Currents of Will: Book Two of The Atlantis Chronicles

by Susan MacIver

  “I will always cherish the love I’ve received from your father, from friends, from animals and from this incredible earth. And it is this love that will sustain me forever.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Remember, love is love, no matter the source.”

  She massaged her back and went to the bed. Propping her pillows, she eased down, brows tightly knit. “Travlor is an enigma, but love is the only key to unlock his heart.”

  A week passed and Daria had not seen Travlor at all. Although they had discussed shorter durations between sessions and Travlor should have come to her by now, he remained barricaded behind closed doors. Her attempts to invite him to join her for meals had fallen on deaf ears and his guards had summarily dismissed her with rigid looks and cursory waves of their hand.

  She couldn’t resist goading one of the soldiers. “Where did you train, Buckingham Palace?” Not waiting for his reaction, she huffed off and that was when she decided to do something different.

  Instead of waiting for Travlor, Daria created a full daily routine so that her time felt meaningful. Each morning, rain or shine, she took breakfast on the terrace. As the rain showers dripped to a finish, she went to the pool. There, she swam or read or basked in the sun, and she attempted simple compulsions. Some worked while others failed miserably. Nevertheless, she kept trying.

  This particular afternoon, the heat built on top of the humidity and comfort was hard to find; however, Daria was determined to take in the gardens. She strolled through the vast maze of plants that ran haphazardly about the grounds. Bending to admire one of the fire-red hibiscus flowers, she heard a different voice. A young man was explaining to her jailers that he had a message for her only.

  Curious, she watched as a painfully thin youth with bright hazel eyes and a kind face waded through her musclebound groupies. He came up to her and smiled. Deep dimples on each side of his face made him look even younger than his sixteen or seventeen years. Obviously he was another fervent volunteer, proud to serve the Messiah. Daria was dumbfounded when he actually addressed her.

  “He requests your presence.”

  “Why?”

  He shuffled his feet and oddly, the ground now held his undivided attention. It was obvious that he wasn’t going to divulge anything else. She shrugged and tapped the new disciple on his shoulder. “I’ll follow you.” Her guards, whom she barely noticed anymore, fell in behind. Daria marveled and shook her head. Travlor was right, the guards have become like shadows playing in the sunlight. She threw a glance over her shoulder. “But you’re still my jailers.” She trudged after the youth as quickly as she could and they forged a path back to the house.

  Reaching the stairway to Travlor’s domain, Daria grabbed the handrail, hesitated, and grimaced. The stairs had become obstacles difficult to surmount. Since the baby had pushed up into her diaphragm, her oxygen intake suffered. She paused every forth step to catch her breath. Halfway up, she stopped and rubbed a stitch in her side. Travlor’s men waited patiently while she huffed and puffed. She sent a thought to her daughter. “Someday, I’ll read you the story about the Three Little Pigs and you’ll understand why I can play the part of the Big Bad Wolf so well . . .” Still winded, she nodded and the group continued the trek up to Travlor’s quarters.

  The youth opened the door for her and then withdrew. Walking into Travlor’s inner sanctum, Daria noticed how tired he looked. His pallor was grayer than it had been in quite some time. She thought that he was ready for a healing until his first words reached her.

  “It is time for another miracle.”

  He hadn’t even bothered to look up from his gargantuan pile of papers. She suddenly felt like the cornered canary, mesmerized, watching the cat’s tail switch back and forth. In the cartoons, the cat always pounced, then with yellow feathers hanging from his mouth, slinked off to make more mischief.

  Guardedly, she sat in the nearest chair staying well away from Travlor’s desk. “What will it be this time, and why now?” She waited for the pounce.

  “My men have located someone suited to my needs. This person is beyond famous and my healing will attract worldwide attention. It is time to cast my influence throughout Europe and possibly into North America.”

  His plans were being executed so easily she was still confounded. Initially, she had been skeptical because she had been naïve enough to believe that governments would be difficult, if not impossible, to topple. Since the inception of his mad schemes, governments, dictators, and puppet regimes had fallen away like wisps of clouds in a jet stream. Travlor himself hardly seemed ruffled. The information age had given him all the tools he needed and he was a master manipulator.

  Travlor’s fame, along with his growing numbers of disciples, spread throughout the world like a plague. Tireless in their proselytizing, the true believers now carried his message throughout Mexico, Canada, Australia and Micronesia. His sermons blasted over the airwaves and through cyberspace with the speed of light, and people succumbed to his influence in unfathomable numbers.

  Isolated from all but his closest disciples, he handpicked the men who now wrote and preached “his” sermons. His rise was dizzying. Daria inhaled deeply and held her breath for a few heartbeats. Then she released her words slowly, the way air seeps out of a tire. “Who needs the healing?”

  Travlor continued writing. “Do not burden yourself with that small detail. However, for your information, we will be traveling by air. Be packed and ready to go in two days’ time.”

  “All right, what kind of clothes will I need?”

  “Warm.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  She never saw his face. Head bent low, he continued to skim the papers before him. “No.”

  Daria stood. “Am I to know what time we are departing?”

  “Early morning. That is all.”

  Whether she wanted it to or not, the ball was rolling. With no idea who could possibly need her help or who would be so famous as to demand the world’s attention, she shuffled back to her room.

  Half-heartedly, she retrieved her suitcase, placed it on the bed, and started packing. She tried to think of a world figure sick enough to require a visit from the “Messiah.”

  As she was folding a red sweater, her head snapped up and she slapped both hands over her mouth. “Oh my God, that’s who it is!”

  Numbly, she sank down next to her suitcase. Her voice shook. “I’m wrong. It can’t be.” She hugged herself and rocked gently back and forth. No doubt about it, the cat had pounced.

  The more she considered the possibility, the more sense it made. How has he done it? Then she caught herself. Well, that’s an idiotic thought. And she almost laughed. Maybe I’ve caught Travlor’s crazy. But who else could it be?

  She shook her head, dazed and feeling that the weight of the world had suddenly dropped onto her shoulders. She got up and plodded back to the closet; at least now she knew what to pack.

  Their flight across the Atlantic had been uneventful and lacking in conversation. Travlor had been in heavy communication with his staff, making sure that all his orders, plans, and pretenses moved mercilessly forward.

  On final approach, the jet descended toward Da Vinci airport. The Pontiff’s private AW139 helicopter, a gift from the Italian air force, stood fueled and awaiting their arrival. As the jets’ wheels kissed the tarmac, Daria watched the scenery flash by. The captain had been given immediate clearance, so upon landing, he quickly taxied next to the helicopter and powered down.

  Instantly, people swarmed their plane, transferring luggage and ushering them, along with another phalanx of guards, to the air force chopper.

  Cleared for takeoff, they were immediately airborne. A cardinal, sent to attend them, offered them a glass of champagne. Travlor accepted while Daria declined. Settling back in comfort, Travlor raised his glass in a toast. “Your health and that of the pope’s.”


  Daria closed her eyes and rubbed the back of her neck. Travlor set his glass on the small table between them after appreciating a sample taste. “You might as well relax. How many people get to see the part of the Vatican that we’ll be visiting?”

  “It’s not that.” She moved closer to Travlor and whispered. “I’m tired of the lie. And I’m less enthusiastic with each healing that you perform.”

  Travlor’s lips lifted in a sneer. “Must we go through this every time? You will follow my lead, stay as unobtrusive as possible, and heal the man. Do you understand?”

  Her heart felt squeezed, like her ribs had shrunk two sizes. She waited to see if the tired muscle would continue pumping or would just shrivel up and quit. When she felt the next thump, she swallowed hard and looked out the window. She detested Travlor’s masquerade, but if she didn’t go through with it, she endangered the life of her child, and that was unthinkable. “How did you get in touch with the Vatican, anyway?”

  “I didn’t have to; they begged me to perform a healing on Il Papa. This will cement my hold on the rest of the predominately Catholic countries.”

  Resigned, she watched Italy, bathed in the splendor of an amber afternoon, unfold like a carpet beneath them. Lush green fields overflowing with sun-ripened vines flew by, and rooftops tiled in burnt sienna hues winked at her as the chopper blades rotated onward.

  The flight wasn’t long, maybe thirty minutes from departure to their arrival, but as soon as they landed, they were escorted into waiting limousines. A few of Travlor’s elite guard stayed close, but made themselves as inconspicuous as possible.

  The cars sped to an underground tunnel and soon came to a stop before a private entrance. Without any fanfare, they were taken to a plain set of elevators. Surrounded by both Travlor’s and the pope’s men, there was not enough room for all of them when the elevator doors opened. Travlor gestured for his men to follow in the next car and the heavy doors closed with a whisper.

  Daria was properly subdued when the elevator doors opened and she stepped into the inner sanctum of the man considered by many to be the most powerful religious leader in the world.

  She felt like Travlor’s cynicism had rubbed off on her with her next thought. Make that the second most powerful. Travlor’s nest is feathered, he’s moved in, planted roots, and will not be moved . . . now that’s a mixed metaphor.

  The late afternoon sun highlighted the rich colors that dominated the beautiful room. Religious art graced the walls alongside Rembrandts, Monets, and even a Pollack. Frescoes adorned the ceilings and she wondered if Michelangelo had done the work. Furniture was covered in gleaming brocades, dark velvets, and bright silks.

  Several cardinals were in attendance. One of the priests separated from the group and crossed the parquet floor to greet them, hand extended. His smile displayed white, even teeth and his eyes sparkled like emeralds in his lined face. His white hair set off his swarthy skin and strong features; he was a striking man. When he spoke, the hint of an Irish brogue was still quite melodious. “Welcome to His Holiness’s private quarters. I am Father Patrick. I speak for us all when I thank you for coming.”

  Travlor took the man’s hand and tried to return his smile. It looked to Daria like he had to exert a lot of effort to quirk his mouth out of its habitual frown. “I am glad to be of service.”

  “If you will come with me, I have refreshment to offer.”

  Travlor held his hand up. “That is not necessary. We have been well supplied on both legs of our journey.”

  The cardinal bowed his head, then stepping aside, lifted his arm in a welcoming gesture. “Then please, come with me; I will lead you to His Holiness.”

  Travlor jerked his chin once and fell in step with Father Patrick. Everyone else, including Daria, kept a careful distance as they followed.

  Daria noted that each of the cardinals bowed his head in acknowledgment as they passed. Their expressions reflected awe tinged with doubt, but it was clear that they were cowed by Travlor’s personage.

  She wanted to kick their awe-filled backsides. Their obeisance was sickening and disheartening. She had hoped the pope’s entourage would be a harder audience to convince, but Travlor hadn’t even needed to compel them. They were already his, with or without their doubts.

  Entering a darkened chamber, Travlor was taken to the bedside of the ailing pope. Daria peered around the men to get a look at the man who had headed the Catholic Church through decades of change and challenge.

  She couldn’t see much. The light was so dim that she couldn’t even make out the pallor of the man swathed in covers up to his chin. She did a quick scan and saw that he was riddled with problems. It wasn’t just one disease that plagued the poor man; his overworked system struggled under the weight of a lifetime of neglect.

  Travlor didn’t deign to look at the others; he knew his command would be obeyed. “Everyone but the girl must leave.”

  When the cardinal opened his mouth to protest, Travlor turned the full force of his gaze on the man. The scarlet robed priest backed away without another sound. He looked at his retinue, crooked a finger, and closely followed by the others, made a quick, silent exit.

  Travlor turned back to the pontiff and Daria sidled up next to him. The sickly man barely had enough strength to draw a breath. She glanced at Travlor and he moved aside, motioning for her to start.

  The mystical healing tones cut through the quiet, but were quickly muffled by the heavy fabrics used throughout the room. Nothing ever echoed in this place. Daria’s hands moved over the length of the man’s decrepit body. The range of issues that assailed his health were many; however, one by one, Daria removed each disease. After a couple of hours, she reached a point where she could do no more. He was so much healthier that it was likely he would live at least another twenty years.

  She took Travlor’s arm. Surprisingly, she didn’t feel drained, which in itself was an incredible boon. She wondered if her ability had grown to a point where any but the most severe healing would tax her system. Could my daughter and I have combined strengths? Is that even possible? She would have to consider that idea, especially after the episode in the pool. Now, however, she was just grateful that she didn’t have to be carried out on a stretcher.

  Travlor prepared himself for his grand entrance and sailed through the door as though he had just wrought a miracle.

  In essence, I suppose he has, Daria reflected. Meekly, following like a good minion, Daria kept to her role with unerring precision. She would not risk her baby again.

  Travlor stopped before the gathered cardinals and made his pronouncement. “His Holiness rests comfortably. He will sleep deeply tonight. There is no need to administer any of the medications that crowd his nightstand. He will be with you for many years to come.”

  The men’s faces lit up and their thoughts were as evident to Daria as their noses. “We are in the presence of God!” “He is the true king of heaven!” “The new Messiah has appeared to save us all!” “The one man who walks the face of the earth in holy splendor! Hallowed be his name!” They crowded around to kiss his hands.

  A young man stood holding several dark vials, replicating an ancient ceremony recorded in the scriptures. On the floor next to him was a golden basin filled with water. He knelt reverently, opened each vial, and in turn, poured the contents into the water. The unmistakable essence of myrrh and frankincense rose into the room and teased Daria’s senses. She detected another scent that she couldn’t quite identify.

  As the name of the other oil came to her, the young priest prostrated himself before Travlor in one swift motion.

  Cardinal Patrick offered Travlor a chair. “He is prepared to wash your feet in the same manner that Jesus’s feet were symbolically washed. It would be our honor to perform this sacred ceremony for you.”

  Travlor held up both hands. His voice dripped with honey and haughtiness. “While I a
ppreciate your magnificent gesture, I must leave, a Messiah’s work is never done.”

  The men were crestfallen, but quickly recovered. The cardinal led Travlor and company back to the elevators and pushed the button to summon the car. He took Travlor’s hand and kissed it with all the fervor of the religious reborn. “Please come back. We are honored to be called your servants. It will not be long before the Church gives you your rightful sainthood.”

  The doors slid open and Travlor left without another word. Daria shook her head, but wisely kept her mouth shut.

  Landing again at Da Vinci, Travlor offered a suggestion to Daria. “I doubt you have been to Rome. How would you like a nighttime tour and then dinner in an old Italian restaurant with which I am very familiar?”

  The man was a dichotomy. She never knew what to expect. Tired but feeling well, she accepted his offer. She didn’t feel like climbing aboard the jet quite so soon. “That sounds wonderful. I would like that very much and it will give me a chance to stretch my legs.”

  The limo rolled over the tarmac to meet them as they ducked under the helicopter’s churning blades. Travlor ordered his men to load their bags into the jet and wait for his return.

  He helped Daria into their car. When he slid in next to her, she frowned, her suspicions aroused. “Why no detail tonight?”

  Travlor snorted. “I had hoped to stay in Rome awhile. However, some matters have interrupted my plans and we are forced to return to Columbia. Before we do, I thought you would like to experience the Roman night.” He rolled down his window and breathed deeply. “Ah, there’s nothing quite like it. The art, the history, the women.”

  It was a small glimpse of a past that he never shared. She was hit by a crazy thought. Maybe he’s losing his mind. Oh, wait—that’s already happened.