Journey through the Land of Shades

Prologue

The afternoon sky was pregnant, swollen to bursting with heavy, lumbering clouds. Even these adjectives could not sufficiently convey the sense of foreboding that hung in the air like a heavy mist. The winds were high and alive, propelling slate gray clouds across the heavens as if they were celestial battle engines on route to some distant apocalyptic conflict. The mountains and trees of Washington's Olympic National Park appeared to cringe in anticipation of the imminent fury, but still the rains did not fall. Blades of grass, so strikingly green that to stare at them for protracted periods of time hurt the eye, bent flat to the ground as if to prostrate themselves before the storm in a desperate plea for mercy that would never be granted.

Fall loomed upon the horizon of the seasons and everywhere there were glowing ambers and blazing reds. Dying leaves fell from the trees and were swept high into the air, only to fall unwillingly back to earth whenever the driving winds would momentarily abate. As if to herald the commencement of hostilities, chain lightening cracked the sky in a white arc of near blinding magnitude. Its passing was announced by a deafening roar of thunder that reverberated through the gloom like the fall of a deity’s hammer.

The storm had begun in earnest.

The high winds forestalled the rain if only for a time. The forest in this part of the state was especially dense, making passage arduous and slow. In the deepest recess of the forest, far from the fitness and nature trails that crisscrossed the park like scars, there stood a small clearing. The clearing was roughly circular with a diameter of no more than two hundred feet. Though the significance of the moment would be lost in the swirling mists of destiny, it was in this clearing that Islena Doraux's first step in her journey through the land of shades was taken.

2

The fury of the storm intensified, driving everything to ground. It seemed that the storm would continue to gain momentum until it at last eradicated the flimsy layer of life that clung tenaciously to the fragile skin of the world. The thunder reached the climax of its violent symphony and rain began to fall in solid sheets. Directly above the clearing, a gap appeared in the clouds and an unnatural bolt of emerald green lightening ripped through the orifice. As quickly as the gap had materialized, it vanished. The green bolt slanted downward, bathing the clouds in ghostly green effulgence. Even after the bolt passed, the clouds retained some of this green glow as if the passing lightening carried with it a taint of some sort. After a time this glow faded and the clouds reverted to their normal color; the blackish-purple of a deep and ugly bruise.

As if precisely aimed, the bolt came to ground at the heart of the clearing, pounding into the earth with a titanic roar that sent loose dirt scattering in all directions. The displaced earth flew a full thirty feet in the air and came to ground like miniature meteorites…charred and still smoking like spent coals. The dust and smoke settled to reveal a perfectly circular pit of about twenty feet in diameter and fifteen feet in depth.

A luminous blue mass lay at the bottom of the pit. Shapeless and gelatinous, it emitted a dull glow in the storm-dampened light. Radiating a tremendous heat, the blob transformed rain to steam upon contact with the sibilant hiss of a cornered viper.

And still the storm raged on, unrelenting in its mindless assault on the cowering earth. As the last of the dull light bled from the sky the heavy rains began to abate, settling back to a steady drizzle. The iridescent blue mass pulsed on, oblivious to the uneasy truce that had been struck between the elements. There was a syncopated rhythm to the pulse that was entirely too precise to be random…like a beating heart fraught with keen anticipation.

Time passed and nothing happened, yet that sense of imminence grew with every tick of the invisible clock. Had someone been present to bear witness to this extraordinary moment of genesis, they might have felt that expectancy prickle their skin like a low level electric current.

Abruptly it happened…the catalyst that started the process moving again. On the face of it, what did happen seemed so simple, but without this humble beginning all that transpired after would not have been possible…just as a single pebble may dislodge an avalanche that lays waste to an entire city. A small deer…wet and still trembling in storm-induced terror…picked its way gingerly through the underbrush before coming to the edge of the improbable clearing. An alien acrid aroma drifted to its nostrils proclaiming the presence of something foreign and perhaps sinister. The deer grew anxious and skittered back towards the underbrush, ready to bolt should instinct demand a frantic retreat. When it did not, the animal ventured a little further out into the clearing. As it came forward a lilting, melodious hum rose from the interior of the pit. Startled, the deer's eyes whirled and twirled madly and though instinct advised retreat, there was a placating, hypnotic aspect to the sound that subjugated the creature’s survival mechanism.

Rather than surrender to panic, it inclined its head to one side and succumbed to the beguiling hum. It began to relax as the tension and cold drained from its muscles. Drowsiness drifted over it in languid waves. The dulcet hum had lulled away the animal's usual caution and it made its way to the center of the clearing. Near the rim of the crater it turned its muzzle to the wind once more. This close the acrid aroma was even more abrasive. The pitch of the hum became higher, more exigent. There was something at the bottom of the pit, but it possessed no discernable shape that the deer had come to associate with its natural enemies. Curious, it merely stood at the rim of the pit, gazing down at the pulsing mass of jelly.

Suddenly, a low rumble reverberated through the earth and the ground beneath the deer's feet sloughed away, sending it tumbling down the steep slope into the heart of the blue substance. Belatedly, panic clutched at its heart as the deer attempted to scramble up the banks, but found that it could get no traction on the mud-slicked dirt. The more frantically it scrambled the more fruitless its efforts became. Beneath it, the gelatinous mass had begun to undergo some sort of metamorphosis. The mass’s blue effulgence flared and ebbed while the consistency of the material thickened until it more closely resembled tar or industrial glue.

Caught in this viscous embrace, the deer thrashed and screamed wildly, but the alien grip was unbreakable. Slowly, inexorably, the mass crept along the animal's legs and over its torso. A high, eldritch smell filled the air then…a cloying blend of burning fur and flesh. The deer's cries became a braying litany of agony and terror, but as the blue mass engulfed it, its struggles lessened and finally ceased altogether. The creature vanished from sight and the viscous mass settled back to a uniform level.

Silence descended upon the clearing and the air of expectancy returned, stronger than ever.

The deer had been completely absorbed, synthesized into the mass of the alien substance and broken down into small genetic units. Within the mass, a network of alleyways and a series of definable shapes began to appear. The genetic fabric of the deer was being restructured within the body of its destroyer. The center of the blob erupted with a sharp crackle and a solid block of congealed blue tar thrust up through the more gelatinous material around it. As the luminescent blue glow guttered the tar slowly resolved itself into something that loosely resembled the head of a deer. The macabre transformation ran its arcane course, making constant adjustments and refinements based upon the genetic information that it had absorbed.

The process reached its culmination and after an interminable amount of time, the reconstructed deer stood at the edge of the small pit. All traces of the luminescent mass of jelly had vanished. The deer gazed about the clearing with eyes that were incisive and keenly aware. It sat back on its haunches and sprang forward, leaping out of the pit with the ease and fluidity of a jaguar. It surveyed the clearing with the studied deliberation of one who is searching for something very specific. Everything about its manner suggested an intelligence that was totally alien to a beast of its ilk. The wind, smooth and seductive as silk, gusted and the deer raised its eyes to the heavens. The gentle breezed sighed and abated in a discernible pattern, conveying cryptic messages that only the deer's ears could decipher. The mutant raised and lowered its muzzle three times in rapid succession. Apparently satisfied, it began to trot towards the south end of the clearing. Upon casual inspection this deer would have appeared in no way extraordinary. Only its eyes betrayed the fact that it had undergone some radical metamorphosis. Whereas once they had been a mild brown, now they were tainted by an oddly luminescent blue tint. As the deer moved out of the clearing and into the underbrush, those eyes blazed like twin beacons, hinting at a strong sense of deadly purpose.

Chapter One

1

If there was one intrinsic truth that could be spoken of Islena Doraux, it would be this…she was an extraordinary woman living a comparatively normal life. Yet, on this day, fate’s hammer would fall upon her world and shatter these shackles of normalcy…compelling her to embark upon a desperate journey through the land of shades.

2

Golden sunshine streamed through the bedroom window in a warm current, touching her sleeping face like a tender kiss. It played softly over her skin, caressing her gently towards waking.

‘Just a little longer,’ she pleaded silently, but on the heels of that came the discordant braying of the digital alarm clock. Her eyes flew open like broken shutters and she lashed out at the alarm button with the speed of a striking cobra, cutting the grating sound off in mid screech. She allowed herself the luxury of lying still for just a moment longer, relishing the languid flow in which awareness filtered through the muscles in her body. That first moment had always been a private delight for Islena as her senses renewed acquaintance with that intense sensation of capability and well-being. Drawing a deep breath she pushed back the covers and swung her feet onto the carpeted floor.

Her husband, Benjamin, grumbled some unintelligible protest, but otherwise made no effort to rouse himself. Islena watched his sleeping form for a moment and felt a twinge of guilt mingled with a sense of relief. She would allow him to sleep until she had completed her morning ritual, thus avoiding the prospect of unwanted discussion at least until breakfast.

She stood, padded over to the foot of the bed, knelt down and commenced her morning stretching exercises. Upon reflection, it was appropriate that she had considered this a ritual. It had been a part of her life for over sixteen years; as indispensable as breathing or eating. For the next ten minutes Islena engaged in a series of stretches that would have roused the envy of all but the most skilled contortionist. She concluded by extending both legs into the air and bringing them slowly down until her knees touched her lips and her toes found the carpet just above her head.

She held this position for the next thirty seconds, stretching the muscles in her lower back until the last remnants of sleep-induced stiffness had been banished. In a fluid explosion of muscle, she swung her legs back over her body and sprang to her feet, displaying as much grace as she had in her high school gymnastics days.

‘Well almost as much,’ she amended.

Moving in the direction of the shower, she spared Ben one final troubled glance. The sight evoked memories…a rebirth of the previous night's angry argument. Despite her best efforts to suppress them, the unwelcome storm of emotions crept back into her thoughts like an insidious poison. She was bemused and shaken by the intensity of the vitriol and anger that had erupted between them like pus from a suppurating sore. Rummaging through the sepia-toned hallways of recollection, Islena attempted to isolate the exact moment when passion had cooled and the slow process of alienation had crept into their marriage. To her chagrin, she found herself incapable of pinpointing any one juncture that had inspired the smoldering degradation of what had once been a genuinely passionate love. For years they had drifted apart, each letting their anger and sense of alienation accumulate, holding it for private consideration deep in some internal chamber. Inevitably, the strain had begun to show around the edges of their marriage and last night that strain had erupted with the primal intensity of emotion that had been repressed for far too long. Like a snake in the grass, it had struck last night, after she had declared her intentions to begin competing again. Then all hell had broken loose very much like a storm that materializes from a clear blue sky.

Turning the faucet to hot, Islena waited for the glass shower cubicle to steam. She peeled off her indigo satin pajamas and neatly folded and placed them on a chair. She was a meticulous woman by nature, though some might consider her fastidious in her fanatical devotion to detail. Still, structure and order pleased her immensely and she vehemently refused to apologize for her fundamental nature. Friends and family often regarded this unflinching rigidity with a mixture of emotions that ranged from mild exasperation to aggravation, but Islena Doraux was not a woman who would compromise herself for the benefit of others.

The shower was near scalding now, sending billows of steam wafting through the room. Stepping into the spray, Islena shuddered with pleasure, relishing the penetrating effect as the heat probed and massaged the knots from her powerful body. Water washed over her upturned face, evoking a sigh of contentment. Still, even the pleasure of her morning ritual of cleansing could not forestall the thoughts of last night's bitter argument from intruding on her peace of mind. Disgusted, she jerked the faucet to the off position and stalked out of the cubicle.

Dripping wet, she reached for a towel and caught a brief glimpse of her reflection in the full length mirror. The sight pleased her and she couldn't resist the temptation of indulging in her vanity. Standing before the mirror, she extended her left leg to one side, raised her arms and flexed into a double bicep pose.

There was a veritable explosion as her finely proportioned muscles jumped out in sharp relief. Raising her chin and turning her head slightly to one side added the final element...that smoldering glare of total self-confidence. She smiled and then dropped the pose.

'Pretty good,' she mused. 'Not as good as it's going to get, but pretty good all the same.'

She had been granted the natural gifts of perfect symmetry and the indomitable will of a lioness.

Even as a child, Islena had been attracted to and compelled by the notion of physical strength and as a young teenage girl, she had discovered the ideal outlet for the attraction in the sport of bodybuilding. Naturally athletic, Islena's physical attributes and fanatical dedication combined to hone grace and raw power into a blend that was simply dazzling to behold. This structural perfection of form was further augmented by a natural beauty that had long characterized the Doraux line. Hers was a flawless face that featured finely-crafted cheekbones, large emerald green eyes and a tumbling mass of red hair that captured and reflected light like living flame. She possessed a deep pride in her body and a strong sense of gratitude for the gift of her natural beauty. Much of what she had achieved in her life had been born of both.

She toweled herself dry and wrapped a robe around her shoulders, then moved back into the bedroom. She trembled as if the room had become a chilly repository for asperity and frustration. Her gaze fell upon her husband and Ben's words echoed maddeningly in her head, You're a study in vanity, Islena...so bloody self-absorbed that it's a wonder you can still see anything or anyone around you.

Maybe…or maybe you're just too fat and indolent to be anything but jealous of someone who demonstrates a little motivation to excel or pride in themselves, she had retorted automatically. The barb had come too quickly, too easily and though she had regretted it immediately, the damage had been done. She wondered if the subconscious stored bitterness like ammunition to be unleashed at the first convenient opportunity. That caustic jab had been the opening salvo in what had quickly degenerated into a venom-laden verbal brawl without the slightest measure of restraint or consideration. He had attacked her on the level of her pride and she had countered by accosting him where she knew she could inflict the most damage. It had been cruel and bitter exchange, laying bare just how much repressed acrimony existed between them.

It was undeniable that she harbored a tremendous pride in her body, but it was an unfair distortion to characterize that pride as shallow vanity. She had invested thousands of hours in the arduous task of building her body, sacrificing many of the things she loved in a grueling quest for physical perfection.

He, of all people, had no right to suggest that she was vain. It was the nature of the sport to focus upon one's self. In bodybuilding the struggle was won and lost on the battlefield of the mind. On those days when she was sore, tired or desperately hungry, it was deep in the recesses of her mind that she found the wherewithal to persevere. He had been with her through that gauntlet and thus his attack was a betrayal of the worst kind.

No, it's not that simple, he had insisted hotly. Look at yourself. Can you honestly say that you're the same person I married…who had my children? She had merely glared back at him…this sullen, sluggish man who was already going to fat. Like a consummate swordsman, she had turned his own barb against him. When they had first been married, eight years ago, Ben had been the epitome of the confident, pragmatic man that had always attracted her but over the intervening years he had decayed just as surely as she had grown. Her assiduous nature had made it difficult to excuse his gradual capitulation to listless mediocrity.

Before the birth of her first child, Donald, she had been in the early stages of promising amateur bodybuilding career. Over the course of three years she had placed first in four local and regional shows. She had been in the midst of preparation for the State Championships when she had discovered she was pregnant. In those early years…years which now seemed like dim and distant memories of another life…Ben had always been there to give her moral support during the difficult moments in contest preparation. She had felt loved and had loved him as steadfastly as anything in her life. A career of limitless potential seemed a virtual certainty in those days. The pregnancy had put an end to all of those aspirations with devastating and emphatic swiftness. Islena had willingly sacrificed her aspirations for the sake of being a better mother. Eighteen months after delivering the first, she had given birth to a second son, Allan and though the dream of a professional career faded, it did not die. Maintaining her rigorous training regime as much as the demands of childrearing allowed, Islena had went about raising her sons with the same degree of competence with which she had attacked everything else. Inside, she never lost the fire or the dream of reaching for her ambition.

Now, five years after the birth of her second son and with both in school, she was ready to resume her quest despite the prime years lost in the name of responsible motherhood. That need had been building deep within her like the consuming thirst of a woman lost in the desert and that thirst would no longer be denied.

What did she want? Everything. The pinnacle. She had been visited by vivid and breathtaking dreams of a Miss Olympia Crowning. She had felt the fan's adulatory radiating over her much like heat from a fire in the dead of winter.

She donned her traditional work uniform of a silver spandex training suit, trimmed with stylish gold piping on the arms and legs, and a pair of Reebok cross trainers. The unpleasantries had reached a sorry nadir when Ben had raged, Have you ever stopped to consider how all of this competition stuff will affect me? I'm at a fairly sensitive period in my own career. If you haven't bothered to think about that, then perhaps you can think about how it will impact on Allan and Don. Are you going to have any time for them? He had paused briefly before delivering the final incisive dagger. Or is that even a consideration anymore?

Her self-control had dissolved in a boil of fury. She had come very close to striking him then. Her hands had curled into fists and her right arm coiled like a loaded spring. Her large green eyes had narrowed into slits and her mouth had pursed into an angry bloodless slash. Ben had seen that look and correctly interpreted its meaning. He had actually flinched before its intensity and even though he was five inches taller and forty pounds heavier, he had taken two steps backward, his face contorted by an expression of absolute shock and dismay.

Beneath that almost comical expression of shock, Islena glimpsed another emotion that had quickly defused her anger. There, in the depths of the blue eyes that had once made her knees go weak, there flashed a confused fear…like a child who had just discovered that his beloved pet had grown vicious. Their gazes had locked and a current of raw emotion had passed between them…anger, regret, sorrow, love, hate, bitterness and ultimately, profound bewilderment.

Ben had mouthed some words that she could not make out and then turned on his heels and stalked from the room. Islena had remained motionless for a very long time after the closing of the door, waiting for the tension to drain from her locked muscles. The two salient truths of their encounter chased each other in frantic circles through her thoughts…she had very nearly struck him and he had been afraid of her. It was as if he had been afforded a quick glimpse beneath the mask of civility to something savage and terrifying. Had she glanced into the mirror at that exact moment, what alien countenance would she have seen looking back at her? She had always deplored physical violence and intimidation. Islena demanded respect but never fear. Contrary to popular belief the two were not one in the same. Now, watching him sleep, it shocked her to realize just how profoundly they both had changed. The man who she had married never would have flinched like that and the idealistic, fiercely determined young woman she had once been would never have come so close to striking someone out of anger. What’s happened to us, Ben? she inquired of his sleeping back. Crossing to the bedroom door, she turned back towards the bed and called out loudly, Ben, get up or you'll be late for work.

He came awake with a start, gazing about the room with the dislocated expression of a man who has no idea where he is or what he's been doing. Without awaiting a response, she left, closing the door behind her. Pausing briefly in the upper hall, Islena had been bemused by the glacial edge in her tone and wondered if last night’s argument had inflicted an indelible scar on their marriage.

3

She was preparing breakfast for the boys when Ben finally made his way into the kitchen. He entered and seated himself at the kitchen table without speaking or glancing in her direction and she watched him discreetly, noting his sullen expression and the petulant hunch of his shoulders. The rifling of pages declared that he had immersed himself in the morning paper. Without turning away from her task, she called over her shoulder, I'm sorry about what happened at the end. No matter the reason, that wasn’t justified and I’m sorry.

He remained silent and she stole a glance over her shoulder. He had folded the paper and was watching her through eyes that were red from the lack of sleep. His expression of raw misery caused the cold cloud around her heart to thaw if only marginally. His pain was genuine and his grief over things lost radiated like fire. She set her spatula into the batter and crossed over to the kitchen table. Sitting down beside him, Islena placed a hand upon his forearm. It felt soft and frangible under her firm grip. We'll talk again tonight. We have a lot to talk about, but we can work through this if we really want to. Should it turn out that there’s no compromise to be had…then we can deal with that like the mature, intelligent adults we should both be.

She had not intended the last bit, but once uttered, it could not be called back. Ben blinked and the lines of misery appeared to etch themselves even deeper into his flesh. The implications were clear…separation or divorce.

‘Oh please don't let it come to that,’ she thought. Once that thin façade of normalcy had been breeched to reveal the cancer of alienation lurking beneath, utter chaos descended like a preying hawk to sweep away every remaining vestige of long-harbored illusion. Quietly, Ben nodded, Okay Islena, we'll talk again tonight.

Then the kids had come in and being dutiful parents, she and Ben had pretended that all was well. Islena had doubted that either of the children was fooled for a moment.

4

The Gym was her world…a well-equipped, well-lit requiem that was Islena Doraux’s natural environment. She was the manager of the Iron Works Gym in Seattle and had been for the past six years. When Islena had landed the job, she viewed the position as a heaven sent opportunity. The Gym’s success could be attributed to Islena's incessant drive to excel. She was devoted to the sport and that devotion reflected in the way she worked with her struggling Gym patrons. This personal attention was appreciated and had attracted the new clients in droves. With the success had come greater latitude to manage the operation as she saw fit and subsequently, it became very easy for her to regard the Gym as her own private domain.

Within the sanctuary of its walls, Islena felt more in touch with herself and the defining emotions that shaped her personality. She had never given consideration to the rather unfortunate aspects of this, nor would she have grasped the inherent sadness even if she had been given to such introspection. When Islena closed the door behind her, the world shrank to the confines of the gym's interior, effectively exiling her problems to the other side. This day was somehow different and walking into the gym's foyer did nothing to alleviate that beleaguered feeling. The incessant tug of regret stabbed deep into the workings of her chest and Islena was disheartened to realize that this pain was one of guilt and accusation. She had allowed her marriage to deteriorate for years, either not noticing the crumbling foundations or deliberately choosing to ignore them. In some perverse way it was all rather laughable. She was a successful businesswoman, now standing on the brink of resuming the pursuit of her life's dream and thus she should have been content, but with her marriage tottering on the precipice, she was anything but happy.

Feeling despondent, Islena crossed the lobby to the central reception desk. Marla Holmes looked up from her ledgers and smiled. Morning Izzy girl, how...Good God honey, what's eating at you?

Islena seemed oblivious to the fact that Marla had even spoken and when she finally glanced at Marla, she saw the puzzled expression on the Marla's ebony face. I'm sorry Marla, what were you saying?

Ever perceptive to Islena's mood, Marla glanced sharply at her friend, eyes narrowing into slits of concern. She had worked with Doraux for the past four years and could not recall seeing this particular expression of dejection.

You look like your favorite dog just got run over in the road, girl? Behind the drawl of hip-hop colloquialisms, Islena could discern the genuine concern in her friend's voice.

‘Are my feelings so transparent then?’ she wondered and smiled in spite of her somber mood. She genuinely liked Marla. It was impossible to remain maudlin in the face of Marla's infectious good humor. Like Islena, Marla was a dedicated bodybuilder. The pair had trained together for the past three years and though Islena's level far exceeded Marla's, the other woman pushed Islena to challenge her own limits. More valuable still, Marla had demonstrated her trustworthiness repeatedly. Doraux saw little point in trying to conceal her emotions from Marla and so she said, I must admit that things have been better.

Marla reached across the desk and placed her hand on Islena's wrist. When she spoke again the tone was sober and unaffected. Izzy, what's wrong? You look thoroughly miserable?

It's nothing I can't deal with, Marla. I've been having a few minor problems at home and they've come to a head. I'm okay, really. Islena tried to illustrate just how okay she was by producing a grin of shark-like proportions. Marla's concerned expression changed not an iota and Islena relented with a sigh. Ben doesn't want me to compete again. He was fairly adamant about that. We started to argue and all sorts of hidden resentments came out. It got fairly ugly and hurtful.

The deep lines etched into Islena's face served to confirm that it had gotten ugly indeed. Honey, it's so damned unfair that he'd try to prevent you from competing again. Men can be so bloody insensitive and selfish when they put their minds to it. Izzy girl, I've never seen anyone display so much heart and guts on a training floor. You can make it in this sport. Don't let anyone stand in your way.

Islena looked directly into Marla's amber eyes. There was something decidedly beautiful and primitive in those eyes, especially when she spoke with conviction. That passion touched a raw nerve and Islena responded in a tremulous whispered, It's not always that easy.

Marla grimaced in the face of the self-doubt that gnawed at Doraux's normally unassailable confidence. Marla had long harbored a special enmity for Ben Richards, whom she regarded as a living impediment to Islena's limitless potential.

'Jesus, this thing’s eating her up. Ben you miserable bastard.' Softly, she inquired, What are you gonna do honey?

I don't know. I just don't know, Islena replied softly and then averted her face before Marla could see the first fall of tears.

She walked out onto the main floor of the Gym, which was deserted save for two or three of the regulars. The crowd would not begin to arrive until around nine O'clock. She moved towards the area that had been set aside for the exercise cycles. There were eight of the conventional cycles and four of the high tech Life Cycles which were used on a reserve basis only. Islena selected one of the conventional cycles and programmed the timer for forty minutes. She switched on her hip-mounted I-pod and fitted her headphones into her ears. As she began to pedal, the opening keyboard run of `Tarot Woman' filled her ears. Though she had fairly eclectic musical tastes, she liked to exercise to music with a primal beat and had been surprised to discover that certain types of heavy metal drove her to the ragged edges of her endurance. She tried to push herself until her heartbeat became syncopated with the drum and bass beat. Today she hoped to pedal fast enough to actually outdistance the myriad of problems that now plagued her. Still, as an unflinching pragmatist, she understood that life was in some ways comparable to a stationary bike ride…you could pedal until you were worn to a frazzle, but finish exactly where you started. There was no evading your problems and if you were foolish enough to ignore them, they grew into monsters with ravenous appetites that could only be satiated by misery and absolute disillusionment.

So, as she commenced the now ritualistic process of raising her heart rate, Islena Doraux made a valiant attempt to turn the brutally harsh light of introspection on herself. He had accused her of insufferable vanity, but to her mind, this particular allegation was the standard defensive mechanism of those whose own lack of personal pride and motivation was a source of private shame.

‘People like Ben,’ her mind offered and couched in that mental barb capered the dark viper that Doraux struggled incessantly to subjugate…a seething contempt for those who showed flagrant disregard for their own bodies…a contempt that extended to Ben Richards if she was being entirely candid. To temper that attitude would require a major restructuring of her basic system of beliefs.

‘So if the world doesn't live up to your lofty ideals then to hell with it, right Islena?’ The sudden appearance of that inner voice troubled Islena as did this sudden manifestation of self-doubt. Now she felt beleaguered by a tide of misgivings and was dismayed to discover that self-confidence was really such a fragile commodity.

The perspiration began to build on her brow, coursing down her cheeks in hot rivers and she could feel her heart rate increasing rapidly. The stimulation of strenuous physical exertion was like a potent drug to Islena. She monitored her speed increase and then settled into a steady pace that she would try to maintain for the next thirty minutes. The final ten would be an all out sprint to exhaustion.

She focused all of her concentration on the inner regions of her mind, where the essential Islena Doraux lived but was assailed by a barrage of images that tore at her concentration…some pleasant, some not. Battling these distractions, she set about the task of unbiased self-analysis, searching for her culpability in her marital decay. As she grappled with her own preconceptions, an alien forced whispered across the fabric of her mind. She blinked, thinking that someone had actually touched her, yet she was alone at the end of the large Gym floor.

Her heart began to hammer violently, provoked not by exertion but by a sudden burst of inexplicable anxiety. She attempted to quell that anxiety and resume her cycling but found that she could not regain her rhythm. An intense pressure began to build, not on her skull, but in the depths of her mind’s interior as if invisible forces were trying to channel her thoughts in some abstract direction. Her feet faltered and slipped from the stirrups, causing her to bark her shin on the spinning pedals. She winced in pain and surprise and when she opened her eyes the familiar gym had vanished. The terror of what she was seeing nearly caused her to cry aloud, but she closed her mouth with a snap. An aberration had taken shape in the center of the room like a porthole on a cruise ship that provided her with a dizzying perspective of an incredible vista. The majesty and verdant splendor of the landscape below literally stole her breath away, momentarily allaying her fears.

She gazed through the portal, down upon a stretch of beach and a startlingly green ocean. She could clearly see whitecaps crashing upon the thin strand of sand. More disconcerting still, she could actually hear them. The ocean's waters were as pure as any that she had ever seen. Islena hovered, gazing down upon the earth below from an eagle's perspective and then without warning, she began to descend at a frightening rate, plummeting from the heavens like a falling stone. As she fell, Islena could not determine if the emotion overwhelming her was elation or terror.

‘This couldn't be real, could it?’ Yet how could she ignore the exhilarating sensation of the wind rushing through her hair and the pressure of the descent tugging upon her tight skin of her cheeks or her fiery red hair billowing out behind her like a vapor trail.

‘There's someone down there,’ her new inner companion informed her, its tone giddy like a schoolgirl’s. She squinted to see a tiny figure standing in the middle of a field that appeared to have been tilled for planting. The figure appeared to be glancing up, monitoring her rapid descent. She tried to drag her eyes from the portal but found herself powerless to avert her gaze. The rapid dive was giving her a terrible case of vertigo. She forced her eyes closed, but much to her dismay, the disconcerting hallucination persisted. She could see the man now and clearly distinguish his gray-brown hair and a similarly-flecked beard.

He might have been handsome at one time, but the years had evidently been harsh and that masculine beauty was now but a shadow. He seemed neither surprised nor disturbed by her rocketing approach, remaining stationary and watching her descend through placid blue eyes.

When it seemed certain that she would simply crash into the earth like a meteorite, she reversed directions and began to rocket back towards the heavens. Her mind conjured a rather cryptic notion then, disclosing, This is a place not of your world, but that man is yours.

She shook her head in negation and attempted to force her eyes open. What she saw terrified her more than she thought that it was possible to be terrified. Islena gazed up through the portal, eyes locked upon her abandoned body as she sat petrified upon her exercise cycle. Islena ripped through the portal and slammed back into the dazzled confines of her own mind with a resounding impact that reverberated through her flesh like the tolling of an enormous bell. Abruptly, the world swam out of focus and she slipped off of her cycle, staggering about the cycle area like a man in the last stages of ambulatory inebriation.

5

Marla tried vainly to apply herself to the onerous task of updating gym books and appointment schedules, but her attention frequently strayed back to Islena’s predicament and her careworn face. Marla was dismayed by her friend's emotional turmoil and angered by Ben's infantile attitude towards Izzy's career. Marla had never particularly liked Ben, regarding Richards as a mediocre, clinging creature, who would ultimately stand as an impediment to everything Islena Doraux aspired to achieve. Marla had always harbored the hope that Izzy would eventually reach the same conclusion and divest herself of that needless obstacle.

Marla did not allow herself to linger upon such wistful fancies, knowing that to do so would reap nothing other than emotional frustration. She turned her thoughts instead to her work, but found herself constantly stealing furtive glances through the glass doors to the cycle area, where Islena labored through her morning miles. Something about the woman's erratic rhythm raised the whisper of alarm in Marla’s mind. A pained expression marred the lovely lines of Islena's face as she labored to establish a smooth pedaling motion.

The telephone rang and Marla snatched it up, automatically settling into her usual professional voice that conveyed none of her burgeoning agitation.

Good morning, Iron Works Gym, she announced absently. A man made a reservation for one of the life cycles. Marla took his name and penned it into the appropriate slot on the chart. She shot a quick glance at Izzy and that agitation welled-up geometrically. Her boss had abruptly stopped pedaling and was sitting bolt upright on the cycle, staring fixedly at something near the rear of the Gym. Something about her transfixed expression raised an icy chill in the pit of Marla's stomach. She leaned over her desk, trying to see what had evoked Islena’s apoplectic reaction.

What's gotten into that girl? she murmured in exasperation. There was nothing unusual about the goings-on in the rear of the building, but Islena continued to stare fixedly as if she was bearing witness to a grand, yet apocalyptic spectacle that only she could see.

‘Perhaps she is,’ her instincts warned her. Marla knew that there were instances when Islena's concentration drew her so deep inside of herself that she actually appeared robotic. This trance-like level of concentration was instrumental in her drive to excel but nothing about those states resembled this odd distraction and Marla's terror grew with every second that Islena remained in this disquieting state of rigid fixation.

Watching Islena suffer through this protracted moment of dislocation, Marla found herself shackled by a sense of uncertainty that reduced her to utter immobility. She wanted to run to Islena and shake her briskly back to cognizance, but something about Doraux’s catatonic gaze and statue-like posture filled Marla with a paralyzing dread. For Marla Holmes, the older Islena had become a grounding point…a paragon of stolid determination and indomitable spirit on whom Marla could focus her inherent need to channel her boundless devotion. Islena Doraux had come to represent the sister she had always craved and the family she no longer had.

Marla was perceptive enough to grasp that it would be easy to misconstrue the depth and nature of her feelings for Islena…to pervert this unconditional devotion into something dark and tawdry. She saw Islena as an extension of her own faltering hopes and dreams…someone who possessed the wherewithal to make them a reality. These complex emotional needs terrified Marla and the very thought of conveying them to Islena propelled the seemingly unflappable Holmes to the brink of panic.

This thought was cut off with abrupt finality as Marla saw Islena slide from the bike and stagger drunkenly around the cycle area.

Marla was around her desk and through the glass doors in the blink of an eye…too late, however, to prevent Islena from stumbling into a cycle and collapsing heavily onto her left shoulder. Frantic, Marla cried out, Izzy! Jesus Izzy, are you all right?

Islena lay prostrate on her face, gasping heavily and making no effort to regain her feet. If she had even heard Marla's cries she made no response. Marla bent forward and gingerly extricated Islena's muscular leg from the toppled cycle. The morning occupants had gravitated over to the spot where Islena had toppled and they stood watching the two women, all wearing identical expressions of concern and dismay.

Are you okay, Izzy honey? Marla whispered. Doraux had not moved since she had fallen and her body had gone rigid, the heavy muscles contracting into painful knots. Marla suppressed her mounting panic and gently turned Izzy over. Her eyes, though open, were glazed and stared vacantly at the ceiling.

‘My God, she's comatose,’ was Marla's first dismal reaction, but then Islena blinked and her eyes came into focus. Drawing a deep breath, she inclined her head towards Marla, who returned a tentative smile. Gazing about, Islena's reactions appeared sluggish and disconnected. What happened, Marla?

I was hoping that you would be able to tell me. You were riding the cycle and then you just fell off and started to stagger around as if you were drunk. Then you collapsed. You scared the hell out of me. I hope you know that, Marla said feigning exasperation while struggling to forestall tears of relief.

I'm sorry Marla, Islena whispered. Then, almost as though she were ashamed of displaying weakness, she asked, Could you help me up please.

Are you sure that you're able to get up honey? Maybe we should think about having someone look at you, Marla ventured cautiously.

Islena shook her head adamantly and offered Marla a broad reassuring grin. No, I'm fine, Marla. I've been playing games with my calorie intake. It's just caught up to me I guess. I'll be okay if I can only sit down for a minute in my office.

Marla remained skeptical. The unsteady glaze in Izzy's eyes decried the pretext of simple calorie deficiency. Something profound had befallen the woman and it had nothing to do with dietary irregularities. Still, it seemed that Izzy was okay now and Marla decided not press the issue. Okay honey, let's get you up.

As Marla hauled Islena to her feet, Doraux gritted her teeth and winced as the shoulder issued a strident protest. Marla, ever perceptive when it came to her friend, noted that gasp and asked, It's your shoulder, isn't it?

Yes, but it's just a cramp. Come on Marla, don't be such a mother hen. I'm hardly made of china. It would take a lot more than a little fall to put me out of commission. I feel perfectly fine, Islena insisted brusquely and physically, she did feel fine, other than a slight burning in her shoulder. Emotionally, however, Islena felt disoriented and unaccountably beleaguered. What had she seen just before she had blacked out? Some type of stress-induced illusion possibly? It was a facile explanation on the face of things, but her instincts admonished her that this episode would not be so easily rationalized away. That place…the disconcertingly familiar man…these things had been very vivid and strangely familiar, right down to the sensation of the wind rushing through her hair. She could not shake the disturbing notion that this vision was not simply a waking dream perhaps precipitated by stress. Though surely ludicrous, Islena had the distinct impression that she had seen those pale blue eyes before. Even more perplexing was the certainty that this man had been immeasurably dear to her at some point in time. It was all nonsense and it made her head ache to consider it, so she thrust it from her thoughts, though it was not easily banished.

Leaning against Marla for support, she turned to the circle of bystanders and quipped, Look people, I know that some guys will do anything for a break, but I think that you should all get back to it before you start to sag.

She favored them with a brilliant smile and gradually they all drifted back to their training. Marla then ushered her to the office which was located directly behind the reception desk. Still supporting Islena, she withdrew a key and opened the door. Inside, she squired her boss over to the sofa and had her sit, while she pulled down a spandex shoulder strap and examined the injured shoulder. It looks like you've got yourself a pretty nasty abrasion there, honey.

Islena waved this off with a dismissive nod and murmured, It's just a scratch Marla.

Okay, but I'm still going to put a touch of Polysporin on it, just to stop the burning. Marla stood and went in search of the ointment and Islena watched her go, smiling affectionately. The black lady was her closest friend. She was unselfish and supportive, qualities not easily found in the sport…nor in the greater world beyond. Marla returned with a small white case and set it on the desk. The Polysporin burned at first, but then Marla's gentle fingers began to massage away the burning sensation. Marla hesitated briefly and then asked, Izzy, what really happened back there?

Islena wavered, reluctant to re-open this particular topic so soon after her incident. She had been about to recite her tale of dietary imbalances, but the somber tone in Marla's voice made it obvious that she would not be deceived by such a shallow excuse. As a friend, she deserved better, so Islena told her as much of the truth as she dared. Honestly Marla, I don't know. Whatever it was, it's gone now and I'll be fine. I've been under a lot of stress and I guess that last night's fight with Ben was the catalyst for whatever happened this morning. I'm just going to rest here for an hour. Could you cover for me Marla? I'd sure appreciate it.

Of course, honey, Marla replied automatically. After a slight pause, she added, but at lunch time, there is something that I want you to do for me.

And what might that be? Islena ventured, discerning the devious twinkle in Marla's amber eyes. She suspected that Marla would insist that she see a doctor, so she was taken by complete surprise when Marla voiced her request. Izzy, at lunch I'd like you to come for a reading at Mrs. Normandy's. Seeing Islena’s startled reaction, she added hastily, Please, don't be so close-minded.

Islena rolled her eyes in exasperation. God Marla, you're not going to start on this metaphysical mumbo-jumbo again? I hardly need a witch doctor to treat a bruised shoulder.

Marla Holmes was completely obsessed with and enamored by all things psychic and paranormal. She accepted the concepts of fate and predestination as readily she accepted the existence of steel and concrete. Over the years that Islena had known her, Marla had drifted through periods of experimentation with runes and tarot cards, searching, almost desperately, for a mystical insight into the workings of her world. She had attempted to draw Doraux into her obsession, but Doraux had politely but firmly resisted her best efforts. Eventually, Marla had given up on converting her friend, but she had never stopped trying to find a key to the metaphysical world she felt certain must exist beyond the thin veil of tangible reality. Three months earlier, Marla had confided to Islena that she had finally stumbled upon a legitimate psychic. Mrs. Normandy, she had insisted, was a Tarot reader who could interpret the cards with uncanny accuracy. Apparently, Marla had consulted the reader to insure that the tides of her life were still maintaining a happy and harmonious ebb and flow.

Izzy had viewed Marla's fixation with a mixture of tolerance and bewilderment. She privately found it difficult to believe that an otherwise intelligent, pragmatic woman could be so enthralled by such gibberish. Nonetheless, she knew that everyone had their odd little proclivities. Now, something in the intense way Marla was watching her made Islena feel distinctly uneasy. In that moment, a subtle undercurrent passed between the pair…an intimation that this rather absurd exchange might actually be a juncture of great consequence…one that made the hairs at the base of her neck stand on end. Again, the imploring tone came. Please Islena, humor me, but come to Mrs. Normandy's.

She was inclined to dismiss the suggestion, but Marla's lovely eyes had grown flinty and distant, assuming the intractable slant that was decidedly foreign to the normally placid Holmes.

‘My God, what's gotten into her,’ she wondered. ‘Islena? She never calls me by that name.’ Despite her customary aversion to the topic, Doraux felt inexplicably compelled to accede to her friend’s request.

All right Marla, we'll go during lunch, she conceded quietly. The flinty glaze evaporated, replaced by Marla's normal radiant smile. Islena found herself wondering what might have happened had she staunchly refused to see this Mrs. Normandy. The thought did little to banish her unease. That's great. Prepare yourself to be amazed. This woman is something special.

Doraux smiled and remained diplomatically silent. Marla shrugged. I'll get back to my desk now. You just stay here and rest honey.

Thanks Marla. Sometimes I wonder just what I'd do without you.

Marla smiled warmly but she was alarmed to feel tears welling in her eyes. Islena had not been the only one to experience the odd sensation of destiny threading its way through their conversation. You'd go crazy, girl. What else could you do?

With this, Marla turned and fled the room before her roiling emotions could get the better of her. Outside, she leaned against the wall and lowered her head, afraid to walk back to her desk…afraid that she might fall. Her legs, which were normally cut, ebony towers of granite, felt weak and insubstantial.

What the hell am I doing? she murmured. Knowing her friends aversion to anything even remotely connected to the paranormal, extending an invitation to consult a tarot reader was the last thing she would suggest. The request seemed to have found its origins elsewhere and she had merely served as a medium through which it had been communicated. Such things happened, she knew, more frequently than most people could ever imagine…or would ever want to imagine.

This is getting to be too much, she told herself in a weak voice. Then a shadow fell over her and she nearly cried out. Glancing up, she saw Eric Chambers hovering over her. He watched her from behind his sleepy brown eyes and though he appeared to be the embodiment of the plate-headed Neanderthal, Marla thought of him as both sweet and handsome. Like just about everyone else in the gym, he was captivated by Islena. When he spoke, his voice echoed that sentiment. Is Islena going to be all right, Marla?

She's going to be fine, Marla assured him. Eric greeted the news with a broad grin. Together, he and Marla turned and walked back to the common area.

6

After Marla had gone, Islena rose and crossed the room to switch off the lights. In the ensuing darkness, she found her way back to the sofa and lay down, grateful for the respite from the disquieting, inexplicable visions. Almost immediately she could feel her body drifting into the void of sleep. ‘What a strange day…first a…a vision and now a date with a soothsayer. What next, wizards and demons?’ She had intended the thought to have been flippant, but instead it resonated through her dreams like a harbinger of some great and terrible prophecy. She carried the image of that smile and those hauntingly familiar blue eyes down into the sea of sleep.

Chapter Two

His fingers trembled and the pen slipped, sending black ink spewing over the Mylar. He threw the pen down in disgust, having been plagued by uncharacteristic clumsiness all morning. Try as he might, he couldn't focus his concentration upon his work as his mind strayed back to the morning's conversation, inexorably drawn back to her dismal final words; Should it turn out that there’s no compromise to be had…then we can deal with that like the mature, intelligent adults we should both be.

Those words lanced his heart and yet, she had spoken them with such ostensible ease, as though she had been discussing some mundane triviality. It frightened him and infuriated him at the same time.

‘Goddamnit, but that's how life is, isn't it? You give a woman everything, believe that you know and understand her and one day you find yourself confronted by a complete, even hostile stranger.’ He stopped. Self-pity aside, it really wasn't as simple as that. Ben stood before the harsh judgment of the bathroom mirror each and every morning. There, he came face to face with a man who he barely recognized. Islena had been painfully accurate in delivering that particular barb. He had let himself run to fat, almost in counter-reaction to her exquisite beauty. Without being aware of it, he had come to resent his own wife and despise her meticulous, perfectionist's nature. It hurt him to think that he was so petty as to let himself decay expressly to spite his own wife.

He carefully placed the erasing shield over the line and removed the spreading blotch of ink. This done, he willed his mind back to the McCambridge project. He had risen to the level of junior partner in one of Seattle's largest Architectural firms, Johnson and Nasion. This had been his first major assignment since that promotion and the pressure to justify the faith that the senior partners had placed in him was intense.

He correctly surmised that this pressure had been instrumental in provoking his explosion at Islena's intention to resume competition. Her timing couldn't have been worse. He had supported her through her career and now he needed her to reciprocate. Instead, she intended to resume the all-consuming drive toward her own aspiration. Was she really so self-centered as to be totally oblivious as to how this decision would impact on their marriage…on him? He had never doubted that Islena was constructed of sterner stuff than he…that she possessed a mettle that he could never possibly match. She seemed either unwilling or unable to make accommodations for the fact that others could not always match her strength or her drive and that inflexible disdain for the alienation that had grown between them.

Ben had been long since disabused of the notion that he could match Islena's personal power. In her shadow, he had grown bitter and resentful and Islena, in her pursuit of perfection, was oblivious to his discontentment.

‘But is it really her fault, Ben?’ his relentless tormentor demanded. ‘Maybe not, but shouldn't she still be there for me when I need her?’ Ben thought that she should.

Grimly, he saw that it had come to this…two people who were nothing more than alienated strangers after nearly ten years of marriage and could no longer ignore that painful and inconvenient truth. The two people who had nearly come to blows last night bore only a passing resemblance to the people that they had once been. All of this reflection came down to one salient question…did they still love each other? He couldn't speak for her, but Ben found that he did still love his wife. Sadly, that love had been corrupted by other less admirable emotions such as resentment and even envy.

He was drawn back to the nights of her first bodybuilding triumph. When she had been declared the winner and her hand had been raised in victory, he had shared her elation as though they were the same person. She had kissed her competitors and with tears streaming down her cheeks, had jumped off of the stage and ran to Ben. He was reminded of the feel of her powerful body as she had leapt into his arms. The highlighting oil had ruined his suit, but he had kept it in commemoration of her first victory. He had loved her then and she had loved him. They had celebrated in a local bakery shop and then had made love for hours, at last falling asleep in each others arms. The world had been theirs for the taking and the future was full of promise. That promise had proven to be hollow and the future appeared as bleak as November flowers desiccating on a tombstone.

Ben replaced the pen in its holder and dropped his head to his hands, struggling to come to terms with this catastrophic implosion that had overwhelmed his life. All of those years, surely they had to count for something? Was it possible to piss everything away so frivolously? He understood that, if he wished to salvage his marriage, the burden of change and concession would fall primarily on his shoulders. If she could allow some minor concessions then perhaps there was a glimmer of hope and it was not unreasonable to believe that he might be able to redeem some of his self-respect in the process. Last night's eruption may have been the one