Souls of Fire (16 page)

We cautiously turned into the first open doorway and found ourselves in what seemed to be a study. I hardly had any time to look around when Aaron, who was a couple of paces in front of me, suddenly rushed forward and around a stately desk, and fell to his knees besides something that by the looks of it could only be a body.

I stood rooted to the spot, not knowing what to do, while Aaron bent over the body. Coming closer, I could see an older man with grey and white hair and beard and a rather large belly lying on the floor in an awkward position.

His crumpled form was drenched in blood. The floor around him was showered in crimson specks, and a fine red dusting lay on the surrounding furniture and paraphernalia.

The professor’s eyes were closed ― a small blessing in my book as I was already struggling with the dreadfulness of the situation. Had I been confronted with blank soulless eyes staring up into space, I would have probably lost it.

Aaron was seemingly shocked beyond words, his body rocking back and forth, his hands reaching out continually to try to touch the sad lifeless form of his friend.

Every time his hands nearly made contact, he hesitated and pulled them back again, apparently afraid to further injure him ― though he wouldn’t have felt it anymore ― or perhaps fearing once his hands made actual contact there would be no more denying the inescapable truth of his friend’s demise.

Aaron’s face was distorted, a mixture of pain and white-hot rage, his eyes streaming with unshed tears. Finally he could hold it in no longer, the tears flowing freely and silently down his face as his trembling hand gently stroked the professor’s hair, inadvertently creating a pattern of red and white stripes as his fingers wove fine drops of blood into the white hairs.

My heart was slowly breaking in response to this devastating scene. It seemed I had misjudged the essence of the men’s relationship. The grief I was witnessing suggested more of a father-son relationship than mere friendship.

There was nothing I could say, nothing I could possibly do to comfort him in this impossible situation. We were not friends, most certainly not lovers, and I didn’t know the first thing about him.

And though his grief was a devastating and heart-wrenching thing to behold, I was nothing more than an outsider to his misery, a detached stranger with nothing more to offer than to stand in inadequate silence and watch while his world fell apart.

I had never before felt so utterly useless. Lovers or not, friends or not, it didn’t matter, I finally decided. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t find the right words.

Because there were no
right
words.

Because
nothing
would take away the pain.

The only thing that mattered, the only thing I could do, was show him that I cared.

To hell with convention,
I thought as I knelt beside Aaron and held him, silently cradling his trembling body as though he were a child.

And for a moment, it seemed as though I had actually comforted him.

For a moment, he seemed soothed.

For a moment, I almost thought I could feel his pain through our connecting bodies.

And then he seemed to have come to his senses and regained control, pushing me away in a somewhat brusque manner. Holding his arms out toward me a moment later in an apologetic gesture, he said:

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to react so … but I just can’t …” The rest of the sentence trailed off.

I stood back, stunned by his sudden and severe reaction. Deep down, I knew I should have expected this, but I hadn’t. I hadn’t thought it through, I had merely reacted.

My heart had gone out to him, and I had leaped to his ‘rescue’ never thinking about how he would feel ― exposed … embarrassed to be showing emotions in front of an interloper, an intruder on his grief, when society dictated men to be strong, never to shed a tear.

And though I had guessed it might be slightly inappropriate to comfort him in such an intimate manner, being no more than a stranger to him, I had somehow assumed that it was the right thing to do. I had listened to my heart and had trusted my instincts…

I should have learned by now not to trust my instincts when it came to him.

Even though I understood his reaction and knew full well that I had crossed a line and that I had only myself to blame, I couldn’t help but feel slightly hurt. I had acted out of the goodness of my heart, and the solace I had offered had been pushed aside, rejected, as though it meant nothing.

Trying not to let on how keenly I felt his rebuff, I said in an accepting voice:

“It’s okay, I understand,” before quickly turning my back on him, feeling the need to hide my eyes which were already starting to fill with traitorous tears.

Fearing my shaking voice and the gigantic lump in my throat might betray me, I kept silent, pretending to gaze about the room, though in reality seeing nothing but blurred outlines as my eyes were brimming with tears I refused to let fall.

I didn’t want him to see my tears. I had no right to cry, I knew that. Not now that Aaron’s friend was lying still and cold on the floor. Aaron had the right to grieve the way he wanted, needed, without being pressured by tears.

No, I had no right to cry ― be that as it may, I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing; I was too emotional to be rational. When it came to him, I couldn’t help it ― I liked him … wanted to be close to him.

Finally drying my eyes, my back still turned, I vowed not to overstep my bounds again. If he meant to keep me at arm’s length, then I would respect that. Having regained control over my emotions, I finally turned around again.

Aaron sat kneeling over the body of his friend, his gaze wandering aimlessly over him. When his stance suddenly changed, I could tell by the look on his face that he had just made some kind of discovery.

“What is it?” I asked, walking cautiously toward him in order to see what was going on.

“He’s got something in his fist. It looks like a crumpled up piece of paper or something,” Aaron stated, reaching out with his hand to try and get the object out of Adam Wright’s tightly clenched fist.

After a couple of moments of labored effort ― it seemed rigor mortis had already begun to set in ― he finally got the piece of paper out of his fist.

Aaron got back to his feet and stood beside me as he unfolded the crumpled piece of paper. Adam Wright’s neat handwriting spelled out only three words:

Our favorite book

“Our favorite book,” Aaron repeated, “what does that mean?” We exchanged a confused look.

“Could it be a message to you?” I asked.  “I mean, he knew we were coming. So maybe he wanted to let you know about something before he … before …” I couldn’t finish the sentence, though the following silence spelled the rest out nonetheless.

Aaron only hesitated a moment before he answered.

“Maybe you’re right. If it is meant for me, then he must be addressing the book he and I always read when I was little … our favorite book,” Aaron said softly.

“When you were little?” I asked bewilderedly.

“Yes, I came to live with Adam when I was about six years old. Strangely, I don’t remember anything from before that time.”

“You were adopted by him?” I asked, surprised by this information. “I thought you said he was your former professor?”

“And so he was …,” Aaron countered “… when it was time for me to go to college. I guess it was weird at first to accept him as my professor when I’ve known him as a kind of father for nearly all of my life, but it got easier in time. I … didn’t think it would be relevant to what we were coming here for, so I didn’t mention it.”

“Oh …,” was all I could say, my suspicions about the two men’s close relationship having been confirmed.

To repeat that I was sorry in light of the new information I had just received did not seem to be such a good idea, though. Instinctively I could tell that he didn’t want my pity. So I said nothing and waited for him to re-address the issue of the message.

But Aaron didn’t say anything. Instead, he started walking around the study in search of the book the professor had indicated. When he stood in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling book-shelf he seemingly remembered it to be placed on and couldn’t find it, he started pacing all around the study, looking at books that were piled on the floor or small tabletops – to no avail.

“He must have moved it,” Aaron said, coming around the desk, and looking through the books that were piled on top. Finally, he seemed to have spotted it lying on the floor a couple of feet from the professor, and hastily knelt to retrieve it.

“Winnie the Pooh?” I spat out perplexedly, reading the title of the book that had been his and the professor’s favorite. Standing in this impressive study with old and notable books upon books bound in black or brown leather, an ordinary ‘Winnie the Pooh’-book had been the last thing I would have expected.

“I was six,” Aaron said defensively.

“Alright, alright,” I said good-naturedly, “sorry. I like ‘Winnie the Pooh’. It’s just not what I had expected.”

“It’s the only book we ever read
together
,” he added.

Somewhat appeased, Aaron stroked his fingers gently over the face of the book, apparently remembering the times he had read it with the professor, before opening it.

I held my breath and waited for Aaron to reveal the message he was meant to find. As he paged through the book and finally found an envelope with his name written on it, I expected the message it held to be enlightening.

I was wrong.

Upon opening the envelope, Aaron found another piece of paper that read:

When reading, always mind your
Elders
!

“
What the …?” Aaron started, obviously more than a little frustrated with the lack of information in this cryptic message.

“Mind your Elders?” I repeated aloud after having read the message.

But Aaron seemed not to have listened and was obviously immersed in thought.  After reading and re-reading the message several times, he finally said:

“I think it means we’re supposed to be looking for a special book …
when reading
, it says.”

“Okay,” I said, “let’s have a look then.”

I followed Aaron across the room to the circular wall that held lots of leather-bound books. Together we started searching through the titles, not knowing what we were looking for exactly. After ten minutes without having found anything of significance, Aaron finally stumbled upon a book.

“Look,” he said excitedly.

I left the section of books I had been looking at behind and went to join Aaron. Gazing at the book he was motioning at, I could see that it looked rather old. It had a red leather binding and was covered with large golden letters that formed the title ‘Elders’.

“Let me see the message again,” I said, excitement flooding through me all of a sudden.

Aaron showed me the piece of paper with the message.

“… mind your Elders,” I muttered. “Yes, that has to be the right book.”

“This is strange,” I continued, “I feel like I’m on a quest or something. Only we’re not going to find a treasure, are we?”

“I have absolutely no clue,” Aaron replied. “Though, at the moment, nothing would surprise me anymore,” he added.

“Let’s hope not,” I said as Aaron’s hand slowly reached out for the book.

As the book was nearly within his reach, I was suddenly possessed by a strong feeling of foreboding.

Along with this ominous feeling I could sense a sort of low humming sound. Only it wasn’t a sound, I suddenly realized. It was more like a sensation; a slow, rhythmic vibration that seemed to seep right into my very bones and gave me the chills.

“Wait,” I heard myself say, yet hadn’t even realized I had spoken. Nor could I have told him why I wanted him to leave the book alone. It didn’t really make sense, after all.

But none of it mattered because he had already reached out to take the book. When he grabbed it, it tipped forward, triggering the mechanism of a door, and a hidden circular room was revealed.

“Wow,” was all Aaron seemed to be able to say. From the stunned look on his face, I gathered that whatever he might have expected, this was far from it.

I was unable to say anything myself. I was completely taken in by the sight of the book that was lying on the small circular table inside the room, and by the increasing feeling of doom that was slowly creeping over me while I stood staring at the otherworldly object.

“Can you feel that?” Aaron asked me, his voice sounding suddenly on edge.

“Feel what?” I probed, not wanting to give myself away and admit to feeling anything strange unless he professed to the same sensation.

“I don’t know, exactly … but it feels like I’m drawn to this room … or something in it. And I can feel something like a … humming … or vibration. I know it sounds strange…”

“I feel it …,” I admitted, “… and for some reason I don’t think it’s a good thing, even if I can’t explain why.”