Meet in Meteora

Flash Fiction from the Vault.

Night’s dark embrace breaks. A sliver of light appears on the horizon. A rude finger of sandstone juts from the valley floor. The watcher rides on the wind.

Rafe Calder fixed his eyes upon the castle perched on the rock pillar. A fortress appeared to defy gravity, but Calder could not. Air whistled past, tugging at the folds of his wingsuit, and the earth dragged him downward; the fabric did its best to arrest his freefall.

The sun’s aura glowed behind the mountains, lighting distinctive features in the waxing twilight. A ruddy structure extending outwards. A colossal red sail, a canopy—rigged to shield it from the rising sun. These mosaic-masonry walls of the women’s quarter in this citadel of Meteora no longer served as a monastery. Centuries ago, reconstruction converted the sacred into a private residence, rescuing it from one kind of ruin only to let it descend into another.

At the last moment, Calder opened his parachute. Fabric billowed and snapped him back, reversing his descent—a backward lurch, but only for a heartbeat.

He hit the release buckle. The chute rippled away. He tumbled again—fast—into the red canvas sail. The material cushioned his fall. A knife plunged sideways, halting his progress. The near-horizontal mast carried him to the wall. He dangled over the chasm and swung—falling through an open window.

Entering under the veil, Calder navigated the labyrinth, pressing into the ancient heart of the former monastery. He paused, dropping his wingsuit. Cloaked in shadow and dressed in a tuxedo, he spied on the vast room. The party from the night before drew to a slow and late finish. Lonely figures danced around more bodies—people lounging amid smoke, empty bottles, and a litter of half-drunk glasses. Dim-coloured lights pulsed with the rhythmic music while traditional candles flickered.

Grey-haired Victor Karras stood in conversation. The other man pressed on the older man’s belly with professional concern; speaking in a matter-of-fact tone, Dr Henrik Stahl said,

“The issue is nothing more than puppy fat and can be easily remedied. Chemically, I have something for your trouble.”

Calder’s fist tightened. The intelligence that brought him here suggested the advice fell far short of genuine.

The bright morning sun punched through the high windows, lighting the chamber.

Dr Stahl left to find his bed. The unseen watcher followed. In a narrow staircase, Calder revealed himself.

“I think I am turned around?” He affected a drunken, sleepy slur. “My room is somewhere…”

The doctor offered his shoulder. “Let me help you.” He led the faker downward. About them, the air grew colder as the stairs descended into the rock, from daylight to deepening darkness, enveloping them like a shroud.

Dr Stahl’s voice, at first reassuring, took on a scalpel edge as they crossed the threshold into the caves.

“Who are you? I know you are not a guest—you are someone, not something else. How did you get here?”

“Not why?” Calder asked. A deft slide carried him away from under the other man.

The doctor reached for a switch to illuminate the windowless abyss, but Calder caught his hand. Now facing him, standing tall and very sober.

The balance shifted. As much as Stahl pulled, he could not move—held fast.

“You can’t take me?”

“Don’t worry,” Calder said, breaking a glass vial under the doctor’s nose. “I have the remedy. A chemical solution.”

As Dr Henrik Stahl slumped into his arms, Rafe Calder smiled.

“I have something for your trouble.”