Chapter Two: Collapse

The sound of the bell was monsterous, shaking the tower. Edgar clasped his hands over his ears and screamed. Through the chaos he saw Gregory, sitting indifferently in the corner. Sipping the remnants of an old sack of wine, Gregory smiled at him, "So where were we."
Edgar shook his head, "I can see how the peasants at the monastary thought you were a monster." Edgar laughed, inciting a sneer from Rasputin. "I, of course, know you better. So, my old friend, what do you think is going to happen now."
Gregory threw his head back and laughed. "I should know you better, I'm sorry but it's hard." Raputin tilted his head back to finish off the rest of the sack. "What we do now is wait. This is not the first time that this has happened."
"I know," Cacye said falling to the floor, "I just figured that we could end things, this whole cycle. It will happen sooner or later, it's not like he is going to give up and remember what happened to the others."
"Yes, I know we have not escaped" Gregory whispered, the alcohol was clearly having some effect and now his slur was overtaking his usual competency for language. "But you can help us in that, my friend, you can see."
"I have tried before, but it all ends here, in Venice."
Rasputin grimaced, "Ah, but not here in the bell tower, you only saw the Carnival crowds, because that was our destiny. Now things are different. We may have been cast away by the creator but there is more before us than death." The monk moved from the stool and laid down next to Cayce. "See what you can see now. Where are we suppose to go."
"I can only speak for you, my destiny is tied to yours, now that we have failed..."
"Not failed, refused" Gregory corrected.
"You refused, I merely am protecting my life after you failed, many the Lord forgive me."
"Yes Lord, forgive him for not being a fool, forgive him for following a sinful, monsterous monk. Forgive him for refusing to begin the end times, forgive him..."
"Enough! I don't need to be patronized by you!" Cayce folded his hands across his chest, shut his eyes, and listened as the rythmic tick of the grand clock ground slower and slower until it finally stopped all together. The room tumbled in front of him, and he waited until everything came into focus. His body rested six feet below him, hands resting across it's chest. Next to him laid the body of the monk, glowing with an orange light. He willed his spirit out of the clock face and into the plaza below. The living had left it empty, save for a few merchants beginning to set out their wares. Spirits of the dead, however, were abundant, and noticing his form rushed up to him. This was frightening when he was a child. He often felt like he was being smothered by the souls of the dead. He learned to wait, letting them come up to him and cover him like maggots on a week old corpse. Then with one move he exploded with white light, blowing all of the spirits back down to the ground and across the countryside. As they fell they cursed him, or cried for him to have pity on them. He turned his back on them, they needed to find their own way, and so did he now.
Cayce's spirit raced over the ocean and spun down at fantastic speed to his anscestral home. Four years had past since he had last seen the place with his physical eyes, yet psychically he visited at least once or twice a week. Entering the decrepit shack, he saw what remained of his family. The dead children swaddled in a miasmic fabric of energy floated in invisible cradles, as his wife rushed from one to the other weeping. "What is wrong with them." She would look at him, her movements mechanically dictated to continue the task of looking after their children. She could never hear him. He had tried to talk to her millions of times since the death of her and their fourth son four years ago, she never heard. Her question always remained the same, "What is wrong with them?" He went around to each of the children, made the sign of the cross and kissed their pale foreheads. Finally he told his wife that he loved her as she screamed, "What is wrong with them?"

Sadly he looked at the state of the cabin. Termites had eaten through most of the timber and he knew that soon the entire east wall would give out. The fireplace was little more than a cairn of rocks propped up next to the house. Fortunately people avoided the house, believing it to be haunted. This scenerio had been encouraged by his disappearance into a tornado four years earlier. The local boys continued trading stories about the time that Cayce, distraught about the death of his wife and death of his fourth newborn boy walked out of the town and was sucked up into a tornado. In these kinds of stories ended either in humor or tragedy. Humolrously Cayce found himself blown all the way to Eden, walked with God and given as many wives and children that he ever wanted. Tragically, Edgar aligned himself with the devil and became the spirit of the tornado, looking to cast his wrath on all of those that flourish in life. Neither one was really true. Perhaps now he would have the chance to set the record straight.

He sat in the remnants of an old rocking chair that sat on the front porch and thought. "Will I be damned?" This same scenario had happened over twenty times since the death of Christ almost two thousand years ago. Men chosen to carry out the work outlined by St. John the Revelator, struggled against the world, the weight of the assignment, and the determination of God to make it happen. In every instance they had failed, and now they had failed to, leaving the misery of their purpose to some other poor soul in the future. The wind blew softly through the pine trees blanketing the quiet hollow where the house stood. Pounding through the quiet of the valley came the words of the monk, "What is the future of Gregory Rasputin the monk?"

Instantaneously Cacye was back floating above the prone form of Rasputin. Breathing deeply he dove into the monk's mouth. Gregory's life flashed before him. He saw his youth in Siberia, a life full of fear of his constantly drunk father. Cacye looked with pity as Gregory stood crying in front of his mother, drunk and naked took money from various men who visited her. He watched the boys conflict as his mother kissed his cheek before sending him down the path to collect anopther ball of opium from the mongolian traders in the square. He watched as Gregory knelt down before the golden madonna housed beneath the bright red cupola of the villages orthodox church, staring so intently on the mouth of the madonna that he eventually would fall into convulsions on the church floor, Foaming from the mouth the local priests thought that he was possessed and ordered him to be driven from the town. He ran as far as he could until collapsing in front of the Verkhoturye Monastary. Here the monks practiced a new form of Russian mysticism based on the doctrine of sinning to purge sin. The monk embraced the doctrine zealously, drinking and shamelessly womanizing throughout the country side. Throughout his life tragedy followed him, striking down anyone he got close to. His life was so different from Cayce's that he had a hard time interpreting the scenes that unfolded in front of him.

When Cacye awoke he found Rasputin pacing about the room. "What did I say. " Rasputin turned glowered toward the young man, "You said my death would kill a nation, at least that is what I can interpret... I guess that country would be Russia. I can do what I want now. The miseries will always follow me. You, my young friend may still have a chance at a normal life. We both know more about this world than anyone living at this point in history. These talents we have can be used for other purposes now. I will use them as I see fit, and I suggest that you do as well." Rasputin moved into the bell room, and ran his hand along the smooth brass bell. "First, of course, we need to get out of this city. Then I suggest we split up. Everythings broken, and it will take several generations to set up the correct prophecies. Go home I'll take hell with me." Edgar tried to get up but the floor collapsed underneath him. a roar of dust, brick and wood exploded above him and the mechanical heart of man broke on the Piazza San Marco, tossing out its gods.

A merchant helped Cayce to his feet, he picked splinters of wood and pieces of masonry out of his clothes and hair. The merchants were amazed that he was unhurt, shouting out praises to Saint Mark and slapping him on the back. A man ran to get a man from the newspaper as a dark woman with green eyes poured wine down his throat. Edgar watched as people gathered, slowly he noticed men in the throng whispering amongst themselves. He began to spot red fez's set with a golden crescent, dark men with thick mustaches, between them was the sharp glint of polished steel. Edgar's eyes widened and he tore himself from the women caring for him and sprinted across the Plaza, he kept running until he found a small inn. He dashed in closing the curtains of the windows that faced the Rio Orseolo. A lady chattered at him wildly behind his back. He dug into his pocket and thrusted a few crumpled lira notes at her. Slowly he relaxed, fell into a chair next to the door and asked the now beaming innkeeper for a glass of cold white wine. As she brought the glass she asked him if he knew what happened to the bell tower. He smiled at her and took a large drink of the wine. "Have you heard of the tower of Babel?" She nodded. "The same thing."