Beneath the Hallowed Hill

by Theresa Crater

  “I’ll look it up. You can ask around if you don’t mind, but be discreet. I don’t want you to get hurt.” He dabbed his forehead with his napkin.

  “I promise to be careful.” Nancy grinned. “Too hot?”

  “It sort of sneaks up on you.” He scanned the room for the waiter.

  “You’ve got to try the Crème Brule,” Nancy said.

  “Thanks, but I need to get going.”

  “Oh, come on. I don’t get here often, and I can’t eat it all myself. Besides, it will cool you off.” Nancy looked about to pout, so Michael relented.

  She ordered then leaned forward. “You know, there’s a collector in Austria who has a beautiful crystal that many people feel is from Atlantis.”

  Michael nodded. “In Linz, right?”

  “You know about it already.”

  “It was stolen.”

  Nancy sat back, surprised. “What other thefts do you know about?”

  “Just these two.”

  The dessert arrived and Michael took a bite to be polite, then had to resist scarfing down the whole thing. After they polished off the Crème Brule, Nancy turned back to business. “Have you spoken with Franz Maier?”

  Franz oversaw the German Rosicrucian archives. Michael knew Thomas consulted with him about the six crystal keys before he flew to India. “Oddly enough, we never met,” he said.

  “Maybe it’s time to rectify that,” Nancy suggested.

  “Perhaps, but I need to go to San Jose first.” He gestured for the waiter. “Check, please.”

  * * * *

  The next day, Michael parked under the shade of a large elm in front of the English Tudor that was once the home of the first modern Imperator of the Rosicrucian Order, Doctor Harvey Spencer Lewis. Immediately across the street stood a statue of Tutmosis III, Akhenaten’s great-great grandfather. Once a statue of Augustus Caesar was there, positioned so as to point to the house. It was a gift from Mussolini—not because Doctor Lewis approved of his politics, but because he was close with the Italian order. Rumor had it a tunnel ran beneath Naglee Avenue connecting Lewis’s house with his office in Rosicrucian Park; that he’d call his staff to say he’d be right over and ask his secretary to put something on his desk, and when she’d open the door, he’d already be sitting behind it. Stephen, who told him this story, also said the tunnel was crushed during some repaving during the 1950’s.

  Michael walked across the street and ambled down the path beside the Francis Bacon Auditorium, Bob following behind at a discreet distance. Doctor Abernathy refused to allow him to fly to California on a commercial plane or travel alone. “Not with Cagliostro on the hunt,” he said.

  Michael walked to the brightly colored tiled fountain topped with a glorious winged Isis. The park rumor mill had it that the gold statue that used to stand there was stolen in the 1930’s and replaced with the current brass one. The RCU building behind the fountain was supposed to be the only building in the world to combine Tibetan and Egyptian architecture. At least here was some evidence of Lewis’s connection to Asia.

  Michael turned back, pushed open the wrought iron gate marked “Members Only,” and entered the Akhenaten shrine. He sat on a marble bench. Someone put a vase of scarlet roses in front of the rose granite pyramid containing the ashes of Harvey Spencer Lewis. His son’s ashes were marked by an obelisk farther back. Michael closed his eyes to find his silence, then asked for help in thwarting Cagliostro this time. No answer came, but he felt a measure of peace.

  He left the shrine and stopped again under the sprawling trunks of the banyan tree, its hollow center representing the One, source of all consciousness in Vedic philosophy. This place always brought him peace, just as Robert always helped him see his way forward. Michael wanted to hear his mentor’s voice in his mind again, reassuring and guiding him. Bob took a few steps closer and looked around, wondering why Michael stopped. Michael sighed, forced on a smile, and followed the sidewalk between the buildings to the front of the museum.

  A statue of Tauart standing in the middle of the fountain turned Michael’s smile genuine. Something about the protruding belly and snout of the hippopotamus Neter who protected pregnant women always cheered him up. He clambered up the stairs, walking between the blue and white papyrus columns, and entered. He told his name to the attendant at the front desk. “I have an appointment with the curator.”

  “You’re a bit early. She’ll be available in about fifteen minutes. Would you like to look around? I can send someone to find you.”

  “I’ll be in the Akhenaten room.” Michael downloaded the audio tour; no rings or other jewelry currently on display matched what he was looking for.

  A knowing smile lit the woman’s face. “Of course.”

  When Michael reached the room, he found a hunched blond man talking with a group of what looked like college students. “The Rosicrucians trace their teachings back to Tutmosis III and the Pharaoh Akhenaten. This explains the Egyptian architecture and symbols they use, and their fascination with this particular dynasty. We know, of course, that the time lapse and culture changes are too great to make this connection credible. Western metaphysics also claims that the Greek philosophers were trained in what they call the Egyptian mystery schools. This is a prime example of what Edward Said would call Orientalism, how Europeans see Easterners as wise and inscrutable, but this museum does have some pieces worth viewing.”

  Definitely a college professor, Michael thought.

  The group filed out of the room, much to his relief, and he stood before the replica of a bust from the Luxor Museum. Akhenaten’s face stared back at him from the case—the full lips, round eyes, and high brow were filled with a peace Michael yearned for. He sat on a low bench and tuned in with his breath, letting his awareness float. He reached out to the image. He knew this bust was cast recently, that it carried none of the resonance with the past the real one did, but his own connection to this master was great enough to overcome the limitation. After a minute, the face of Akhenaten blurred. Michael was in a bright, hot room. He leaned toward someone seated in a gold chair to whisper something in his ear. The faint smell of wax and lotus oil rose up from the seated figure; a young bronze boy fanned them with ostrich feathers.

  “Doctor Levy?”

  The scene disappeared abruptly and Michael opened his eyes to find a middle-aged woman standing in front of him.

  “I finished earlier than expected. I’m Rhonda Dunn.” She walked toward him, extending a hand in greeting.

  She has no awareness that she just interrupted a meditation, Michael thought. He took a deep breath to return himself to the here and now. After all, he came to see her. He shook off his irritation, then stood and shook her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry to make you come find me.”

  “No problem. I enjoy my little museum.”

  Michael chuckled. “It’s not so small, really.”

  “Compared to the Met?” The corners of her mouth quirked up.

  “Ah, well.” Michael glanced back at Akhenaten. “You have the advantage of serving the Rosicrucians, not the general public.” Her eyes darted to his face in confusion. “Besides, I’ve left that position.”

  “So I heard.” With a gesture for him to follow, she turned and walked back through the museum.

  “I’m writing now, pursuing some life-long interests.” Michael kept his voice low.

  “What a pleasure.” They reached her office and she sat at a small round conference table. Michael took a seat across from her. “What interests you here?” she asked.

  “So many metaphysical artifacts have colorful histories. I want to retell some of those stories to entertain and uplift people.” He lifted his hand. “We need to teach in many ways.”

  She nodded for him to continue.

  “Right now, I’m writing about Atlant
ean artifacts.”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “I’m not sure we can help you there.”

  Michael held up a finger. “Actually, I’m tracking down a story about a ring given to Doctor H. Spencer Lewis by a Tibetan Rinpoche.”

  The blank look on her face seemed genuine, so he continued. “Supposedly the Roerichs gave Doctor Lewis a ring that they got in Shambhala. It was supposed to be from Rigden Jyepo.”

  Rhonda shook her head. “This is the first I’m hearing this story. If you don’t mind me asking, what is this ring’s connection to Atlantis?”

  “The stone in the ring is supposedly connected to the Chintamani Stone. The mythic origin of that piece is Atlantis…well, it’s actually supposed to be a gift from another star system—Orion, Sirius, the Pleiades.”

  “That’s some story,” she said with a slight smirk.

  Could it be the Rosicrucians hired an academic Egyptologist as their museum curator, one who knew very little about the esoteric knowledge that surrounded her? Michael wondered.

  “We do have a whole filing cabinet marked with this Lewis’s name.” She stood up. “You can check the archives.”

  They took the stairs into the basement. Rhonda unlocked a door marked “Employees Only” which opened into a room filled with file cabinets and shelves. She walked to one of the file cabinets marked “H. S. Lewis” and opened the top drawer. “Let’s see now.” She riffled through the files, then closed the drawer and started on the second one. She lifted several out halfway through her searching. “These might help.” She laid the files on the long table in the middle of the room and they both sat down. The first file read Artifacts: Museum.

  “May I?”

  Rhonda nodded.

  Michael reached for the stack. The next ones were labeled Artifacts: Library, and Personal Collection. From the first manila file, Rhonda pulled out a typed list. “Good, there’s a duplicate.” She handed one to Michael. He scanned the items—Coffin of Lady Mesehti, Middle Kingdom; Cleopatra VII, Ptolemaic. He turned a few pages, running his eyes down the page, looking for categories, but the items seemed to be listed at random. This was going to take a while. He hoped Bob liked museums.

  Rhonda apparently reached the same conclusion. She half-rose. “Shall I leave you to it?”

  “If I may.” Michael tried to look eager. “Would the library have anything?”

  “No, all the information about artifacts is in the museum. Let me know if you need any help,” she said, then closed the door behind her.

  Michael waited a few minutes before getting up and inspecting the other file cabinets. He riffled through shipping manifests, agreements with other museums, program plans—all the usual business of any such institution. Satisfied that Rhonda did indeed find the relevant files, he sat back down and worked his way through the stack in front of him with the patience of an archaeologist.

  Two hours later, he had learned a great deal about the holdings of the Rosicrucian Egyptian Museum, the expeditions Lewis participated in, and various gifts the group received. Nowhere did he find any mention of a ring, the Roerichs, or even Tibet. He returned the files to their drawer and walked out to find Bob. He’d send a thank you with a donation to Rhonda later. He found Bob in the bookstore leafing through his own recent book. “I see they carry it,” Michael commented.

  “You should sign it for them.” Bob closed the book and returned it to the shelf.

  “Nah. Let’s go.”

  They walked out past the fountain and turned down the sidewalk. A sign reading Ram Metaphysical Books caught his eye. Something about the place pulled at him. “I want to check out that store before we leave,” he said.

  Bob looked at the place, the end suite in an aging strip mall. He glanced at his watch. “Okay, but it takes a while to file a flight plan, you know.”

  “Go ahead and do it. I’ll be just a minute.”

  Bob took a seat at a bus stop, and Michael crossed the street and pushed open the door of the shop. Bells hanging from the handle announced his entrance. The place smelled of cat mixed with sandalwood. An older woman sat at an untidy desk just to the side of a jewelry case stuffed with Celtic and Egyptian designs. A blue-point Siamese lounged on the various piles of catalogs and papers on top of the desk. The two regarded him with remarkably similar blue eyes. “Welcome to Ram Books. Let me know if I can help you.” The woman greeted him. The remnants of a French accent still hung in her voice. She seemed to be in her sixties, with a round face and body, and hair the color of her youthful blond, nicely done in an old-fashioned bouffant, only not as puffy as the 50’s version. The cat regarded him haughtily.

  “Thank you.” Michael made his way to the Egypt section and quickly found his latest book. He pulled the three copies from the shelf and took them up to the desk. “May I sign them for you?” he asked with a smile.

  “You’re Michael Levy?” The woman pulled a stack of local weekly newspapers from a chair next to the desk and patted the seat.

  “That’s right.” He took the seat she indicated. A stripped tabby looked up at him from yet another stack of magazines behind the desk, then tucked his nose back under his front paw, returning to his nap.

  “Oui, I love Egypt. I try to keep up with all the new books.” Her smile was as generous as her round curves and colorful tunic. She rummaged in a drawer and took out a ball point pen. “If you’d called ahead, I would have arranged a reading.”

  He opened the first book to the title page. “Quick trip, just doing a bit of research.”

  “At the library?” She pointed over her shoulder.

  Michael followed her gesture and discovered two Himalayans lounging on the bookshelves immediately behind the jewelry case. “Museum, actually.” He pointed to the pair. “Beautiful cats.”

  “Yes, but this one is jealous.” She pointed to the queen on top of the desk. “I’m a worshiper of Bast.”

  “So I see.” Michael signed the book in his lap with a flourish then opened the next.

  She lowered her voice. “Are you a member?”

  “Yes,” Michael said, and she nodded. “Has the store been here long?”

  “Twenty years, first opened up in the old Imperator’s house.”

  Michael looked up with a start. “No kidding?”

  She laughed at his expression. “That’s right. I lived upstairs and ran the store on the first floor, rented out rooms. The kids called it Pauline’s Boarding House and Home for Wayward Mystics.”

  “Imagine that. You would know.” Michael leaned forward and lowered his voice even though they were alone. “Was there really a tunnel?”

  Pauline’s blue eyes lit with excitement. “We looked for it. This redheaded kid…well, he worked for the Order as a research scientist. He was in his late twenties…not exactly a kid, I suppose. He was always knocking on the walls of the spiral staircase. He swore it was hollow.” She smiled at a private memory. “We found a passageway in the basement, but it ended in rubble.”

  “You think the repairs to the street probably collapsed it?”

  She raised an eyebrow appraisingly. “You do know the story.”

  “A friend told me.”

  “We talked about doing some digging, but never got around to it.” She stroked the Siamese, who took the attention as no more than her due. “You know how it is, so many projects.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.” He finished signing and closed the cover of the last book. “Shall I put them back?”

  “I can do that later. Tell me about your research…unless it’s top secret.” She waggled her eyebrows to suggest this would be her preference.

  “I thought I’d write about Atlantean artifacts.”

  “That’s right up the Rosicrucians’ alley,” she tossed back.

  Michael laughed in spite of himself. “Yes, but I’m loo
king for something specific. They don’t seem to have any record of it.”

  “That new lot.” She waved her hand dismissively “You could fill two libraries with what they don’t know.”

  “Well…” Michael hesitated now that the revelation was at hand.

  “Come on. Maybe I can help.” Pauline smiled encouragingly.

  “Did you ever hear a story about Nicholas Roerich giving a ring to Doctor Lewis?”

  “Roerich.” She frowned in concentration, still stroking the Siamese who moved into her lap. “I don’t remember a ring, but the house and museum were picked clean back when the Church of the Moon tried to take over the Order.”

  “Who?” Michael was stunned. “How could that be?”

  Pauline held up her hands as if being held at gunpoint. “I’m not kidding.”

  “This I have to hear.”

  She laughed again. “After Doctor Lewis died, his son took over as Imperator. He was nice enough, but not the mystic his father was. He watered down the monographs too much, in my humble opinion. Nobody’s asking, mind you.” She looked around the store to reassure herself they were alone.

  “He was a good administrator, though. The order expanded under his leadership. San Jose became the world headquarters in the late 1940’s, the war bankrupted the European orders. We remained the World See until Lewis’s son died in 1987. That’s when the real trouble began. The next Imperator had ties to God knows who.” She waved her hands and the blue-point jumped down in protest. “He appointed one of his minions as curator, and together they raided the museum and library. When he proposed we move the World See to Andorra, people started investigating. Guess who owned the property he chose for the site?”

  “Reverend Li Yang Sun?” Michael answered.

  “Exactamundo.” She slapped her thigh for emphasis. “What a fight that was, but in the end the Supreme Grand Lodge was dissolved altogether.” The tabby jumped into her lap, thinking it was his turn. “You see, there was never supposed to be a World See. The leadership did that because of the emergency created by the war.”