Hope

There, standing in his study with a fire throwing his shadow behind him onto a wooden plank floor beneath him, books in the stacks surrounding him, standing over a dark, wooden table like a sad bishop over an altar. Stately, silent, staring into the blackness of his cup of coffee that laid on the table. It seems to reflect a truth his eyes deny. Tulle Mason is his name, a man of sixty who has deep but sparse wrinkles that contour his face with deeply ash-filled, brown eyes. His hair is slicked back and holds reminders of his black past while also being sprinkled with this ever-graying future. Dressed in a three-piece black suit with a white vest and untied, gray bowtie.

He picks up the coffee and rotates the cup around for a moment examining it as if it held all the secrets of the world; then he blows the steam away and takes a small sip. He licks his lips and looks around the room with heavy eyes. He walks to the corner near the stacks where his liquor cabinet is; he pulls out a square crystal decanter which contains some liquid that is reminiscent of whiskey. On the decanter, there is a golden label across the bottom that reads “11-22-1902.” He pulls the stopper out and pours the golden liquid into the void of the coffee, takes a deep breath in and takes another sip. He chuckles to himself, his face cringing and his eyes watering; he wipes his mouth with his sleeve while the droplets from his eyes flow around his face like drops of an ensuing rain. He places the cup of coffee in the exact spot where the decanter was sitting. He takes the decanter with him and walks in front of the fire and sits it on the mantle above the fireplace. He watches as the embers in the fire burst out of the logs like a demon trying to speak a forbidden reality from a crumbling tomb. A knock comes from the door that leads to the hallway.

“Come in,” The old man’s voice is rather solemn and scratchy like a low-pitched cougar growl. The door slowly cracks open with a slight squeaking, his face winces more with each passing moment, and slowly the tears stop flowing. He takes a hand and leans against the wall above the fireplace and the other across his eyes and begins rubbing his temples and mumbles a few words that slowly begin to transform into chortles like a man who watches a dreadful action become a secret.

“Should I return later?” A refined, youthful voice rings out. The man who enters is Tulle’s youngest son, Michael. He looks exactly like Tulle when he was a youthful man, built, dark black hair, and brown, livid eyes that carry a fire for life and its mysteries. He is dressed in silk black pajama pants, white undershirt, and house shoes.

“No, I sent for you to come today, at this time, for a reason,” Tulle responded.

“Father you don’t seem well. Is there a problem? My grades. . ." Before he can finish his father cuts him off by raising his hand. His hand is ever steady as it usually is, with the fire showing through the crack between his crooked ring and middle finger.

“Son, do you know where our last name comes from?” Tulle’s tone carries the weight of a thousand broken thoughts, hearts, and dreams he has amassed over his life.

“It came from our ancestors who lived in London, they were bricklayers, masons.” The young man answers quickly and confidently as he was known to do, for he is an assured young man, smart, and well-spoken. Tulle picks up his decanter from the fireplace and takes another large sip turning around to face his son. His head leaning down, his eyes fixate on his son’s.

“Correct, now where does your name come from and what does it mean?” His eyes are serious and locked on to his sons. His son breaks eye contact, but Tulle does not, he swings his head with his son’s to match his eyes wherever they roam in the room. His son starts to fidget his fingers on the seams of his pants for a moment before answering.

“I know it comes from biblical texts, mainly from the archangel Michael. It also means “Who is like God?" the answer, obviously, being nobody.” The boy's voice did not hold as much confidence as before but still retains enough to give the illusion of collectiveness. Tulle breaks his stare and walks over to the liquor cabinet with the decanter still in his hand. He puts the stopper back onto his decanter and switches it out with the coffee cup he had sat in the place of it; also, he pulls out an unopened letter from the cabinet that is lying beside of the cup of coffee, he then closes the cabinet again. Tulle breathes in the steam of the coffee. As he does a smile draws in with it; he lets out another small chuckle on the exhale. He walks over to his son and extends the cup out to him, inviting him to take a drink. Michael accepts the cup knowing his father only offers drinks like this if something important is to be discussed; he also knows his father expects him to drink it all. He takes a sip and it tastes molded and almost to a point like soured milk. Tulle’s expression does not change as he watches his son grimaces at the taste.

Tulle runs his thumb in-between a small hole in the envelope tearing open the top. The ripping noise is unified as his thumbs run across it, the length of the envelope. Michael’s lips curve into a slight smile. Tulle pulls a small piece of torn parchment from the envelope; his eyes reveal a validation of depressed comprehension. His eyes already heavy begin to show signs of overload and he lets out a small moan and turns his back to his son and proceeds to walk to the fireplace.

“What’s in the letter, father?” Michael asks as his father is walking back to the fireplace. He lowers to his knees and rests on his calves as if he was about to pray but not for forgiveness. Michael takes another drink of the coffee-like substance shuddering even harder on this drink than the time before.

"You are partially correct, that is, about what your name means and completely correct that it is biblical. “Who is like God?” It is a part of the name yet, you miss the answer to the question or, possibly you misunderstand the question itself. Regardless, I hope you find that answer tonight. For if you don’t, I know, I will never forgive myself.” Michael stands silent. “Bless your brothers, they were never given that question but they were expected to know the answer. With that in mind, I know you hold much more certainty than they ever did.” Michael takes another deep drink of coffee and coughs, a singular tear rolls from his eye. “Don’t become emotional now, it will do you no good. Another question I must ask, what do you taste?”

“It tastes horrendous,”

“No,” Tulle says quickly. “What do you taste, not how does it taste. Do not think, be yourself and answer.” Tulle turns his head slightly to look at Michael out of the corner of his eye.

“It tastes like, fear, I am not quite sure what of but a fear none the less,” Michael answers, his words carefully falling upon Tulle’s ears like snowflakes. Tulle turns his head, silent, so silent that the weight of it pushes upon Michael. He begins to fidget again but he fights it off by finishing off the rest of the coffee which makes him shudder like a piece of tin that’s caught in a heavy wind.

“Father, I am sorry to disappoint you in such a way. I will return to my chamber and think about all the questions and reflect on my initial thoughts. I then can return and give you a more satisfactory answer to those inquiries. It shouldn’t take much more than an hour, I have become quite sharp over these last five years at Brohilite." Michael regains that confidence he had at the beginning. Tulle lowers his head and closes his eyes and mumbles under his breath. His hands extend in front of him as if he was to embrace a small child that was running towards him. Michael turns and takes one step, as soon as his shoe meets the floor his father speaks.

“You are to remain here,” Tulle says, Michael stops and turns around still seeing his father bowing, arms extended in front of the fire. “Go retrieve for me these things; my black rum and two small glasses from my cabinet. Not just any two glasses though, bring me the two that sit on the middle shelf on their own. They will be easily discernible because they will be the only ones with etchings on them. When you pick up those two glasses place your coffee cup in the place of one of those glasses, not in-between, not near, but exactly where one of the two glasses sat. Things have a place in the world and should remain in those places, remember that.”

Michael does as he is told, he approaches the cabinet and searches for the rum but cannot seem to find it. He looks carefully at the collection of light-colored whiskeys and bourbons. Yet, he still cannot find the rum and closes the liquor cabinet and turns to his father who is staring at him. Tulle waves his hand for Michael to continue rummaging through the liquors. Michael sighs and once again opens the cabinet and searches, this time finally coming to a decanter that has a slender body and neck that swirls around to an opening which appears to be an eye and the pupil being the stopper. The rum looks oddly thick like maple syrup with pieces of debris drifting through it. He takes it and sits it out and starts to look for the glasses which are much easier to find. The glasses have a line of odd symbols across their centers that look like a cross-section of worms.

Michael starts to return where his father was with the objects in hand when he notices his father is now standing at the opposite end of the room. Retrieving a random assortment of items out of an antique Saratoga trunk; the first being a large, black and brown striped, Canterbury cap that he places on his own head. Michael can see a small symbol in the middle but cannot quite make it out. He also observes him setting out two dark brown incense, a plank of wood that is about a foot and a half wide and three feet long, and a small wooden cube that he can hold in his hand.

"Pour the rum into the two glasses, place the rum back, and sit in front of the fire. Place the two glasses on each side of you.” Tulle’s voice is still carrying that serious, unrelenting tone but now there was a tinge of something else, something like a rumbling. Michael’s face looseness and his eyes become the center of confusion; his father was not the kind of man to hide something. Michael proceeds to do what his father demands him to do.

“What are we doing? Is this how you meditate and create your poetry, your stories?” Michael asks while staring into the fire that was just starting to die down. He hears his father walk behind him and he can feel his presence drifting like breeze upon him.

“Yes and no, this is how one may awaken their soul to find the celestial reply to the questions beyond the universal truth, but it only shows you the answer. The artist must take those moments, those answers, and exfoliate the remnants of chaos and use the unity of language to carry that answer to the human plane. Now know, that when the answer is shown, you must act, and without hesitation.” Michael looks up at his father with a squinted face as if he looks at the sun. “Those who question themselves during great moments fail but those who choose poorly in those moments die or they become something even worse.” There is a moment of impenetrable silence that is broken by a pop of the fire. “Those ideas can never be denied but you are my son and unlike your brothers, you have been given extra encouragement to accomplish this task. Also, I have the gratification of knowledge on my side that you do have a particular set of traits that will help you survive." Michael looks straight at the fire and small ember flies by his face, he knocks it away and rubs his eye. “Once again, emotions won’t help you. Now, allow your mind to control you and your body to become the vessel for answers.”

“None of this makes any sense father.” Michael turns to look at his dad with a few tears rolling down his face. His father does not return the stare. Tulle pulls a match from his pocket and lights the two incense that he had pulled from the trunk, they start producing a bright brown smoke. Michael smells it and it reminds him of decay but it’s a syrupy, sweet decay. His father closes his eye and gets down on his knees behind Michael and places the sticks on the outside edges of the glasses. Michael looks back at the fire that now has a green tint to its outlying flames. His father begins speaking in a weird language that Michael doesn’t understand.

Tulle’s voice is odd, it carries his cougar like tone but something else is there something deep, something sacred, something dark. Soon, it becomes apparent that there are two voices, Tulle’s normal voice and what sounds like a deeper voice that appears to rattle Michael’s soul. His father keeps repeating that phrase and with each passing moment, the second voice grows louder and louder eventually overpowering Tulle’s.

The mantle starts cracking and like brittle stones and starts crumbling away into a sea of darkness, an abyss. The ceiling dissembles and floats away. All the floor planks he touches stay but the others seem to rot, crack, and fall into nothingness. He is left floating on a section of wooden planks that are just large enough for him to exist on. He soon becomes a castaway floating in an eerie black sea with nothing but the brown smoke from the incense and the glasses of rum that are still on both sides. His father’s voice and the second voice are now gone and all he can hear is a distant roaring noise that drones on like demonic construction work. Michael puts his hand out over the edge and he feels a heavy, hot wind blowing up on him and then a light, cold air pulling down. He retracts his hand back to himself and sits quietly, his face slowly trembles into terror like a kid who has just seen his first dead body. The roaring continues to get louder to the point where it is shaking him closer to the edge. He frantically lays down onto the wood and tries to grab the edges to hold himself still but in this frantic attempt, he knocks one of the sticks out into the void where it rolls into a thick black goop that extinguishes it. Michael, perplexed, realizes he cannot, in fact, grab onto any edge. There is a floor in the blackness and he can feel it but, it is mushy, slimy, and inks his fingertips black. Still, it blows out hot air and brings in cold. His face still carries the look of terror, but his eyes are illuminated with intrigue that wraps the confidence that he still bears.

“Michael,” Tulle’s voice rings out. “Michael, you have officially made it further than Tobi. He knew there was a truth but was unable to comprehend it.” Michael looks around to find his father but observes only the bleakness of a blank universe. “Preston also made it this far. He knew there was a truth and could understand it, but it was only a portion of it. His inability to see past himself blinded him from the whole truth. Grasp onto the broken thoughts and your unpredictable ideas and sally forth through the wall of innocence and blind ego.”

Michael, still carrying the look of terror on his face, he shakes his head like a child and works his way to his feet. He looks around again, looking for anything but finds nothing; just the void. “Hello!” he yells and waits for a response but there is nothing; there isn’t even an echo of himself. The silence of the area is deafening, his thoughts are screams in the stillness. He slowly extends his foot off the wooden planks onto the void, his house shoe sinks into the black ooze.

“Mason? The last Mason,” A deep voice says, Michael locks like an un-greased gear. “Wonderful,” The voice annunciates very slowly. Michael thought for a second, he has heard that voice before; when his father was chanting. “I have been awaiting you. I know you and I know your character, it is as able as Tobi but with the intelligence of Preston. What is your name?” Michael stands silent and pulls his foot back from the void and places it on the wood. The ooze on his shoe makes it very slick and Michael has a hard time trying to stand; he looks like a child who has put one foot on the ice for the first time. With every slip of his foot on the floor the ink spreads across the wood. After struggling for a few moments, he finally finds a solid footing. “Ah, Michael is it. Hmm, Tulle, what memories.” Michael, bewildered looks around and scrunches his face, straining his eyes to find anything. He turns his head to look at the ground with focused eyes. He expects to see his name spelled out but finds he has only made a scribble. It is a small circle with a line that angles down and turns sharply, it runs straight for a decent length then turns sharply again, it then runs a short straight line that turns again into itself making a small triangle. The line continues out from the triangle in a straight line for a decent distance before ending with another short line that runs periductular to it, making an upside-down T.

“Who are you?” Michael asks with all the confidence he can, but it is absorbed by the abyss around him.

“That is the Smowle-Anserea,” Tulle replies. “He is the answer to a question we ask but never honestly respond to; the one we seek but are too petrified to claim as our own. Fear him but do not tremble in dread for he does not get many guests and would not dare enact on my soul and you consisting of my soul, unlike your brothers, means you will be fine. Though he is, the abstraction of the challenge of your current predicament.” Tulle’s voice is still shrill and stern as ever. Michael’s eyes stay scrunched and his mouth slightly slants ajar as if some great secret begged to enter his mind but could not find the entrance.

“Then what happened to my brothers and what is he?” Michael’s voice does not tremble or shudder but it’s confidence still has not returned.

“Your brothers were not tampered by him. They fell because of their own wrongdoings, they either did not act, or they did not choose wisely. As for what he is, I told you who he is and that is one in the same. This will be the last time I talk to you, sally forge Michael.”

"What! You’re lying I know you’re lying! Father! Father!” Michael’s voice raises to soaring heights yet there is no answer, no echo, only the silence, and his thoughts.

"Michael," The voice returns. "Tulle will talk with you again, he can be found before an introduction and after an ending. As for our meeting, know that I wish to entertain you, enlighten you. Allow me to ease the ambiance of this most peculiar place.” The voice fades. Around Michael, the black goo starts to rise. Like oceans during a hurricane, the wave of goo grows and recedes. The goo changes and starts to lighten from black to white then back. Though the waves are crashing it never falls on the wooden raft that Michael stands on. It becomes a multitude of color and starts forming ridged shapes of all different kinds of sizes. It forms a dome over his head and Michael’s mouth drops. Slowly he starts to realize, it is making a library with stacks full of books, desks, lamps, a fine red carpet, and magnificent tan dome ceiling. An off section begins to form and it is not long before an extensive office area materializes before him. About five feet in front of him a few small steps arise and leads to the office; there on the platform the ooze forms a brilliant mahogany desk with butterflies etched into its sides, two desk chairs that are made with the backrest in the shape of wings and one chair is on each side of the desk, upon the desk is a closed book, a silver pen set, and what appears to be an open ledger. Behind the desk, itself is a singular door in which comes a set of knocks.

Michael stands and observes the door, one hand over his mouth and the other arm hanging to his side. He taps his finger three times on his cheek and smirks; he slowly steps out onto the carpet and feels the solid flooring. He chuckles to himself and steps slowly up onto the platform by the desk and looks at the door. It is spectacularly uninspiring compared to the rest of the luxurious room, except the handle; it is a brass egg and dart style handle with a symbol on it the resembles a butterfly carrying a caterpillar who is eating a chrysalis. He stops for a moment and studies the symbol, Michael leans in closely and runs his finger over every detail. His face curves into disenchanted sadness but he does not know why. Another knock comes on the door, no louder or any more impatient than the last one; like an indifferent salesman. Michael turns the knob opening the door to the abyss he just had escaped.

“Hello Michael,” it is the voice once again. “If you don’t mind taking a seat on the other side of my desk, and oh yes, bring me a drink as well. The one your father prepared would do just fine, set it upon my desk please." Michael stands dumbfounded only for a second before heading across the room and gathering the two glasses and setting them on the desk; one across from him near the chair opposite and the other near himself as he takes his seat. There is a horrible hum and a tremendous roar, enough to shake a few books loose but not loose enough to fall from the stacks.

From the doorway, the black ooze begins to slither into the room like an incredibly thick boat rope, it seems to be about five feet long and the black ooze seems to have three big kinks in it at regular intervals but the last kink in the rope only extends out about a foot or a foot and a half; the first kink forms almost a straight line but it bends back under itself just slightly; the furthest kink bounces off the floor but slowly levels with it as the rope continues to extend out onto the floor. Another long rope extends out above the other rope and on the opposite side of the door, it seems to swing forward with a huge blob on the end of it and a kink like the other but inverted. Two more ropes come out which is shown to be attached to another blob in which the other two ropes are attached as well. A blob also appears on the top that seems to lean forward and makes a perfect circle. White stripes start to form running up the length of the ropes except for along the bottom kink which becomes shiny on the bottom-most ropes and the top ropes do the same, but the ends start becoming pale and the center blob forms a white triangle and starts showing white lines. Michael slowly realizes that a person is forming in front of him. It isn’t much longer before an incredibly tall man in a three-piece pinstripe suit forms in front of him. He is about eleven feet tall, he could not weigh any less than 500 pounds, his arms reach down to his knees, his hands are pasty white and wrinkly, he is completely erect except for his head which is bowed; on his head he is wearing a large brimmed boater hat that is obscuring his face.

The man makes his way to the seat without ever lifting his head. Michael sits with his eyes examining every inch of the man looking for any of inklings of who this person may be. He could find no rings; no monograms. His stride was unnaturally smooth, almost as if he rolled across the floor. The only thing he could identify was a pendant in which shows the same image as the door handle did, a butterfly carrying a caterpillar who is eating the chrysalis but this time he could see some small round things on the abdomen of the butterfly.

“Michael, do you understand why you are here?” The voice seems to be breathier compared to the last time it had talked and not in the sense that it seems tired but as if it was whispering as if someone else who was not allowed to hear their conversation.

“I do not know,” Michael’s voice is flat, monotone, but curious.

"Well, then I suppose this shall be fun." The man twiddles with his thumbs while his hands rest on the desk. "Do you know who I am? I assume your father gave you that information at least."

“Yes, he told me after I had arrived but I’m afraid I cannot pronounce it correctly and I would rather not insult you with such brutishness.”

“That is a perfectly normal answer. That is. . . unpleasant.” The man’s voice trails into a small growl. “Please do not give such an answer again. I will forgive you for this but only once. I will not tolerate another answer in such a fashion. I know your father warned you about this, so I will ask again and answer me without thinking. Who am I?” The growl still lies beneath the words. Michael’s face clinches, his eyes squint, and his hand raises to his mouth where he wipes his hand across it as if to clear the thoughts away for his instinct, and lays his elbow on the table using it as a prop and lets out a small chuckle.

“Well, given the limited knowledge I have and the way you present yourself there is but only one thing I could call you," Michael says with an air of arrogance that lightens the room. His eyes dance around for a little bit and his head bobs to nonexistent music. He stops as his eyes land on the pendant. "Hope," he states with the confidence of a divine man. "I shall call you Hope and nothing else." The growl slowly dissipates and deep, callous laughter reins in over it. The laughter rings like a doorbell, inviting but short. The man grabs the drink and rotates it in his hand.

“Perfectly stated, I have always appreciated that name and how you came to it.” The man says, Michael’s eyebrows smoothers his eyes with thoughts. “I like it, what is it that you do in your spare time?” Hope’s voice becomes cordial, relaxing, and almost friendly.

“I prefer to search the bowels of forgotten works for everything hidden, forbidden, and deemed too extreme for decent people," Michael speaks slowly as if his words are lock picks tapping against Hope’s locked mind.

“Extreme by who’s standards?” Hope says while still rotating his drink.

“People who are put into such a place to deem such things,” Michael answers quickly and with the confidence and arrogance of a conquering hero who has come home too soon.

"People, as in humans? The frail sacks who believe in holding answers but quiver in fear when knowledge is exposed plainly.” Though a growl did not raise, there was a sound of displeasure in his voice.

“Exactly,”

“You are about to experience something unlike you have ever fathomed. I know it to be grand but horrible in my youth. Tulle finds it horrible but in time, he will see it’s grandness. You will follow accordingly. You will be seized in the horrid nature of things until you are enlightened with time.” Hope’s head lifts slightly, just high enough for Michael to make out an odd beard that seems to clump more than it dangles, like thick Spanish moss. Hope lifts the glass he has been rotating, extending it out towards Michael, and holds it there. Michael grabs his glass and lifts it up as well. They clink their glass and bring it down in front of their faces. Michael waits for Hope to throw back his drink but he does not. Hope lifts the glass up under his hat and a large slurping sound starts and when the sound ceases the cup returns to his sight and it is empty. Michael with a slight bent smile throws back the drink with one big gulp, cringing hard and coughing. His eyes grow wide, his mouth slacks, he gags uncontrollably.

“This is to be the catalyst of change for you.” The room starts shifting and laughter begins to rise and fall with the ooze around him doing the same, a wind starts blowing within the room. "Don't fear, or do, I don't care." The laughter is now louder than anything he has heard before. "Allow me to give you time to be reacquainted.” Michael covers his ears but the laughter penetrates. Michael starts screaming in agony, his ear a dam that is now bursting with blood that floods his hands and face. The room is a hurricane of pain, frustration, waves, and laughter. The wind becomes so strong that he is blown from the chair, onto the floor, where he bangs his head on one off the edges of the stairs. The blood flood now flows from his head over his eyes. He struggles to stand, still clutching his ears. Book begin to fly across the room slamming against him, the wall, and floor; pages fly, shred, and transform into ooze around him. The room shifts and changes, almost like candle wax melting into a mold; the thick ooze runs down around the books and spirals beside him and the old man walks backward, never flinching his head away from Michael as he slowly is consumed back into the abyss within the doorway.

Soon Michael’s screams are the only sounds in the room, the wind now a slight draft, the room is smaller, and he is still grasping at his ears. Suddenly, he feels the calmness of an abandoned library. The wind flows through his fingers, over his head, and around his ears. He releases the grip he has on himself and looks at his hands, there is no blood. He hysterically rubs over every inch on his ears and head but no wounds, no blood, not even a knot could be found. He begins to frantically look around him trying to find the glob of ooze that was forming. Yet, he only finds the office to be missing and other small changes have been made to the room, one being that all the books had found their proper places back on the shelves, except one that laid sprawled out on the floor, showing two blank pages. Michael stands staring at the book, oddly drawn to it like an alcoholic to mouthwash; it seems to be familiar in a grotesque fashion, a companion he has yet to meet. He steps slowly, carefully, ever so softly towards the book. With every inch, he draws closer his face slides further down his head. His hand reaches out and lays gently upon the book. His fingers run over the pages, they feel like foreign memories of a happier time that would never get to exist. He runs his fingers to the edge of the cover and slowly lifts it. He stops for a moment and closes his eyes and pushes the book closed and with a rushing vigor he opens his eyes and it reads the title.

Smowle: All I Know by Tulle Mason