Journey Through the Mirrors

by T. R. Williams

  “The one and the same,” Mr. Perrot answered.

  Jasper considered asking Mr. Perrot about Valerie’s mother but thought better of it. Instead, he resumed the playback with a more serious expression on his face. He was beginning to grasp just how much history he had never been taught.

  We all agree that for our own safety, our past must be forgotten. We are all changing our names. Even Robert’s daughter’s name will change, just to be safe. I like Valerie much better than Tabatha, which I think was more Andrea’s idea than Robert’s, anyway. Tomorrow will be my first day as Alexandra Cutler.

  For our new identities to work, we need to let go of everything—family, friends, loved ones. It’s so hard not being able to tell anyone where we are going.

  As a precaution to safeguard our identities, I’ve decided to stop using my recorder. It’s going to be so difficult to discard all these old memory chips. So much of my life is on them. But I need to let the past go.

  This is my final entry as Cassandra Toliver Ford.

  Mr. Perrot and Jasper heard a soft gasp and stifled sobbing before the recording ended.

  “It must have been so hard for all of you,” Jasper said reflectively. “Giving up your lives and all that you worked so hard to accomplish . . .”

  Mr. Perrot nodded, moved. “You mentioned that there was one more recording.”

  “Yes.” Jasper looked at the recorder’s display and pressed the Play button. “It’s from February 2064, twenty-seven years after the one we just heard.”

  I’m breaking my long-standing promise about making my last recording. Camden . . . I mean, Henry—after all these years, I still can’t get used to our new names. Henry came across an article in the January 15th edition of the Swiss Times reporting that Alfred Benson was found dead in his home, cause unknown. Accompanying the report was a photo of Andrea. Henry and I debated if we should tell Alain, and we decided not to. Why stir up the past when he and Valerie are so happy now? Simon Hitchlords was also in the photograph, standing next to Andrea. Looks like Andrea had another child. Her son, Lucius Benson, is also shown and identified. Simon has grown up to look just like his father, Fendral. A slight man in a wheelchair was in the background. He’s the same man we used to see from time to time in Washington visiting Fendral and Andrea.

  Mr. Perrot gestured for Jasper to pause the recording. “Would it be possible for you to find that article?”

  Jasper whipped out his PCD. “Searching for Swiss Times, January 15, 2064 . . . What was the man’s name?”

  “Alfred Benson,” Mr. Perrot said.

  After another moment, Jasper projected the article and the photo from his PCD.

  Mr. Perrot studied the photo. “This is Simon, Andrea, and Lucius,” he said, pointing them out to Jasper. “And this man in the wheelchair, I do remember seeing him, but I never spoke to him or caught his name.” Mr. Perrot took one last look, and Jasper pressed the Play button again.

  I didn’t think much of the photo at first, but then Camden noticed the black roses. Andrea is carrying one in her hand, and Simon, Lucius, and the man in the wheelchair have them in their lapels. I can’t help but remember the black roses that were found in Deya’s car and Madu’s home after their lives were threatened when the Council was splintering. Camden and I had the same thought. Was Andrea’s husband, Alfred Benson, murdered? Are Simon and Andrea up to something? And is that man in the wheelchair somehow involved?

  Camden wants to investigate, but I won’t let him risk his life and the life of our son by getting involved again, even covertly, with these dangerous people. After all, we only have suspicions, no proof of wrongdoing or any clue to their motives. It would be foolish to stir the hornet’s nest.

  We have been anonymously writing to Cynthia Brown over the past year, offering advice. The Council seems to be faltering. Camden wants to send Cynthia this article, but I’m not so sure it’s a good idea.

  I also saw a photo of RJ in the paper today. Camden doesn’t think it is him. But I know it is. His eyes had that same cold expression I’ll never forget. I can’t believe what he’s become.

  There was an extended pause in the recording. Mr. Perrot and Jasper could hear some shuffling and the sound of book pages being turned. A few moments later, Cassandra spoke again.

  When it unfurled, it was filled with golden acorns. Hundreds and hundreds of them. A bright and intoxicating gold light glistened from each as the acorns seemed to be gently nestled among leaf-filled branches. The man understood in that moment that what is given in unconditional love is never truly lost.

  That was the end of the recording. Jasper looked at Mr. Perrot. “Interesting last entry.”

  “Interesting indeed,” Mr. Perrot agreed. “Why would she read from the Golden Acorn story in the Chronicles? While it’s a wonderful tale, with many lessons for us all, why make it your last entry? It doesn’t make sense. We must find out what she did with the other memory chips. I certainly hope she didn’t destroy them.”

  Jasper set the recorder down, pointing to the mosaic with the trees. “Isn’t the Golden Acorn the same story that inspired Cassandra to create that?”

  Mr. Perrot turned and looked at it. Then he walked over and examined the back of it. “I wonder if Cassandra might have hidden something behind the matting.”

  “Mr. Perrot, I like the way you think.” Jasper went to take hold of one end of the mosaic as Mr. Perrot grabbed the other, and together they lifted it from the easel and attempted to set it facedown on a nearby table. As they did so, the frame slipped from Mr. Perrot’s hand, and his end of the mosaic hit the table. He cringed at his clumsiness. Jasper set his end down more cautiously.

  Mr. Perrot ran his hand over the matting. He grabbed a pair of scissors off the table and pierced the black cardboard. He proceeded to cut the backing along all four sides.

  With great anticipation, Jasper removed the black cardboard. The two of them inspected the mosaic for anything that looked like recording chips. Mr. Perrot set the scissors down in disappointment. “I thought we had it.”

  “So did I,” Jasper said.

  After replacing the backing, Jasper helped Mr. Perrot move the mosaic back to the easel. When they returned to the table to clean up the scraps of cardboard that had been cut away, Mr. Perrot was alarmed to see that two tiles had been dislodged when he’d dropped the mosaic. “I’ll get some glue,” Jasper said, and walked over to the supply shelf.

  Mr. Perrot carefully picked up the two small tiles. One was green and rounded at the corners, the other square-shaped and painted gold. He walked back over to the mosaic and easily found where they needed to be glued.

  “Don’t worry, sir,” Jasper said. “We’ll get them reset in no time.” Jasper placed a dab of glue on the green tile and put it back into position. He held it in place for a moment. He was ready for the second tile, but Mr. Perrot was still examining the back of it. “What are you looking at?” Jasper asked.

  Mr. Perrot scratched the tile with his fingernail, and tiny flakes of gold paint floated off of it. “It seems I may be vindicated for my blunder.” After scratching the rest of the paint off, he held up the title. “Now, doesn’t that look exactly like one of Cassandra’s recording chips?”

  Jasper looked at the mosaic and counted about twenty similar gold tiles in it. “I think you may have found Cassandra’s missing memories.”

  9

  Do you really believe that it takes a lifetime to know what a master knows?

  Everyone who has reached the pinnacle of his enlightenment will say to you, it took a lifetime to realize that it didn’t need to take a lifetime.

  —THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

  OVER THE PACIFIC OCEAN, 7:40 P.M. LOCAL TIME, MARCH 20, 2070

  Madu Shata looked out the airplane window at the Pacific Ocean far below him. The sun was setting, and the brightest of the stars were beginning to appear in the dusky sky. The cabin lights had been dimmed, and his attention was drawn to his reflection in the window. He thoug
ht about the puzzle whose solution had eluded him since the day he’d found an original set of The Chronicles of Satraya. Even though so much time had passed, he was still obsessed with learning the secret of the pyramids. He had hoped that the emergence of Logan Ford and his old friend Robert Tilbo would shed some light or offer a fruitful new direction for his search. Destiny, he thought, had forsaken him; it seemed to be the principle that ruled his existence. He leaned back in his seat and thought about that pivotal day, forty years ago, that had determined the course of his life and about the events leading up to it.

  The Great Disruption ravaged northern Egypt. Earthquakes turned the famously picturesque Mediterranean Sea into a raging cauldron of water that flooded the coast as far south as Banha. People fortunate enough to survive the flooding, the earthquakes, their aftershocks, and tsunamis migrated south to Cairo, their last bastion of hope. While the city might have been spared the flooding, it was not spared the earthquakes or the climate changes that came with the earth’s shifting four degree on its axis. Now there was rain in the deserts and drought in the rain forests.

  As refugees from the north arrived in Cairo, they found a city riven by civil war. Within six months, Cairo had been divided into twelve sections called nomes, each run by its own ruthless Khufu. These twelve tyrants and their militias fought one another house to house and street to street, staking out their territory. With the city’s police force disbanded and the Egyptian military in disarray, the Khufus were left unchecked, and their bloody battles continued.

  By the spring of 2028, a tentative and fragile peace accord was forged among the twelve leaders, more out of necessity than desire. None of them wanted to rule an empty kingdom. More people had died in Cairo at the hands of the Khufus than in the natural disasters. Stone walls and fences were erected around each of the twelve nomes of Cairo, which were named after regions of post-Ptolemaic Egypt: Khent-abt, Kha, Ahment, Ati, Tehut, Am-Pehu, Sopdu, Khensu, Ka-khem, Theb-ka, Semabehdet, and Sap-Meh. Armed guards stood at the gates of the adjoining nomes. Without the proper paperwork, citizens of one nome could not pass into another. Once a person was branded on his right arm with the insignia of the nome in which he lived, that was where he stayed. If a person was caught trying to jump the borders, he was taken to the local Khufu to face justice. The penalty for most crimes and violations was public execution.

  The edicts of the Khufus were carried out by their armed guards, the Medjay, who drove around Cairo in Jeeps, the only motor vehicles permitted in the city. Many of the Medjay had broken out of the Tora Mazraa prison and were more than happy to support the Khufus, who provided them with food and shelter that was not only better than what they’d had in prison but far superior to what the people of Cairo subsisted on.

  A meager amount of food and other essential supplies were dispensed to Cairenes each day at a central location in every nome. People were not permitted to cultivate their own gardens or raise livestock.

  One hour of electricity was provided each day by the nome of Ati, which was ruled by Khufu Kesi Sefu Khalfani. How Khufu Khalfani came to possess the large generators and the fuel to power them was unknown, but his possession of them made him the most powerful of all the Khufus.

  Water was the only resource the Khufus did not completely control. Even after the Great Disruption, the northern-flowing Nile River’s two major sources, the Blue Nile and the White Nile, continued to bring fresh water to the nomes. People could have as much as they were willing to carry home. But most preferred to use the dispensing stations, where, during the one hour of daily electric service, water was pumped into numerous reservoir pools located throughout the nomes. Citizens also created cisterns to collect the runoff water from rainstorms, which were frequent now because of the change in climate.

  The only relief the Cairenes had from their hard, dreary lives was the Summer Jubilee, a seven-day celebration of the twelve Khufus’ leadership. During the Jubilee, the guards at the gates of the nomes left their posts, and citizens could move freely throughout the city. Extended families separated all year were reunited for one precious week. But even during the Summer Jubilee celebrations, the Khufus kept close watch. The Medjay would discard their uniforms and dress as ordinary people so they could more easily blend into the crowds, where they would listen for any criticism of the Khufus. All Cairenes were required to attend the Jubilee’s organized events at the stadium and the fairgrounds near the three Giza pyramids on the outskirts of Cairo. Failure to attend was punishable by death.

  Madu recalled the soccer match of the 2029 Jubilee, when his life changed forever. He sat next to his grandfather and cheered for their home team from Tehut, which was playing the team from Ati, the most hated of the nomes because it controlled the city’s electrical grid. His childhood friend Amun, whom he was only able to see during the yearly celebration, sat on his other side. Before the Great Disruption, both Madu and Amun attended the engineering school at Cairo University. Madu studied electrical engineering, while Amun pursued a degree in mechanical design. Both had recently celebrated their twenty-fourth birthdays, milestones that, before the rise of the Khufus, they had always celebrated together with their families and friends.

  “Who are you looking at?” Amun asked.

  “Does that girl look familiar to you?” Madu whispered. “A row ahead of us and a little to the left. She is wearing a gold dress with a wesekh necklace.” Amun looked closer and shook his head. Madu asked his grandfather the same question, but he didn’t recognize her, either. “I’m certain I’ve seen her before,” Madu said, frustrated that he couldn’t place where.

  “She is pretty,” Amun said. “And you are ugly. Therefore, I should be the one who speaks to her.”

  “I need to get a better look at her face,” Madu said, losing interest in the soccer match. “There is something about her.”

  Madu decided to catch the girl’s attention by letting out an excruciatingly loud cheer anytime his team advanced on the field or scored. But that didn’t work. Then he decided to heckle even more loudly anytime the team from Ati fumbled. That worked better, anyway, as the young woman and her friends would turn from time to time to see where the ruckus was coming from. Madu acted as if he was intently focused on the match, but he was actually stealing glances at the girl, trying to figure out where he had seen her before.

  “I don’t think that girl and her friends are very happy with you,” Amun said. “I think you’re beginning to annoy them. Probably best to stop now.”

  “It is Jubilee, and I am only voicing support for our team,” Madu answered. “I have to find out who she is.” He leaned far to his left to get a better view of the girl. Amun grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him upright.

  “Listen to Amun,” Madu’s grandfather said, giving his grandson a look of warning. “Mind her tattoos.” They were on the girl’s right arm. Unlike the rest of the citizenry, who were branded with the insignia of their nomes, members of the Khufus’ families or those under their protection received customized ink tattoos. “She is from Ati and bears the mark of Khufu Khalfani. Stay clear of her, Madu. She is the Khufu’s property or a member of his family. She has the authority to bring the wrath of the Khufus upon us.”

  Amun hit Madu in the arm and gestured for him to look at the two men flanking the young woman. They were unusually muscular and had the bearing of Medjay guards. Madu’s grandfather was correct; the girl was someone of importance. Madu had no desire to draw the attention of any of the Khufus—that would be asking for it. It had happened before, and Madu was not going to repeat that experience. He remained quiet for the rest of match, which ended with the team from Ati taking the day.

  Madu stood, and as he helped his grandfather to his feet, Amun urgently whispered, “She’s looking at you!”

  Madu turned. The young girl was indeed looking at him. Her expression indicated that he looked familiar to her, too, though she couldn’t place him. They stared at each other some moments, and then Madu saw the
young woman’s eyes widen as if she had solved the mystery. Her eyes darted to Madu’s grandfather and then back to Madu. She pointed to her right arm, signaling that she wanted to know which nome Madu was from. Without hesitating, Madu raised his arm to show her. He immediately saw an expression of dread come over her face. She broke eye contact and hurried away with her escort, leaving Madu to wonder where a member of Khufu Khalfani’s circle and he would have crossed paths.

  The firing of a shell from an Abram tank announced the final event of the Summer Jubilee, an event that no one but the Khufus enjoyed. Armed Medjay began herding the crowd out of the soccer stadium toward the Menkaure Pyramid. The Khufus and their advisers were seated on a podium fifty meters away from the base of the ancient structure. The next and last event served as a warning to the people of Cairo: This is what will happen to you if you challenge our authority.

  “Let us leave,” Madu’s grandfather said, as they exited the stands. “I will not watch another one of these abominable shows.”

  “They will not let us leave,” Amun said. Everyone was required to watch the Pyramid Run. “The guards will force us to stay and watch.”

  “I know a way.” Madu’s grandfather pulled a package of cigarettes from his pocket and flashed it at Madu and Amun. “Follow me.”

  Another shell was fired, and Medjay guards fanned out at the base of the Menkaure Pyramid, while Madu, his grandfather, and Amun made their way to the southernmost gate. When Madu’s grandfather presented two packages of cigarettes to the guard stationed there, the three of them were allowed to pass from the Giza Plateau and walk north to Al Ahram Road.

  “I must leave you,” Amun said sadly.

  “Until next year, my friend.” Madu hugged him, and Amun headed down another road to the nome of Semabehdet.

  “Life cannot continue this way,” Madu’s grandfather said, shaking his head defiantly. “What kind of life is it to have seven days of freedom for each year of captivity? Something must be done.”