Intaglio: Dragons All The Way Down (2 page)

Suzanne stepped
between the two of them, interrupting the conversation with her physical
presence.  She was a full head shorter than Kip Chambers, but she more than
made up for it with attitude.  He retreated back a step. 

“No,” Suzanne
snarled.  “Ava’s not on the film anymore.  Your girlfriend, Raya, paid her
off.  Ava’s done.”

Chambers looked
perplexed by the news.  He looked over at Ava for confirmation.  She shrugged.

“It’s fine.  She
was really generous in paying me out,” she explained.  “To be honest, I don’t
mind.  I’ll be busy this summer anyhow.”

Kip stared out
the front windows for a long moment, as if considering her words.  The darkness
of his expression seemed poised to turn into something else, but when he turned
back, he seemed to be in control.  He smiled tightly at Suzanne before shifting
his attention entirely to Ava.  His voice was low, apprehensive.

“Look... I’m
sure you’ve already thought of all this, Ava, but uh... make sure you send an
official invoice to Raya, with the exact amount on that cheque.  It’ll take a
couple days for the bank to process it and unless she has your invoice in hand,
she might um... put a hold on the money and—”

“Screw you
over,” Suzanne ground out.  “Well, you two are quite the pair, aren’t you?” She
was seething, her hands in fists.

“Suzanne!” Ava
yelped, face aghast.  Kip's hand went to Ava’s arm, and she shrugged it off
irritably.  “Please,” she pleaded, “don’t start!”

“God, Ava, I
don’t even understand you sometimes,” Suzanne said through clenched teeth.  She
turned on the man next to her.  “So tell me, Kip Chambers... is your girlfriend
always this much of a bitch?”

The blood
drained from Ava’s face.  Horrified, her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“Raya’s got her
moments,” Kip growled, “but I really don’t like your tone.  She is an excellent
agent and she has done an amazing job in promoting my career in the last—”

“Well that’s all
fine and dandy,” Suzanne hissed.  “But she’s got a huge fucking problem with
Ava here, and that makes Raya my problem.”

Kip’s mouth
twisted in disgust, but he didn’t respond.  No one spoke.  Ava had a sudden,
desperate wish that she could just spontaneously combust, right here in Aisle
C.  It struck her that unless Cole barged in from the street, drunk and looking
for a fight, there was no fucking way this scene could get any worse.

“Look,” Kip
finally said. “I don’t think Ry’ means to be like that.  She’s protective of
me... and when she sees someone with talent, she gets defensive.  I think with
Ava here, she’s just a little bit... ”

He paused.  Both
Suzanne and Ava stared at him, waiting for him to acknowledge what they all
knew.  The thing which made Cole hate this man as much as he did.

“Jealous?”  It
was Ava who answered for all of them.  Kip caught her eyes as she said it.

“Yeah.”  His
voice was sincere. 

Suzanne swore
under her breath, jaw clenched.

“Ava,” Kip said,
reaching out again, “I really hope this doesn’t affect our—”

She tore her arm
away.

“Just stop!” she
snapped angrily, “I don’t want you touching me!  Alright?!”

In two steps she
was back next to Suzanne, whose arms were crossed on her chest, smirking.  Ava
held back the urge to slap her, too, just for being right!

“Sorry,” Kip
muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets again.    The protectiveness that
Ava felt for him began to rise.

“It’s fine,” Ava
grumbled.  “It’s me, okay?  Not you,” she mumbled, guilt warring with
annoyance.  “So yeah... thanks for the headed-up on Raya’s invoice.”

“No problem,”
Kip said quietly.  He wanted to say something else, she could tell, but
Suzanne’s presence at her side held him back.

“Look, Qaletaqa,
I don’t mean this to sound harsh,” Ava continued, feeling Suzanne’s gaze
flicker over to her at the sound of Kip's full name.  “But I think it’s
probably better if we just don’t... don’t talk any more.  All right?  It’s just
too weird for me.”

Kip stepped back
forward.  His face was anguished, hands raised imploringly.

“But my dream,
Ava... It had to mean somethi—”

“No it
doesn’t,”
she interrupted.  “Not to me, anyhow.”

“But when I’m
around you,” he insisted, “I just can’t help but wonder if things had been
different… if we could’ve figured it out.  Me ’n you, you know?”

Suzanne snorted,
and Ava glared at her in frustration.  She could tell that her friend was just
barely holding back from laying into Chambers here and now.  She had the same
look on her face that she’d had right before she and Chim had marched on City
Hall last summer. 

Suzanne was
absolutely livid.

“Kip, I just...”
Ava frowned.  “I can’t do this with you, okay?”

“Alright,” he
said quietly.  “But if you ever need anything... or if you want to talk...
ever...  I, uh... I’ll be away in Japan, for a while, then on the Coast.  But
you can always call me... okay, Ava?  Anytime.”

She nodded,
extending her hand.

“It was good
meeting you, Kip,” she said.  “I wish you all the best.”

He nodded,
taking her palm in his own.  There was a sense of familiarity to the gesture;
settling them as friends and nothing else.  No snap of connection, just
warmth. 

It felt good.

“You too,
Booker.”

Ava was dreaming
again, but this time she
knew
where she was. 

She floated
above the green field, her mind adrift on the wind.  Her attention flowed and
eddied in this place, moving from the sun-bright leaves down to the shadowy
trees that followed the curve of the river.  From there she moved to the
bobbing seagrass that covered the sandy slopes, finally trickling out to the
misty ocean beyond.

Ava smiled.
Asleep, her lips in dreaming shadows did too. 

‘I’m free…’

Below her,
resting, two figures remained.  One was Cole
.  ‘My Thomas…’
  She could
see the breadth of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw.  The other was her,
blue-lipped and broken.  It didn’t scare her to see herself lying still and
silent in the bed of grass.  She knew she was already dead (that she’d hovered
near death since the winged carving had come down atop her during the storm). 
Ava waited there, watching them together, her soul content.  Cole leaned
forward, clutching her hand. 

“I love you,
Ava,” he sobbed. “I have always loved you... I always will.”

She knew she was
mere moments before pulling up and away with a rush of release, her body over
the landscape, just long enough to recognize all that it was.  A new start for
Cole: a beginning. 

She followed his
gestures, memorizing his face.  Needing it to find her way back, the way she’d
done before.  Though back to where, she wasn’t exactly sure.  She only knew
that he was the key.  Where he was, she needed to be, too.

“No... please,
no...” Cole gasped.  “Don’t leave me.”

The wind rose,
flicking a stray tendril of Cole’s still-wet hair around his eyes.  It
intrigued Ava, the differences between the Cole she knew and this one.  His
hair was longer, the wind pushing it into his eyes, making him grimace and
blink.  She found herself soothed by that all-too-human gesture, the way his
face wavered and changed. 

Without warning,
Cole lifted his head, catching sight of someone or something walking up the
beach.

‘Oh!  That’s
new...’
Ava realized, unsettled by the change.

There was a
small figure, growing larger with each step.  Ava’s attention focused in on
it. 
‘Her…’
  A pale woman, her sodden hair hastily plaited.  She was
another survivor of the shipwreck.  Her face was bruised and battered, the
bottom of her skirt hanging in rags. 

“Hullo…?”  the
woman called as she neared.  “D’you need some help there?”

Cole sat up,
wiping his face, seemingly confused.

Ava was torn in
two directions.  She could feel herself dissolving, her being returning to the
millions of vibrations that formed all things.  She fought the pull this time,
needing to see who this was.  Below her, Cole climbed unsteadily to his feet.

“Can I bring you
some help?” the woman called again.  “Can she be moved?  I could get some’un to
help you.”

Cole shook his
head, laying Ava’s hand against her chest with tremulous fingers. 

“There’s no
point,” he answered brokenly.  “She’s already gone.”

Ava was fading
to nothingness even as he spoke.  She struggled against it like a fish on a
line, her departure slower than the last times.  For the first time ever, she
clearly saw Cole’s reaction to her death, his inconsolable grief.  His whole
body quaked with the impossible truth that she was gone.  Under the
yellow-leaved trees, the sound of rushing wind – like rain – was rising.  Ava’s
attention began to recoil just as the woman stepped out from the blue shadows
of the woods.  She was fair-haired and young, her concerned eyes resting on
Cole’s downturned face.

‘My god!’
Ava’s mind
announced.  
‘It’s Hanna Thomas!’

With a rush, she
was pulled backwards and up, the figures below and her own body, broken like
driftwood, fading into three small dots until only the snake and the coins were
visible. 

The wayward
peace she’d once known was tinged with grief.  A feeling of loss soaked through
her thoughts as her vision expanded in an ever-widening arc of green.  For the
first time, she wanted to stay.

: : : : : : : :
: :

The phone
wouldn’t stop ringing. 

: : : : : : : :
: :

Ava was late for
class.  She’d slept through her alarm, only waking when Cole had called her cell
phone.  He was in the printmaking studio waiting for her.  Pulling on her
jeans, layering one long-sleeved, one short-sleeved shirt, then donning her
leather jacket, she headed out the door, swearing.  She’d been up until
midnight finishing her latest essay for Wilkins’ class.  The two Art
foundations classes had become the bane of Ava’s existence. 

She jogged down
the stairs, backpack in hand.  It was laden with books for her afternoon
classes and it banged hard against her shin as she ran.  Ava swore again,
hoisting it to her shoulder, and pushed open the front door with her hip,
stepping out into the snow.  There was a new prof teaching the first of her two
foundations courses: Art of the Ancient World.  It wasn’t that Ava hated the
woman, per say, it was that Professor Aichens – with her carefully
articulation, insistence on thoroughness and her propensity to repeat herself
endlessly  – drove Ava nuts.

Cole teased her
about it, of course.  He’d taken this course in his first year of university
(as most fourth year Art students had).  He’d volunteered to proof all of her
essays if she was willing to trade favours in return.  Ava blushed,
remembering.  That aspect almost made the writing worth it, but she had to
force herself to attend each day.  Only imminent graduation (or failure) kept
her there.

Reaching her
vehicle, Ava fumbled for her keys.  She found them under crumpled receipts and
a half-empty bottle of water at the bottom of her pack, swearing until she got
them in the lock.  The door squealed open and Ava tossed her supplies onto the
far seat before climbing in.  Frost had settled deep into the vehicle. She
rubbed her hands against the cold, not having time to wait out the chill.

With another
blast of swearing, she started the engine, hunching her shoulders and heading
back outside to scrape the windows.  Minutes later, she clambered inside while
the buzzing engine slowly dropped to a steady purr.  The truck was old and
irascible... and being twenty minutes late to class was better than having the
beast die altogether halfway there.  She did not want to walk in this weather. 

Wilkins was
teaching her second art history class this semester, which made it ten times
worse than the first.  It was Art since 1945, and Ava regularly kept late hours
to keep up with the readings.  There seemed to be as much written about the
art, and what the dialogue meant, as the paintings themselves.  Clement
Greenburg had been the first of many.  It drove her crazy, the convoluted
doubletalk of artist and medium and historian.  Though she loved the process of
creation and the images themselves, she found it difficult to put her thoughts
into words.  She knew the dark history behind her own artwork, but Wilkins’
focus on discussion made the class a struggle to manage.  It was even harder to
dissect about someone else’s process with alacrity.

She thought of
the completed essay sitting in its folder, printed and ready to submit.  The
process to complete that essay had been a hell of a lot easier than the first. 
After a week of late nights in the library, Cole had taken pity on Ava and
brought her his carefully-written notes from the previous year.  (He’d offered
more than once, but she’d always refused.)  Seeing them that evening, after
hours of writing a paragraph and then deleting it in frustration, she’d burst
into tears of relief.  It’d turned out that a translation from Wilkins’
inflated rhetoric into simple language was exactly what she had needed.