The Pharos Objective

by David Sakmyster

  It was time.

  Nolan buttoned his jacket and straightened his sleeves. When he next returned, if he came back at all, this chamber would all be different. Full, thriving, alive with wonders. An accomplishment to honor, if not rival, the genius of Sostratus.

  14

  After waking from a fitful nap, Waxman unbuckled his seat belt, stepped into the aisle and made his way toward the back of the plane. Caleb was sitting in the row behind him with Phoebe, whose wheelchair was stored up front. He had his eyes closed and headphones on, listening to one of the in-flight music stations.

  Cocky kid, Waxman thought. It’s about time he contributed. And now it’s Phoebe’s turn. Time for the cripple to pull her weight. Their last hope was that this damned scroll could be opened, and that it had something useful on it. But he had to be careful; lately it felt like he was on shaky ground with Helen. Every day, everywhere he went, it seemed he trod in Philip’s shadow. Several times he had caught Helen staring at the photographs in her room, the ones she would never remove, the ones he would never again make the mistake of asking her to take down.

  All in all, it could be worse. She was still a beautiful woman, and she let him have his hobbies, tolerated his absences and asked no questions. In many ways, she was the perfect wife. And what better way to keep an eye on the project? To fan the flames of Helen’s obsession with the Pharos Code, and to be ready to pounce at the moment of revelation. In one fell swoop, by marrying Helen, he had ensured himself access to vital information before the Keepers could ever learn of it.

  And that was all that mattered—that, and finding the treasure. Soon. Whenever he felt like they were losing ground and would never succeed, he closed his eyes, imagined the vault opening for him.

  In the lavatory, after squeezing through the narrow door and sliding the occupied slot over, he took a deep breath and stared in the mirror, right next to the No Smoking sign and its vapid threat of fines and jail time.

  He reached into his shirt pocket for his pack of menthols, turned on the water, took out his lighter and pulled one cigarette from the pack with his teeth. When he looked up, the mirror had fogged over, thick puffs of steam exhaling out of the sink. Odd that the water could be so hot . . .

  Waxman was about to wipe the mirror clean when lines started appearing on the glass. Smears and curves formed as if a finger slid along the surface.

  MAMA

  Cursing, Waxman put out his cigarette, then smeared the fog clear off the mirror with his jacket sleeve. “Leave me alone!”

  Something in the drain gurgled and bubbled up with the steam that promptly fogged up the mirror again.

  I WILL DO NO SUCH THI—

  Waxman wiped the mirror clean again and turned off the water. “I’m done talking to you. We’ve found what we needed, and soon I’ll do what I was born to do.”

  15

  Sodus Bay, New York—November

  It took the better part of three weeks to unroll enough of the scroll to obtain some fragments to analyze. Phoebe was able to secure a lab and a couple interns at the University of Rochester to assist; and together and in shifts, they worked around the clock, applying thin coats of gelatin, separating the layers and prying them apart piece by piece. Phoebe slept there five nights a week, supervising, and Caleb visited every day.

  While this was going on, Helen and Waxman continued their remote-viewing trials at home. They brought in new psychic candidates, and worked at applying their abilities to the remaining five signs. The new recruits were showed the great seal, the alchemy symbols and the symbols for the planets. As always, the context was difficult to capture without leading their imaginations.

  Mostly they failed, and the potential hits were far from revealing. Waxman grew frustrated and impatient, and he took to leaving for days at a time. “Doing research,” Helen insisted. Caleb bit his tongue and kept quiet. He never broached the subject with her. Things were going well between them, the best they’d ever been, and he didn’t want to rattle that cage by questioning her husband.

  So the days passed. Caleb spent hours walking the leaf-strewn hills below the timid lighthouse, fighting the chill from winds blown over the bay. This particular November morning, he reminisced on the years he’d been away, and he determined to make up for them, to infuse his spirit with the breath of these massive willows, with the feel of the frosted ground beneath his feet, with the sound of the wind and the birds.

  He visited the docks and strode along the pier toward Old Rusty. Every morning after his cup of coffee, he came out to toss a rock at its steel hull, just to hear the dull, echoing thud. He thought of Dad. He imagined his father at his side, like it used to be for such a short time. He remembered being taught how to throw a curveball. “Go on,” his father would urge. “Sure it’s a historical treasure, this old lightship, but it’s ours to watch over. And if I want my boy to use it for target practice, damn it he will.”

  Even now that memory made Caleb grin. He looked at the dents in Old Rusty’s lower hull, the red paint chipped away and nearly invisible above the barnacle-crusted waterline. The whole ship was eighty-four feet in length, with two steel masts twenty feet high, painted red, with a glass-enclosed oil lantern at each masthead. He thought back on the history of lightships, from the early Roman galleys with baskets of oil and wicks, to the last two centuries of naval use. From 1820 until 1983, more than a hundred lightships were in use along the United States coastlines. Eventually these old relics were phased out and replaced by permanent lighthouses or electric buoys.

  This one, Old Rusty, had been here for more than thirty years, decommissioned after serving faithfully at various posts off the Northeast coast. It was listed on the National Registrar of Historic Places, and fell under the watch of the family of lighthouse keepers here, to Caleb’s father, and to his father before him.

  Caleb crossed the ramp, stood on its cast steel deck, and peered into the large wooden deckhouse. Inside were controls for a steam chime whistle and a hand-operated 1,000-pound bell, along with framed sea charts, wheels, tables and cupboards. A few years ago it had been opened to the public as a museum, and Phoebe had worked inside part time, collecting donations and dishing out various historical anecdotes. Caleb wondered if they couldn’t apply for a grant to improve its condition a little. Slap on some paint, restore the deckhouse, smooth out those dents in the hull . . .

  For some reason, that simple notion, so distinct from code-breaking and world-spanning quests, seemed idyllic. But he smiled and let that dream rest for now. He said goodbye to Old Rusty, and when he stepped off the pier he saw Helen up at the house, waving her arms. She seemed agitated.

  Out of breath from the climb and sweating despite the temperature dropping and the wind picking up, he finally made it back up the hill. Before he could ask what the matter was, his mother’s words reached him on the breeze.

  “Caleb! We found something.”

  “Another ring,” she said, “this one on the ceiling. Something we never noticed before.” She led Caleb into the family room, where dozens of pictures were hanging on each wall. In the kitchen he heard the psychics taking a break, talking and laughing.

  Helen pointed to two pictures. “We asked them to draw images concerning the Pharos chamber and the sign for Iron. Both Roger and Nancy have drawn what looks like a man suspended upside down. It seems to match the image and orientation of the Hanged Man on the Tarot.”

  “This is above the third block,” Caleb said excitedly. He pictured the chamber again and tried to imagine being there. Having just endured the torrential flood of the second trap . . . he unhooks the harness and steps onto the next stone, feels the white powdery residue coating his skin and clothes. The air blowing around him, legs balancing, holding fast against the wind . . .

  “Suspended . . .” He thought about it, imagined twisting back and forth. To what purpose? He thought of the Tarot again, and from what he remembered of this card’s symbolism, it had to do with letting go, giving in to God�
��s will. Continuing the themes of Calcination and Dissolution, this was a logical step in releasing the initiate’s preconceptions, his ego. But it also had to do with self-sacrifice. Martyrdom. He thought of Lydia, whose death had come about because Caleb couldn’t see the way past this step.

  He slid into a kitchen chair and lowered his head. “I don’t get it. The symbolism of that Tarot card is ‘to win by surrendering.’ But how does that help us?”

  Helen took down one sheet of paper and held it in front of Caleb. “This might be a clue.” She pointed to something the second person had drawn: a series of blocks crumbling around the hanging person. “What if the next trap has something to do with the floor falling away? And to survive it—”

  “—you have to be suspended in the air.” Caleb rubbed his eyes and squeezed them tight, trying to see inward. “But what sets it off? I stood there for almost an hour one time, and nothing happened.”

  “Did you step forward, toward the door?”

  “No. Away.” He could see his foot lifting, starting to move forward. But it was as if he had a notion of self-preservation, and pulled it back and turned the other direction. “I guess I just felt there was no point going forward if I hadn’t experienced anything at this stage.”

  “That may have saved your life.”

  Before he could respond, a flash of white light and a burst of heat exploded inside his head with the image of . . .

  . . . Sostratus leading his guest out, returning through the great seal and into the main chamber. The door closes slowly, the snakes again facing each other across the staff.

  “The traps will be in place as I have described,” Sostratus declares, and directs Demetrius’s gaze down at the inscribed stones underfoot. “You have seen my vault below. You have seen its defenses.”

  “I have seen.” Demetrius is pale, and shaking. “But I fear that with such defenses, what we place inside may never be found.”

  Sostratus smiles. “No, my friend. Human nature, such as it is, will always lead men to yearn for the truth. And the legends we create will live on. The grandeur of this lighthouse will endure, serving as a beacon for generations long after its light no longer burns.”

  “And how will you ensure that what it guards will be sought after? If no one knows . . .”

  “Ah,” Sostratus says, stroking his white hair, “they will know, because you will tell them.”

  “I?”

  “Yes, you and those whom you select to keep this knowledge.”

  Demetrius shakes his head. “No, Sostratus. That will not work. How can I find enough trustworthy individuals? And, how do I get them to pass along the information?”

  “They will pass it on to a son or daughter, one per generation.” Sostratus places a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Choose your Keepers, Demetrius, then spread them over the world. Those selected will keep the secret. They will know what the lighthouse’s true purpose is, and what it protects.”

  “These Keepers . . .” Demetrius takes a breath. “What makes you think they will not try to steal the contents for themselves?”

  Sostratus shifts his arm around Demetrius’s shoulder. “My friend. That is precisely what I am counting on.”

  As suddenly as it had begun, Caleb was torn from the waking dream. He clung to it and focused and tried to keep his mind wrapped about it, but the visions scattered through his grasp like fireflies on a warm summer night.

  “No,” he stammered, trying to stay in the dream. “I saw them.”

  “Saw who?” Helen was leaning close, pressing her cool hands to his burning forehead. “Caleb, you terrified me. I’ve never seen someone fall into a trance so suddenly. You were shaking, so pale. And your eyes—”

  “I saw them,” he repeated. “Sostratus . . . and Demetrius.”

  “The architect and the librarian?”

  Caleb blinked away the remaining imprints of the two men and the great seal. “I’ve had several visions now of the two of them together as the Pharos was being built.”

  Helen stood up and took a step back. In the kitchen the others were washing dishes and talking over the noise. “Maybe you should go back into the trance, if you can. Find out more.”

  He took a deep breath. “You know I’m no good at forcing visions.”

  “But this sounds like the connection we’ve been seeking!” She glanced at the kitchen and motioned for someone to stay away for a moment longer. “Caleb, if you can learn more, it might confirm the presence of the books you think are hidden there.”

  “The books I know are there,” he corrected. “We don’t need confirmation of that. What we need now is to understand the puzzles, find a way past the traps. From what I saw, Sostratus constructed the vault and the door, then he built the traps around them and set everything into place. I don’t think I’ll get a view of anyone getting past them. I don’t think anyone ever has.”

  “Someone must have. There’s the scroll.”

  “Which might only be one Keeper’s attempt to pass the door. Maybe he failed, or maybe only some of the answers are in it.”

  “Did you see any of these Keepers?”

  “I think I saw Sostratus create them.” Caleb frowned. “And I heard something about his plan for the treasure’s release. He was relying on man’s inner nature—the Keepers’ greed, their curiosity—to one day seek out the treasure and find the way in.”

  “Sounds like a lot of presupposition on his part.”

  “But it was something Sostratus would do. He was tricky like that.”

  Helen urged the others inside and had them take their places again around the table. “Okay, that was symbol number three, and we think we might have the answer we’re looking for.”

  “We hope,” Caleb added.

  “We hope,” she agreed, giving him a wary smile. “Let’s continue, people. Four more to go.”

  Caleb took a breath and settled back in his chair, for the first time in his life eager to join one of these sessions. As the others took their seats, he thought again about what his mother had just said.

  “Four more to go . . .”

  All of a sudden, Caleb was struck with the certainty that she was wrong. We’re missing something. And then he realized what was bothering him. The sealed door with the caduceus was only at the halfway point, maybe a little more. If the adage As Above, So Below held, then there was still a long way to go before they reached the beacon—the fire, the light of truth—where Sostratus surely hid his vault.

  And if seven clues were needed to open this door, what would be next? Caleb tried to picture it, but saw only darkness. There would be the octagonal section, ending in the cupola and the pillared room with the mirror.

  “Octagon,” he whispered, shivering in a sudden chill.

  Helen looked up, first at Caleb, then to the kitchen, where a brisk wind blew through the open door.

  Waxman was standing there. His face was rosy. He stank of menthol. “Caleb,” he said. “I’ve just come from the University. Phoebe’s asking for you. She’s finished unrolling the scroll. ”

  16

  Caleb bounded up the steps just as the first snowflakes began to fall. At his back, across Elmwood Avenue, Mount Hope Cemetery sprawled over two hundred acres, its monuments and time-worn markers standing as mute soldiers among the rolling hills and saluting into the twilight. He took one last look, waved to the cab driver who had just dropped him off, then flung open the door and ran into the university’s archive center.

  He had left Waxman and Helen at home to continue working with the psychics. He’d told them that realistically, poring over the fragments, taking the pictures, scanning them into the computer and playing with the resolution could take days before a translation was possible. But the real reason he had come by himself was that he didn’t care to share space with Waxman. The man still got under his skin, and of course he had never quite accepted Waxman’s role in his mother’s life. Caleb liked to think he had become more tolerant, but this was one in
stance where he had reverted to the petty emotions of a child. He just didn’t like the man. He respected that his mother saw something in him, although what that was Caleb couldn’t tell. There never seemed to be any real affection between them. They acted like business partners, and maybe that was part of the problem; Caleb didn’t make an effort because Helen never acted like he was her husband.

  So Caleb convinced Waxman to stay in Sodus while he made the trip, promising to call as soon as they discovered anything significant.

  He rushed down empty halls, pounding each step as hard as he could, relishing the sound of his echoing shoes, as if he were trying to banish any malevolent spirits lingering about. At the end of a long corridor, he took the stairs down three flights, past eerily blinking hallway lamps, then through the fourth door on the left.

  Inside, Phoebe sat in her work chair in front of a laptop on a long table. The other interns were gone, sent home hours ago. Four binocular microscopes were set up along the table, and a large glass strip covered the unrolled fragments of the blackened scroll. Observing the shreds and scattered pieces, Caleb marveled that anything could be salvaged from of it.

  “About time, big brother.” She had her hair in two pig tails, and she wore a red turtleneck with little reindeer embroidered on the collar. “Come on, see the fruits of modern technology.”

  “Tell me you have a translation.” He walked around the table and pulled up a chair.

  “Not yet, but I’ve scanned all the photographs taken at different wavelengths and uploaded them onto my laptop. I think I’m close, but need your help in interpretation.” She pointed to her screen and clicked with the mouse to shrink the image. “There are fifteen of these fragments. Here’s the first one.” She called up a tattered-looking strip. The lettering appeared blue, with the background now in white.