Volume VI: And Introducing Harley Morrow As - Herself

33. The Project

        Assignment: Find the Timeless Martyrs Cycle.

        Where? How?

        Good questions. I’ll get back to you on that.

        Slow down. Explain. What is the Timeless Martyrs Cycle?

        The Timeless Martyrs Cycle is a collection of stories, five volumes to be specific. It spans three decades, generations upon generations of stories, fictions and delusion. The stories, all together, have about...just shy of two-dozen different authors. It spans the lives and deaths of about 70 individuals, give or take. It is the holy grail. It is all the legends put together, in comprehensible format. Now and forever. Always and never. It is everything.

        The Timeless Martyrs Cycle is the greatest legend of all. The ongoing fairy tale. But there are pieces that don’t add up. There are selections missing. There are fragments that prove its existence. Mr. Draven Riddle for one. Pandora, for another. Vagrant...the list goes on and on. The elders - the ones who predate the circus. They were there. They knew. They were raised with the truth. We, the rest, the new, the young - we were sheltered. After the ensuing madness, it was decided that the truth would die and be buried. Until now.

        As the advice goes - you can’t kill something that doesn’t want to die, and you can kill a man but you can’t kill an idea. As long as there are people around to believe in it, it will live on. And with this, there was an entire generation. An entire clan, so to speak. And there always

would be. These were stories that had become so distorted in the telling and retelling that the only way to make amends was to start fresh.

        I got to New Paltz in record time, my life on my back. I got off the bus haphazardly, squaring my shoulders to take the burden. There was a figure all in black, a long trench-coat hiding most of his frame, leaning against a side of the building. He was smoking idly - what was it with these people and the dramatics? He pushed away from the wall with his elbows and sauntered over to me. I had my guitar and a small bag of clothes, which he reached out and took from me without a word. I fell in step behind him blindly.

         “I take it you’re Saint.”

        “Mr. Crowe,” he muttered.

         “What?”

         “The name, it freaks most people out. You can call me Crowe if it makes you feel any better. I don’t really care either way. Come on, my car’s over here.”

        “But I have a ticket? I have an appointment to catch.”

        He turned around to face me, pulling the smoke from his mouth. “Yeah? You’ve caught it, kid. Or it caught you. However you want to see it.” And he kept walking.

        “I don’t get it?”

        “You wouldn’t. I’ll explain later. For right now, we need to get the hell out of here.”

        And we walked on in silence. I threw my stuff in the trunk and slid in the passenger seat next to my cheery compatriot. We were on the road for an hour before he said anything at all to me. I was shaken from my world of daydreams when his voice sounded.

        “The ticket was a cover. If anybody figured anything out, you were leaving from New Paltz to...wherever the ticket says. In case you were stopped. And you were visiting family up in that direction or you were sent on vacation - whatever cover story came to mind. It was a just in case. Okay? With me so far?”