GEIST: PRELUDE

CHAPTER TWO

When class ended, Victor walked down the arboretum road back to the dormitories. The fog was thicker now, soupy and somber, obscuring the way forward. Before long, he sat down by that cathedral. He hadn't put the Moon Arcana back in the box yet, holding it close, as if trying to find some rationality behind the esoteric. Making sense of this was impossible. He slipped the card into its deck, moving on with faux urgency.

Brilliant, but lazy.

Those words described him too well. Then it dawned on Victor—maybe there was more to life than misanthropy and elitism. He pushed it aside, like he did all inconvenient epiphanies, but the thought lingered. Victor was meant for greatness—he'd said it a thousand times over. But then, why was he here, amongst the squalor he so despised?

Maybe I'm not so different.

Regardless, he shuddered to think of himself as one cog in the machinations of humanity. He was as far from great as one could get, except in his dreams. Amongst the haze, all ambiance was unfamiliar, distortions of suburban noise, making him ponder who or what lay hidden, while beyond lay a weird light, that aria echoing still.

And yet, Victor felt something was off this time.

A wicked laugh echoed through the twilight as a phantom emerged from the mist, fresh out of medieval poetry, and not quite human. Whether angel or devil, he could not say.

What the hell is this...?

Victor took a step back, recognizing that laughter as his own. Indeed, he saw his own face in the figure's, only for it to morph into a venetian mask of silver.

"Dude, Victor!" a familiar voice called. "What are you up to?"

Victor snapped out of deep thought and spun around, seeing Charles Garner emerging from the mist. As a middle-aged hipster, his style was an acquired taste. He was dressed in a tie-dye tee under a deep green peacoat. Below his peace belt buckle and '70s Walkman were cowboy boots and denim jeans. His face was like Colonel Sanders with tea shades, grayish-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, utilitarian yet nonetheless "groovy."

"Weird weather, huh?" He looked about, adjusting his glasses with a sniff.

Victor said nothing—he was not in the mood. He took one last look at the cathedral. He saw nothing else, but remembered the Opera House and those warning words.

Charles looked concerned. "You all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit." Charles rolled his eyes. "You look like someone ran over your puppy."

Victor stared into the groves, still pondering the nature of this predicament.

"What're you looking at?" Charles joined in the staring. "What's up?"

Victor tried to formulate his thoughts into words, but his attempts fell utterly flat. "I'm not sure I can explain it," he began. "You know how I meditate sometimes, right?"

"Yeah, I knew a few Buddhists way back who did that."

"What would you say if I told you that—when I do, really deeply, I see things."

"Uh...." Charles ran his fingers through his hair. "What do you see, man?"

Victor showed Charles his symphonic sketches. "Can you sight read?"

"Fuck, man," he scoffed. "You know I barely played piano."

"Right, right...sorry." Victor cleared his throat and sung the overture, but by the look on Charles's face, it sounded better on paper. "Anyway, it's based on my dreamscape—"