THE WARRIOR POET
Chapter 1 - The Visitor
Portland, Oregon — Modern day
NEVE
A falling sensation and a soft squealing noise jolted me from a vivid daydream. I glanced up in time to see the glass door of the bus fold closed before the metal beast hissed and lurched forward. Through the window, fogged on the inside and rain-spattered out, I watched my stop recede into the trademark Northwest gray.
Not again.
More and more, my daydreams were nudging me out of reality. And not just the dreams, but the strange compulsion I felt to get them down on paper.
Of course, reality was relative. As both an artist and a bookstore employee, you could say I made my living from unreality. But the daydreams of the last few weeks—daymares, most of them—were something new, and they had begun to trouble me. They waited for quiet moments to ambush me—brushing my teeth, sipping my morning half-decaf, riding to work.
I got off the bus at the next stop and sank onto the covered bench, looking at the notebook I’d been clutching as I missed my stop. I opened to the newest page—the frantically scribbled lines didn’t even look like my handwriting.
By the light of the triumphal fire, I can see myself reflected in my enemy's dead-dark eyes. Hair the color of summer wheat fans out in a corona around my face. Blood streams from a gash across my forehead, stinging my eyes and marring my vision.
My love lies dead beside me. The beasts have clasped our hands together in mockery of our union, yet I am grateful for this gift.
My enemy's slow grin looses a drop of saliva, and it splatters onto my cheek. His low growl of pleasure vibrates in my chest.
We are finished. Our people are finished.
“Darkness shall swallow you all,” hisses my enemy, as if completing my thought.
“Shall not.” Ignoring the fangs and talons inches from my face, I turn my head—my love yet lives! His beauty has been defiled by the weapons of our enemies, but his eyes smile.
My heart sings, though I know there are only moments left to us, and my tears stream freely. I feel his breath as he whispers again, “Shall not.”
His fingers press my hand as our enemy’s blood-slicked sword descends. In the moment before our last, I hear the call of Borabu, the horn of the Fianna.
My heart thumped heavily. I fought an urge to rip out the page and toss it into the trash bin beside the bench. How could I have written such a thing—not ten minutes ago—and have no memory of it?
I drew the tip of my finger over the final word, smearing the graphite of the soft pencil. Fianna. That, at least, was a clue. A proper noun that might be a real thing.
I slapped the notebook closed, but my gaze caught on the cover. I’d embellished it with drawings, refrigerator poetry tiles, and polished fragments of mirror glass. The eyes that looked back at me from those glinting slivers seemed to know something I didn’t.
Get a grip, Neve.
Stowing the notebook in my shoulder bag, I rose from the bench. The rain had stopped and the walk back to my neighborhood would do me good. On the way, I could collect materials—a nice, tactile activity to reground myself in reality.
Until I reached the art supply shop my haul was pretty thin—the metal spring from a ballpoint pen, a swatch of purple rubber from a popped balloon, and a discarded popsicle stick, stained red except for the inch that a child’s fingers had held. I pinched the bare wood, imagining that I was sealing in whatever essence of the child might remain. It wasn’t something I believed in so much as felt. And the image of a curly-headed boy that rose to mind . . . I wasn’t sure whether that was fact or figment.
Inert as the other two items now were, they still possessed a kinetic quality: the purple rubber, shrapnel from a recent explosion, and the spring, the mechanism that allowed the pen to open and close. Balloons were linked to celebrations. Pens to literature and learning. It was because of these connections the items were more than trash to me, regardless of whether they’d ever make it into one of my art projects.
Sometimes I felt like an over-educated magpie.
The owner of the art supply shop had a goodie bag ready for me—scraps from the last week’s painting and collage classes. But that wasn’t what produced the find of the day. That I stepped on as I was leaving, in front of the shop window—a small plastic figure, a knight holding a sword and red shield. I dropped the toy into the pocket of my jacket and walked another block down Belmont before turning onto my street.
My apartment was on the top floor of a faded, funky, late-Victorian-era house that was quintessentially Portland. An enormous weeping willow served as guardian, dominating our yard and brushing the garage of the new construction next door. The gentle giant still groped blindly for its twin, which had been destroyed by the same fire that consumed the neighbor’s original house. In the twin’s place stood ornamental cherry trees, just as the home had been replaced by something sleek and energy-efficient—solar panels, rain collection, rooftop garden. Appealing in its clean lines and muted colors but lacking a soul. That wasn’t something you could install.
I had nothing against modern structures, except when they tore down buildings like mine to put them up. And, given time, they would grow a soul. Living left a mark. My boss’s modern Pearl District apartment, strewn with potted plants and piles of shells and stones she’d picked up on her trips to the Oregon coast, had a brightness and vitality mine could never have. Young, fresh energy, unjaded by time. No ghosts. No regrets. A lot like my boss.
I picked up my mail from the box downstairs and climbed to the third floor. Dumping my stuff by the front door, I creaked across the hardwood to the kitchen. As I opened the fridge for a can of seltzer, my gaze lingered on the artsy alchemy-themed label on the bottle of absinthe that Noah, my former roommate, had given me for my birthday a couple of months back—the same night I’d asked him to move out.
Cocktail o’clock, I decided. I eyeballed a shot measure into a wine glass, dosed it with simple syrup and a squeeze of fresh lime, and topped it off with seltzer and a couple of ice cubes.
Then I grabbed my notebook from my bag and headed out onto my tiny terrace. My beloved “porch” rocking chair had flaking powder-blue paint and was cranky in its rhythm. It reminded me of home—not this apartment, but home home—which I was always trying to forget. It wasn’t so much that I liked paradoxes as they seemed to like me.
I sank into the rocker and took a sip of my drink, enjoying the fizzy sensation in my nose and throat. Here was the notebook again, in my lap, when I had meant to give it the cold shoulder. It seemed to have become another of the things I was unsuccessfully trying to forget.
I touched the word “fire,” which I’d spelled with fridge-magnet letters and a wooden Scrabble F. The other words were elements too—earth, air, water. And I’d added drawings representing each. I loved making my own notebooks, and I’d decorated this one before knowing how I’d use it.
Opening the journal to the first page, I studied the charcoal sketch of my first daydream—or really more of an image that had come to me suddenly and then refused to go away until I got it down on paper. A man and woman knelt with their torsos and cheeks pressed together, like a figure against a mirror, their hands holding a bow and arrow that pointed skyward.
On the next page, using colored pencils, I’d sketched the face of a man. He had longish, wavy brown hair and a beard, and eyes a shade lighter than his hair. He was frowning. Or maybe just thinking. Next to this drawing was something I can’t easily explain. A sort of menacing shape moving off the page, but actually nothing more than a grayish smudge. In that spot I had sketched and erased something so many times I’d made a hole in the paper, and then outlined the hole with a pencil. I could see this was what I had done, but I had no memory of doing it.
Setting my drink down, I lightly touched the hole—and jumped. Somehow there was more threat in that absence of drawing than if it had been there.
I turned another page to find line upon line of cramped writing . . . every one the same.
The blood-slicked field was no bed for the body I had worshipped.
I shivered and touched my chest, feeling for the locket my mother had given me for my twelfth birthday—a locket I no longer wore. It had come from the gift shop where she’d worked for a while as an assistant manager, in the small town of Poteau, Oklahoma, where I’d grown up. Silver and heart-shaped, with embossed edges that I’d soon rubbed away, it enclosed a clipping of my mother’s hair. She told me it would protect me from the nightmares that had begun to plague me. Until now I hadn’t connected them with the daydreams, but the nightmares, too, had been violent.
The old wood of the rocking chair gave a protest like a cap gun going off as I got up. I carried the journal to my little book bindery, which was just a couple of tables set up beneath the living room windows. One table was a production space for the creations that actually helped pay the bills—the literature-themed “junk journals” I sold through Etsy. The other table was dedicated to the larger art book projects I submitted for gallery exhibitions and even occasionally sold.
My art and this space were sacred to me. Maybe they could help me understand the weird shit that was happening.
Maybe my subconscious was trying to give birth to a new project.
First, I folded eight signatures—smaller sets of pages that, when sewn together, made up the book. Half of the pages included a pocket, so I’d have a place to store any scraps and bits that were relevant to the subject of each two-page spread. I punched holes in the signature gutters and stitched them together with waxed linen cord.
My books were more about form than function, so I often left my bindings exposed. In this case I was making a dummy for an eventual book—I’d use it to plan out content and graphic placement. I loved the freedom of prototypes, made for no one but myself, and meant to contain flaws and rough content. I’d kept the prototypes of every art book project I’d worked on, so I never lost connection with my creations even if they were turned over to others. I was protective of them to the point of superstition—I kind of believed if anything happened to them, the end product would lose some of its impact. I was safeguarding the soul of the work.
After assembling the signatures, I dug through a box of interesting boards I’d collected over the years. Normally I’d use something plain and prefab for a dummy, maybe embellish it later, but it didn’t feel right for this. I took out two thin panels of reclaimed wood that each had some remaining strips of dark red paint. I had bored holes along one edge of the boards, and applied a sealant to keep the shabby chic perfection from wearing away—I didn’t let the irony bother me. There were creators who could make a living off of art that was supposed to break down over time, but I wasn’t one of them.
Positioning the signature spines so they were recessed about an inch and a half inside the spine edge of the covers, I used cardstock and glue to bind everything together. Then I stitched thicker red cord through the holes along the spine of the covers, adding beads and other objects from my bins of supplies as I worked. On impulse, I fished the knight figure out of my pocket and used fine linen thread to suspend it inside the recessed area. I carefully tucked and glued the thread behind the cord stitching so you would have to look closely to discover how it was held in place. Magic.
This ready receptacle made me feel safer. Like I had a chance of taking control of whatever was happening to me. I began removing pages from my notebook, using a knife to cut out drawings and blocks of text and slip them into the pockets of the dummy. On each page I jotted down ideas about the design and the materials I would need, or made a quick sketch.
Finally, realizing by the stickiness of my eyelids that I’d lost track of the time, I straightened and rubbed my low back, sore from so much hunching over. After a couple minutes of tidying my workspace, I went to bed.
But as I lay there, staring at the glowing green galaxy overhead—plastic stars that Noah and I had pressed into my ceiling one New Year’s Eve after splitting a bottle of cheap champagne—a strong urge came over me. Hopping out of bed, I went to the dresser and opened the carved box where I kept the few items of jewelry I owned. My fingers shook as I took out the locket, a little tarnished thing that felt cool on my palm. The day they called about my mother’s suicide—only a week after I left Poteau for Portland—I’d taken it off for good. How could a talisman from a woman afraid of her own life protect me? I’d been angry—I didn’t want a damn locket, I wanted my mom. I’d always just wanted my mom, but she’d been caught up in navigating the hellscape of her own mind.
A tidal wave of guilt slapped against me and I dropped the locket back in the box.
I can’t do this right now.
I lay awake for hours. Sometime before sunrise, I woke with my heart racing and skin clammy, my mind pelting me with a question.
What if it’s happening to me?
Schizophrenia could run in families. My mom’s doctor had assured me that my risk was only slightly higher than the average person, and I had worked hard to put it out of my mind. But these recent episodes had brought that anxiety back with a vengeance.
I sat up, pulling one of the blankets around my shoulders. Would Noah be up yet, I wondered?
Stupendously terrible idea.
My former roommate was also my former best friend. We worked together at the bookstore, and we’d shared the apartment for three years. All of it had ended on my birthday, when he’d told me he was in love with me. At the time it had felt like the ultimate betrayal, and I hadn’t spoken to him since he’d moved out.
Sighing, I threw off the covers and got up to make coffee.
I slapped at the light switch in the living room for a few seconds before I recalled the bulb was out, and then I fumbled for the floor lamp. With a click, light washed over the room—
And the stranger standing in the middle of it.
Stumbling back to the bedroom, I slammed the door behind me, its antique hinges voicing the scream that I had stifled.
But the doors in my apartment had no working locks. Holding onto the old brass knob, I glanced at the nightstand, cursing to discover that my phone wasn’t there. I must have left it on my work table.
My gaze shifted to the window. Three floors—no way.
“I’m calling the police!” I shouted.
I held my breath, waiting for a reply. My hammering heart was the only thing I could hear.
Closing my eyes, I pressed my forehead to the door, picturing the intruder—a man with dark hair who was wearing an extremely outdated suit, maybe a costume? Halloween was only a couple weeks away.
Then it dawned on me . . . He’s not really there. It was just another of the bizarre dreams. In a minute I’d scribble it down, forget the whole thing, and finally freak out when I came to and found it.
Groaning, I turned and pressed my back against the door and slid down to the floor. My throat tightened, and my gaze fell to the inside of my right wrist, where I’d gotten a fanciful Victorian clockface tattoo during my steampunk phase in art school. It read midnight, or noon, and was making me feel a little like Alice in Wonderland right now—which was not helpful.
“Lady?”
I launched to my feet. “I called 911! The police are coming!”
Then came a rustling noise, followed by indistinct muttering, and I looked around for something to shove in front of the door. There was nothing close enough.
“Do you hear me?” I demanded, searching instead for something to hit him with. The only thing in reach was an ankle boot. I grabbed it anyway.
“I do, lady,” the man replied. “I beg your pardon. I’m a stranger to your . . .” He paused a few seconds. “To your country. I have no intention of harming you, and I very much regret having frightened you.”
What the hell? He sounded like a Masterpiece Theatre historical drama. And Irish. Definitely Irish.
“What do you want?”
“I—I’m not entirely sure.” There was real confusion in his tone. “If you could be so good as to tell me where I am, I might be able to make a guess about why I’m here.”
Was he drunk? High? “This is the Belmont district.”
“The Belmont district of . . . ?”
“Of Portland.”
“And the year?”
No, no, no. I started to wonder whether someone was messing with me, or playing an elaborate prank. But who? Noah had been angry when he left, but he’d never do something like this.
“This is not funny,” I said.
Another pause. “Bear with me, if you will, lady.”
I shook my head, but replied, “It’s twenty—”
Then came a heavy thud. “Hello?” I called, straining for another sound that would give away his position. I pressed my body against the door. Had he knocked something over walking toward me? “Are you still there?”
Silence.
There was definitely something wrong with him—something I recognized. Whether the result of illness or substance abuse, he was deep in delusion. Though my mother’s delusions . . . they had been stream-of-consciousness, peppered with whimsy and full-on nonsense. Despite his old-fashioned way of speaking, the man in my living room sounded rational.
Or the man that had been in my living room. No doors had opened or closed, and no floorboards had creaked. Was he still there, waiting to pounce? Had he passed out?
Holding my breath, I turned the knob slowly and pushed the door open a crack.
I couldn’t see the spot where he’d been standing, so I pushed it open farther, wincing as the hinges made a popping sound.
Nothing. Raising my boot and taking a few steps into the living room, I glanced at the front door—it was closed. The south-facing windows were open to let in the cool evening air, but the screens had not been disturbed. I could see the small guest bathroom was empty, and checking the second bedroom, found nothing.
On my way to the kitchen, I noticed something on the floor in the middle of the living room—a piece of paper. There were often bits of paper around my apartment, but this one made the back of my neck tingle. I knelt, staring at it for a moment before picking it up.
I realized immediately that the crumpled sheet wasn’t something of mine. There were several paragraphs, and they’d been written with a nib pen. I had quite a few old-fashioned writing implements, mostly used for calligraphy, so that alone was nothing unusual. But the handwriting was barely legible cursive, and the paper looked expensive—not the kind I’d use to dash off a note.
It was hard to make out in the low light, so I dropped the boot and took the paper to the kitchen, flipping on the overhead.
How much time has passed in this barren cave of twilight consciousness? Would I have chosen this had I known [illegible]? Had I known I would wait like no other has waited, feeling the cold, keen edge of our separation? And when I wake, she will be lost to me. Even the memory of her [illegible]. I will be lost to myself.
Next there was a smeared section and I paused, struck by how similar in style this was to the stuff I’d been sleep-writing lately. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the difference in paper and handwriting, I would have assumed it was mine. I skipped down to the next lines that I could read.
And yet the alternative is cruel . . . Never again to feel the warm flesh that knit so perfectly with mine. Or kiss the silken lips that breathed purpose into my body. I count this loss greater than the loss of kin or country.
My hands shook as I set the paper on the counter.
I turned my back on it and started my morning ritual—grinding the beans, pressing the filter into the dripper, pouring boiling water over the grounds. I usually did this in a trancelike state, but this morning I was wide awake. I consciously focused on each step, giving myself some distance from the sequence of shocks.
When I finished, I dosed my cup heavily with cream and then drank the whole thing while staring at the paper.
As I set my cup in the sink, I also set aside the question of whether I was mentally ill. I was or I wasn’t. Freaking out about the possibility was wreaking havoc on my capacity for problem-solving. I closed my eyes and made myself a promise that should any thought of harming myself enter my head, I would go to a hospital.
So, presuming the man in my living room was real, could he be hanging around still? He’d seemed mostly harmless, and I had questions. Starting with why the hell he had broken into my apartment, obviously. But also, had he written those things, and if so, what did they mean?
Grabbing my phone, I went to the door and padded downstairs in my T-shirt and boxers. From the building’s porch, I peered up and down the street. The sky was gray with dawn, but the streetlamps were still on. The only person I saw was a neighbor on an early morning run with her dog. I found myself in a strange position—unsure whether to feel relieved about the disappearance of a home intruder. Should I call the police? Probably, but imagining the story I’d have to tell, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
As I headed back up to get ready for work, I considered calling in sick. At the same time, I felt like I needed to keep focusing on normal things. I showered, dressed, and ate breakfast. Read news headlines and scrolled my Instagram feed. Finally, I tucked the stranger’s note into the project dummy I’d made, stuck it in my bag, and hurried to catch the bus.