As we walked back to Council headquarters, Babu and Joyti engaged in a spirited debate about the reconstruction effort. Deya and I trailed behind them, and I confided to her that something has been bothering me. I told her that I wasn’t having as much success with the Satraya flame technique described in the Chronicles as Camden was. Deya reminded me of what the books suggested, that no one technique would resonate with every individual. That’s why many were offered. Each person had to choose his own path and forge his own way. Deya told me that she, too, struggles with the candle. Her favorite technique is Reflecting. She told me that once she put the flame aside and started to practice Reflecting, she found some success. As she progressed in her Reflecting work, her focus on the flame suddenly improved. She told me, “Mind is mind, it doesn’t matter what you choose. Mind is mind.”
I’m going to her house tomorrow, and she’s going to show me what she has learned.
The recording ended. “There’s one more on this chip,” Logan said. “It’s dated 9:10 P.M., July 23, 2033.”
We went into the basement of Deya’s house, where there is no natural light. Deya showed me the spot in a corner where she meditates. Babu and Joyti have their own corners. In Deya’s spot, a large mirror was leaning against a wall. A small cushion and a box of candles lay on the floor in front of it. Her copy of the Chronicles was also there. I found it strange that one of the books was opened to a blank page. I wanted to ask her about it, but I didn’t.
Logan pressed the Pause button on the recorder. “Deya must have known about the hidden symbols.”
Mr. Perrot nodded. “I wonder how far she was able to progress. I also wonder if she and Camden ever discussed them.”
“Mr. Quinn said that the first hidden symbol in Deya’s set of the books was called the A-Tee-Na,” Logan said.
“Is that the symbol that you saw when you first looked at the pages? Have you been able to see it more clearly?”
“I have. I’ve even been able to see portions of the next symbol on the second blank page. Mr. Quinn explained to me that it was a progression. He told me that first I would see the symbols and then I would experience them. Not really knowing what the symbols mean, I can’t say if I’ve experienced their power or not.”
“What about the third page?” Mr. Perrot asked. “Have you been able to see what your father and Mr. Quinn said was the most powerful symbol of all?”
Logan shook his head. Then he pressed play again.
Deya walked over to Babu’s area, picked up his pillow, and set it down a few feet from hers. She asked me to sit down and slid her mirror in front of me. She adjusted it so that I could see the reflection of my face and upper body. Then Deya lit a few oil lamps and turned off the overhead lights. The reflection of my face in the mirror looked shadowed, ghostly. Deya took a seat on her cushion beside me.
Deya told me that the technique of Reflecting described in the Chronicles was very similar to the ancient practice of scrying. People once used crystal balls, reflecting pools, bowls of liquid, almost anything that could reflect an image. She said that over the ages, dogma set in, and people forgot the true purpose of scrying, and it ended up becoming a technique associated with witches, magicians, and warlocks. She told me that the Chronicles present the technique in a fresh way, which, if done correctly, will yield interesting results to the devoted practitioner. Deya then recited a familiar nursery rhyme:
Looking glass, Looking glass, on the wall,
Who in this land is the fairest of all?
Thou art fairer than all who are here, Lady Queen,
But more beautiful still is Snow White, as I ween.
I told her I’d heard it before. It was from the story of Snow White. She said many people were familiar with that more modern version of the tale but that it had actually been adapted from a much older folk tale the Brothers Grimm had set down in writing. The mirror in the tale conveys an essential point about scrying, one that the Chronicles also teaches. The mirror never lies. It does not judge good or bad, right or wrong. It has no heart and does not care about how one feels. It is only a tool.
First, Deya instructed me to close my eyes and slow down my breathing. Slower, she told me, slow and relaxed. Then she told me to open my eyes and look directly at my reflection in the mirror. In particular, at my forehead. She placed a red bindi on the middle of my forehead. She joked that now that I was married, I needed to start wearing it as she does. Deya told me not to lose sight of that particular spot—it was the key to mastering the technique of Reflecting. She told me to pretend I was looking through that spot to the other side, as if looking through the dirty window of a house to see inside.
I did as she instructed. After what seemed to be a half hour, nothing happened. I felt frustrated, just as I had with the Satraya flame. My body language must have conveyed my feelings, because Deya encouraged me not to give up. She suggested I close my eyes again and take a few more deep, slow, relaxing breaths. When I opened my eyes and looked at my reflection, it was different. My eyes were more relaxed, and I appeared to be smiling, even though I knew I wasn’t actually smiling. Deya told me to keep focusing on the bindi on my forehead. I did. She told me that if I started to feel frustrated, I should close my eyes and breathe deeply until my frustration dissipated. Deya was very patient with me.
I don’t know how long I sat there, but there was a moment after I opened my eyes when my straight hair looked curly. I blinked a few times until it looked normal again. Deya told me not to be so anxious to readjust my gaze. She told me to allow my reflection to morph without my conscious mind’s interference. It was as if Deya knew what I was seeing. Over and over, I repeated the processes of closing my eyes and reopening them.
Then the moment came when I was suddenly looking at something I didn’t expect to see. My heart raced as I gazed into the mirror. My face had been replaced with my mother’s. I was looking at her curly brown hair, her magical smile. Her blue eyes were looking back at me. I couldn’t help but try to figure out what was taking place, and the moment I did, her image vanished, and I saw my own reflection once again. Deya could tell that something had occurred. She told me to close my eyes. I expected her to tell me again to take four deep breaths, but instead, she told me to focus on what I had seen—not to analyze it but simply and gently to ponder it until the answer came. I wasn’t even sure that I had asked a question, but I did as she instructed.
There was an extended pause in the recording. Logan and Mr. Perrot could hear something being poured into a glass.
What happened to me next I can’t talk about right now. All I can say is that it was so real that I was inconsolable. Deya was hugging me. She told me that my first journey through the mirror had taken place. The answer to a question that I have been asking for five years was given to me: Flight 1849.
The recording stopped. “That was the last recording on this chip,” Logan said. “What is Flight 1849?”
“I don’t know,” Mr. Perrot said. “But perhaps the answer lies somewhere in the mosaic.” He and Logan looked at the Golden Acorn mosaic; it was time to dislodge more of Cassandra’s memory chips.
18
Making a choice from the past is impossible. All choices are made from the present. So you have no excuse not to make a different choice.
—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA
BIJAURA, UTTAR PRADESH, INDIA, 10:18 A.M. LOCAL TIME, MARCH 22, 2070
The waters of the river flowed by as they had for a thousand years. The Ganesh Ashram, which was located in the forest along the Ganges River, had been constructed twelve years after the Great Disruption. Known for its ayurvedic healing methodologies, the ashram never turned away anyone in need. It was funded by the government and also relied on donations from its former patients and devotees. The river provided the only access to the ashram, and just a few meters downstream of the southernmost hut, a group of people were being led through their daily yoga practices. The sun had risen many hours earlier, and the river was bustling wi
th activity. Boats filled with fruits and vegetables were making their way to the marketplaces near the holy ghats a few miles to the north.
An old woman wearing a green sari entered one of the ashram’s eighteen huts. She was carrying a tray of food and had a brown cloth bag slung over her shoulder. “Glorious morning to you, sir,” she said cheerfully as she set the tray down on a small table. “You are looking better and stronger each day.”
The man, in his bamboo and wicker chair, said nothing as the old woman opened the curtain, letting some light into the room.
“Perhaps this is the day you will begin to remember who you are. The doctor communicated that he will come by this afternoon to remove the last of the bandages from your face.”
The man squinted as the sunlight hit his face. He remained silent as he began to eat his meal and drink his tea.
“The doctor is very optimistic that the facial repair will turn out well for you. You go through more candles than anyone else at the ashram,” the old woman said, reaching into her bag and taking out new candles to replace the ones that had burned down. She tossed the remaining stumps into her bag.
The man struggled as he ate to get the food and drink around the bandage that ran across the right side of his face and the edge of his mouth.
“Any dreams or memories that might help us in locating your family?”
“No,” the man replied softly. “I remember today as much as I remembered when I first arrived, whenever that was.”
“You were brought to us on July 22 of last year,” the old woman said, continuing to straighten up the room. “I remember, because it was the day after the wonderful blue light appeared on Freedom Day. Maybe you remember seeing that light? Everybody remembers the light.”
The man paused for a moment. “No,” he said, with a hint of annoyance, as he sipped his tea. “I don’t remember such a light.”
“That is all right. Life is a series of fantastical events,” the old woman said, as she made the bed. “After the Great Disruption, all hope was lost. In many ways, the world was like you—it seemed to have forgotten its identity. Then the Chronicles miraculously arrived, and people began to remember their purpose and place. Have you ever read the books?”
The man did not answer and continued to eat.
“Don’t remember that, either, do you? Well, Deya Sarin found her books just north of here. That is one of those fantastical events that will never be forgotten. I wish I could have met her before she died.” As the old woman picked up the pillow to fluff it, a piece of paper tucked under it flew out.
The man caught a glimpse of the paper as it fell to the ground. The old woman picked it up and noticed what had been drawn on it. “Hand that here,” the man said, agitated. “Quickly.”
The old woman did as requested. “I see you’re a bit of an artist.” She handed the pencil sketch to the man, who only took the paper and set it facedown next to his food. The old woman resumed her activities. “Your memories will return, I am certain of it. We once took care of a woman who spent three years here before she remembered who she was. Keep the faith.”
“What is the limit to your faith?” the man asked suddenly. “Isn’t that the question that we are all supposed to ask ourselves?”
“So you have read the books,” the old woman said.
“It’s been a while.”
“I can get you a copy if you want. We have many of them at the ashram. Maybe they will help you remember something.”
“No,” the man said. “I don’t feel much like reading them.”
The old woman stuffed the used bed sheets and towels into her cloth bag and headed out the door. She stopped for a moment. “You should take a walk today along the river.” She took a deep breath of fresh air. “It’s a good day to be alive!”
The man pushed his tray aside and walked over to the HoloPad set up at the corner of his room. He wore a loose-fitting light tan kurta over a pair of thin cotton pants. He brought up videos of various news feeds, learning what was happening around the world. One segment in particular captured his attention. He watched the political ramblings of Enrique Salize and his counterparts around the world. They were locked in a debate on energy and the crisis created by the explosion of a natural gas well in the North African Commonwealth. The man smiled. “What are you up to, my old friends?” he whispered.
With a motion of his hand, he cleared away the news feeds and placed a call. The image of a dark-skinned bald man wearing a black, red, and gold dashiki appeared before him. “Kashta, my friend,” the man said, “it is time.”
The brief HoloPad call ended. The man brought up a news report that he had read every day since he had found it, five months ago. It reported the opening of the Camden and Cassandra Ford Studio of Art in New Chicago. A blue dot flashed in the corner, indicating that there was a new article related to the one he was reading. The man waved his hand over it and brought up the linked article. It announced that a commemoration was going to be held at the Council of Satraya offices in Washington, D.C. The event was in honor of the members of the original Council of Satraya. It stated that Logan Ford, the son of Camden and Cassandra Ford, would attend and that Mr. Alain Perrot would be appointed to one of the vacant council seats. The man looked at the photograph of Logan Ford and Mr. Perrot, which ran alongside the article. With a hand gesture, the man brought up a recent photo of Logan and Valerie and Logan’s children enjoying a day at the beach. He zoomed in on Logan’s face and stared at it coldly.
The man, who had spent the last nine months recovering at the ashram, did indeed know his own identity. His denial to the old woman and the rest of the people who tended to him was part of a game he was playing. He walked over to the small mirror that hung over the sink. He had suffered devastating burns to his face, neck, and shoulders. While his memory loss was a ruse, the pain he was experiencing was very real. He looked at his reflection, wondering what he would find under the bandages. He winced as he ripped off the pieces of tape holding the bindings in place. He then removed the layers of gauze that had kept his identity a secret.
The man was not pleased with what he saw in the mirror. He did not recognize his own face. The doctors and the old woman were wrong. The facial repairs did not turn out splendidly. The skin grafts on his neck and shoulders were hideous. The right side of his face was red and riddled with scars. The skin sagged over a protruding cheekbone. He stared intently at the face in front of him. His left eye blinked, while his right could not. In the mirror, he saw the smiling faces of Logan Ford and Alain Perrot. The man punched it, shattering the glass to pieces.
He tossed the gauze into a small trash can and looked around the room. He grabbed a sack and threw into it the remnants of the clothes he had been wearing when he was found. He lifted the mattress off his bed and pulled out a few papers with scribbled notes. He grabbed the paper with the sketch he had drawn and put it into his pocket. He could hear the sound of a boat’s motor outside. When he went to the door, he saw Kashta approaching along the river.
Simon Hitchlords took one more look around the hut. His prolonged stay at the ashram was over. It was now time to deal with those who had put him there.
19
Everyone has something to say. Don’t cut short their articulation, lest your own words be dismissed one day.
—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA
NEW CHICAGO, 11:20 P.M. LOCAL TIME, MARCH 21, 2070
Logan sat on the floor at the center of his meditation room in his house. A single candle burned, illuminating the blank pages of an open book lying in front of him. He needed to settle down and focus, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the news that Valerie had relayed when she’d called earlier that evening: two WCF agents had been killed at Château Dugan. The disaster in Mexico, Jamie’s headaches, the discovery of his mother’s recordings, and the mystery of Flight 1849 only added to his anxiety.
He looked at the plastic container of his mother’s chips resting on top of his backpack. Next to it wa
s Deya’s Destiny Box. Logan and Mr. Perrot had found it during their cat-and-mouse game with Simon along the Ganges last July. The box had contained her copy of the Chronicles, known as the River Set, along with a small mirror and the mysterious blue Manas Mantr candle, which they knew was somehow linked to Sebastian Quinn.
Logan took a deep breath and focused his gaze on the candle flame. Soft music was playing in the background. Like his father, Logan had progressed in honing the Satraya Flame technique described in the Chronicles. His father had indirectly introduced him to the Satraya Flame via the pages of his journal, which Logan had found along with the Manas Mantr candle buried in the basement of the Council of Satraya building last July. While Logan hadn’t yet fully mastered the technique, he could not deny that the experiences he’d had over the last nine months focusing on flame had led to some of the most intriguing and meaningful revelations of his life.
Logan had also learned from his father’s writings that the blank pages in the third book of the Chronicles held veiled images and that if one entered a deeper state of mind while looking at the pages, the images would reveal themselves. The third blank page, he also knew, held only a partial symbol. Logan’s father had suspected that it was the symbol of immortality, but Sebastian Quinn had hinted that it might be something even greater. The only way to see the complete final mark was to possess all four original sets of the Chronicles.
After many months of diligent work, Logan was finally able to see two of the veiled symbols. Under each one was a word, which Logan surmised was the symbol’s ancient name. The first symbol Logan saw was the A-Tee-Na, and the second was the Sin-Ka-Ta. Sebastian had told Logan that seeing the symbols was only the first step in a progression. He needed to experience them to truly gain their wisdom. What exactly he meant by that, however, Logan didn’t know.
Logan gently shifted his gaze from the candle to the blank page. Gray-blue distortions appeared, floating like ghosts above the blank page. The cloudy hue was a signpost that indicated that he was entering a deeper state of mind focus. It was usually at this moment that the broken fragments of the symbols appeared. And eventually, after more diligent concentration, the full symbol emerged. But tonight all he could see were the cloudy gray-blue distortions. Frustrated, he broke what focus he had and stretched his legs. His mind was too scattered. Impulsively, he leaned over and grabbed the memory chips and his mother’s recorder. Maybe he could answer at least one of his questions: what did she see in the mirror concerning Flight 1849? Logan inserted the chips into the recorder until he found the one he was interested in. It was time-stamped 6:01 P.M., July 24, 2033, the closest date to the last recording he and Mr. Perrot had listened to at the studio. Logan pressed the Play button.
Journey Through the Mirrors Page 14