Michael nodded, mastering himself. “I have to find out what they’re planning and stop them.”
Nancy saw him off with her condolences and a promise to think of all the likely stones these thieves would target. He moved on to his next appointment with the director of the Roerich Museum on Broadway and 107th Street, near the river. Since they were running a bit early, Lawrence drove up Central Park West, filled with budding trees and late afternoon joggers. Michael tried to decide how he should approach this meeting. He didn’t have a personal relationship with anyone at this museum. He checked with both Guy and Stephen last night, but they weren’t friendly with anyone there either. Guy promised to check with Adeline, but Michael didn’t hear anything from her. He pushed Guy’s speed dial number and waited, but there was no answer. It looked like he was on his own.
He asked Lawrence to drop him around the corner so he wouldn’t be spotted getting out of such a luxurious car; that would lead to speculation, special treatment, and subtle requests for a donation, all of which he wanted to avoid. Around the corner, the Roerich peace banner blew in the March wind, a white flag with three red dots in the middle circled in red. Inside the gray stone building, the receptionist notified the director he was there and escorted him to the office. They passed paintings of the soaring Himalayas. Michael paused before a striking orange and red angel carrying a sphere. The receptionist hovered politely.
“Sorry,” he said. “I can visit another day.”
“The paintings are inspirational. Have you been here before?” she asked.
“Not recently. I get so busy with my own specialty.”
They entered another hallway and she knocked on the first door. A youngish man opened the door and stuck out his hand. “John Schmidt.”
Michael introduced himself in turn and shook hands.
The man’s office was small, but several more paintings hung there. A woman veiled in white sat on a rocky island. Behind her the three dots of Roerich’s Peace Banner were rendered as white circles with blue interiors. “Beautiful,” Michael said.
“One of the few privileges of the position.” Mister Schmidt gazed at the painting reverently. Another hung next to it, a comet streaked across a brilliant teal blue sky filled with stars.
“I’ll have to come back when I can spend an afternoon,” Michael said.
“We have an excellent collection.”
They sat at a small round table in one corner. “Thank you for seeing me,” Michael began.
Mister Schmidt leaned forward, an earnest look on his face. “How can I help you?”
“I’m doing some research for a book on spiritual artifacts. Right now, I’m researching crystals and special stones.”
“Ah,” the director said with satisfaction. “I can guess the reason for your visit.”
“I wanted to hear more about the legend surrounding the Chintamani Stone,” Michael said.
Mister Schmidt nodded vigorously. “The famous necklace.”
“First of all, is it myth or reality?” Michael tried to adopt a look of mild academic skepticism.
The man laughed. “The necklace itself is real enough. The true question would be, is the stone in Shambhala real?”
“Is Shambhala itself a myth?” Michael added.
“Oh, Shambhala is real in some way, Mister Levy. It is the pinnacle of human civilization, a reminder of the level of consciousness we can all attain with proper work.”
“I agree,” Michael said. “It’s one of this book’s purposes, to inspire people to reach for enlightenment.”
With this encouragement, Mister Schmidt talked about the Roerichs’ own search for Shambhala. Then he spoke at length about their commitment to moving beyond religious sects and embracing the truth behind all faiths.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Michael said.
“In fact, Helena served as the model for this painting.” Mister Schmidt pointed to the woman sitting on her rocky island. “She was given the fragment because she represented the Mother of the World, which is the title of this piece.”
Michael acted thoughtful, as if the idea just occurred to him. “In the book we’ve included psychic impressions from some of the best respected sensitives we have. Would it be possible to do conduct such a session with the Roerich fragment?”
Mister Schmidt’s eyes narrowed. “That would be most difficult to arrange. The exact location of the necklace is known only to a select few.”
“Of course,” Michael murmured. He wondered if Schmidt was amongst those ‘select few’. “How about Helena’s own impressions? Are there diaries or letters I might be permitted to read?”
Mister Schmidt’s loquaciousness seemed to have dried up. He tilted his head, as if searching his memory. “I’d have to check our records. Such personal items tend to be kept by the family.” His tone of voice offered an apology, but his tight jaw suggested he was hiding something.
“I see,” Michael said. He bowed his shoulders a bit. “I apologize for asking.” He stood up and extended his hand. “Thank you for taking the time to see me.”
Mister Schmidt shook his hand and escorted him to the door. “Our shop has many books that might be of interest. Posters too, of course.”
Michael thanked him again and turned to leave. Mister Schmidt knew something and would bear watching.
Chapter Eight
That same day, Alexander Cagliostro stood on the deck of the yacht staring at the GPS. His excitement did not match the calm, slate blue ocean that lay empty all around him in the late afternoon sun. This dive would be the culmination of his lifetimes of work.
“Stop,” he called to Karl over the sound of the engine. “These are the coordinates.”
Karl cut the motor and dropped anchor. The boat rocked gently in the sudden silence. A gull swooped down hoping for fish and flew away disappointed.
Cagliostro gathered the rest of his gear and sat on a low bench. Two assistants removed the two new crystals from their packing crate with meticulous care. Once those were secured in separate mesh bags, Cagliostro helped Miriam strap one on her back. As much as he hated giving up control of one of the new stones, he decided against carrying them both. He couldn’t risk banging them together, and wrapping them wouldn’t work; the material would soak up the water, quickly becoming too heavy and difficult to handle. Besides, what could Miriam do with the stone he gave her? They were five miles out, he carried a dart gun in case of sharks, and Karl sat absent-mindedly stroking his Heckler-Koch semi-automatic.
Cagliostro wrapped the straps of the mesh bag around his shoulders, securing the crystal snug against his back. He pulled on Miriam’s straps, tightening one. Satisfied, he motioned to the edge of the boat. “Okay, let’s go.”
The men helped Miriam lower herself into the water. The crystal strapped to her back stuck up over her head. Cagliostro followed right behind her. Once in the ocean, they adjusted their special face masks, tested their oxygen and headsets, then followed the line down through the turquoise water. Cagliostro willed himself to maintain a steady pace, relishing the weight of his treasure. They followed the contour of the ocean floor until they reached the small hill that marked the valley where the enormous Atlantean crystal waited for him all these centuries.
The base was still buried, but the sides of the crystal lay bare, reflecting the gray water around them. Shortly after discovering the huge stone, he supervised a crew hand picked by Mueller, and they cleared most of the sand away. After the crew finished their work, Cagliostro stayed behind to create a circle for ceremony in the surrounding sand. He placed the appropriate gem or mineral at various points to create a makeshift temple.
Now he stroked the flank of the crystal like a man anticipating his first night with the most beautiful woman in the world. Miriam swam up beside him and hovered in the water. He glanced at her out of t
he side of his face mask, wishing that he didn’t need any help, that he could explore this relic alone, but he didn’t know how powerful it would prove to be. He couldn’t risk becoming so absorbed in vision that he lost track of time or his surroundings. Miriam was a necessary evil.
He gave her a curt nod and gestured for her to take her position. They went over the plan until he was certain it was drilled into her head…not that she needed such instruction, she was an expert ceremonial magician. That’s why he chose her, but still, this working was too important for any slip-ups. Miriam took up her position at the base of the crystal. Cagliostro swam to the tip that fortuitously fell pointing due north.
“Ready?” Cagliostro spoke into the mike in his helmet.
“Yes,” Miriam answered.
“Are you oriented to the directions?”
“I’m in the south.”
“Good. Prepare the crystal,” he ordered.
Miriam took her stone out of its bag and placed it near the foot of the large crystal, twisting it into the sand until its base was deep enough for it to stand upright.
Cagliostro nodded his approval. He switched on the external speakers he had made for this occasion, hoping the amplified chant would not be too distorted to do its job. Next he took out a nylon rope and tied it around his waist, then threaded it through a hook he had the crew drill into a sizable rock at his feet. He floated up until his tether stopped him and folded his legs in lotus position, hovering like some apparition from another time or place. Once he was comfortable, he removed his own crystal, the larger one from the Austrian collection, and held it out in front of him. The water buoyed it up.
“Invoke the directions,” he said and closed his eyes, mentally orienting himself to the directions on the horizon, above, and below. Once he felt the temple activate, he began a wordless chant, calling on his inner contacts. Power built in the circle until it pulsed with energy. Cagliostro opened his eyes and directed his attention to the sentinel stone in front of him. He already found this crystal’s frequency, and he chanted the note, allowing all his attention to flow through his voice and awaken the sentinel…and awaken it did. The crystal instantly pulsed with light.
Satisfaction surged through him, but he took that energy and channeled it into his voice. The crystal shone brighter. Cagliostro spared a quick glance at Miriam and saw to his delight that she also was successful, although her crystal merely glimmered. She looked up at his, then focused back on her own sentinel stone. It brightened.
Cagliostro turned his attention to the master crystal. Its gleaming facets lay submissive before him. Pointing the tip of his sentinel toward the large crystal, he redoubled his chant. Miriam followed suit. Pouring his passion into his voice, crooning to the silicon female before him, he reached deep into the heart of the stone to ignite her flame. He felt a rumble, almost a purr, then light shot up from the base illuminating the enormous crystal, bouncing off the inner cracks and breaking into colors. He wondered if the crystal fractured when she had fallen or during the earthquakes or if the Atlanteans wanted the rainbow effects.
He gave himself over to the powerful currents of energy running up the body of his crystalline lover; they caressed his mind, awakening him deeper. He answered the touch with his voice, asking for more, begging for admittance into her secret places. He lost track of time as he poured his lifetimes of desire for this moment—for access to the power of Atlantis, for the secrets of the adepts—into his chant. Finally, the crystal opened to him and he entered her, plunging deep, almost losing himself. With his next thrust, she opened wider and took him fully inside. He exploded in ecstasy.
He floated in a golden sphere, free of thought and time, then the light cleared and he saw below him a group of people in a circle…no, it was a dodecahedron, a twelve-sided figure. He could see the star shape traced in light in the air around them. Their robes shifted colors from ultraviolet to white, then back again, in a dance with the energies around them. He floated inside the Tuaoi Stone, which now stood upright in the center of a chamber. He watched as the group chanted, intensifying the energy. Something began to form in the stone next to him, a shape like a fetus that grew in the blink of an eye into a humanoid. The being pushed through the crystal to the surface, as if she were gelatinous, then started and turned, catching Cagliostro out of the corner of her eye. One of the workers ran toward the tall crystal.
No, Cagliostro thought, you can’t stop me. He reached past the being and brushed against the man who’d left the circle.
“You are not a harmonic,” the entity at the surface of the crystal said in an apologetic tone. She pushed Cagliostro into blackness.
* * * *
The water from White Spring glowed in the night. Anne ran her hands under a gushing spout. The water felt like starlight. She turned and walked through a small gate in the wall between the springs and made her way through the yews and flowerbeds to Red Spring. Careful on the flagstone steps, slippery in the dew, she knelt beside the wellhead and traced the overlapping circles on the lid. She lifted it and stared down into the fern and moss of the well walls, wondering how deep it was. As if in answer, water began to brim up, filling the shaft, running over the edges onto the flagstone. A deep rumble sounded higher up on the Tor and the ground shook beneath her feet. The water thickened and turned a deep red. Anne reached out to cup it in her hands. It was slippery between her fingers. She sat back on her heels, startled by the texture. Red blood gushed from the spring. She jumped up to run and woke sitting up in her bed.
Anne stretched her hands out in front of her. In the moonlight, they appeared clean. She reached over and snapped on the light. No blood. She pushed back the covers and walked over to the window, looking down on Chalice Well Gardens. The oak blocked most of her view, but one flowerbed lay peaceful under the glowing moon. She turned and walked down the hall to the back window. The Tor was a black outline, majestic and still. The dream seemed real, like something happening on another dimension. She remembered how Grandmother Elizabeth brought her to a ritual that took place on the astral plane. The next morning, her grandmother knew all the details of her so-called dream. Maybe she should go see what was happening outside. Didn’t that local man say White Spring was flowing erratically? In her dream, if that’s what it was, White Spring gushed, but Red Spring actually bled.
Anne pushed her feet into some slippers, wrapped herself in a terry cloth robe, and walked outside. She looked over at Chalice Garden from her front porch. The wall and trees stood as quiet guardians. She carefully negotiated the wet steps that led down to the street and inched her way toward White Spring. She should have brought the flashlight; it was pitch black under the trees. After a few steps, she made out a huddled shape next to the dark building and stopped. The figure whirled and shone a flashlight in her face. She threw up her hand to block the light.
“Anne, wait,” the man called. He pointed the light at the ground.
“Who is it?” she called.
“Garth, your neighbor.”
Her eyes adjusted. His hair stuck out at angles and his eyes were puffy with sleep.
“What are you doing out in the middle of the night?” she asked.
He hesitated. “I could ask you the same.”
Anne hugged her robe tighter, glad she took to sleeping in pajamas since Michael went to New York. “Something woke me.”
“Me too.” He regarded her solemnly.
“A dream,” she said.
Garth shone his light on the spout of White Spring. Water trickled out. He shook his head, then looked at her as if he just made a sudden decision. “Let’s talk. I’ll make a pot of coffee.”
“All right.” Anne followed him up the street, Garth limping slightly and pointing the way with his flashlight. Neither spoke. His house turned out to be a way up the hill. He opened the gate and they walked across the farm-like yard, craving the
comfort of a well-lit room and something warm to drink before they unpacked their respective nightmares.
The floor plan was similar to the one in Cynthia’s house, with the kitchen in the back. A nightlight shone amber from halfway up the stairs, faintly illuminating bulky furniture and paintings. Stacks of books and files cluttered the floor in the room to the right. Garth switched on the light in the kitchen and turned to her. “Please make yourself comfortable.”
Anne sat down at a round, plain kitchen table and watched Garth as he put the kettle on, pulled two mismatched mugs from his cabinet and rummaged for spoons, frowning all the while. He seemed to be circling the topic like a dog sniffing out something new in his territory. He put the carton of milk on the table and glanced at her. “Just let me get this ready.”
She nodded, wishing now that she had gone home to change clothes, but Garth was still dressed in his worn robe. Red plaid flannel pajamas stuck out from beneath. Once the coffee was made, he poured and sat down at the table. Instead of speaking right away, he ran his finger around the rim of his mug, seemingly lost in thought. Finally he looked up. “Why don’t you go first? I’ve lived here a while and had a lot more experience with the antics of this place.” He gestured out the window that should have revealed the Tor but only reflected their faces back to them.
The coffee warmed her, bringing her more firmly back into this world. Anne stretched out her hands. The sticky feeling was gone. Garth’s solid presence helped. Cynthia trusted him, based on the note Anne found. She took a breath and plunged into her dream. Garth listened without interruption, his brown eyes watching her intently.
When she finished, he sipped coffee, his eyes distant with thought. She waited, tapping her foot on the linoleum. Finally he said, “Much of your dream is standard imagery. Have you read about Glastonbury?”
Again, he seemed to be circling the topic, but Doctor Abernathy was equally careful when dealing with psychic phenomenon, so she answered him. “No. We just got back from Egypt, so I studied those sites.”
Beneath the Hallowed Hill Page 10