I. . {The Emperor and the Poet }
it was a wicked and wild wind/ blew down the doors to let me in
It had to be the worst storm of the year, Reuben Sceleri sighed, bolting the windows of his small apartment shut, and sopping up the watery mess that had already seeped its way into his home. Living on the highest floor of his complex was one thing in nice weather; it was a whole other ballpark when it started to rain. Reuben fished under the sink for the spare bucket and placed it on the third stair going up to the loft. A few drops of rain plinked! into it delightedly, and he returned to the table, having done all he could.
It was a good place, he reasoned to himself, just not when it was raining cats and dogs outside. The landlord was a miser, but so were they all. It wasn't like he was going to move out at the first sign of trouble-- he liked this place. It afforded him a nice view of the city while he slept and was pretty close to work. Speaking of work...
The tests lay neglected on the table. Reuben stretched and debated the merits of grading them over watching the evening news. He sighed. What a toss-up.
Eventually, he settled on both, flicked on his ancient television, and uncapped a new red pen. The news for the evening wasn't terribly interesting: some kid had saved an old lady from being mowed down by a car, the mayor was under investigation (no surprise), and there was the typical feel-good story about a long-lost species finally making a come back. Some kind of bird, judging from the snippets of the interview that he paid attention to.
Reuben snorted. Well, at least he knew he wasn't missing much by staying in all night. Some of his friends from college had invited him out, since most of them had just stuck around after graduating, and he'd considered it. But, that just showed you his dedication, huh? Grading essays inside all day instead of hanging out at sports bars: his kind of life.
Hell, he hadn't even been downstairs to get his mail yet.
Feeling like he'd been too much of a couch potato for his own good, Reuben sat up and went down stairs, not even bothering to switch off the TV. It wasn't like anybody cared. The only person who was really around on the top floor of Kingsgate Apartments was Mrs. Hamilton, and she was so wacky that Reuben doubted she'd even notice any more noise.
There wasn't any elevator in the building, which had made it hell to haul up all of his crap after the Charlotte fiasco, so he took the stairs. Thunder rumbled outside, shaking the window panes in the stairwell. Reuben, who harbored no illusions about the quality of his current living situation, hoped that nothing shattered, broke, or otherwise made it difficult to make it difficult to get up and down the stairs. The last thing he needed was glass shards to watch out for when he had to rush out to school next morning.
The front desk was eerily quiet, illuminated only by the green desk light perched on it and the lightning forking outside. Reuben fished around in his pockets for the key to his mailbox.
"Oh, Mr. Alighieri, good evening."
Reuben jumped slightly and turned around. An old woman, wrapped in a blue and gold shawl was smiling kindly at him.
"Mrs. Hamilton," he greeted her. "Nice to see you again. I hadn't noticed that you were down here."
She nodded. "Now, now, the thunder is just making everyone a little jumpy. Margie's Catherine was just saying that she was seeing ghosts outside, can you believe it?"
Reuben rolled his eyes. Mrs. Hamilton was a lover of gossip. She was more congenial than cogent, more grandmotherly than frumpy, but she had a knack for getting the details wrong. For one thing, she never seemed to get his name right, often mixing up his last name, Sceleri, with other Italian names she'd heard of. Granted, he didn't have the most common surname. He reasoned that she'd probably heard that Catherine was scared of a mouse or something.
"She said that the ghosts came inside and were waiting for something, my, what a dear." Mrs. Hamilton laughed.
Reuben smiled. "Can't say I hold it against her that she believes in the fantastic. This place has become so ordinary that it feels like sometimes that's all there is."
His companion smiled and nodded. "Mr. Soccio, do you believe in ghosts?"
Reuben considered. "I guess that depends on what you mean by ghost."
"A fair answer," she replied, shuffling over to her mailbox. "Oh my, they do send the utilities bills quickly now, don't they? Aha, it looks like you have quite the package, Mr. Silvani."
Reuben was at first shocked to hear something so crude out of such a frail-looking old woman, when he saw that, yes indeed, there was quite a large package waiting by his mailbox.
He hadn't ordered anything, at least he didn't think he had. It wasn't anywhere close to his birthday, and it wasn't like anyone else was sending him things. Charlotte had mailed some of the things that he had left behind the first few years after their divorce (although she still had a few appliances of his), but Reuben was pretty sure that she had returned everything that she was willing to.
Curious, he took his mail (bill, letter from an old student in college, bill, coupons) and returned to the front desk. Mrs. Hamilton had departed, probably making her way back up the stairs.
He went over to the oddly-shaped bundle and inspected it. There was a small note taped to the front:
It was a good place, he reasoned to himself, just not when it was raining cats and dogs outside. The landlord was a miser, but so were they all. It wasn't like he was going to move out at the first sign of trouble-- he liked this place. It afforded him a nice view of the city while he slept and was pretty close to work. Speaking of work...
The tests lay neglected on the table. Reuben stretched and debated the merits of grading them over watching the evening news. He sighed. What a toss-up.
Eventually, he settled on both, flicked on his ancient television, and uncapped a new red pen. The news for the evening wasn't terribly interesting: some kid had saved an old lady from being mowed down by a car, the mayor was under investigation (no surprise), and there was the typical feel-good story about a long-lost species finally making a come back. Some kind of bird, judging from the snippets of the interview that he paid attention to.
Reuben snorted. Well, at least he knew he wasn't missing much by staying in all night. Some of his friends from college had invited him out, since most of them had just stuck around after graduating, and he'd considered it. But, that just showed you his dedication, huh? Grading essays inside all day instead of hanging out at sports bars: his kind of life.
Hell, he hadn't even been downstairs to get his mail yet.
Feeling like he'd been too much of a couch potato for his own good, Reuben sat up and went down stairs, not even bothering to switch off the TV. It wasn't like anybody cared. The only person who was really around on the top floor of Kingsgate Apartments was Mrs. Hamilton, and she was so wacky that Reuben doubted she'd even notice any more noise.
There wasn't any elevator in the building, which had made it hell to haul up all of his crap after the Charlotte fiasco, so he took the stairs. Thunder rumbled outside, shaking the window panes in the stairwell. Reuben, who harbored no illusions about the quality of his current living situation, hoped that nothing shattered, broke, or otherwise made it difficult to make it difficult to get up and down the stairs. The last thing he needed was glass shards to watch out for when he had to rush out to school next morning.
The front desk was eerily quiet, illuminated only by the green desk light perched on it and the lightning forking outside. Reuben fished around in his pockets for the key to his mailbox.
"Oh, Mr. Alighieri, good evening."
Reuben jumped slightly and turned around. An old woman, wrapped in a blue and gold shawl was smiling kindly at him.
"Mrs. Hamilton," he greeted her. "Nice to see you again. I hadn't noticed that you were down here."
She nodded. "Now, now, the thunder is just making everyone a little jumpy. Margie's Catherine was just saying that she was seeing ghosts outside, can you believe it?"
Reuben rolled his eyes. Mrs. Hamilton was a lover of gossip. She was more congenial than cogent, more grandmotherly than frumpy, but she had a knack for getting the details wrong. For one thing, she never seemed to get his name right, often mixing up his last name, Sceleri, with other Italian names she'd heard of. Granted, he didn't have the most common surname. He reasoned that she'd probably heard that Catherine was scared of a mouse or something.
"She said that the ghosts came inside and were waiting for something, my, what a dear." Mrs. Hamilton laughed.
Reuben smiled. "Can't say I hold it against her that she believes in the fantastic. This place has become so ordinary that it feels like sometimes that's all there is."
His companion smiled and nodded. "Mr. Soccio, do you believe in ghosts?"
Reuben considered. "I guess that depends on what you mean by ghost."
"A fair answer," she replied, shuffling over to her mailbox. "Oh my, they do send the utilities bills quickly now, don't they? Aha, it looks like you have quite the package, Mr. Silvani."
Reuben was at first shocked to hear something so crude out of such a frail-looking old woman, when he saw that, yes indeed, there was quite a large package waiting by his mailbox.
He hadn't ordered anything, at least he didn't think he had. It wasn't anywhere close to his birthday, and it wasn't like anyone else was sending him things. Charlotte had mailed some of the things that he had left behind the first few years after their divorce (although she still had a few appliances of his), but Reuben was pretty sure that she had returned everything that she was willing to.
Curious, he took his mail (bill, letter from an old student in college, bill, coupons) and returned to the front desk. Mrs. Hamilton had departed, probably making her way back up the stairs.
He went over to the oddly-shaped bundle and inspected it. There was a small note taped to the front:
sceleri: ductor
Huh. Well, maybe someone had sent him something after all. He hauled the package and his mail up the stairs, expecting to see Mrs. Hamilton on the way back up, but not.
Jamming his key into the lock, he wondered at the package's strange statement. There wasn't any shipping label, so maybe someone had brought it? But who?
He set it down on the table, now less comfortable that he'd brought it this far into his home. There had to have been someone at the desk, otherwise how would it have gotten placed by his postbox? If the desk attendant had seen that the person delivering it was okay, then it couldn't be that bad.
But there was something still bothering him.
Reuben had heard of teachers getting sent things in the mail from disgruntled students. Usually, it was nothing more than a voodoo doll, but there had been this one story about a student trying to poison their teacher by means of a cleverly concealed tack in a box. He wasn't sure that was true, but still...it wasn't like he was universally well liked. There was Charlotte, her family, and that was just for starters.
Okay, calm down. There was nothing coming to get him from this weird package.
But then, why did he keep thinking about what Mrs. Hamilton had said?
"She said the ghosts came inside and were waiting for something, my, what a dear."
Ghosts? No way. No way in any hell. Weird s**t was happening all over the place these days, but none of it had made its way into his life and that was precisely how he wanted it.
Yeah, he loved fantasy novels, hell, he secretly wanted to have the same kind of adventures that the people in them had, but he knew better than to meddle in the affairs of things on separate planes than his.
More likely it was someone in a black trenchcoat or something that scared the little girl. No ghosts.
Reuben went to the kitchen cabinet and pulled out a knife.
He didn't have much in the way of cutlery (Charlotte had retained all the nifty cooking supplies they'd been gifted when they married), but this was the closest thing he had to a butcher's blade. Granted, it was a glorified butter knife, so it really wasn't very threatening, but Reuben figured that it was best to have something rather than nothing at all.
If there was one thing he hated, it was fear. After what had happened that day, he'd be damned if he was afraid for a moment.
He tore off the note first, seeing if anything would happen.
Nothing.
"Huh."
The paper fluttered to the floor, its message facing upwards. Reuben glanced at it, and then realized--it wasn't his name.
It was Latin. And it read---
He tore open the package, just wanting to know what was inside and what it meant rather than restrain his anxiety and have it still gnawing away at the edges of his mind. Ghosts, Latin, a strange gift... The brown wrapping slid off to reveal something he never thought he would receive.
It was an egg. A blue and gold egg, to be precise, and a large one at that.
Reuben put down the butterknife and sat in one of the kitchen chairs, heart still racing a little. Yeah, Charlotte was a psycho, but she wouldn't send him a bomb. Christ Almighty, he'd over-reacted.
And ghosts? Please. He'd been an a** for even thinking that she'd--
He swallowed and let out a rough, hollow laugh. Like that would have happened. He may have pissed off some people alive, but he'd made his peace with the dead.
The egg was still on his table, and the television was still on. Huh. It sounded vaguely familiar, must be the rerun.
"And this just in, several people in the city have reported the delivery of strange eggs, rumored to be--"
Reuben nearly fell over a chair in his race to turn the volume up.
"Songbirds, as they are called, were rumored to be extinct, but their numbers have recently been making a comeback. While there have been hoaxes, and not everyone who receives an egg is guaranteed to find one of these majestic creatures, the possibility exists."
The newscaster then switched to interviewing a man who had been left a painted chicken egg. The man was not pleased.
Reuben sighed, and sat back, staring at the egg. Who had left it, and what did they meant by their note? And how the hell did they expect him to be able to take care of this thing and feed it? He was a teacher for Christ's sake! Paying then rent, getting food, and paying loans were hard enough...
Still frowning, he pushed an armchair and his sofa together so that they formed a secure nest for the egg. After a trip to his closet, he found his winter blankets and a few towels and wrapped that around the egg, snuggling it into place. It was probably a joke that one of his friends was playing on him, he figured, as a way to get back for not going out that night. If it wasn't, though, he wanted to be ready.
He sighed, and turned off the light. The paper was still on the floor, so he picked it up, and carried it with him back to the table. As he was grading tests, every so often his eyes would flick over to it, pondering what the sender had meant.
sceleri: ductor :: to a wicked man: a guide
Jamming his key into the lock, he wondered at the package's strange statement. There wasn't any shipping label, so maybe someone had brought it? But who?
He set it down on the table, now less comfortable that he'd brought it this far into his home. There had to have been someone at the desk, otherwise how would it have gotten placed by his postbox? If the desk attendant had seen that the person delivering it was okay, then it couldn't be that bad.
But there was something still bothering him.
Reuben had heard of teachers getting sent things in the mail from disgruntled students. Usually, it was nothing more than a voodoo doll, but there had been this one story about a student trying to poison their teacher by means of a cleverly concealed tack in a box. He wasn't sure that was true, but still...it wasn't like he was universally well liked. There was Charlotte, her family, and that was just for starters.
Okay, calm down. There was nothing coming to get him from this weird package.
But then, why did he keep thinking about what Mrs. Hamilton had said?
"She said the ghosts came inside and were waiting for something, my, what a dear."
Ghosts? No way. No way in any hell. Weird s**t was happening all over the place these days, but none of it had made its way into his life and that was precisely how he wanted it.
Yeah, he loved fantasy novels, hell, he secretly wanted to have the same kind of adventures that the people in them had, but he knew better than to meddle in the affairs of things on separate planes than his.
More likely it was someone in a black trenchcoat or something that scared the little girl. No ghosts.
Reuben went to the kitchen cabinet and pulled out a knife.
He didn't have much in the way of cutlery (Charlotte had retained all the nifty cooking supplies they'd been gifted when they married), but this was the closest thing he had to a butcher's blade. Granted, it was a glorified butter knife, so it really wasn't very threatening, but Reuben figured that it was best to have something rather than nothing at all.
If there was one thing he hated, it was fear. After what had happened that day, he'd be damned if he was afraid for a moment.
He tore off the note first, seeing if anything would happen.
Nothing.
"Huh."
The paper fluttered to the floor, its message facing upwards. Reuben glanced at it, and then realized--it wasn't his name.
It was Latin. And it read---
He tore open the package, just wanting to know what was inside and what it meant rather than restrain his anxiety and have it still gnawing away at the edges of his mind. Ghosts, Latin, a strange gift... The brown wrapping slid off to reveal something he never thought he would receive.
It was an egg. A blue and gold egg, to be precise, and a large one at that.
Reuben put down the butterknife and sat in one of the kitchen chairs, heart still racing a little. Yeah, Charlotte was a psycho, but she wouldn't send him a bomb. Christ Almighty, he'd over-reacted.
And ghosts? Please. He'd been an a** for even thinking that she'd--
He swallowed and let out a rough, hollow laugh. Like that would have happened. He may have pissed off some people alive, but he'd made his peace with the dead.
The egg was still on his table, and the television was still on. Huh. It sounded vaguely familiar, must be the rerun.
"And this just in, several people in the city have reported the delivery of strange eggs, rumored to be--"
Reuben nearly fell over a chair in his race to turn the volume up.
"Songbirds, as they are called, were rumored to be extinct, but their numbers have recently been making a comeback. While there have been hoaxes, and not everyone who receives an egg is guaranteed to find one of these majestic creatures, the possibility exists."
The newscaster then switched to interviewing a man who had been left a painted chicken egg. The man was not pleased.
Reuben sighed, and sat back, staring at the egg. Who had left it, and what did they meant by their note? And how the hell did they expect him to be able to take care of this thing and feed it? He was a teacher for Christ's sake! Paying then rent, getting food, and paying loans were hard enough...
Still frowning, he pushed an armchair and his sofa together so that they formed a secure nest for the egg. After a trip to his closet, he found his winter blankets and a few towels and wrapped that around the egg, snuggling it into place. It was probably a joke that one of his friends was playing on him, he figured, as a way to get back for not going out that night. If it wasn't, though, he wanted to be ready.
He sighed, and turned off the light. The paper was still on the floor, so he picked it up, and carried it with him back to the table. As he was grading tests, every so often his eyes would flick over to it, pondering what the sender had meant.
sceleri: ductor :: to a wicked man: a guide
