Ivkovich/The Turin Effect 1

Ivkovich/The Turin Effect 1

Larry Ivkovich4800words

2035 Ewings Mill Road

Coraopolis, PA 15108

412-262-01958

THE TURIN EFFECT

It was the eyes that chilled him to the bone. As if glowing from some inner fire, they returned his awestruck gaze, radiating a lookboth tormented and haunted.

“Dio nel cielo,”Antonio Bucattiwhispered. God in heaven.

Unnerved, he stepped back from the large tapestry and its startling image--a woman, life-sized and naked, the left arm crossed at her breasts, the other partly outstretched with the hand spread wide as if trying to hold something at bay. The right leg was bent at the knee and raised slightly to waist-level. Her mouth was partially open in what? Shock? Agony?Fear? She looked to be of Asian descent (Chinese perhaps?), with long hair spread about her head and shoulders.

But the eyes seemed so... so real.

Faded white and grey on a darker bluebackground, the woman’s slender form looked as if it had been woven just at the moment of death, just as she drew her last breath.

Antonio’s heart pounded in his chest; sweat beaded on his forehead. In all his years as an artist and sometimes collector, he had never seen anything quite like this. What incredible technique! he thought for the thousandth time. And then aloud, as if the sound of his own voice would somehow make the question more answerable, “How was this done sorealistically?”

He had carefully spread the tapestry on a clean sheet he had lain on the wooden floor of his loft apartment.Somehow the position of the tapestry’s subject warranted this action--the woman appeared to be lying down, was she not? Viewing the work seemed more natural this way. It wasas if Antonio had come upon her in reality and stood over her dying body.

Pushing aside that morbid thought, he stepped back and ran his hands over his face. He was tired yet exhilarated. He had been up most of the night and still wore the T-shirt and jean shorts he had put on the day before. Ever since finding and purchasing the tapestry at an estate sale in Padua three days ago, he had become fixated on the piece. The seller, an old woman, seemed almost eager to part with it--to let him have the tapestry for next to nothing despite the objections of one of herfamily members who was present.

Screw the greedy bastardo, he thought. And that old fool of a hag. Their loss is my gain.With a shake of his head, he pulled himself away and went to one of his studio’s open windows.

Picking up a half-filled coffee cup from the ledge, Antonio leaned out of the fourth story window and took a deep breath. The airwas cool this morning withan accompanying breeze but he knew it would heat up later, allowing the stench of dirty water, dead fish and garbage to become almost stifling this time of year.

But at this hour, the Grand Canal of Venice sparkled in the early morning sunlight. Vaporettos, gondolas, water-taxis and traghettos already dotted the canal’s surface, hauling goods and passengers. On the opposite side of Venice’s main waterway, palazzosand fondaco houses rose up like filigreedmonoliths, casting blocky shadows over the canal. In the distance, the dome of the Basilica de San Marcoshone like an earthbound star; its architectural companion, theCampanile, jutted upward like a giant finger pointing toward the heavens.The ever-sounding bells of the city’s myriad churches surrounded him with their soft, rolling tintinnabulation. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Draining his cup, Antonio turned back to the interior of his studio. It wasn’t much; he’d only been in Venice for a month and still hadn’t unpacked all of his supplies. He had been too anxious and excited to just get to work.

Boxes, both open and not, lined one brick wall. His sleeping bag lay curled up in a corner like some giant caterpillar. Two of his easels had been set up, complete with canvases, and his oil paints, thinners and brushes unpacked. His laptop stood lonely watch on the card table he had bought upon arriving.

No, not much at all, but if Antonio was to play the “starving artist,” then this was a good beginning. He had used most of his savings and what meager incomehad been left from his investments to get here and rent a loft apartment that even the residents of Venice themselves couldn’t afford.

For inspiration, he had convinced himself, for one last ditch effort at being a real artists before he turned forty next year. To live above the Grand Canal--he’d given himself six months before his money ran completely out. If he couldn’t start producing and selling his art in quantity in that time, something he’d always dreamed about...

Well, he told himself that he would deal with that if it happened. If.

And, so far, his plan had been working; he had painted nonstop, pumped, his energy level higheven as he slept and ate little.What few friends he had, his family, his unimaginative coworkers, his girlfriend (now ex-girlfriend, he knew and good riddance!)--all had tried to talk him out of this “sabbatical” of his. To hell with them! What did they know of art and adventure? He would prove how wrong they all were!

He knew he had done the right thing. Already he had finished two canvases and was working on two more. His sketchbook was filling up rapidly--the streets, architecture, markets and campos of Venice were a veritable treasure house of subjects for his work! He had already made some contacts in the local arts community and his confidence was soaring.

And then he had found the tapestry and all work had stopped. He had traveled to the estate sale to see if he could find any deals on furniture but, instead, made only one purchase.

As expressed in the lexicon of the art world, the work “spoke to him.” He felt drawn to it in some inexplicable fashion. It was a mystery whose secrets he had to unravel.

Walking across the wooden floor, he rummaged through one of the boxes until he found a magnifying glass. He walked back over to where the object of his obsession lay.

The tapestry itself was about six feet longand a little over four feet wide. Kneeling down on one side of it, Antonio could examine the work without touching it. He placed the glass over the woman’s face, trying to avoid those eyes as much as possible.

Amazing, he thought. The laugh lines, the pores in her skin. All are captured as if in a photograph. How was this done?What type of loom did the artist use? I can barely see the stitching.It was as if the weft threads, those that completely covered the vertical warp threaded framework and held the piece’s motif, had been painted on rather than woven. But that didn’t seem right either. He tore his gaze away to let his eyes roam over the entirety of the work.

Parts of it, especially around the edges, looked charred, as if burned. Still, he could see the material wasn’t wool, that much was evident. Linen, perhaps? Yes, yes, that type of cloth had also been used for such work, he had found through his online research. But when was that? 1400s? 1500s? The cloth was soft and thin--silk perhaps? Not the typical tapestry. What then?

He leaned back on his heels. Why did he suspect this piece was old, very old and unique? Something fluttered in the back of his mind, some thought, some secret, hiddenmemory.

He bent down to look again and...

...there was a sigh, whispery soft but just... there. He felt a lightfeather of breath touch his face.

Startled, Antoniojerked and fell backwards...

#

Daiyu moved quickly through the narrow, darkenedalley. Pulling her cloak tightly about her slender body, her breath catching in her throat, she forced herself to run faster.Only moonglowand the occasional torch inset in the stone walls illuminated her way with dancing, checkered light.

Any late-night, wandering umano would only have noticed a passing rush of air, a faint odor of jasmine, perhaps a movement from the corner of their eyes. The air was cold this autumnal eve, and even through the warm cloak Daiyu wore,she shivered from something other than the time of the season.

The Maghi and their creatures pursued her. If she was caught, they would show no mercy. She had defied and betrayed them and been found out. Despite the magical abilities she herself possessed, she would be helpless before their combined power.

Her only hope wasMarcello waiting for her at the lagoon’s hidden quay. Their small boat was ready; together they would escape the fate that awaited them both. Together they would warn those outside Venezia of the threat the Maghi posed and the great evil they presided over.

But as she stepped into the small campo, the tiled squareshimmering softly by the light of the moon, she realized she was too late.

The air suddenly felt somehow... lighter.Her skin tingled, the hair on the back of her neck rose.Outside the boundaries of the campo, the fishermens’ stilt-huts, the clouds scudding across the night sky, the flicker of torches--all took on a blurred, unearthly aspect as if time itself had slowed.

Strade Trasversali--Crossroads, a place Between, one of Power and invisible to the umani whenever the Maghi so wished it. Daiyu had walked into a trap. She who had been the betrayer had now herself been betrayed.

Marcello. She knew without a doubt. What have you done?

As if in answer to her unspoken question, the shadows took shape, moving, coalescing as cloaked and masked figuresstepped into the campo like hooded spirits.They formed a circle of black to surroundDaiyu, the power radiating from them almost tangible as a physical blow. Like grotesque Carnivale revelers, the dark forms stood statue-like, the eyes behind the masks they wore blazing with an angry light.

Too late Daiyu realized she had entered (perhaps been forced into?) the Jewish Ghetto. From sunset to dawn, those living here would be forbidden by law to be outside. There would be no one to help her or, at least, witness her fate. She would die alone and unnoticed.

One of the Maghi spoke, “Daiyu,” the male voice intoned, low and menacing. “Sister of the East. Our castaway from La Cina. Why have you rejected our teachings?” Daiyu felt a buzzing in her head; a strange sensation coursed through her body. “You are unique, different,” the voice continued. “We have always suspected that. Your eastern blood infuses you with a mysterious inner strength. We thought we could tame that strength.But no. You who have showed so much promise, have disappointed us greatly.”

Daiyudamped down her fear and fought against the encroaching unreality, using mental techniques taught to her by the Maghi when she had been an obedient and blind disciple. Ah, but it was more than that, she realized. The forces of the Cinesemo fa that had lain dormant within her for so long, those magical workings of her eastern heritage, were beginning to stir. “I follow my heart,” she answered, her own voice calm and steady. “My eyes have been opened. It is the Maghi who have disappointed.”

A hiss of disapproval sounded around her, a chorus of hatred that made her heart jump.

“Kill her.”

“Burn her.”

“Destroy her.”

The speaker broke the circle and approached Daiyu. She thought she knew who this one was, who they all were--tall, feral-seeming, exuding raw power. All wore the jeweled, beaked mask physicians covered their faces with to protect themselves from the plague. Though she had never been privileged enough to meet the Primi Signori, the First Lords, those who had formed the Maghi so long ago, she was certain this was who faced her now.

But was it that magical power, the magia and itsblood payment that had controlled and manipulated Venezia and its umani denizens for centuries, that was directed at Daiyu?

No. Instead, the First Lord struck Daiyu with the back of his long-nailed hand, vicously, brutally, like some umano thug. With a surprised cry, Daiyu’s head snapped back and she dropped to the pavement...

#

“Ugh!”

Antonio gasped, his eyes snapping open. He looked wildly to his left and right as he found himself flat on this back. What had just happened? Had he blacked out? Had he slept and dreamed? How long had he been out. What...?

Even now the hallucination or vision or whatever it had been was fading rapidly from his confused mind. Running his hand through his long, unkempt hair, Antonio got shakily to his feet. The tapestry lay before him, unchanged, unruffled. He strode to the window and looked out--the sun was still low in the sky; it was still morning.

He retrieved his cell phone from the card table and checked the time--10:30 am--only a few minutes from when he had... what? Lost consciousness? Entered some fantastic dreamscape?

He walked back to the front of the tapestry and stared at the face of the woman. She was there, he thought, a chill running up his back. I saw her!

He needed to take a bath and get some sleep, to look at this again with fresh eyes and a clear head. No! another voice shouted. He needed to roll this thing back up and get rid of it! He needed to get back to work and forget all about this! It was proving to be too much of a distraction.

But, as if beckoned, as if he had no will of his own, Antonio knelt back down by the tapestry again, his eyes devouring its wondrous image. No, not wondrous. Deserving. The bitch deserved her fate. “I know you,” he murmured, wondering where these sudden thoughts were coming from. “Don’t I?”

He forced himself to meet the woman’s anguished gaze. What was this? Something caught his attention then, something on that part of the tapestry he hadn’t noticed before. Antonio leaned in closer... there! There was something about the eyes, something he had missed.

Tears, he thought, again marveling at the sheer microscopic detail of the work. There seemed to be no differentiation in the weave between the tears and the face, no separation of the weft threading as if it was all one.The artist has made her cry.

A sudden thought came unbidden into his mind. His breath caught in his throat at the sheer absurdity of it. The Shroud of Turin, he wondered. Can... can this be something similar, only real? Can this image have been etched onto the tapestry from a living, breathing human being?

He laughed aloud at how ridiculous, how insane, that sounded. Only fools really believed such nonsense! The Shroud had been proven a fake, hadn’t it?What was he thinking? And yet...

Yes, yes, Antonio had some knowledge of the Shroud, the Protezione di Torino, and the many stories, theories and controversies that swirled around it.Who didn’t? He knew of no other objet d’artquite like it, real or fabricated. But this tapestry... could it be genuine? He needed to know. He needed to be sure.

He needed to stop mucking around! He’d take the tapestry to an expert, some antiquities dealer or collector who would know how to scientifically examine it.Surely, then, Antonio would be free of this strange, unnatural spell he found himself under. That would be the wise thing to do.

Marcello, the voice whispered in his ear, sighing, like a passing breeze, shattering any semblance of reason. I have finally found you.

Grimacing in sudden pain, Antonio pressed his hands to the sides of his head and, suddenly, he remembered--the buried past rushed back from its ancient grave as he knew who the woman on the tapestry was and who and what he, himself, had once been. Antonio Bucatti? No, no. Someone else... someone powerful and evil.

With a tormented cry, Antonio fell twitching on his side...

#

Daiyu groaned; there was a taste of blood in her mouth; her jaw ached. Her body shivered uncontrollably, curled up on some hard surface, her arms wrapped around her naked body.

She gasped as her eyes fluttered open. Yes, her clothes had been taken from her; her jewelry and the shoulder pouchthat contained her talismans and herbs were also gone. She felt like she had when the Maghi had found her twenty years before--washed up on shore, the only survivor of the wreck of a great Cinese trading ship. She was a youngling then,naked and alone, the rest of her family and the crew gone. All gone.