Cryptic Spaces

by Deen Ferrell

  “But what about the facility?” Willoughby said.

  “That’s a little more difficult to explain. In essence, the facility is transported here anew every 48.7 days. The old facility becomes a ghost and never existed.”

  H.S. was wheezing now, and motioned Willoughby to follow him back. He continued to try to talk as they were walking. They once again passed through the dark wall into the star-studded domed room. They passed out of the archway into the brightly lit corridor. “The jerk you felt when the hole activated was the force of being sucked through the porous skin of multiple branes or dimensions.”

  “That’s a pretty neat trick. I didn’t see any machinery or hardware at all in the room atop the Certus Grove.” They moved quickly toward the walled dead-end of the hallway. Willoughby felt his eyes watering at the sudden change from the dim, smoke-filled cavern where the electromagnetic pyramid had been, through the dark planetarium, and now into the sudden brightness of the hallway.

  H.S. licked his lips. “Certus is a Latin word. It means ‘certain’ or ‘undisputed.’ One of Antonio’s great talents is his ability to design great shells to hide our machines. Do you see the hint in the name of the building? A grove is a place that can hide many secrets. You didn’t know it, but our technology was all around you in the Certus Grove building.” They reached the end of the bright corridor and flashed back into the flickering ambiance of the observation lounge. H.S. sighed with satisfaction at the quiet calm that seemed to permeate the observation room. He stopped beside his chair and picked up his tea. He took a deep drink, smiled, and placed the teacup back down, rotating the cup slightly. The hot liquid obviously worked wonders for his dry throat. He clasped his hands behind his back with a grin. “Well, young Willoughby, there you have the nickel tour. Are you ready to give me a decision?”

  Willoughby stared back at the smooth wall they had passed through. “How do you do that door trick? It’s like we just reorganized on the other side.”

  H.S. smiled. “You’re looking at the ultimate Shoalin priest. I can teach you to walk through walls. But not today—today I think I’ve given you plenty to think about. So, how about it? Are you in?”

  Willoughby didn’t answer immediately. He wandered over to the great, curved observation window. Just beyond, he saw dark creatures, like nervous minnows, darting back and forth between odd-looking underwater plants. Streams of sunlight penetrated down through the greenish blue water, forming a patchwork mosaic across the ancient ocean view. It was unbelievable, incomprehensible, and yet it was there!

  A third, much smaller plesiosaurus swooped down, poking at the shredded remains of the giant eel-like fish, determined to devour every last morsel from the skeleton.

  H.S. came up behind him. “There we are…Nessie,” he whispered.

  Willoughby turned. “Nessie?”

  H.S. explained. “Yes. I named her in honor of her many cousins who have died formulating the myth of Loch Ness. Links between two natural holes do exist, though they are rare. We call them time bridges. One such link connects our sister cave, about 200 yards around the back of this same rock structure, to a dark, narrow chasm that opens into the thick murky depths of that particular Scottish lake.”

  “The Loch Ness monster…” Willoughby mumbled.

  H.S.’s voice became soft, almost affectionate. “It’s a cruel trick of time. When both ends of the link become active, the hole itself glows. The beasts, attracted by the light, swim into the glow. Invariably, one gets too close, and is jerked forward to be spit out into an icy sediment soup. With the frigid water temperatures and lack of available prey, the creature will last less than a week in the Loch before sinking to the deep bottom and disappearing, like countless others of its kind, buried under blankets of silt.”

  Willoughby imagined the hulk of a beast sinking into darkness and oblivion.

  “So,” H.S. said, shifting gears, “do we count you in?”

  Willoughby was caught off guard. “You haven’t told me about my assignment. What, exactly, are you recruiting me to do?”

  H.S. replied carefully. “We’re interested in a self-proclaimed seer named Nostradamus. He predicted many future events with uncanny accuracy. We want to know what makes him tick. We’ve assembled a team to travel to medieval France. That’s all I can tell you for now.”

  “There are a lot of unknowns,” Willoughby said.

  “We are explorers, Willoughby. Probing the unknown is what we do. Life, raw and uncharted, is the grand adventure. Look out at that primordial sea. Don’t you feel it in your blood? You can’t get that kind of feeling staring at a book or lecturing for the accolades of academia. What does your current path offer—a bench on the sidelines where you push chalk? With us, you push boundaries. With us, you enter the unknown, the indefinable game.”

  Willoughby breathed in deeply. He looked out again at the view from the observation window. Three squid-like creatures darted by the glass. Belemnites. It surprised him that he remembered the name, but then prehistoric creatures had always fascinated him. He glimpsed an eel-like fish in the distance. An ichthyosaur, here to feed on the belemnites. He had done a report in school on Belemnites, a primary food source of the Ichthyosaur during the Jurassic. He looked to H.S.

  “I tell it like I see it and expect others to do the same.”

  “Understood.”

  “If I’m to be a member of the team, I want to be treated as an equal.”

  “Done.”

  Willoughby turned back to the window. He felt a shiver of excitement tingle down his spine. He exhaled loudly. “All right,” he said. “Count me in.”

  “Excellent,” H.S. responded, letting the thinnest shred of a grin spread across his lips. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a fold of papers. “There are those who would give anything to know how we do what we do,” he said. “Don’t abuse the privilege we are affording you, Willoughby. One misstep and you shall never find us again.” He threw Willoughby a severe glance.

  Willoughby took the papers from H.S. He thought about the things he had overheard from the two men who had been photographing the symbol over Antonio’s shop. Should he tell H.S.? He dismissed the idea. He didn’t know the man well enough yet, and the idea, well, just felt wrong. He glanced over the papers and looked up as H.S. continued.

  “We’re sponsoring a contest about the mathematics of medieval France. It is being legitimized by an affiliate organization called the Society of Historic Artifacts. You are to write an essay. The winner will be treated to a three-week cruise aboard our Windjammer ‘Aperio Absconditus’.”

  “Windjammer?”

  H.S. let the grin return. “It’s a beautiful vessel. I rigged her out myself. The name is Latin again. It refers to one who can ‘uncover the hidden’. You will supposedly be cruising to France, Spain, and Britain. The cruise, however, is merely a cover for your real assignment, which begins in a unique cave in France. You’ll meet your five-person team on the ship. Your contact person is Antonio. Any questions?”

  Willoughby looked down at the papers and caught sight of his watch. “The time!” He looked up in a panic. “I’m half an hour late! My stepfather’ll—”

  “Willoughby!” H.S. said forcefully. “We have no desire to call attention to ourselves. You will arrive back at the Certus Grove less than five minutes from the time you left it.” His tone softened. “It’s one of the additional perks of time travel. Time passes at the rate of one hour in our dimension for every 31 or so hours in a time hole. There’s an entire equation, but suffice it to say that the barrier pulses at a ratio of one to .313 cubed.”

  Willoughby’s eyes widened. “.313 cubed?” He thought of the symbol above Antonio’s door, the ‘313’ under a spiral of right triangles. The last piece to the puzzle had finally clicked into place.

  “Good to have you on board, Willoughby,” H.S. said with a warm handshake. “On th
e way back through the time hole, jump in feet first and hold your arms close to your chest. Don’t fight against the force. Just try to clear your head and flow with it. With practice, the discomfort seems little more than the sensation of hitting an air-pocket during a plane ride.”

  “A very large air pocket,” Willoughby mumbled. He took one last look at the window. “After I finish this assignment,” he said, “I want to spend some time studying the plesiosaurus.”

  H.S. nodded. “Then study them you shall, Willoughby,” he said. “Study them you shall…”

  Willoughby began to clank his way up the metal staircase. He ducked into the tunnel that led away from H.S. and his fascinating observation room. He pushed himself into a slow jog. It took every bit of courage he could muster to force himself to jog faster, and at last, leap, feet first, into the dark surface that had earlier spewed him out. The jerk back to the Certus Grove was less terrifying but still awkward. Within moments, though, it was over. Once back in the dim, buzzing room, hidden atop the Certus Grove, Willoughby fell to the floor, hugging the cool firmness for a long moment. The flow of force in the room was pushing out now, like a tide that had turned. At length, he pushed to his feet and stumbled forward, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

  He felt a rush of cool air and saw the half triangle doorway swing open at the far end of the room. Seconds later, he was out, watching the lights in the empty stairwell click back on. He heard the door latches unlocking floor by floor. He watched the seamless wall seal behind him. The railing he leaned against was solid and stationary…

  He was home, in his time, in his space!

  A wide grin crossed his face. The whole experience seemed in retrospect like some crazy hallucination or wild daydream. He turned and made his way down to the 12th floor landing, bursting out from the stairwell with a sigh of relief. He was still trembling as he hurried down the empty hall toward the elevator. He glanced up at the wall clock as he turned the corner and tapped the down arrow: 4:51! He had been gone for less than 5 minutes!

  He pulled the business card H.S. had given him from his shirt pocket and read it aloud. “Empty Spaces to Distant Places.” A ding sounded and the elevator door opened. He pressed “L” for the lobby.

  It was real! It had happened. The elevator ride down seemed to take forever.

  8

  Havana at the Hills

  The halls of Worthington Hills Academy were ancient and narrow. Willoughby felt as if he would suffocate trying to navigate the crowds between classes. He tugged at his collar, determined to loosen the mandatory uniform tie that constricted his breathing like a noose. He found it funny that kids paid tens of thousands of dollars for the “privilege” of wearing this uniform strait-jacket when he would pay equal amounts for the privilege of being rid of the thing. He ducked around a group of tough-talking pretty-boys and flew out the hall door.

  His demanding schedule required him to literally trot between the dozen or so ancient buildings that served as lecture halls, labs, and classes. He wove around an ivy-covered corner and under one of several red-brick arches, side-swiping a thin, cheerleader type. He glanced back to apologize, but he had inadvertently caused her to dribble Coke on her pristine sneakers. She looked up, eyes full of venom.

  “What’s your problem?” she gasped.

  He turned back around and sighed. People didn’t seem to want to hear “sorry” here. If you offend them, they would rather you dropped dead. He set out again in a slow jog. At least he was seeing Antonio tonight. Conversations had been kind of weird at the barbershop since he met H.S. At first, his friend wanted to know all about it—how long had it taken him to find the clues? What did he think about the three-dimensional puzzle that safe-guarded entry to the hidden room? Willoughby had described every aspect of his visit with H.S., spending considerable time describing the plesiosaurus. They talked briefly about the upcoming assignment to find Nostradamus. Antonio told him he didn’t have many details.

  “H.S. only shares what you need to know, when you need to know it. There is much about the coming mission that I have yet to be told.”

  Conversation had returned to the normal banter, though they had both decided to mix the haircut schedule up a bit in case someone was still watching the shop. Willoughby had been particularly careful to never go to the shop the same way twice. He rounded another corner, his mind returning to thoughts of the regional soccer game Antonio was taking him to. He had dropped hints for almost a month before actually extending an invitation. Willoughby had turned sixteen earlier in the month, and this was the barber’s big birthday surprise for him.

  He missed the regular visits to his friend. He had only returned to The Corner Barber three times since returning from the Certus Grove building. They had talked by cell phone a few times as well, but their conversations had been short and oddly strained. Willoughby wondered if he should tell his friend about the tall man in the buttoned-up trench coat and how he had appeared out of nowhere, or about the nonsensical conversation he had overheard, but for some reason, he never did.

  As time passed with no signs of the strange duo, Willoughby began to wonder if he had only imagined a sinister intent from the two. Maybe he had misheard some of the conversation. Maybe the two were just ordinary thugs on some wild treasure hunt, or corporate spies trying to steal secrets from the reclusive Observations, Inc. Antonio assured him that the corporation had the best security money could buy. Maybe the creepy old man with the buttoned-up trench-coat had learned more about him and discovered that he wasn’t the “person of interest” he initially seemed to be. Still, caution was called for.

  Willoughby had slowed to a fast walk. It had taken some work, but with his step-dad’s help, Mom had finally given permission for him to go with Antonio. The game was supposed to be a good one. It was an important regional game for their semi-pro team and Antonio had gotten them killer mid-field, second-row tickets. Most important, though, this would give him time to just hang out with his good friend. Antonio hadn’t changed at all, but he had. Knowing that Antonio was a world-famous architect, not to mention part of a secret scientific organization, left him feeling awed and intimidated. This made for awkward moments when neither of them knew what to say. Perhaps getting away for a little fun together would help bring back the old feelings of camaraderie.

  He rounded another corner and began to beeline for the library, spinning out of the way of a group of jeering boys who often played haki-sak in the center courtyard. He no longer tried to join the various school cliques. He found it easier to steer clear of them rather than invite pain by trying to fit in. After all, these groups typically fell into two categories; brain-challenged jocks or social-climbers. He knew how both groups viewed him. He didn’t come from money, he had no claim to fame, and he had no patience for the daily dramas of high school social structures. He spent his time evaluating problems and seeking viable solutions. He had no time to think up retorts to shout into a cell phone and had no desire to hone his talents at texting so he could become a twitter junkie. Let them view him as laughable. The loudest laugh seldom survives to be the last.

  Jogging up uneven steps, he finally reached the high, brass doors of the Daniel S. Davenport Library and slipped inside, wrinkling his nose at the familiar smell. Despite countless renovations, the library had never lost its distinctive aroma—that faint odor of wood stain, carpet solvent, and mold. Only amid the clean shelves, where book titles staked out their thousands of sentinel kingdoms, did the library scent give way to a more pleasant smell of aging bindings, cut paper, and ink. Willoughby had always loved libraries, and the Daniel S. Davenport had its charms. Its high ceilings and highly polished wood panels and desks were reminiscent of Oxford or Notre Dame. It was the tall, stone windows, however, that Willoughby liked best. They gave the quaint library a sense of class and a feeling of elegance.

  He glanced around looking for a free chair. Spotting one by an east w
indow, he claimed it. Ten minutes later, he put his biology notes away and took out his American history book. He opened the book, not really looking at it. His eyes were focused out the window on the budding shades of green and gold around campus. It was hard to believe that spring was fast approaching. Though he had no great love for students or professors at the school, he did have to admit that the grounds and architecture were breathtaking. He tapped a pencil absently on the desktop.

  It had been just over four months since his experience at the Certus Grove building. Had he really traveled back in time? With every passing week, the experience seemed more incredible and more remote. He pulled out the card H.S. had given him and looked at it for the hundredth time. Cryptic spaces to distant places…

  In the brief time he and Antonio had spent together since his joining Observations, Inc., Antonio had seemed compelled to tell him more about his own life. He spoke about his dream as a young college student—the first in his family—to build his gifts into something special. He told of how he was close to giving up at one point, but decided to rest all his hopes on an unusual contest, sponsored by a British magazine. A professor had brought the contest to his attention. He was to create a design that utilized the fourth dimension. At first, he thought the contest was a joke. The more he thought about it, though, the more the challenge intrigued him. He ended up winning, and was recruited by H.S. five weeks later.

  As always, his barber friend continued to be free with his advice: “Learn to observe with more than just the eyes, Willoughby! The eyes can be self-serving. They will see only what you want them to see if you let them. They will betray you if you truly wish to learn and grow. You must come to sense the world around you. Learn to truly listen, to note patterns, to observe the texture of time and how it changes with each moment well-spent. Live for the quiet moments when you come to know your true voice.”