A backward glance, and Gaelan realized they’d walked quite a distance from where he thought they’d entered. Yet, it seemed only a few minutes had passed.
“This way.”
They veered down a long, narrow path lit by tall glass domes every few feet, bathing the way in a pleasant amber-pink that seemed as foreign as it was familiar. There was something about it, like the ambient light during a near-but-not-quite solar eclipse. Or sodium vapor street lamps that would, of a winter’s night, diffuse and scatter the planes and angles of snowflakes into an unearthly pink-amber glow.
Another door slid away, and they stood now on a spit of land at a confluence of rivers, a remarkable contrast between the dusty gray blankness of the “outside” and the lushness of this place.
The air was green, like after a storm, and rich with the perfume of dense vegetation. Above him the pounding of a waterfall cascading down a circuitous cataract so high he could not see the top, its destination far below where they stood, perceivable solely by the thundering pulsation of the pale turquoise river at their feet. A blue more reminiscent of the Caribbean Sea. The second river was emerald green, the color of the Chicago River on St. Patrick’s Day when it was dyed to match the celebration. Lacy Spanish moss draped a small stand of cypress, their twisted roots exposed—a landscape befitting a Van Gogh painting.
It was as Conan Doyle described it, but ever so much more. But why was Gaelan able to interact with them when Conan Doyle had not?
“We’re nearly there, but we must get to the far bank. This way, Mr. Erceldoune.” She extended her hand toward him. An inaudible hum, sort of an electrical sensation, passed from her hand to his as they touched, not unpleasant, but rather odd. They stood at a precipice with no obvious way to cross to the other side.
She turned toward Gaelan, motioning to their left and up a mossy, steep, ridged incline. There was no way scale it—not without proper climbing equipment.
“This way,” she mouthed, pointing upward. She clamped her hand over his and with a slight shudder, soft hooks latched over the fingers of his left hand. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”
From within the metallic mesh of her gown radiated several small devices with tiny rotating blades. They were flying. Not so much flying as hovering alongside the cliff face, a steady upward motion that churned Gaelan’s stomach. He was an experienced climber, had hiked Rainier, but this . . . ? Instinct told him to reach for the ropes, but there were none. No footholds, no handholds. They were suspended in air. Was this the flying Conan Doyle described? No wonder it had baffled him.
They reached a high ridge and set down behind the waterfall. Gaelan gazed out over the chasm below, stepping closer to the edge to catch a bit of the cooling spray from the torrent. The water droplets refracted into concentric arcs suspended across the divide, looping in and around each other.
“Please, Mr. Erceldoune, we must go. They are waiting.”
Gaelan breathed in the aroma of springtime in the Highlands. That was real enough. The moist, fertile soil, the luxuriant grass, the first budding of hill flowers. They walked in silence, finally reaching the other side, where another woman met them, older, draped in a lustrous emerald cloak, almost invisible in the verdant dreamscape, but for her outstretched hand. Her long hair was fastened tightly into a snood at the back of her head, lending her a severity both seductive and unnerving. Her ice-blue gaze was both kind and commanding.
“Welcome. Please follow me.”
Gaelan’s escort nodded slightly and let go of Gaelan’s hand, before turning back, sprinting along the walk. Gaelan’s gaze followed her until she blended into the scene and disappeared from view. That voice. Vaguely familiar . . . another time, another context . . .
“Come. You must have many questions. I know we have many for you, Mr. Erceldoune.”
Gaelan stopped, refusing to travel another foot before he received some answers. “Yes. I have several questions.” May as well rattle all of them off, eh? “What is this place and how am I here? And what is outside . . . the bizarre gray desert I . . .” Gaelan looked up, trying to see beyond the dense forest canopy. He could see nothing but darkness above. No stars, no moon. Only blank blackness.
“Please have patience. It’s only a short way longer. Come.” They proceeded through a heavy black steel and glass door that seemed to materialize from within the forest. “I will answer all your questions as soon as you are settled and comfortable. Ah, here we are. The tea is steeped and ready for us. Come. Sit. You fancy spice tea, do you not?”
He didn’t even consider asking how she knew. What would be the point? He nodded, willing to go along for the moment. What choice did he have?
“I’ll be but a moment.” The woman retreated into the forest as Gaelan settled into a comfortable chair. He leaned back, and an ottoman came up from beneath his feet like a recliner chair, but not quite; it curled about him closely—memory foam, but not quite. He was tired enough that he could easily be asleep before his host returned. But that voice . . . where had . . . ?
“Ah, I see you’ve made yourself comfortable. Good.” The woman reappeared and set down a tray with two steaming mugs of tea. The aroma of cinnamon and cloves revived him. Orange peel and jasmine penetrated his unease. He breathed it in, savoring the familiar aroma, realizing it was his own blend. If only it had a dash of cayenne . . .
A small sip. A vague awareness that it might be drugged flashed through Gaelan’s mind and dissolved into the sweet, spiciness of the tea. Yes. Cayenne. The exact proportion. The woman smiled, seemingly satisfied. Gaelan’s eyes slipped shut; fatigue was beginning to overwhelm his curiosity, his desire for answers.
From within the cushions, soft, rubbery tentacles stretched, accompanied by a low whirring as they looped securely about Gaelan’s wrists and ankles. They did not hurt, but he couldn’t move. Another twisted around his chest, settling itself into place with a loud “click.”
He should cry out . . . to someone . . . anyone . . . to set him free. But who would listen?
“Mr. Gaelan Erceldoune.” A man’s voice behind him, but he was unable to turn around and see his face. “You, sir, are quite the person of interest!”
CHAPTER 21
Gaelan struggled against the restraints; a sort of metallic something, but malleable, even comfortable, but ultimately unforgiving. The man came around the chair, sitting on a low stool at Gaelan’s feet. His jet-black hair, pulled into a band at the back of his neck, twined halfway down his back.
Gaelan’s momentary calm had evaporated. Perhaps now he would get some answers, but it seemed absurd to continue asking where he was. A slightly different tack was in order. “What is your interest in me? And who are you?”
“Our interest is significant. And you can call me LaSalle, as in the street. You know, the Loop? Financial district? Admittedly, a lifetime or two ago. I was a pit boss at the Board of Trade. Anyway, enough about me. I have more than a few questions for you, Mr. Erceldoune.”
Gaelan searched his memory for the name and came up empty. “Should I know your name?”
“No. I don’t think so. I mean, unless you were you a trader . . . you know, back in the day?”
“No. Why do you know my name?”
“Who doesn’t? You are quite famous. A legend-ish.”
Gaelan had lost his mind. Had to be it. But how could he know for certain? Wasn’t self-awareness of insanity positive proof of sanity? “Catch-22,” he said flatly.
“Catch . . . Ah. You suspect that I, this place, your coming here is all in your mind.” LaSalle poked lightly at Gaelan’s forehead and Gaelan recoiled. “You’re wrong.”
Said the spider to the fly. Gaelan squinted past his immediate surroundings, his gaze darting in every direction, desperately searching for something familiar. Context. He needed context. He needed focus.
“That poison you consumed,” LaSalle continued, “eating away at your mind, even as we sit here sipping tea? That would be a tragedy, wouldn’t it? To live ou
t eternity, alive, but crazy as a jaybird—if jaybirds still lived. Which . . . oh, well.” He shrugged indifferently. “I assure you this is all the real deal. Even if you aren’t ready to accept it. Yet.”
The tea. His favorite blend. He breathed in the fragrance of citrus and clove as it drifted up from the delicate china teacup, sweet and spicy. He ran a finger across a small chip in the cup handle.
“The eighth circle,” Gaelan whispered sotto voce, his eyes closed as he considered one possible answer to his unanswered questions.
“The what?”
“The Divine Comedy. The Malebloge—the Eighth Circle of hell.”
“Okay. Let’s go with that for now. Why not? Eventually, you’ll need to accept this as reality. Fine. You might say our world reeks of the River Styx—outside the safety of our enclave. You’ve seen that already. The tenth bolgia—the tenth ditch—within the circle would be most fitting in your case, I suppose. The place where alchemists and sorcerers suffer for eternity. As for your crimes, nothing so harmless as promising to conjure gold from lead. No, sir.” LaSalle wagged his finger back and forth. “Not your style. Your alchemy had a much greater impact. Genuine, human consequences. Enormous repercussions that continue to reverberate . . . But I’m getting ahead of myself.”
LaSalle was baiting him. But wasn’t he right? Unlocking immortality was miles beyond anything alchemy ever managed, despite the effort. But consequences? Simon, of course, that was one unintended consequence . . . What did LaSalle mean . . . repercussions?
Gaelan shuddered. A vision. That is all this is. A fevered, poison-induced hallucination. He needed to remember it. Keep it close by. A chant. A mantra.
Dante was a poet, La Divine Commedia, a work of fiction. A poem, and nothing more. There was no Malebloge, no circles descending further and further into hell. Right?
Still . . . vile disease. Disfiguring disease. The punishment of the tenth bolgia. And was not madness the most horrific of diseases? Breaking the mind, but not the body? Disfiguring the spirit with uncertainty and constant fear? Was this justice finally delivered for what he had done to Simon all those years ago in London? Was this man the gatekeeper determining Gaelan’s fate? LaSalle’s breath fluttered against Gaelan’s ear.
“You were an alchemist, were you not?”
“Not as many would define it,” Gaelan replied, a bit too defensively. “No more so than were Paracelsus, Isaac Newton. Culpeper. They were men of science, misunderstood, dismissed. But only until the rest of civilization caught up with them.”
“And you place yourself amongst those great men?”
“Of course not. They were geniuses—”
“Let us return to Dante’s eighth circle. You believe you belong there.” Not a question.
“I . . . A moment, please.” Gaelan’s discomfort return, growing into full-on panic. Perspiration trickled down his face, itched down his spine. LaSalle swayed and quivered before him as if in a funhouse mirror as Gaelan fought against a growing dizziness. “What is this place?” His voice wavered, weak, distant.
“Pay attention! We were discussing your crimes against humanity. Your proper placement in hell. Your father was said to have perverted God’s laws with magical healing. Must run in the family, hmm? Maybe you’ll be reunited at long last.”
Fight it, for fuck’s sake, Erceldoune. Focus! Gaelan drew a long breath. “Perversion of natural law is a subjective accusation, a matter of perception. History often vindicates . . . vindicates many who supposedly play God with nature.” Gaelan swallowed hard, trying to stem the quiver in his voice. “Otherwise,” he breathed, “otherwise, how would medicine . . . science, have advanced from the Dark Ages? But how did you know . . . ?”
LaSalle was talking, but Gaelan had lost the train of it. Random thoughts, indistinct babble filtered through pulsating shadows. If only he could get hold of word, a phrase, concrete and discernable, to tether him to reality.
There. Out the corner of his eye, a fleeting glimpse of something in the far distance. Fuck! Where did it go? Colored steel girders, incongruous among the dense forestation. Vaguely familiar, completely out of context, like seeing a bookshop client in an unfamiliar setting.
A flash of an image. Gaelan concentrated, clamping down his eyes, searching for it in his mind’s eye. To remember why it seemed . . . Faded pink. Then green, also faded nearly to colorless.
“Mr. Erceldoune! Pay attention!” LaSalle barked again, this time, too near Gaelan’s ear.
Startled, Gaelan loosened his grip on his glass piece, forgetting it was still clutched in his fist, catching it before it reached the ground.
“You’re bleeding.” LaSalle pointed to Gaelan’s hand. “You should get that looked at. Might be infected.” An ugly laugh in his ear; a chill slithered down Gaelan’s spine. “That’s impossible, isn’t it?”
Gaelan stared at the bandage, soaked with blood. How many hours had it been since he’d gashed it? He couldn’t remember.
“I . . .” The light faded, and darkness enfolded him like swaddling.
“Gaelan!” A whisper in his ear, close.
He blinked. LaSalle was gone, and he was back in the prism room, still on the floor. The opalescent glass piece had fallen from his hand and lay just beyond his grasp. The light within it dimmed, the dying embers of a bonfire.
“Gaelan.” The lightest touch—a downy feather—stroked across his knee. His eyes fluttered as the sensation wrapped around him accompanied by the scent of lavender soap. Anne. Again, Anne. She crouched before him, a subtle shadow in the darkened room, lit only by the glimmer of glass. “Anne. When did you . . . ? How did you find me?”
Her voice was a whisper floating on the breeze, melodic, soft and warm. “A kaleidoscope of the world . . . a passing panorama of life in every zone. Every zone.”
“What? What are you talking about? A kaleidoscope of . . . what? What are you doing here? How did you find me? Why didn’t . . . ?” There was something quite not right about her in the strangeness of the prism light. As if . . . He rubbed his eyes. A dream? But . . .
A delicate breath in his ear, an arousing purr. “Ariadne’s labyrinth.”
He flailed his arms, trying to catch her up, but there was nothing for him to take hold of. “Where are you?” he howled into the prisms, which merely tinkled in response. They swayed gracefully above Gaelan’s head, their music peaceful, sweet.
Four matches it took Gaelan with trembling fingers to relight the candle he’d earlier left on the chamber floor. The strange vision of Anne continued to dance in and about the suspended crystals, searing into his mind as he stared up into the pattern.
The Quhawme Brethren of Dernwode House had taken incredible care to remove them from the monastery and create below ground this seòmar-criostalan.
Refracted light arced between and around the prisms like a spider’s web of translucent color. A pattern, Gaelan was certain. A distinct order, not only of the arrangement but also of their size relative each to the next. No! Not a spider’s web. The combination of light and glass branched like the arms of the Milky Way, ever outward along the ceiling, the walls and the space between.
Gaelan blinked to refocus, see the whole of it as one. The Golden Spiral, its arms growing in constancy with phi—1.618, the golden mean. Or was it only what he wished to see? Needed so desperately to order the chaos of his mind. Brother Hugh had drummed the Fibonacci numbers into his head, never missing an opportunity to point it out. “It is everywhere. In everything, both expected and astonishing,” he would explain. An ever-present reminder of the recurring patterns in nature. A unifying principle of all existence: physical, chemical, biological. The harmony, the energy that connects all things.
Gaelan painted an imaginary a box around the entirety of the prisms. The length of the side of a larger square to the next smaller square is in the golden ratio. He hadn’t the instruments to measure precisely, but he could easily visualize the boxes as well as the whole.
Fascinating. If he s
ought them out, would he discover other Fibonacci representations throughout the catacombs? Were the chambers themselves so arranged, not random but following Fibonacci’s rule? Or was that too far a leap?
What was it Nicola Tesla had suggested to him the day they’d met during the Columbian Exposition so very long ago? They’d debated much in that one brief conversation on a chilly morning, but on this one point they agreed. The elegance of Fibonacci’s work. Tesla had insisted it was the key to true comprehension of the universe, and the fragile field of dynamic energy holding it together.
Interesting, yes. But where did it get him in his present situation? A thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle with the reality hidden within optical illusions, fitting together properly only once you accept what the eye alone cannot perceive. A leap of understanding running counter to the obvious, yet, in the end, making perfect sense when it all clicks together into a wondrous panorama.
Was Gaelan Erceldoune ready to make that leap?
LONDON, 1826
CHAPTER 22
Dragonflies flickered, amorphous images only just out of Gaelan’s plain view as the undertakers removed Mr. Barlow’s corpse from the examining room. An ill-afforded distraction; he’d nearly allowed . . .
“A moment, please.” Gaelan stopped the men just as they opened the alleyway door. “Do not, under any circumstance, deposit Mr. Barlow at the Man O’War. Nor his family, lying deceased at their home, should you be called there. I say this with the most urgency. And it would do you well to pass the word about amongst your brother undertakers.”
Gaelan withdrew several sovereigns from his purse and sent them on their way. He did not know what took Barlow—or his family. The ailment was strange enough; it would not do to have Mr. Barlow’s corpse hanging about the Man O’War, passing it on to the living.
Indeed, the bed linens would need burning. On the morrow would be soon enough. He was far too weary and would as like set ablaze the entire building.
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