Lacrima: Chapter One

Landfall

Job Bezalel stared at the email on his phone screen: “The King invites you to Lacrima.” It had all the trappings of the trash reserved for the spam folder, yet slipped through to his inbox. A promise too good to be true from a source too unlikely.

However unlikely, he believed it. Not without arguing with himself, having tossed the thought around his brain, and having tried to ignore it. Yet, there it was: the invitation. And here he was, riding on a boat to this much-rumored island. The water churned below him, as the large passenger schooner cut through a storm. Rain pelted the outside, coming through as muffled static.

His phone couldn’t connect to the internet anymore. Data also left him lacking. Job supposed he had no other choice but to look around. He slipped his phone into his khakis before surveying the people around him: six in total, counting him. Previously, the group of them convened at the location prescribed in the invitation: some shifty wharf on the outskirts shoreline between New York and New Jersey. Job only half-heard the scattered speaking before they boarded.

A few: “Is this the right place?”

A couple: “Did you get the same message?”

Maybe once or twice: “My name is…”

They were all in a spacious room. Blue cushioned seats lined the walls, to which each guest found their place.

Job kept himself back from the rest of them. He wanted to observe the waters before treading, as was his frequent habit. Now, he felt comfortable enough (or bored enough) to dive into the now-stiff silence. Right as he looked up, with immediacy, a suited man smiled. The gray-haired, pale gentleman didn’t speak, but leaned forward. Job could tell this man cared about his appearance. Not a hair strayed away from his slick-backed hairline. His mustache and beard looked hewn from steel. Finely tailored cuts and folds perfectly sat on his wide-shouldered form. As he leaned, a luxury watch peeked out from behind the sleeve.

“Don’t think I caught your name,” he called out to Job. He had a whisper of an Anglo-sphere accent, but Job couldn’t place it exactly.

“I didn’t give it yet. Job.”

The man cut from a Forbes catalogue rose sharply from his seat and walked over to him. He presented his hand: veiny and with a tangle of gray hairs on the back.

“Argus.”

Job stood up and accepted the hand with his own: olive-toned, shaved. “Nice to meet you.”

“That name,” Argus began. The handshake stayed firm. “It’s downright Old Testament.”

“More Ketuvim, if you asked someone from my community.”

“You’re Jewish, then?”

“Culturally, yes. I come from a Hasidic family.”

“Where are you from exactly?”

“Not far from where we started: New York City.”

“Fantastic!” The shake finally stopped. Argus’ hand let go and drifted to his side. “I myself grew up in Manhattan. After my family moved from London when I was wee.”

“Interesting,” Job said, not wholly impressed. “Suppose it makes sense that we get some locals on this trip.”

One of his trimmed eyebrows peaked. “Ah, I didn’t even think that. I assumed Esau just picked whoever he wanted.”

Esau Nebbel. The man behind Lacrima. Job didn’t need to do a lot of research on him. Everyone knew Esau, at least in passing. A British immigrant turned Silicon Valley debutante turned comfortable billionaire. His claim-to-fame was developing a suite of apps in the 2010s. But the prized jewel in that crown shined as Solo-mon. Pronounced distinctly not like the ancient king of Jerusalem, the app was an extremely sophisticated chatbot. It could search the internet, organize files, schedule dates, and “so, so much more.” When it first launched, forums and social media tried to find what it couldn’t do. Though it only took a week to find that Solo-mon couldn’t answer a lot of questions well, the public seized on it. Esau’s marketing division sold it as the ultimate digital assistant. People bought the hype, but - more importantly - so did the shareholders. Esau Nebbel became a household name and tech-world darling in a matter of a year.

And in a matter of another year, he disappeared.

“I’m sure that’s part of it,” Job admitted. “Though I’m sure the man also wants people to show up. If he sent out invitations to people too far afield, they might not be able to or want to show up.”

“Let’s test that hypothesis,” Argus said with a playful wink. He cleared his throat and turned to the closest person.

The woman didn’t bother looking up from her notebook. Her pencil judiciously etched words along the lines. Her hand operated more like a typewriter than a flesh-and-bone limb.

“Excuse me.”

Finally, the woman raised her head and pressed her thin-rectangular glasses up her nose. Her off hand patted back her finely curled hair. Earrings with gold geometric patterns hung from her lobes. She paired a black sports coat with a purple striped dress which fell down to her ankles.

“Yes.” Not a question. But a statement.

“My name is Argus. What’s yours?” Again, he presented a handshake.

“Catherine Lovelace.” Her eyes, first looking at his face, adjusted down to the open hand he gave. After a pause, she shook it. “I overheard your conversation. I’m from Philadelphia.”

“City of brotherly love!” he waxed. Argus turned to Job. “New York. New York. Pennsylvania. So far your theory holds, Job.”

Catherine’s still face scanned over to another passenger. She pointed with her pencil to the gangly fellow. “Konrad, you said you were from Macon, correct?”

“Macon, Georgia, yes.” The young man laughed awkwardly before standing up. His long legs unfurled to support him. At full, rail thin height, he stood head and shoulder above Argus - who in turn stood about a half a head above Job. If it weren’t for the wobbling step, Job would’ve pinned him as a runner or a basketball player. The young man continued a lilting chuckle and cracked a congenial grin as he slid his jittery hand towards Argus. “The name’s Konrad O’Flannery. Paranormal investigator. Pleased to meet your acquaintance.”

“Pleased to meet yours,” Argus echoed, anchoring the shake down with his casual strength. “And you even gave me your profession as a treat!”

“Oh, I feel I might as well tell you.” A glimmer came across his eyes, as he pointed to his multi-chambered backpack.

It looks more like he prepared to hike in the mountains for months than relax at Lacrima, Job mused.

“I have all my equipment here,” Konrad said. “Never leave the house without it.”

“You don’t seriously think you’ll meet ghosts on the island?” Argus asked, undercut with a glib barb.

“Esau hasn’t been seen in a decade,” he shrugged. “He could be dead.”

“I feel like that would’ve been figured out,” Job said. “Esau had friends and family. What? You think he just dropped off the face of the earth?”

“Isn’t that what happened?” Konrad rebuffed.

Job puckered his lips. “You have a point there.”

“I for one came for the mystery,” Konrad said, smoothing the fabric on his ‘Spookathon: Richmond, Virginia’ graphic tee. “And don’t tell me you didn’t.”

“You’ve got me there,” Job conceded.

“Esau never formally advertised Lacrima,” Argus piped up, stepping into the center. “We only have rumors from previous guests. Some called it a wonderland, others a therapist’s paradise…”

That’s what caught my attention, Job thought.

“... state-of-the-art facilities and an artificial intelligence that would make Solo-Mon look as archaic as an abacus!” Argus flourished his wingspan as he finished speaking. “Truly, we are pilgrims with our motivations of course, but with a single destination.”

“Okay, Argus,” Job said.

“No, continue.” A young brunette woman stood up from her seat. She pointed at Argus - the finger topped with a nail painted blue. “There are other stories about Lacrima as well.”

“Ah, there are more rumors than facts. That’s for sure,” Argus replied. He clasped her pointed fingers with both of his hands. “Who might you be, my dear?”

“Lucille Azure.” She played along, putting her other hand over the knot of fingers. “And you’re just Argus?”

“Just Argus.”

Her eyes, a tell-tale, ephemeral shade of blue that could drive someone to murder, flashed with thought. What exactly hid behind those orbs which drank in all of the man before was anyone’s guess. She had a brush of freckles on her face, soft strands of light brown hair which fell to her shoulders, and a playful smile.

As if taking the stage from him, Lucille pivoted away from him and walked up to Job. Her pleated skirt and wool cardigan flowed with her. That same all-absorbing attention now beamed onto him. A shiver went through him.

“Just Job?”

“Job Bezalel.”

Lucille paused, smiled, and turned towards Argus. “See. He has a last name. What’s yours?”

Argus, bemused, stood straight as a board. “You’ll get that in good time.”

Another inscrutable pause passed before Lucille spun out to the rest of the group. “There’s still one person that has herself yet.” She flourished her hand toward the last guest.

The unnamed woman looked surprised before beaming a pristine smile, as if she smiled for a living. She stood up and bowed ever-so-slightly. Her black bob swayed like drapes past her ears. She sported corduroys and a button-down shirt. Immediately, he noticed how the fabric tugged at her amplified arms and shoulders. This woman didn’t just exercise.

She worked out.

Argus approached her and robotically showed his hand once again. She responded: “My name is Bae Yuri.” Their hands met and arms tensed. Argus whistled as their hands flexed in the shake. In a brief second, the two exchanged greetings from one strong person to another. Bae unclasped from the shake and brought her hands together. “I’m from Seoul, but I now live in Norfolk. Virginia, that is.”

“Not too far.” Argus glanced at Lucille. “Miss Azure. You didn’t say where you’re from.”

“Warren, PA,” she gave a one-arm shrug.

Argus chuckled. “Job, old sport, I think you were onto something with that hypothesis of yours.”

“I like being right.” He managed a smile.

“Sure, now we know where everyone’s from,” Lucille dismissively said. “But Konrad started something that I want to continue.”

“I did?!” He sounded earnest.

“Yes!” Lucille clapped her hands. ”You mentioned you were a paranormal investigator. Alright, rapid-fire! Everyone, tell us what your job is or if you’re still in school. I’ll start: I’m a writer!”

She snapped her fingers, pointing to Job.

“Ah. Psychology student. Hopefully, a professor later on.”

“Ooo, interesting. We have to talk later. Catherine!” Again, snap and point.

“Software engineer,” she said without looking up.

“Makes sense. Are you interested in the house?”

“Didn’t you want to make this rapid-fire?” Catherine posed.

“Right. We can ask questions later.” With a spin, the finger-gun then aimed at Bae.

“Me? Oh, shoot. I guess you’d call me a model, but I also do content creation stuff. So, model,” she finished tersely.

“Cool! You!” Then, Lucille turned to Argus.

He nodded. “I daylight as an accountant.”

“I’ll have to ask you what you moonlight as later.” Lucille Azure dusted her hands off. “That’s everyone then because Konrad already said his.”

Just as she stopped, a digital tone chimed through the boat. Their transportation had since halted. A voice suffused into the room.

“Welcome, fine guests to Lacrima! We have arrived at the island. Please take all of your belongings with you. Also, grab an umbrella as you go off board. The weather forecast is rain, rain, and more rain. If you have any questions, simply ask for Service. That’s us. The King wishes his best for you.”

“Thank you, Service,” Lucille replied.

“You’re most welcome, Lucille,” the automated voice called back.

Catherine finally looked up, pressed her tongue to the inside of her cheek, and jotted something down. Everyone else collected their duffels, carriers, and packs as they departed the boat. Job kept back, pretending to fiddle with his luggage. He watched as Catherine slid all her possessions into her traveler’s tote and left. Zipping up his luggage, he set it to the floor and rolled it along with him.

An author, a paranormal investigator, a software engineer, a psych major, an accountant, and an influencer, he listed off. Odd crew. Then again. This is an odd trip. Who else would accept an invitation from a guy who hasn’t been seen in a decade besides a ragtag assemblage?

Lacrima was built as the ultimate getaway. The most secluded island in all the world, someone once told me offhand. A place of spiritual and mental healing.

He sighed. If that’s true, I could use some of that. If not, I want to see where Esau failed.

His attention briefly drifted to a door which presumably led to the captain’s cabin. Job hadn’t even heard or seen anything of their pilot. He knocked on the door to receive no response. His hand twisted the doorknob. Opening the door, he saw a steering wheel. And not much else. It didn’t even have a window for a pilot to look from.

He stepped back, surprised that all loaded onto a self-piloting boat without even noticing. Esau was a tech billionaire after all…

Job followed the advice of Service and grabbed a clear umbrella from a holder. As he stepped into the outside, sheets of rain fell down with a constant rhythm. It all came down at a sharp vertical with meager wind to tilt the rainfall. He opened the umbrella to shield against the storm. Breathfuls of fresh earth and water came into his nostrils. Rain rattled the dock, beaten, but still sturdy. The coastal waters warped from the millions of pinpricks hitting the surface. Curls of fog crawled at the wide stairs which ascended to the large mansion. Despite the heavy rain, the guests spent a while just looking at the marvel before them. The house stretched out as a multi-storyed, multi-winged complex. It looked like the intersection between a Greek villa, a gothic cathedral, and a sleek modern style house. The mansion was all, yet none. Drops of rainwater slid down the deep blue windows. While yes it was made of stone columns and walls, it was the wide, planes of glass which arrested their attention. Half of the mansion had to be glass.

The group exchanged grins, excited whispers, and laughs before they ascended into Lacrima’s mansion.