His face turned up, caught in the sunlight streaming in the great windows over Solomon’s shoulder, Gabriel squinted, and a smile came to his face. “I’ve chosen carefully. As you’ve instructed, somewhere tropical, with … a significant coastal population.”
Solomon waved his hand. “You can tell me when you and Annabelle get there.”
The girl’s eyes raised, a smile appeared and Gabriel knew she had been hoping for this chance, to be given this assignment and to go along with Gabriel. Solomon was indeed generous and gracious to his favored servants.
“You’re not coming with us?”
“No,” Solomon said gently. “I will be leading … other areas and coordinating other efforts, and then heading to a most important meeting. You however, have been entrusted with the most intense spectacle, and I assume you’ve assembled the adepts you require?”
Gabriel nodded. “They’re standing by. Five of them there already, just waiting for instructions.”
“Then let’s not keep them—or the world—waiting.”
Book 2
Chapter 1
Fifteen miles off the northeast coast of Jamaica, the yacht Equinox-4 languished in the hot sun, with its two passengers finally rising up from a long rest at the sound of a cell phone ringing.
Gabriel stretched and took a drink of water as he nodded into the phone and stared over the rim of his sunglasses into the pure cloudless sky. The blue stretched as far as he could see, and the blazing sun beat down on the three other yachts stretched out in a line like the advanced front of an approaching armada.
“We’re ready,” he said into the phone. “Commencing the ritual in three minutes, on your mark.” Hanging up, he let his gaze fall on the girl’s tanned, topless body and met her smile. Annabelle sat up and fixed her hair, no longer even blushing at Gabriel’s attentions.
“Can’t we linger a bit?”
“You heard me. Three minutes.” He licked his lips as she stood and stretched and reached for a white robe—one of a pair. She tossed the other one to him and then slipped into hers.
Gabriel came closer to her and tied her belt for her, looking into her tender eyes, and as always, thought of running barefoot through a lush verdant forest, hand in hand with her. Lost in the woods, but exactly where they were meant to be. They would be there again, soon.
“Rested?”
Annabelle nodded, lids closing in a pleasurable memory. “Quite.”
“No reservations?”
She blinked, and Gabriel thought he saw a flicker of something cross her eyes, but then it was gone. “None,” she whispered, as she shifted her gaze over his bare shoulder, to the coast. The resort at Montego Bay, where windsurfers congregated on the calmer waves and jet skis and sailfish raced in the shallows before snorkelers and glass bottom boats, where rum-soaked tourists gawked at this little slice of nature they’d been told not to wreck.
“Then let’s focus.”
He pulled up her hood, giving her one last smile, then slipped into his own robe. After tying his belt, he reached for the two wooden staves resting on the center table beside the pitcher of melting ice and the two empty champagne glasses, and the laptop—the screen open to a seismographic display of the ocean floor below them.
Gabriel passed her the shorter staff, the one with a thin green vine wrapped around it like a stripe on a candy cane. He took his own in one hand and flipped his hood up as he turned with Annabelle and faced the island.
He glanced at the laptop screen and committed the depth and location to his thoughts.
The shelf where the Caribbean and North American tectonic plates met and butted roughly against each other.
Gabriel raised his arms and held the staff over his head, as Annabelle shadowed his motions.
“Focus on the ley line, and feel its energy. It’s here, all about us.”
And when he opened his eyes, it was there. A shimmering aurora, a narrow band just overhead, undulating and throbbing like one of the earth’s veins—a jugular that Gabriel and his colleagues now tapped into, spearing into and sapping the lifeblood of the world …
… and channeling it.
Channeling it with a synchronized, massive and combined force …
… downward.
Gabriel expected exertion, expected to hear the pounding of his own veins in his skull, expected to be overheating in the robe, and expected to choke under the weight of this responsibility Solomon had placed firmly on his shoulders.
Maybe it was Annabelle, or the cool breeze she may have summoned up to soothe him, or maybe it was the quality and confidence of the other adepts in the adjacent yachts, but the whole enterprise went as smoothly as he could have hoped.
So much so that at first, after he had let his trembling arms down and leaned on the staff, catching his breath, he worried if they had accomplished anything at all.
But Annabelle, eyes closed, turned toward him as if seeing it herself, at one with the seaweed forest, fathoms under water: the rising surge of bubbles, the groaning of the plates, the cracking, grinding and shifting.
And the enormous force unleashed all at once.
Bubbles surged ahead of the boat, and Gabriel heard a sound like a cry of pleasure before he realized it came from his own throat.
Before he realized it, Annabelle was now holding his hand, just as the other pairs in the other yachts all stood by, admiring the sheet natural force they had just unleashed.
Like Neptune himself surging up from the depths, a mile-wide tsunami rose and ascended into a killer wave bearing down upon the hapless island.
Without warning, without remorse.
Gabriel squeezed Annabelle’s hand and licked his lips.
“It’s begun.”
Chapter 2
Mason came out of the shower and heard a voice he still couldn’t believe was real. Shelby was in with Lauren, helping her into her chair and chatting away as if her voice had always been this beautiful, this perfect. He dressed, still listening and marveling at the change. Lingering outside Shelby’s door, he leaned against the wall as he finished with his tie, and was about to poke his head in to say good morning and ask for their breakfast requests when a buzz came in on his smartphone.
He groaned, and was going to ignore it when another followed.
These were alerts, not messages, he realized. Accustomed to the occasional buzz if weather-related phenomena changed, something he should be aware of, he set a variety of apps with tie-ins to international and regional weather centers to provide alerts.
He pulled out the phone, tiptoed past the door and started downstairs.
Halfway down he froze. First alerts were coming in from a variety of sources. Details sketchy but the geological center in St. Martin was the first to report on the sub-coastal magnitude 7 seismic action reported at 7:45 Eastern. And the tsunami that followed …
Oh god.…
Jamaica had been hit full force.
He ran down the rest of the stairs and in the kitchen scrambled to find the remote for the TV. Clicked the power button and heard the newscaster before the picture emerged. A map graphic with a bright red circle in the Caribbean just outside of Jamaica. They were showing serene pictures of Montego Bay and several other western side resorts as they had been, then cut in with hand-held video and cell phone images of terror. A massive, incalculable wave roared toward the beach as people ran in terror.…
Mason’s mouth dried up.
“What’s happening?” came that voice, just a minute ago serene and so full of hope, now tinged with fear and dread.
He shut off the TV, ever the one to protect his girl, no matter her age. “Something that can wait.”
Shelby frowned as Lauren wheeled up behind her and settled into the chair lift. “After pancakes?”
“After pancakes,” Mason set, even as his phone kept vibrating.
He risked a glance, expecting to see more about the tsunami, but apparently that wasn’t enough for this morning.
F
reak tornadoes rip through Minneapolis causing massive devastation.…
And before he could read further, his phone rang.
It was Pamela, and he knew what she wanted. They would be running a special, prepping him to talk about all this weather, giving his take, breaking down for their viewers what could cause such mayhem.
He raised a finger and shook his head as he put the phone to his ear. “Sorry ladies, looks like I may have one last broadcast to make.”
Going out with a bang.
“Hi Pam,” he said somberly. “I saw, and I’ll be right in. But there’s something I have to tell you first.…”
O O O
The blue screen weatherboard switched off as Mason unclipped his earpiece and microphone.
“So that’s it,” Pamela said, arms crossed over her chest, watching from behind the main camera. “It’s really your last one?”
“I said I could stay on a bit, do a few more. But it’s Friday, and they want me to start.…”
“Monday, I know.” Pamela looked at him sternly. “Well, we both know that this is it. An impassioned and well, damn impressive final broadcast. It was your swan song, and it was brilliant.”
“But I didn’t say goodbye.”
“Not in so many words, but you don’t need to. We’ll take it from here—or if you prefer, we can tape a quick segment where you sadly take your leave after profusely thanking your producer of twenty-four years, the one responsible for giving you a shot, and a name in this city, and …”
“And the one who’s made me everything I am today, yeah yeah.” He sighed and handed over the mic and earpiece. Glanced around, and let his view fall once more on the blue screen. “I’m going to miss this place. And these people.” Turned to her and saw her eyes trembling. “You.”
In a surprise move, trumping anything else he might have said, Pamela threw her arms around him in a crushing hug.
“Oh just get out of here, go. Save the world, conquer the elements.” She backed away and stared into his eyes, locking them in place. “Become like Aeolus and bag the winds, bend them to your will like I know you can. I saw the potential in you. You don’t just predict the weather, you are the weather.”
Mason chuckled nervously, and his skin prickled as if he were back on the Solstice rooftop before the storm. “I really am going to miss these pep talks, and your endless trove of anthropological tidbits, weather lore and mythology.”
“Yeah well if you ever need a walking almanac, you’ve got my IM address.”
“That I do.”
Setting his station ID card in her open palm along with his mic, feeling like a detective handing in his badge and gun, he waved to the camera guys chewing gum and watching the scene with little more than their normal interest.
“Now go save some lives or something,” Pamela added, looking away now to the news on the small screen at her console, where the replay of twin vortices were slamming into buildings and running wild down a modern street.
We’re a long way from Kansas, Mason thought, still unable to get those images out of his head.
“I always imagined you’d go into something bigger, Mason.” She was speaking now, as if from a long way off, reading from pages written ages ago. “The Storm Prevention Center, the World Meteorological Organization, or hell, maybe some top secret CIA weather control service like—what was that in the ’70s—Project Stormfury?”
Mason risked a smile. “How do you know I haven’t been doing that all along, and this has just been my civilian cover?”
She flashed a smile back to him. “Well, in any case, good luck. And oh, if your daughter ever gets bored of the tea-sipping English and wants to come back here and follow in dear old dad’s footsteps, send her my way. We could start her on a nice internship.”
“I’d appreciate that, really.” Mason thought about it, and all the benefits that would come from her being close by, close to her mother—and maybe even a positive influence on Gabriel. “But for now, I think I’m following in her footsteps. We’re both heading to Solstice.”
Pam whistled. “Fascinating. You and the twins together at the same place? Fascinating, and dangerous.” She looked up. “Do you remember your first day here? Lauren was two weeks away from delivery and I told you—”
Mason remembered as if it was this morning. Remembered the wide yellow tie Pamela had picked out for him, the bushy sideburns and cheesy mustache she had begged him to shave. “You told me that in many ancient cultures, especially with the Finns—my own heritage, that twins were highly regarded as conduits to the weather gods, or something like that.”
“That’s right. Special powers of prediction and sorcery and sometimes even … control.” She shrugged. “Like I said, if she’s ever looking for something else, maybe I can help mold that power, like I did for you.”
“Again, taking all the credit.”
Laughing, she stretched out her arms. “All modesty on this side. Now go, begone. And like I said …”
“Go save the world.” Mason grinned at her, nodded once more and turned away.
Chapter 3
Solomon arrived at the Fresno Yosemite Airport, in a landing zone bathed in a shaft of sunlight beaming through clouds as if providing a secondary runway. The pilot must have marveled at how the clouds had parted just in time and the fog mystically lifted away, scattering before their approach. They set down two hours before the meeting was to begin, with plenty of time to spare. Still, once they made the turn off onto Route 198, Solomon told the waiting limo driver to take a leisurely drive through so he could enjoy the scenery and take in the sweeping mountain vistas, appreciating how the rugged terrain gave way to the gradual spread of green as the pine shrouded forests invaded and held sway the closer they came to Sequoia National Park.
The others were surely there already, most likely sipping bitter tea and suffering through their leader’s exaggerated sense of piano skills as a precursor to the meeting. Let them wait for his arrival, Solomon thought. Let them murmur among themselves and wonder if he would even come. They would eventually start without him, he had no doubt, and that suited him just fine. He wanted to make an entrance, and it had to happen at just the right time.
The semi-annual meeting took place near the solstices and this one, four days before the winter solstice, promised high drama and the discussion of powerful topics, including several key votes.
After entering the park, driving to Giant Forest, he enjoyed the rise in elevation, and lowered the window to feel the air grow colder and observe the ground cover gradually turn white with a dusting of snow. They parked at the Lodgepole visitor center, and Solomon got out and told the driver to wait. It wouldn’t be too long. He observed the few other cars here off-season and recognized quite a few of the out of state plates as belonging to the other members.
He breathed a great breath of fresh air, enjoying a myriad of natural scents carried along the crisp early morning breeze, and surveyed the vast and varied land rolling out before him in all directions. He started off down a trail, his feet and staff crunching into the brittle snow as he bowed to the might of the giant sequoia trees standing like mighty and wise emissaries of old, silent sentinels that bristled and trembled at his approach.
In time, he cleared the deeper forests and emerged on a cliff side, viewing a sweeping panorama of Moro Rock in the distance, and Crescent Meadow down below. His destination. But first, he would tread straight through an army of giant sequoia warriors, flanked by red and white fir, sugar, ponderosa and other high alpine wonders. Readying his staff, Solomon followed a path that became increasingly overgrown as he neared the meadow. At one point, barely visible footprints veered into a thicket, and he followed without pause, moving aside the blocking foliage with his staff. Branches converged overhead, blocking the sun in all but stray shafts of light illuminating the way. A mist crept across the trail, further obscuring the path, but Solomon wasn’t deterred. And he wasn’t meant to be. He and the other eleven members of the Hi
gh Council alone had the ability to navigate these woods, to peer through the shade and the fog and the labyrinth of poisonous shrubs and vines, to arrive at another clearing, not on any maps and far from the ability of even the most intrepid hikers to locate. A clearing where a circle of weathered stones awaited.
Centuries old, dating back long before naturalist John Muir made his explorations, these rocks were here. Solomon knew who placed them here and how, where they were quarried and how they were transported. And he chuckled, recalling an anthropologist’s theory on such things. Not that any scholars or explorers had ever found this clearing. No, where he was headed had been shrouded from common eyes long before the first colonists ever made their way across the country. And even the natives spoke of this place only in legend.
Still, for all its allure and mystical secrecy, when Solomon finally arrived in the circle and the mists scattered after confirming his identity, and when the A-frame building that to all purposes seemed like a quaint ski chalet, appeared, Solomon was again struck by the feeling that this modernism was an affront to the old ways.
He touched the nearest rock, partially moss-covered, and caressed its surface, feeling its indentations and cracks. He felt its power and he sucked in a cool breath, smelling the pine sap and the distant oak branches; he heard an acorn fall a hundred yards away and was aware of a multitude of forest denizens eyeing him carefully, reverently.
They all knew their places.
Unlike some.
Steeling his nerve, Solomon patted the standing stone. He hefted his staff in his right hand, glanced around the circle one more time, then advanced into its center, toward the structure—and the meeting, already in progress inside.
O O O
“Am I too late?” The door with the shamrock handle slammed hard behind him and eleven heads turned in his direction. The rectangular table was long and thick, full of knots and weathered in places. The people seated around it in chairs, each one uniquely carven from a different tree trunk, could not have seemed more out of place to Solomon. He longed for the old days, and imagined how it could have been if only a different hand had grasped the arch-staff. Everyone was dressed as if coming from a power business meeting. Silk suits and ties for the seven men, power skirts, high heels and blazers for the women.
Final Solstice Page 6