a grey sheath, dark stripes of clouds mummying the sky over the city, embalming it and leaving it for dead. Inspector Mondieu stood up, and exited the interrogation chamber. Seth had set the Doctor and Evelyn free, and released DuMont, who had quickly shuffled out, also.

                Only Seth now stood in the waiting room of the police station, tapping his foot grimly and burning a hole into the carper with his stare. “Inspector?” he said, not looking up. “What is our next move?”

                “Our next move?”

                “The skies are grey, the city is frightened, our criminal manipulates us as sparks in a gale. How can we compete, Inspector?” Seth began with a shaking voice. “How can watch catch a phantom? How does one net a ghost of destruction, of injustice?”

                The inspector patted his cloak for a cigarette – none. “Eventually, everyone makes mistakes, Seth. Eventually, our little villain will let something slip, and we’ll catch him where he falls.”

                “And if he doesn’t? If our villain makes no mistakes, and never falls?”

                “Then the city does, and justice has failed, Seth,” replied the inspector, his face dark in the gloom of the morning, the shadows of the station. He opened the door and slipped into the dreary, late-morning light.

                The inspector’s footsteps clattered against the cobblestones, heavy as hail. The weight of a city rested on his shoulders, and he could not shrug off the weight of atlas. Wind crackled through the trees like bone-chimes and the whispers of phantoms, and the inspector hurried his steps toward the information tower. Pushing his way into the interior of the tower, Mondieu nodded at Vespers and walked up the ramp to find Turners.

                “Turners?” called the inspector. “Are you here?”

                “Over here,” came the muffled reply from the other side of the helix. The inspector scampered down and back up the other side of the building, finding the mechanic seated on top of an old chassis, tinkering with a pile of cables, frowning mightily.

                “What have you found, Turners?”

                “Well, we’ve been duped, and that’s for certain. I think I’m getting things back under control, but it may take most of this day,” replied Turners, grunting with frustration.

                “Duped? How?”

                Turners stood up and brushed dust off of his overalls. “Follow me, Inspector.” Turners led the inspector up to the highest levels of the building, the desks covered with monitors spewing graphs, green text on black screens, information dumps in a jargon as meaningless to the inspector as binary.

                Turners stopped in front of a bunch of screens, and looked at the inspector, as though waiting for the inspector to realize something. A couple of graphs, a bunch of text, what am I looking at exactly?

                “Turners, just tell me. I don’t have the patience for this, and I’m not sure what I’m looking at,” the inspector said in a low, impatient tone.

                Turners leaned forward and pointed at the middle screen. “Look, the weather systems are failing. You can see how the power for the weather controller has been drained.”

                “Right, but we already knew that,” the inspector said. “We knew the weather systems had been tempered with already.”

                Turners nodded glumly, tapping the side of his jaw for a forefinger. “Ah, true, but we didn’t know how. We expected the villain might already need to be here, but this was all set into place long ago.” Turners walked down the ramp a few paces, pointing to a different set of screens. On these, the system was spewing a raw mess of white text, scrawling down the screen at an impossible rate.

                “What is this?” the inspector asked.

                “A virus. Everything was preprogrammed, for the last two days. Programmed to remove the oxygen content from the waters and disable the weather controller. The villain never needed to return to the information tower, everything was already subtly hidden amidst the code, latent until the appointed time. We have here a mastermind, someone whose skill with computers exceeds mine.”

                “So how do we stop him? How do we know that a remnant of the virus is not still on the computer, even now?”

                Turners pulled out a chassis from beneath the desk and sat down with a heavy sigh. “I’ve been sending the last few hours scouring the systems, cleaning everything and re-booting the weather control systems.”

                “Will that help?” asked the inspector. Computers were not his forte, but clearly the villain was quite skilled in this area. Who did that rule out? He knew nothing of the skill of anyone here. Who was skilled with technology in this city anyway, aside from… Turners?

                “Any software installed before the reboot will get removed in the fresh booting of the controller. So the weather controller should be up and running by tonight, and warm air should return by evening.”

                “Very good,” replied the inspector. “I’ll check in on you later.”

                Turners was already engrossed back in the electronic muddle as the inspector tramped down the ramp into the lobby.

                “Vespars?”

                “Yes, sir?” Vespars replied, standing at tired attention.

                “When able, keep an eye on Turners.”

                “Inspector, sir? You suspect Turners?” replied Vespars, surprised.

                The inspector shook his head, rubbing his cheeks ponderously. “I suspect everyone. But if you must know, no, I do not suspect Turners over-much. But he does have access to the machinery at all times, which no one else has.”

                “I will keep an eye on him,” replied Vespars.

                The inspector left the information tower, a charging brigade into the dull light of early afternoon. Now what? The tree, perhaps? He still needed to follow up on the comment of the doctor’s:

“we came to the conclusion that, maybe, the criminal was following the works of creation backwards”. He didn’t even have to ask himself whether he believed that – it sounded valid immediately. So who could he ask for more information? He was grasping at straws at this religious reference.

                The inspector arrived at his inn a few moments later, wondering why he’d returned here. He patted his cloak and realized it was, subconsciously, because he was out of smokes. Maybe it is better this way. He rushed up into his room to retrieve another pack of cigarettes, and picked up the Bible and commentaries. Might as well do some more research, and maybe trade these in at the library for some more information.

                As the inspector reached the barroom, The Bear was waiting for him, wringing his hands with full concern written on his face.

                “Inspector?” The Bear pitched, timid as a child.

                “Yes, Fredrik?”

                “Are we not saved? Will winter come, and freeze our homes?” Are they all so naïve? Or, perhaps, were they right after all? Who would save them when this city falls?

                “I don’t know, Fredrik. I don’t know. But maybe you can help me find out. Do you know anyone in this city, a scholar perhaps, or a priest, who is well-learned on religious things? Or information about the long history of this city?”

                The Bear thought for a moment. “The Doctor, perhaps? Or maybe  the Doctor’s companion, Evelyn? There is a resident scholar here – only been in town five years or so, but he knows quite a bunch.  And there’s also the old man down on Southlane, and you could ask the librarian, Mrs. Gilead, anything you like.”

                “And who is this resident scholar? Where might I find him?”

                “Kurt lives just east of here, but you can probably find him at his office. Fancies it as a bit of a church, he does, which is why I thought of him. It’s out west near the menagerie – just past, in fact. A big sign in front: Garden Sanctum. You can’t miss it.”

                The inspector nodded. “Very good, Fredrik. I wouldn’t worry overmuch about freezing. We’ll catch the enemy, or die trying.” Or die trying? That’s not very encouraging, is it?

                The inspector left The Bear standing there, still wringing his hands, rocking  back and forth as if the rhythm, somehow, comforted him in his agonizing fear.

                The house, or sanctum was, as the innkeep said, difficult to miss. It was not glass, as many of the other constructions in this city, but a tan-hued marble, sandy colors swirling like the water-rings in underwater caves. There was something hypnotizing about the place, but peaceful, like a single stone in a zen-rock garden, symbolically placed.

                It was a small shack, rounded more than squared on each angle, and, though the cold was young, already a helix of smoke twirled out from a pipe-chimney, racing up to mingle with the clouds. The windows were small, homey, and the inspector entered with a peaceful exhalation that surprised him.

                A rocking chair; a fireplace with cheery, orange fire; stone floor, covered with a Spartan rug with maroon and ochre hues; a bench against the far window, and incense burning on every small table – of which there were plenty, covered with candles and incense and saucers and religious mementos from multiple religions: Buddhist, Islam, Orthodox Christendom, Catholocism, Judaism, and a number of relics the inspector failed to recognize; and a small, thin man sitting in the rocking chair, a book in his lap, and his eyes closed.

                He was not asleep, and, the inspector noticed quickly, Mondieu had seen him before.

                “Pavloh?”

                The man breathed out, as though he’d been holding his breath in meditation. He was a thin man, and dark of skin, wrinkles thick over his brow and against his eyes, and a pair of glasses hung on a string around his neck – some of the first glasses the inspector had seen in town. He wore a simple robe, almost a sort of cassock, grey and plain, and his feet were unshod, despite the chill.  The book, the inspector now noticed, was The Sickness Unto Death, by Soren Kierkegaard.

“Do you fear death, inspector?” Pavloh’s voice was deep, resonating in the small chamber. The inspector pulled up a chair leaning against a wall, a rickety, wooden chair.

“I fear nothing, Pavloh.”

“I sense fear on you; I can taste it in your rising hackles, your anger. No, inspector, I do not believe you fearless, though you’ve much courage, and that is something.”

The inspector said nothing, and Pavloh let the moment sigh, ticking time counted in the sparks of the fire.

“Do you know the story of Lazarus?” Pavloh asked, opening his eyes for the first time, and staring deeply into the inspector’s own eyes.

“Risen from the dead, if I recall correctly,” replied the inspector carefully.

“Yes, yes. We fear it, death, and our greatest heroes and salvadores are those who conquer it, returning with a scoff at that which lies beyond our vision, beyond the veil of human experience. But you, inspector, you fear something worse: despair. Why is that?”

“Pavloh, I came to talk about-”

“You fear despair, inspector, because you expect all your roads end there: failure, loneliness, pain, the unknown, love. The tree, for it is the tree you are here for, no? The tree’s questions I will not answer you. But I will tell you the creation story, for that, also, you seek.”

Pavloh’s voice droned on, both singular of tone, and paradoxically rich with a dreamy noise of color. For a while, listening to the story of creation: light and darkness; sea and sky; trees and forests and fields; stars and heavens; fish flying beneath the waters, birds swimming in the sky; animals and the imago dei, and the rest and fall – when Pavloh finally finished the story, the inspector imagined, could not shake the conviction, that it had been sung, so intrinsically primal were the words – could it have been any other day?

The inspector breathed.

“And what of the tree?”

Pavloh looked at the inspector, his lips devoid of words, his eyes bright with fire, stories, and knowledge deep as eternity. “And what of yourself, inspector? Now, you must go. The anti-creation awaits, and, if you are to stop if, if you can, you have much work to be done.”

“But you have the answers to help me stop it!” the inspector cried, standing out of his chair.

“I have no more answers for you now, inspector. The hourglass sands grow thin, thinner with each moment. I will see you again, perhaps,” Pavloh replied, and, closing his eyes, would say no more.

The inspector stomped free from the shack and into the dreary day, though, the inspector noticed, the sun peaked out from behind the clouds, a sliver of light in a sea of grey. Where now? He still needed more information on the tree, the history of this place.

Shortly thereafter, the inspector, books heavy in his cloak, reached the library. “Mrs. Gilead,” the inspector said on reaching the front desk, “do you perhaps have any books on the history of Garden? And botany, perhaps?”

The inspector placed the Bible and commentaries on the desk in front of Mrs. Gilead, and she scooped them up and they disappeared behind the counter. “A popular inquest, these days. We may have something left over,” Mrs. Gilead said with a sly smile, leading the way into the stacks.

“Popular? Who else has been asking after these?”

“A pretty young lady I’m sure you’ve met before, Mondieu. Why, I do believe you sat with her just the other day. Gobbling up all sorts of books on botany, chemistry, biology, and plants, she is. Here we are,” the librarian said, stopping at a shelf. “A book on history, and over on that shelf there are some books on botany. If you need anything more, you know where to find me.”

The inspector picked up the single book on the history of Garden, named, appropriately, “A History of Garden: Dreams of Eden”, and a couple of books on trees – though nothing seemed quite appropriate. How was it so difficult finding information on this tree? Maybe he was too frightened to ask questions, in a city where he trusted so few – or none. Was the old man right? What did he fear?

He sat at a desk and opened his book on the history of Garden, and began perusing. It was drily written, not a professional writer, clearly, and the inspector found himself drowsing off repeatedly. On top of that, most of the information was mechanical, on the aspects of the underground weather controller, and the information tower that controlled everything from irrigation to weather by monitoring and adapting.

After he’d almost fallen asleep a third time, he glanced at his timepiece and saw it was nearing three. How long had he been at Pavloh’s? Still, plenty of time before meeting Marie for dinner at six. He scowled inwardly. What if I don’t meet Marie for dinner? Did I really agree to such a thing?

He notified the librarian that he was leaving with the books, and she nodded, unconcerned, reading a book of her own. He headed straight for the arboretum. He hadn’t been inside since the first day, having had no reason to return. He reached the glass doors on the outer rim, hesitantly reaching out his hand. A phantom serpent, sliding over the ground, snow falling – or was it ash? – from the sky, and people sleeping, frozen, iced over in a city crystallized. The tree was barren, broken, and on its branches, ice tinkled as chimes, eerie in the shrill gusts of wind. And fire, but even the fire was cold, fire everywhere, consuming everything and by everything consumed, until all was fire and ice and fire.

                The inspector walked inside. Even expecting that, it is still strange. And how had I known? He spiraled around, around and around, until finally reaching the center. The tree was much as it once was, though somehow haggard. Now, gazing at it anew, not in the pressure of morning, he noticed that not all the fruit were the same. He counted twelve different varieties of fruit, some that looked like apples, some like pears. Creeping up, though he knew not why he felt the need to tiptoe, he plucked a pear-shaped fruit from its boughs, and bit. An explosion of sweetness swirled through his body, and he shivered with delight and a little high, and, a little dizzy, he sat down beneath the tree, resting his head against the thickly veined trunk.

               

                -Is it knowledge of life or death you came here for? Or life eternal?- a voice whispered near his ear. –You don’t even know, do you?-

                The inspector opened his eyes and saw he was elsewhere, but still beneath the tree. Somehow, the sidewalks were replaced with ferns, giant and vibrant, and enormous flowers, like some he’d seen in his travels to tropical lands. Animals lazed in the rich sunlight, and butterflies and hummingbirds raced together between the flowers, humming with delight at the richness of vegetation.

                A tramping, in the distance, a noise as of idle chatter. The inspector tried to get up, but his legs would not let him. A woman entered the clearing, and she was naked, beautiful, and unashamed.

                -she takes a fruit, now, and he, who is with her, eats also-

                A second set of footsteps, and a man, naked, beautiful, perfect, also walked into the circle around the tree, glancing about himself as if nervous. The woman plucked a fruit and, glancing around with a mischievous smile, took a bit. She turned to the inspector – she had Marie’s face.

                Snow began falling from the sky, and stones, hail stones like diamonds, leaving gouges where they landed. Lightning struck, and the inspector saw he was in a barren wasteland, devoid of life and hot, or freezing, both, perhaps. It was dark, but lightning cracked the sky, snow and ash covered the earth, and withered plants lay brown and broken against the earth, caged in icy tombs.

                Then all was dark, and the inspector stumbled around in the pitch blackness. It wasn’t just dark – there was no light.

                -the punishment for eating the fruit, I’m afraid. A death, a despair of a sort, and a endless night without moon and stars-

                The inspector woke with a start. What the hell was that? He was slumped beneath the tree, a piece of fruit lodged into his side near his hip. Standing up, he glanced at his timepiece: 5:45. Had he fallen asleep? He was meeting Marie at the restaurant soon!

                The inspector brushed off his cloak and, holding tight onto his books, scampered out of the Garden. The sun was long set in the sky, and the sky was almost clear, though quite cold, and the inspector wrapped his cloak around himself tightly, running with a lumbering, long-legged pace north towards the marketplace.

                She was waiting, when he arrived at the restaurant, already seated. She wore a silver-grey dress, and had on a simple, grey hat, with her hair let down rippling in brown waves. A single, red rose was the only splash of color on her person – it matches her lips – and a bright, shy smile played at her lips when the inspector arrived. She had been reading a book when Mondieu entered the restaurant, but had stopped on seeing him.

                “It isn’t nice to keep a lady waiting, is it Mondieu?” Marie asked as the inspector sat.

                “I’m still early, I do believe,” Mondieu replied. Marie moved to put her book away, and he placed his hand over hers, holding the book steady. She passed him a confused look.

                “What are you reading, Marie?” he asked, pulling the book from her grip. “’Trees and Growing Things’? Why do you want to know about that, Marie?”

                Marie shrugged, turning a little pale. “Just an idle interested, I guess.”

                “I don’t guess. What are you here for? Are you studying the tree? Tell me, Marie, or I will regret what must be done.”

                “What,” Marie countered harshly. “Put me in jail? I don’t believe you capable. But I will tell you, and you can feel shame at being so cruel.”

                The inspector sat back in his chair, rebuffed by Marie’s retaliatory statement, the angry glint in her eyes.

                “I’m a researcher, or was, of botany. And Garden had this wonderful new tree that no one could explain. They claimed it produced longevity, dreams, visions, hints into the future, a sickness free city.”

                “And?” the inspector asked, raising an eyebrow.

                “And, not all of those things are true, though more are than you may suspect. The tree does, at least, give visions, as I’m certain you are now aware. And a couple of the other things. Why does it matter?”

                It may matter a good deal – more than you know. “So what were you trading with DuMont?”

                “I don’t know any DuMont,” Marie replied, “But that man you saw me with at the restaurant before? Simply information. He knows someone who might get me samples of the tree, good samples, and I traded some information about the city I’d gleaned in my time here – nothing important.”

                “And? Did you get the samples?”

                Marie deflated instantly. “Well, yes. But I’ve found nothing so far.”

                The inspector pondered briefly, turning suddenly introspective. “What’s wrong,” Marie asked. “Is everything all right?”

                The inspector chuckled. “People have died and the city is falling apart. No, everything is not all right. But things may be getting clearer. Do you have good scientific equipment? Equipment more advanced than, say, the doctor might have?”

                Marie shrugged. “I’m not certain what instruments the doctor is using, but I suspect my equipment is better. Why?”

                “If I brought you some samples, do you think you could do some analysis for me? I might even be able to get you some better samples from the tree, if you could give me the information.”

                Marie’s cheeks reddened and her entire face lit up, stars sparking in her eyes. “Would you do that for me? Ohhhhh!” Marie smiled and sat back, spreading her arms as if she hugged the world. “I could just kiss you, I’m so happy! Yes, yes, yes! When can you get me samples?”

                “Tomorrow, perhaps. I don’t know. I’ll see what I can do.”

                Marie clapped her hands in childish glee. “Well, you must do the best you can. Wonderful! And you must come see what I’ve found already. I have much to show you. But first, we must eat.” Marie signaled the waitress, a lightness of spirit electrifying her, setting her eyes dancing in the starless night. Was Eve so beautiful?

                Later that night, Marie and Mondieu walked, arm in arm, with Mondieu’s cloak wrapped tightly around Eve in the midnight chill, back to Marie’s home. Taking a brief detour, they stopped by the Doctor’s laboratory, and the inspector slipped inside and removed some samples. Then, swiftly retreating into the night, they hurried back to Marie’s home.

 Inside, piles of fruit covered the surfaces of the tables, in various stages of ripening. It was a fruit dissection laboratory, though Marie also had sections for cuttings of the tree, mostly old and long removed from the original bearer.

                “Oh, inspector, inspector! I’ve discovered so much, though I suppose I’ve told you much of it already. There are twelve different types of fruit. At first, I wasn’t sure that was possible, but I believe the tree is actually a composite organism of some sort, a symbiotic coalition of trees, combined into one. Here, try this fruit.”

                The inspector tasted the fruit, felt his head wobbling. Why did I drink wine if I knew such long words were going to be discussed. Or was it this fruit? What was she saying? This tree is a forest of trees in one tree? What in the world did that mean?

                A bell rang at the front door, stirring the inspector into wakefulness where he’d dozed. Marie had stopped talking, maybe some time ago, and was studying the fruit at her desk.

                “Who is that?” asked Mondieu.

                “I don’t know. Who could it be at this hour?” Marie mused, standing up and walking to the door.

                The inspector heard the sound of the door opening, and muffled voices in the background. Moments later, the door shut and Marie returned to the room, a puzzled expression on her face.  She was holding an envelope.

                “What is it, Marie?”

                “It’s for you,” Marie replied, handing the inspector the letter.

                The inspector apprehensively opened the letter, pulling the stationery from the envelope.

                FREEZING TIME WILL BE

                THE TREES, FLOWERS, FIELDS

                WRAPPED IN BLANKETS COLD

                “What is it, inspector?” Marie asked.

                “The next clue,” Mondieu replied, sighing. “He means to make it winter, though I’ve already stopped him. Who delivered this?”

                “Why, the postman,” replied Marie. “I asked him how he found you, and he said, ‘I always make it a habit of knowing where everyone is, Ma’am.’ How could he know?”

                The inspector shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs, though his eyes burned. “Is the postman still here? Tell him… tell him to send a message to Seth, saying, I want the tower double guarded, I’ll be there right away.”

                Marie shuffled off to tell the postman, and the inspector vaguely heard voices in the background. I need to visit Turners and see what he’s found, and tell Seth to double the guard, and check with the Doctor to see if he’s found anything new. I just need to close my eyes a moment…

                Marie returned a few minutes later, and found the inspector breathing deeply, sleeping on the couch, and she covered him with a light blanket, and returned to her study of the fruit. Cold seeped in at the doors, and she shivered, despite the inspector’s cloak still wrapped around her. Winter had come to Garden.