Journey Through the Mirrors

by T. R. Williams

  Madu heard the sound of someone approaching from the eastern façade of the pyramid. He rapidly picked up a loose stone from the ground and readied to throw it in case it was a Medjay guard. He turned around. It was Nadine.

  Filled with relief, he dropped the stone and ran over to her. She had tied a scarf around her wounded hip. “I feared you were dead,” Madu said, putting his arms around her.

  “How did you do that?” Nadine asked, astonished, as Madu helped her sit on the ground. “The blue ball of light, the illumination of the entire city. You seemed to disappear for a moment.”

  Madu looked to the east and saw that it was as she said: all the lights in the city of Cairo were turned on. He shook his head at her. “I don’t know. Whatever it was, it was done to me, not by me.”

  Nadine pointed at the brown leather bag. “What’s in there?”

  He picked up the three books. “I found them inside. They seem to possess a power I cannot begin to describe or understand. All I did was open the cover of one of them.” He opened the cover of the first book and then the covers of the other two to demonstrate, but this time, no orb appeared.

  Nadine pointed to her ear. “Listen,” she said. They both heard the crowd below chanting Madu’s name. “Whatever has taken place, whatever divine hand has moved here, it has inspired the people to take back Cairo and reclaim their Egypt.”

  11

  What listens to you when you pray? Is it an old man or woman high in the heavens? Or perhaps a wise sage atop a mountain? Or a holy man in a church or temple?

  When you realize the answer to this question, you will realize yourself.

  —THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

  ISLE OF MAN, 2:10 P.M. LOCAL TIME, MARCH 21, 2070

  Anita grabbed a couple of books off the shelf and stacked them on top of the others on the cart. She continued to peruse the art history section of the Isle of Man University library. While the contents of all books published after the Great Disruption were stored in the electronic library at the Akasha Vault, books and periodicals that had survived the Great Disruption could only be found in university libraries or private collections. Anita grabbed one more book and rolled the cart to a study table, where her friend Britney was flipping through a holographic book projected in front of her.

  “I should be the one getting the books, and you should be sitting down,” Britney said. “We still don’t know why you almost fainted the other day.”

  “I’m fine,” Anita said. “Whatever it was didn’t last very long.”

  “Uh-huh,” Britney said. “Tell me again what we’re looking for?”

  Anita took a seat across from her. “We’re looking for a painting of a person in distress. A man, I think, although I’m not sure. It looks as if he is in a great deal of pain. Also, I’d guess it’s from the Modernist period, early twentieth century.”

  Anita and Britney were in their final year of medical school at the Isle of Man University. The campus was at the northern end of the city of Douglas. Construction had begun twenty years earlier, when a large endowment was made anonymously to the island nation for its creation. It was the only university in the world established during the Rising. Situated along the coastline, overlooking the Irish Sea, the university offered degrees in business, medicine, engineering, and the arts. And even though it was relatively new, it had already attracted fifteen thousand students from around the world.

  There was a great deal of speculation about who had provided such a substantial endowment, especially at a time when the world was still recovering from unprecedented destruction and loss. The predominant theory was that it came from the mysterious Quinn family, who had moved to the island in 2034 after purchasing Peel Castle from the Manx National Heritage Foundation. Felix and Maria Quinn, along with their son, Sebastian, had restored the grounds and built a spectacular home overlooking the western shore. Rumors about the family and the origins of their seemingly endless wealth abounded.

  Anita frowned. “When I went into the Tapestry Room this morning, I noticed that the painting I just described was no longer hanging there.”

  “Sounds like a rather unpleasant image. Maybe Mr. Quinn just got tired of looking at it.” Britney swiped her hand to turn the page of the holographic book.

  “I vaguely remember Mr. Quinn’s saying something about art when that awful headache hit me last night. Then this morning, I noticed a painting missing. I’m pretty sure the two things are related.”

  “Why don’t you just ask him what he did with it?”

  “I can’t. He left on a trip.”

  Britney groaned. “He’s always traveling. This would be a lot easier if you knew the name of the painting or even the artist who did it.”

  “I know. It wasn’t one of my favorites, so I never bothered to learn anything about it.” Anita looked up from the book she was flipping through. “There was something about the painting that bothered me. One thing I do remember is that it had a plaque mounted on the lower part of its frame, but the words were in German—or some other foreign language, I’m not sure. Either way, I couldn’t read them.”

  “Well, that should narrow it down,” Britney said sarcastically. “Paintings by German artists.”

  “I think you saw it once,” Anita continued. “Do you remember when we were in Mr. Quinn’s study at my birthday party a few months ago?”

  “Are you kidding?” Britney said. “Every time I go over to your place, I’m afraid I’m going to run into that man. He’s spooky. If you ask me, that castle you live in is haunted.”

  “The castle is not haunted; you’ve slept over enough times to know that,” Anita said. “And what are you talking about? Mr. Quinn is a peach.”

  “Really?” Britney stopped browsing in her book and gave Anita an incredulous look. “Last time I visited, Mr. Quinn asked me how Biscuit’s bad leg was doing. I didn’t know what he was talking about. Two days later, we found white line disease in Biscuit’s right hind hoof.” Britney waited for Anita to say something, but she didn’t. “First of all, how did he know I had a horse? And how did he know my horse’s name?”

  “I probably told him,” Anita answered, opening another art history book.

  “All right, then how did he know Biscuit was sick? No one knew about that. Not even me. Listen, I think your father’s great, but that Mr. Quinn, well, he’s a little weird.”

  “We all can know things,” Anita said, looking across the table at her friend. “Mr. Quinn says everyone has that ability. They just have to learn to utilize it.”

  “Don’t start with me about all that Chronicles stuff,” Britney said. “I know those books helped the world, but some of that stuff is just plain hocus-pocus.” Anita continued to gaze intently at her friend, her mouth set in a mischievous grin, and Britney grew uncomfortable under it. “Are you reading my mind right now? Did Mr. Quinn teach you how to do that?” Her voice grew louder, eliciting a look of admonishment from the librarian. In a more hushed voice, Britney said, “Stop looking at me like that, you’re freaking me out!”

  Anita laughed. “You’re such a goof,” she said, as she started paging through her book again. “Just keep looking for that painting.”

  Britney shook her head. “One day, you’re going to tell me the whole story about that man your father works for, and while you’re at it, I want the real story about your life before you were adopted. I still don’t believe that you grew up in a foster home.”

  “Now look who’s claiming to be psychic,” Anita said, still laughing.

  Britney had been Anita’s best friend ever since Anita had come to the island with her adoptive father, Lawrence Kinelot. Britney was right; Anita had made up a story about her early life. Someday, maybe, Anita would tell her about the events that took place thirteen years ago, when Lawrence, the Quinn family’s steward, liberated her from dire circumstances and brought her to Peel Castle. But at the center of that story was a scandal and a town’s secret, which were best left buried.

  Sud
denly, they were interrupted by two young men walking past their table. “Hey, Brit, a bunch of us are getting together at the tavern tonight. You should come.”

  Britney smiled and nodded as the young men walked out of the library. “We should go,” she said to Anita. “Michael’s a good guy, and so is his friend Barrett. And they’re not bad-looking, either.”

  “If they wanted me there, they would have told me to come, too,” Anita said.

  “You know,” Britney countered, “if you paid more attention to the guys, they would pay more attention to you. And you could doll yourself up more if you wanted. Do you remember when we dressed you up for the spring concert and everyone saw you play?”

  “I remember.” Anita blushed a bit.

  “You looked so beautiful standing on the stage as you played your violin solo. Your hair was down, and that white gown fit you perfectly.” She playfully imitated her playing the violin. “If you looked like that more often, you’d have plenty of guys asking you out. You’d just have to make sure they don’t meet Mr. Quinn.”

  Anita chuckled at that, but after a moment, she broke off, wincing in pain.

  “What’s wrong?” Britney asked. “It’s that headache again, isn’t it? I’m telling you, you need to see a doctor.”

  Anita rubbed her temples. “I’ll be all right. It won’t last long.”

  Britney shrugged off her friend’s obstinacy. “Hey,” she said, “is this the painting? It says it’s the work of some Norwegian named Munch.”

  Anita looked up at the page of the book Britney was showing her and immediately stopped rubbing her temples. “That’s the one,” she said. “That’s the screaming man.”

  12

  Can you articulate the difference between your personality and your consciousness?

  Now, who just made that articulation?

  Your personality? Or your consciousness?

  —THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

  ZURICH, 3:30 P.M. LOCAL TIME, MARCH 21, 2070

  A man walked through the enormous main hall of the abandoned Zurich train station. The clicking of his cane as it touched the ground was followed by the slight dragging sound of his right shoe. He looked around keenly at the remains of the old homeless encampment that had been built in the station immediately after the Great Disruption. Old cooking stoves, cobbled-together furniture, and scraps of wood littered the ground. The iconic station had not been restored after the Great Disruption, nor had it been repaired. Its fate was now in the hands of a Zurich-based company that had purchased it after the city could come up with no way to repair it or make use of it.

  The man paused for a moment and looked up at a sign dangling at the end of a frayed cable: Track 7. He pushed a lock of his shoulder-length gray hair off his face and behind his ear and continued, tapping his cane on the ground with a bit more force. He looked down the platform, lit eerily by beams of dust-ridden sunlight passing through holes in the roof. The flapping wings of pigeons could be heard as they wandered the station in which they made their home.

  The man looked around before making his way down the platform adjacent to a dilapidated commuter train. As he approached, a memory came to him, frozen in time. He gazed down at the tracks under the train as he stopped in front of the number fourteen car. Its doors were open.

  The man sighed deeply before stepping inside the place he had once called home. The car had certainly changed; it had been pillaged and ransacked. The thin mattress he had slept on had been pushed into the corner, its bedding stripped. He reached up and grabbed a short pole he had suspended from the car’s ceiling to hang and dry his clothing. Now only a single wire hanger remained. He walked over to the toppled nightstand and set it back on all fours. He smiled slightly as he ran his fingers over some candle wax stuck to the surface. He looked for a candle holder but didn’t see it. Instead, he saw a shattered picture frame on the floor with a photo still inside. It was of a woman with a teenage boy and two young girls.

  “Caroline, my love,” he whispered, as he picked up the picture frame. “George, Sophie, Nicole.” His voice cracked as he called out the names of the children.

  Gathering himself, the man pulled the photo from the frame and tucked it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He turned and glanced up at the overhead baggage shelf. “I wonder if it is still there,” he whispered to himself, taking a quick step forward and reaching up. He felt around anxiously, shuffling as best he could, using his cane to support him. But what he was searching for had probably been taken long ago.

  “Hey!” a voice called out to him. “You shouldn’t be in here. Don’t you know we’re getting ready to demolish this place?” The man turned to see someone in overalls and a hard hat standing on the platform outside the door. “Oh, sorry, it’s you,” the construction worker said, realizing whom he was talking to. “Take your time, sir. Just let us know when you leave.” The worker walked away.

  The man fiddled with a gold button on his knee-length jacket as he took one last look around car number fourteen before exiting and making his way back up the platform. He could hear the hustling and bustling of the crew, which he had hired to demolish the train station he had purchased from the city.

  Then the expression on his face turned wary. Standing under the dangling sign was someone he was not expecting to see, with a dog sitting at his side. “Why have you come?” the man asked as he limped forward, pausing and resting both his hands on the silver handle of his cane. “I thought we said everything that needed to be said, Sebastian.”

  “No, Giovanni,” Sebastian answered. “There is always more to say.”

  13

  If you do not wish to climb the mountain to the east, then look to the west. Perhaps there you will find one more to your liking.

  —THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

  NEW CHICAGO, 1:11 P.M. LOCAL TIME, MARCH 21, 2070

  “Welcome back!” Jasper said, jumping out of his chair as Logan walked into the art studio. “How is everyone? Is Jamie all right? We were worried.”

  Logan smiled and set his backpack and a large tin box down on the desk, as Jasper took a deep breath. “She’s still experiencing severe headaches, but after Mr. Perrot picked us up at the airport, we took her to a neurologist her pediatrician recommended. The doctor said she must have hit her head, even though she doesn’t remember it, because she has a slight concussion. The good news is that they did a brain scan and didn’t find any serious injuries. She’s resting at home now with Jordan and Ms. Sally, our housekeeper.”

  “That’s a relief,” Jasper said.

  Logan nodded. “Both kids had a hard time down there. The earthquake was really frightening. Mexico City was mostly spared, but the highways and the airport got ripped up pretty badly. If Valerie hadn’t gotten us on a WCF transport plane heading to New Chicago while she was arranging her flight back to Washington, we’d still be stuck down there.”

  “Well, it’s good to have you back,” Jasper said. “The studio missed you.”

  The studio was on the northwest corner of Franklin and Hubbard Streets, a prime location only a few blocks from the Merchandise Mart and the heart of New Chicago. After the Great Disruption, the surrounding area had remained in a state of disrepair for twenty years. As intrastate and global commerce grew during the Rising, New Chicago’s mayor, Tim Malak, pushed to reestablish the iconic Mart’s reputation as the premier bastion of design and architectural innovation. The success of the initiative earned him nationwide recognition. The city’s airport, which had been named for a previous Chicago mayor, was renamed Malak International.

  “I expected blue today,” Logan remarked, gesturing at Jasper’s currently orange-colored hair.

  “Stay tuned,” Jasper said. “Next Wednesday is turquoise day. What’s in the box?” He nodded at it. “Did you bring me a gift?”

  Logan chuckled, placing his hand on the tin box. “No, it’s the reason we went to Mexico in the first place. It contains the artifact I’ve been hired to restore.” He gave Jasper
a long look. “Mr. Perrot told me the two of you had a very interesting day yesterday.”

  “Understatement,” Jasper replied, as he sat back down. “Did he tell you everything that happened?”

  Before he could answer, the front door opened, and Mr. Perrot came in. “Traffic is getting worse around here every day,” he said, hanging his floppy hat on the coat rack.

  Logan glanced at Mr. Perrot. “No, he didn’t give me any details.”

  “Then follow me,” Jasper said, leading everyone to the work room, where a large wooden crate in its center caught both Logan’s and Mr. Perrot’s attention.

  “What’s in the crate?” Mr. Perrot asked.

  Logan gave him a questioning look. “I assumed that was part of your interesting day.”

  Mr. Perrot raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

  “It came this morning, without any return address,” Jasper said. “The delivery man didn’t know anything more, either. Do you have any ideas?”

  Logan shook his head. He placed his backpack on the floor and grabbed a toolbox from the shelf. He took out a pair of snipping shears and cut the metal bindings around the crate.

  Following Logan’s lead, Jasper grabbed a power screwdriver and began to remove the numerous screws securing the lid in place. “This is better than Christmas!”

  Logan used the claw side of a hammer to remove some reinforcing nails, while Mr. Perrot watched. Soon the three of them were able to get the lid off.

  Jasper removed a layer of packing foam, revealing a framed work of art below. “Oh,” he said, startled by what he saw. “That’s not a happy piece of art at all.”

  “It’s not supposed to be,” Logan said, recognizing it. “This is one of the most famous paintings in the world, ‘The Scream.’ ”