Page 66 of Chasing Eternity
A surprising link begins to form in my mind. This Giulia Farnese is a relation of the Giulia Farnese, known as La Bella, who was the mistress of the Borgia Pope. And strangely enough, I recently dined with the Pope’s son Cesare in Renaissance Italy.
Everything is connected,my dad’s words echo in my head.
Passing several sculptures and temples representing enormous mythological creatures, monstrous animals, mythical subjects, and enigmatic figures, all carved from bedrock, we pause before the most famous of them all: the gaping mouth of the Orcus, bearing the inscription:Ogni Pensiero Vola, which translates to: Every Thought Flies.
It reminds me a lot of the inscription on the plaque fronting Gray Wolf:Panta Rhei, or Everything Flows.
As I stand before it, chills prickle my skin, though the weather is only partly to blame. This park, with its remarkable collection of statues, was designed to astound—and it definitely succeeds. The creased brow, vacant hollow eyes, and gaping mouth of the Orcus is the perfect expression of grief.
As my gaze wanders, taking in the wide assortment of statues from the mythical to the mystical, it becomes clear each one carries its own message.
The Orcus Mouth, also known as The Mouth of Hell, represents the Roman god of the underworld.
The Tortoise with a Winged Woman contrasts the slow march of time against the fleeting passage of life.
The Dragon Fighting with Lions symbolizes the eternal battle between good and evil.
The Leaning House with its deliberate tilt serves as a metaphor for the disorienting impact of grief.
And on it goes, encompassing over twenty sculptures in all.
In Italy, the statues are embedded in a lush, natural landscape. But here on this barren island, they seem to emerge seamlessly from the rock, as if sprung from nature itself.
“I know it’s not the real one,” I say, “but that doesn’t make it any less powerful.” My eyes sting, and my cheeks are flushed and wet, though it’s not entirely due to the rain.
In the midst of this garden, it suddenly becomes clear Freya was right—Arthur Blackstone did love someone, and according to this place, he must’ve lost them as well.
It’s a grief that feels hauntingly familiar, mirroring the heartache I bear for my father’s death—a loss that can be traced straight back to Arthur.
How many others will suffer because Arthur has yet to find a healthier way to deal with his anguish?
Turning to Braxton, I’m overcome with the sudden urge to kiss him. Not like the first time, because while that was nice, wonderful even, it was a bit too tentative for what I have in mind. No, this time when I kiss Braxton, it’s like the second time, the third time, and all the other glorious kisses we’ve shared combined into one. Drawing away, I peer into his bottomless blue gaze.
“What brought that on?” he asks, his hand gently caressing my rain-soaked cheek. “Not that I mind, of course. Just wondering.”
“I’m not sure,” I admit, still a little breathless from the kiss. “Part of it’s this place—this monument to grief. And part of it’s because I was worried when you didn’t reply to my text.”
“Sorry,” he says. “I left my slab back in my room when I met with Oliver, Finn, and Keane. Looks like we have a team, by the way.” He grins. Then, directing his gaze back to the statues, he adds, “So tell me, why are we here?”
“This place,” I say, voice holding a gravity that claims his full attention, “is going to lead us straight to Arthur’s weakness.”
33
We take cover beneath the colossal, gaping jaws of the Orcus.
Wringing the water from my hair, I move to the center of what I now see as the physical manifestation of both Orsini’s historic sorrow and Arthur’s enduring grief.
“Arthur is a collector, a curator,” I begin, struggling to put my intuition into words. “But despite all his money and power, there’s one thing he can never buy—” I turn to face Braxton. “Love. He can’t buy love,” I repeat. “Or at least not the real kind. That’s what the Monster Garden is about—a grand ode to a great love once found and then tragically lost.”
Braxton nods, encouraging me to continue.
“But it goes even deeper,” I say. “Arthur isn’t merely a collector. He’s a true connoisseur. His pursuit of beauty isn’t just a passion—it’s an obsession. He’s poured all his money and energy into constructing this world where he’s surrounded by it, immersed in it, like a balm for his deep-seated heartache. But while Arthur may be a world-class collector. He’s not a creator. He can’t paint like da Vinci, can’t sculpt like Michelangelo, can’t compose like Beethoven or Mozart. Despite his so-called unsurpassed vision, he lacks the talent to create on the level of the masters he reveres. Can you imagine how badly that must sting for someone like him—someone who’s never satisfied with anything short of perfection?”
Braxton’s eyes widen, caught up in the story I weave.
“To him, society is a herd of lemmings, hurtling toward mediocrity, content to feast on the mundane. After ushering life-changing technology into the world, believing it would expand our horizons, he’s left to watch in dismay as it becomes a tool of isolation and division. It spreads harmful images and fills our heads with so much false and conflicting information, we can no longer distinguish truths from lies. Despite his impact, he’s haunted by the world’s inevitable sorrows—tragedy, death, and grief—all things he can neither control nor change. But, by restoring the Antikythera Mechanism, he believes he’s found a way to rectify these wrongs. He’s disillusioned with the divine—convinced that God, the universe, whoever’s in charge, has let humanity down. In Arthur’s mind, he possesses a superior understanding of what humankind truly needs. The mural over his desk makes it clear he thinks he can do better.”
Braxton’s gaze holds steady on mine. “The Creation of Adam,” he whispers, affirming the gravity of our conversation.