by Sean Hancock
I look away from the mirror and turn my attention to the notes themselves.
The first page is dedicated to treasures I have buried in the United Kingdom, the ones Elsie could remember, anyway. There’s one beside an ancient, two-thousand-year-old yew tree in Berkshire and another two hundred paces south of Stonehenge’s central megalith (the related memories coming back to me now), although I can’t imagine I’d be allowed to start digging there. I remember when Stonehenge was deserted, considered a weird, spooky pagan monument, back before tourists reclaimed the past.
I move on to another section entitled Allies. Here I had written about Ashkai and the fact that we were together in our previous life cycle, when I was a serf named Inga from Ryazan, western Russia. The year of her Flooding was 1824. Ashkai had been born a Spanish noble and was very wealthy.
Thankfully, my master was successful in his attempt to reach out and appear in my dreams, letting Inga know how to find him. Even though no oceans stood between us, getting to him was far from easy. As a serf, I had no rights and no money, so I had to steal, lie, and even fight when necessary. It is a journey I will never forget. I wouldn’t have made it without the fighting skills and strategies and knowledge of human weakness I remembered from past lives. Even so, I learned so much about who I am and what I am capable of.
I stop reading for a moment and close my eyes, already smiling. That’s because the words on the page have enabled me to relive the embrace we shared in the doorway of his Madrid home, the kiss, the merging of our energies, the absolute bliss. I long for that feeling again, knowing there’s only one way to attain it.
When I eventually open my eyes, feeling a mixture of sadness, hope, and frustration, I scan forward until I reach the heading Enemies, under which I have listed the Chamber of Infinites, Meta, and The Shadow, gasping because I’d forgotten what happened to Elsie the night after her Flooding:
An intruder appeared in my dream. He assumed my master’s form, but it was not he, of that I am certain. Who was the imposter and what did he want?
I don’t have the answer to that puzzle, and there’s more to learn, so I move on, having to wait until the final paragraph for my biggest, most valuable clue:
Met Rebus (when I was Inga). Ashkai’s spy inside the Chamber of Infinites. He was peculiar and kept staring at me. I think he was trying to scare me, but why? And who was the woman standing beside him?
Contemplating those questions is tantamount to stepping into a time machine because just like that, I’m the wiry, auburn-haired Russian girl with those wide, blue eyes, sitting in the window of the Vis En Brood Café in central Amsterdam, 1832. It’s snowing, and the canal to my left is frozen and dotted with ice-skaters. The sky is ashen and featureless, and the docked boats covered in coats of ice will not be going anywhere for a while. It’s a picturesque winter scene. Ashkai and Rebus are at the center of it, standing beside a small, wooden bridge. Rebus, it turns out, has albinism. His hair, beard, and skin are as white as the snow at his feet.
They’re about twenty paces from the café, but whatever they’re discussing can’t be for my ears; otherwise, why be out there? Especially as we just spent half an hour having a cagey breakfast together. We ate grilled herring with rye bread washed down with chicory tea. I was sitting quietly while they exchanged pleasantries and small talk in Dutch. But that was just camouflage because their real conversation was telepathic. I tried to listen in but couldn’t break through, maybe because I wasn’t welcome.
After finishing breakfast, Rebus stood and said he had an appointment. My master offered to walk him out, and here I am, excluded and alone, itching to know what they’re discussing. Something in my gut is telling me I won’t like it . . .
Rebus, like my master, is very ancient and advanced; that much is obvious from the rich, layered energy he emanates, not to mention the position he holds in the Chamber, something Ashkai only told me about on the way here. I don’t know how long Rebus has been in the Chamber or exactly why he conspires against it, but the fact he does is admirable, reminding me not to write him off completely, to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Eventually, the conversation, which looks heated, ends with Rebus storming off. He crosses the bridge and disappears into a narrow alleyway between buildings.
Moments later, Ashkai reenters the café and sits opposite me, brushing snow from his thick, wool coat, otherwise showing no signs of feeling the cold. My master serene, calm, and accepting, as always. Handsome as well, with youthful, olive skin, a goatee, and wavy, brown hair, save for that strip of gray in the center of his forehead.
Speaking ancient Egyptian, I say, “What’s his problem?”
Ashkai tries to pour tea from the pot on the table, but it’s empty, so he gestures to the waitress for a refill. Then he looks at me and says, in the same language, “Speak freely, Samsara.”
“He vexed me.”
“Why?”
“The man is obnoxious.”
Ashkai smiles. “He’s complicated.”
“Was he talking about me out there?”
“Yes.”
I sigh because my master has an annoying habit of only answering the question I asked, when it’s obvious I want him to elaborate. “What did he say?”
“It’s difficult to explain.”
“Please try.”
“He wanted to know if we could trust you.”
That makes me angry. “How did you answer?”
“I explained I’ve known you for many thousands of years. That I awakened you, that I trust you utterly, and love you deeply.”
His words soften me. “What’s he so suspicious about?”
“He feels threatened.”
“By Meta?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Why did he storm off?”
“We have very different points of view.”
“On what?”
“Everything.”
“Will he still help us?”
“In what way?”
“He’s your spy, isn’t he?”
“What gives you that idea?”
“You’ve told me before you have a friend within the Chamber.”
Ashkai smiles as a father would to his daughter. “As long as we continue to place the happiness of others before our own and strive to improve the human experience, the universe will protect and guide us. And that’s the only friend we need.”
The short, chubby waitress arrives with a fresh pot of tea and fills our cups.
After she leaves, I say, “That means we’re on our own,” feeling strangely calm about that. Then something occurs to me I’m less at ease with. “What if this is a trap? What if Rebus has given our position to the Chamber?”
Ashkai drinks some tea. “Then we take our cyanide,” he says.
“That’s comforting,” I reply, lacing the statement with sarcasm.
After a beat of silence, Ashkai excuses himself to use the outside lavatory to the rear of the café, cutting through the kitchen to reach it.
I glance out the window, holding my tea in both hands and blowing on the water to cool it. I smile when I spot a young couple skating along the canal, arm in arm. I follow them with my eyes until they disappear underneath the bridge I’d been looking at before, and I almost drop my cup when I see Rebus standing there glaring at me, snow swirling around him in eddies. Beside him is a woman with a striking, otherworldly appearance, sharp cheekbones, and eyes so dark they look empty. A voice in my head startles me, jerking my attention back to Rebus, who has the look of a powerful Nordic god. His voice echoes in my skull, deep and resonant as he says, I see you. I know what you are. Even if he doesn’t. I jerk my head toward the kitchen, hoping to see my master, but he is not there. When my gaze returns to the bridge, it is empty.
I’m expecting Meta’s agents to appear from all directions. I reach for my poison, but everything carries on as normal. Moments later, Ashkai returns and sits, looking at me before asking, “What’s
troubling you, Samsara?” He reaches across to hold my hand. “You seem afraid.”
I empty my mind of thoughts and make up a lie.
The first I’ve ever told him.
EIGHT
I buy a grilled chicken wrap from a Turkish restaurant and sit at a table to eat. There’s a big TV on the wall, and the news is on. A pretty blonde lady with large breasts is interviewing a representative from COSMOS, the huge multinational technology company. As well as specializing in Internet-related services (they’re starting to give Google and Facebook a run for their money), they do a lot of other really cool stuff. Right now, for example, the COSMOS rep, a geeky, Asian guy wearing glasses, is explaining how fragments from a large comet are going to smash into Mars this coming Friday, just after midnight, so technically early Saturday morning. COSMOS, who has partnered with NASA, will be live streaming the event across the world, free of charge.
“Weren’t the dinosaurs wiped out by a comet?” the pretty blonde news lady says, grimacing comically.
“That’s right,” the technology geek replies, smiling, even flashing an awkward glance at her cleavage. “But Mars is over fifty million kilometers away, so we have nothing to worry about.”
After eating and catching up on current affairs, I walk into one of the many pawnshops on Holloway Road. The place is packed with electronics, mainly: TVs, stereos, PlayStations, and Xboxes. My internal monologue is telling me to focus on the task at hand: getting a good price for the contents of my walnut jewelry box. The problem is, I’m still in shock about the things I remembered. I have no idea what it all means or how to process the information.
What happened in Amsterdam? What did Rebus mean when he said he knew what I really was? And who was that woman?
I shake my head to clear it, and then I approach the counter. The skeletal, tough-looking old lady sitting on the other side of the thick pane of glass, deep wrinkles lining her sun-damaged face, puffs on a cigarette and raises an eyebrow when she sees my heap of jewelry and old coins. “If it’s nicked, I’m not interested,” she says in a raspy voice.
I want to ask who she’s kidding, that half the stuff she buys is stolen, but instead play the game, saying my grandmother died and left this to me, and I want to use the money to travel and broaden my horizons.
The Cockney-sounding lady says, “Mmm,” then spends ten minutes analyzing each piece one by one, inspecting the metal and stones with a loupe. She comes over, seeming bored and uninterested, like there’s nothing special here. It’s all part of an act to lower people’s expectations before ripping them off. I tell her I’m planning on shopping around for the best price, adding, “So let’s not waste each other’s time.”
She looks up and stubs out her cigarette. “I’ll giva ya two grand all in.” She says it like she’d be doing me a favor. “And I’ve got all the time in the world, luv.”
I say, “There’s gold, silver, diamonds, emeralds, pearls . . . And it’s all vintage and in perfect condition. It’s worth ten times that, and you know it.”
“What planet you on?”
“Thankfully not Mars,” I mutter.
“What did you say?”
“Forget it,” I reply. “Give it back; I’ll try your competitor over the road.”
“You’ll ‘ave no luck there, tighter than a duck’s arse, that lot,” she says, looking at one of the rings again. She moves on to the pearl necklace, rubbing a finger over the perfectly matched, ten-millimeter pearls. Elsie’s grandmother wore that on her wedding day. “Two thousand, two hundred n’ fifty.”
“Least I’ll take is £5K,” I shoot back. “Either that or I remove the pearl necklace.”
Grandma lights another cigarette and stares at me, her eyes shrewd, perhaps showing a hint of respect. Not too many eighteen-year-olds can negotiate like I do. She offers an extra £250 for everything, but I refuse. Then she offers a hundred more, and I laugh and tell her I don’t have time for this. Finally, she says, “Most I’ll go is three grand, including the necklace, but that really is your lot, not a penny more. Take it or leave it.”
“Fine,” I say after considering the offer, certain as I can be that that’s the highest she’ll go, unwilling to waste time going from place to place haggling over a few hundred quid. “I’ll take it, although I don’t know how you sleep at night.”
She smiles at last, revealing smoke-stained teeth. “Like a baby, luv.” Then she rests her cigarette on an ashtray and grabs the pearl necklace, which has an elegantly carved shell cameo centerpiece.
“How do I look?” she asks, draping it around her neck, and for a moment I’m Elsie again, six years old, watching Mother getting ready for a night out. Mrs. Farish turns from her dressing table to ask the same question of her daughter: “How do I look, pumpkin?”
“Like a princess,” I say (as I said then), and the old lady bursts out laughing.
“Nice try, sweetheart, but we’ve already done the deal.” Still chuckling, she counts out a thick wad of fifty-pound notes and stuffs them in a brown envelope. She hands it over via the security drawer, and I slip £300 in a pocket for easy access. The rest goes in my bag.
I’m about to leave when she says, “Goin’ somewhere nice?”
I don’t know what she means at first, but then I remember I told her I was using the money to travel, which might not be so far from the truth.
“To another dimension,” I reply, and she says, speaking to my back now because I’m heading for the door, “Sounds cold.”
I step onto Holloway Road and look at my watch: 3:27 p.m. I scan right, then left, and spot an Internet café a few doors down, where I go and grab a computer in the far corner of the room. There are fifteen or so PCs, divided by thin, cheap partitions. Half of the cubicles are occupied by rowdy teenage boys in school uniforms, chunky headphones covering their ears, cans of coke beside the keyboards they’re hammering. I hear gunshots, explosions, and curses, the atmosphere and smell reminding me of Rosa’s little brother Joe, who spent hours, even days when he could get away with it, playing brutally violent war games.
I feel a deep sadness at the tendency for souls (more now than ever) to waste precious lives and opportunities, unaware they’ll keep reincarnating, keep suffering, until they learn the lessons required for spiritual development and growth, allowing them to edge ever closer to the ultimate goal, which is to merge with the Absolute Light from whence they came, infusing the oneness of all things with wisdom and love, strength, and tenderness.
At least, that’s how it used to be . . .
The problem is human suffering. Although meant as a catalyst for positive change, it has unexpectedly become conscious in its own right. And like all living things, this malevolent energy—this darkness—seeks to ensure its own survival. That means poisoning hearts and minds and attacking anything it perceives as a threat. The forces of love and light are at the top of that list, forces that Ashkai and I have worked tirelessly to protect. But there is only so much we can do, especially when we’ve had to expend precious energy and time evading those who hunt us.
“Our enemies keep us focused,” I remind myself, although they are my master’s words, not mine.
“They are a gift,” he would often assert. “A constant reminder of what we are fighting for.”
“And what is that?” I asked, many lives ago, the two of us paddling a canoe down the Amazon, the sky, trees, and scattered caiman eyes tinged pink by the setting sun. The rainforest was abuzz with its myriad expressions of life and spirit, a fitting home for Mother Ayahuasca, the ancient visionary brew we were seeking.
“We fight for the truth and for the light and for souls to know what we know. For what is knowledge if it cannot be shared and enriched by others?”
“Why does our own kind impede us?”
“Because they sleep even though they are awake.”
“How?”
“By succumbing, as many do, to the alluring and grasping, self-serving nature of ego.”
“Is it
too late for them?”
“Nobody is a lost cause, Samsara; never forget that. Darkness cannot survive in the presence of light.”
“As you wish, master,” I say, but that’s where our dialogue ends because the chubby boy two booths away has started swearing loudly, angry because his computer has crashed. He flips his keyboard and argues with the owner of the shop, demanding his money back. The owner tells him to shut the hell up and stop moaning.
There’s a pair of headphones on the desk, so I put them on to block out the noise, thinking about Meta now, the Chamber of Infinites, and, of course, Rebus. I hear those words in my head again: I see you now. I know what you really are. Even if he doesn’t.
What did Ashkai’s so-called friend mean by that? And why didn’t I come clean to my master?
The truth is, I don’t know why I kept Ashkai in the dark. It was instinct, a feeling in my gut to keep quiet, but to what end, I’m not sure. I just hope that decision isn’t the reason he was eventually captured.
Could it all be my fault? I wonder, but the implications are too overwhelming to bear, so I force myself on. What did Rebus mean about who I REALLY was? Then I remember what my master told me, that his old friend felt threatened. Maybe Rebus thought he was being watched by Meta and other members of the Chamber, and his cover had been blown?
Then again, if Rebus was so paranoid, why risk meeting Ashkai face-to-face? There were other ways for them to communicate. Had Meta already gotten to Rebus? Was our spy a double agent working against us?
It’s possible. But then, why weren’t we ambushed? We were exposed and vulnerable.
This is useless and a waste of time, so I yank my headphones off and throw them down, frustrated because questions just lead to more questions, the mystery deepening at every turn.
“Not you as well,” the manager shouts from across the room. “What happened, crashed?”
I look over my shoulder and say, “Nothing, I’m fine,” and he loses interest, but not before pointing out I’ll be charged if anything’s damaged.