the Wakefield Doctrine

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Six Sentence Story.

It is hosted by Denise.

The rules: employing the week’s prompt word, write a story of six, (and only six), sentences. Post it to her site. Go to the other Sixes, read, enjoy and comment.

This week: the most recent episode from the Ian Devereaux story, ‘the Case of the Missing Fig Leaf’. (If this is your first exposure to our serial story, click on the title.)

Given the interval between installments, allow me to offer a recap, a ‘previously in our story’, if you will. Ian Devereaux has been hired by his friend, Dr. Leanne Thunberg, to find her ex-husband, Elias. An overly-respected academic, Elias Thunberg departed Radcliffe with little warning, leaving only a cryptic note, “I am on the verge of uncovering the truth about the First Woman. Soon the world will have an understanding and appreciation of the myth of Lilith; a portrait both academically-rigorous in perspective and insightful into the female psyche.”

This week’s prompt word:

GALLERY

[Eibigen Abby
Rüdesheim am Rhein, Germany]

 

“I won’t ask you again, who sent you?”

The dusty-wet smell of ancient stone pushed aside the other sensory cues like a sixth grader with a five-o’clock shadow and a hormone-induced chip on his shoulder; Elias Thunberg tried to gather clues to establish the ‘where’ in what is, arguably, the most fundamental question of Man, ‘Where am I?”

There was light, pervasive but anemic, floating rather than filling the space surrounding the metal chair; however, the most primitive lobe of his brain, so old it predated language, shrieked an alarm: the dark above him was solid, as expansive as it might feel, he was certain they were well below the surface of the earth.

Like the picture forming on an ancient black-and-white television, a woman stood facing him, her back to a low stone railing running from one wall to the other, suggesting he was on the platform of a gallery, beyond, (and below), which, the dim light sank into a silent death; leaning towards Elias she whispered, “I’m the only one who thinks you’re worth…taking time on; so let me make this easy with a single question, ‘Are you going to ask about the girl?”

“What girl?”

Behind, (and below), his interrogator, came a sound that was a mix of a sigh and a curse; now standing closely enough to see individual eyelashes, the woman hardened with a reluctant straightening of joints and sinew; Dr. Elias Thunberg knew with mortal certainty his next words would define the remainder of his life.

https://youtu.be/r40JYlX0Ydw

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

It is hosted by Denise.

It suggests you write a story consisting of precisely six sentences, and involves the week’s prompt word.

This week’s Six is (a) continuation of the, ‘the Whitechapel Interlude’, in the Order of Lilith series.  If you click on the link (under the Whitechapel Interlude) you can read the chapters to bring us to today’s Interlude.

Prompt word:

Twist

‘Anselm, if you’ve messed this up you might as well keep walking, the Reverend Mother is not fond of failure,’ I no longer saw the man I was assigned to follow, even as the stone-and-iron dragon that was the new St. Pancras Hotel reared its gothic head two blocks away; fear sparked panic, my body paid the price, and twisting my neck like a giraffe afflicted with Tourettes, I frantically scanned the early-evening crowd filling the sidewalks.

I got no more than a half block back towards St Paul’s cathedral when I saw Brother Abbot, he appeared to be holding a woman in an embrace more restraint than support; fortunately, even the sight of what could only be my mentor’s doppelgänge had a calming effect and I turned in time to see my quarry ascend the stairs to hotel’s entrance; the lobby was so full of light that, as the doors were held open, I could clearly see his face; handsome, intelligent and barely able to contain an ambition that made his eyes outshine the brightest lights in the grand lobby.

As I approached, a memory, from my first days in the Order, of a large room containing five chairs in a circle, six young men and women and Brother Abbot holding a lute; he spoke without preamble from the furthest corner, “In our Order we hold, ‘To each according to their talent, for all the responsibility to grow and develop,’ whereupon he began to play, ‘Ring Around the Rosie’ and said, in a loud whisper, “When the music stops, claim your place.”

Moving around the perimeter of empty chairs, I saw the personal rhythms of the others take control of their bodies and somehow knew when Brother Abbot would stop playing and when that happened, everyone sat, except for one young man, there being one less chair than bodies; we all stared the boy, as his shoulders slumped, imparting both motion and direction towards the door.

“Ring around a….” the notes brought my attention back to the room where, somehow, there were now only four chairs and, once again we began our dreadful orbit; without conscious thought, I knew the girl behind me would be the next left standing; the music stopped exactly when I knew it would and, even as my body sought the security of a chair, I rose with a nod towards her, and she smiled, not so much at me as something within, and remained standing before the single remaining empty chair.

“Thank you,” Brother Abbot’s voice conveyed the confident pleasure of a person experiencing a belief confirmed, and, looking at the two of us, said, “Welcome to the Order of Lilith.”