“That’s just grasping at straws,” the Scion protested.
“Hey, we’re fresh out of leads,” Cassie said. “I think we should grasp at any straw that’s offered.”
Olga stood and dusted sand off her hands. “We will need to get the car. She lives some distance up the shore.”
The four trudged back to the hotel to reclaim the old rusted sedan they’d rented at the ferry landing. Olga took the wheel and headed north from the hotel parking lot. They traveled for about twenty minutes, passing small settlements and fishing villages of no more than a dozen ramshackle buildings. Eventually, the scout turned off the road next to a domelike structure perched on a hill overlooking the lake. They all got out.
“This is Matushka Ayana’s yurt,” Olga explained.
“Her what?” Daniel asked.
Griffin intercepted the question. “A yurt is a customary Mongolian dwelling. It’s built of a collapsible wooden frame covered by layers of felt made from sheep’s wool. There’s a vent in the center of the roof to let out smoke from the hearth. It’s quite a practical design given the extreme cold in this part of the world.”
While the Scrivener was speaking, Olga had gone on ahead to rouse the yurt’s occupant.
A tiny Mongolian woman peeped through the open doorway. She appeared to be in her sixties. Contrary to expectations, she wasn’t wearing a folk costume that matched her traditional home. She looked utterly commonplace in her western slacks and sweater. The old woman exchanged greetings with Olga and gestured for the scout and her friends to come inside. Olga shook her head and led the shaman out to meet the group standing by their car.
“She speaks no English,” the scout said.
Through an elaborate pantomime, it was obvious that Olga was introducing the shaman to the members of the Arkana team. The old woman smiled and nodded at each in turn
A rapid conversation ensued in a language which Cassie assumed was Buryat. The Pythia inferred that Olga was explaining their predicament to Matushka Ayana. It was hard to guess the shaman’s reaction since she merely listened intently and murmured a question here or there. When the scout finished speaking, there was a long silence. The shaman scanned the faces of the visitors one by one. Her eyes were bright as black pearls and they seemed to miss nothing. Her gaze settled on Cassie. She stepped forward a few paces and extended her arms toward the Pythia.
Cassie darted Olga a quizzical glance.
“Give her your hand,” the scout prompted.
The Pythia shrugged and complied.
The shaman took Cassie’s hand in both her own, examining the palm and fingertips closely. Apparently satisfied, she nodded and released it. Turning once more to Olga, she spoke for nearly a minute without stopping.
At the end of the monologue, the scout reached into her handbag and withdrew several bills. She straightened out the creases, turned them all upright and, bowing slightly, proffered the money to the shaman.
Matushka Ayana accepted the offering and said a few more sentences to her visitor. Then she turned to the rest of the group and made a shooing gesture as if to scatter a flock of chickens. Without another word, she re-entered the yurt.
The puzzled Arkana team turned to the scout for clarification.
Olga’s face registered relief. “I convinced her to help. It is customary to pay for such assistance. Matushka Ayana has agreed to ride the wind horse and find those you seek in the other world. She said she has never been consulted by foreigners before. She thinks the experience will be...” the scout paused. “Interesting.”
“That’s good news.” Cassie broke into a smile. “What does she want us to do now?”
“She must make preparations for the ritual. She said to come back at nightfall and all will be ready then.”
“Nightfall?” Daniel echoed. “But it doesn’t get dark here until eleven o’clock. That’s five hours from now.”
“She said to come back at nightfall,” Olga doggedly repeated. “You do not argue with a shaman.”
Resigning themselves to the delay, the group piled into the car and headed back to the hotel for an early dinner and some rest.
***
Darkness was just beginning to claim the sky as Olga once more pulled the car up in front of Matushka Ayana’s yurt.
Rather than going inside, the scout led everyone to a fire which had been kindled on the crest of the hill a short distance from the dwelling.
“She will want us to sit out here,” the scout advised. She took a seat on a wooden bench positioned several feet back from the fire.
Daniel sat down to her left with Cassie and Griffin to her right.
“Now what?” the Scion asked.
“Now we wait,” the scout instructed. She took a moment to scan her surroundings. “In the old days, Matushka Ayana might have been killed for performing a ritual in the open like this. We are very lucky the times have changed.”
About five minutes later, a shrouded figure emerged from the yurt and walked slowly toward them.
“God save us!” Daniel exclaimed in shock. “What hellish vision is this?”
Rather than a tiny Asian woman in western clothing, the figure moving toward them was dressed in a fringed tunic, its tattered edges sweeping her ankles. Beneath the tunic were leggings and boots with bells strapped around the ankles and knees. They jingled with every step. A clanking sound emanated from brass mirrors suspended from her belt. Her face was entirely covered by a curtain of brightly-colored streamers which hung down past her chin. On her head was a close-fitting cap adorned by a pair of steel antlers. Eagle feathers had been fastened to the band over her forehead. She carried a large painted drum and a wooden drumstick.
“Ah, good. She is ready,” Olga commented approvingly. She leaned over and whispered to the others. “You must all remain silent. Do not interrupt no matter what you see or what you hear. Matushka Ayana will travel to the spirit realm and discover what she can for us.”
They all resettled themselves and focused their attention on the shaman. Taking no notice of the spectators, she walked up to the fire. Beating her drum rhythmically, she began swaying from side to side, stamping her feet in time to the sound. The brass mirrors and bells set up a jangly accompaniment. She danced clockwise around the blaze in a series of random movements—swaying, stamping, spinning, hopping. All the while, she muttered a low chant presumably invoking her spectral guides.
Cassie could hear Daniel repeating the “Our Father” in a quavering voice until Olga jabbed him in the ribs and shushed him.
The shaman drummed and chanted and danced without ceasing, completing circuit after circuit around the fire. The pitch of her voice seemed to change periodically. Sometimes it sounded like a man, sometimes like a woman. At one point it split into two voices at once. The relentless pounding of the drum matched the tempo of a cantering horse. It took on a hypnotic quality for Cassie. She could feel the drum like a heartbeat emanating from her own chest. The clanking mirrors and bells set up a buzzing in her brain. Shutting her eyes, she began to sway slightly, a feeling of dizziness overwhelming her.
Even though the Pythia knew she hadn’t budged from her place on the bench, she could sense herself standing up. She was walking the circle several paces behind Ayana. The shaman gave no indication that she was aware of Cassie’s presence. Her ritual continued unbroken. When she performed a clockwise spin, Cassie copied the motion. The shaman then advanced forward but the Pythia spread her arms wide and continued revolving in a slow clockwise arc. She turned her face upward toward the stars, watching them spin in the orbit she was creating as they mingled with sparks flying skyward from the fire. All the while, she continued to follow in the shaman’s steps, spiraling clockwise as she went. She completed a circuit around the fire. Then a second. Then a third. She lost count of the number of circles within circles she had traced. Then, vaguely, she became aware that a third figure had joined the strange procession. This figure mimicked Cassie’s actions in reverse. It spread it
s arms wide. It turned its face upward toward the sky. It wheeled in a solemn counter-clockwise revolution, matching its speed to the Pythia’s. The figure was dressed in a white cape with a white hood. The two figures seemed to pass right through one another on their respective transits around the flames. One pass, two passes. As they reached the point of intersection on the third pass, the white figure unexpectedly gripped Cassie’s hand, compelling her to stop. The shaman continued onward, dancing through both figures as she went. Cassie stared at the white apparition which lowered its hood and smiled at her. It was the Minoan priestess. The Pythia remained rooted to the spot, watching in fascination as the priestess removed a string of yellow beads from her neck. She placed the beads around Cassie’s neck, whispering a blessing in some long-dead language as she did so. Then she kissed the Pythia on the forehead and vanished. With a start, Cassie realized she was no longer standing by the fire but seated once more on the bench. In the distance, she became vaguely aware that the drumming sound had ceased. Then blankness enveloped her completely.
The Pythia heard urgent voices nearby. Someone was shouting for her to wake up. It was Olga. The scout was kneeling in front of her and shaking her gently. It took several seconds to bring her eyes into focus. She realized Griffin had wrapped his arm around her shoulders to keep her from tumbling backwards off the bench. Daniel had bolted into the shadows. He was praying at the top of his lungs now, entreating his god to deliver him from the power of Satan. The shaman stood on the opposite side of the fire. Her face was still obscured by the streamers but she seemed to be watching the scene intently.
“What happened?” Cassie asked in confusion.
Olga rose to her feet and translated the question to the shaman.
Matushka Ayana laughed softly. She spoke a few sentences to Olga. Then she walked back inside her yurt and shut the door, thereby signaling that the ritual was over.
“What did she say?” Griffin asked Olga as he assisted Cassie to sit upright.
“I don’t know what she meant.” The scout sounded mystified, taking a seat on the bench to Cassie’s left. “She said the past danced with the future but why ask her? Our shaman was there too.”
“Oh, that.” Cassie frowned in concentration, endeavoring to put the pieces together.
“Oh, that what?” the Scrivener demanded. Turning with irritation toward Daniel who was still muttering to himself, Griffin commanded, “Belt up, will you? I’m quite sure your Beelzebub and all his minions have more urgent priorities than conspiring to steal your soul tonight!”
Daniel’s prayers stopped abruptly though he kept a wary distance from the others, apparently still shaken by the heathen spectacle.
Turning his attention back to the Pythia, the Scrivener asked, “What did Matushka Ayana mean?”
“I was there,” she said in wonder. “Part of me was sitting on the bench with the rest of you, but part of me...” She trailed off, trying to sort out the sequence of events. “I was circling around the fire too. And then another figure was there. It was the Minoan priestess.”
“What?” yelped Daniel. His fears forgotten, he scampered forward. “What did she tell you?”
“It wasn’t what she said,” Cassie countered. “It was what she did.” The Pythia, now fully recovered, rubbed her eyes. “She wore a string of beads around her neck and then she put it around my neck. The beads were made of amber.”
“Amber!” Griffin cried. He grew silent, lost in thought for a moment. Then, with rising excitement in his voice, he asked, “Are you quite sure?”
Cassie studied his face in the flickering light. There was an unmistakable gleam in his eye. She smiled. “I know that look. You’ve got a theory, don’t you?”
Ignoring the comment, the Scrivener persisted. “You’re positive the beads were made of amber and not topaz?”
“Listen, pal,” the Pythia joked. “After validating artifacts for a couple of years, I can tell the difference between semi-precious stones and resins. It was amber and no mistake.”
“Well, if that’s the case, we need to catch the next plane for St. Petersburg.” The Scrivener leaped to his feet.
The others rose uncertainly.
“I thought we were planning to fly to Moscow,” Daniel objected.
“That will be quite unnecessary,” Griffin replied. “Of course, I’ll need a little time to prove my assumptions. If I’m correct, the Minoan priestess has just pointed us to the golden road of Boreas.”
Chapter 33—Water, Water, Everywhere
Doctor Rafi Aboud emerged from the dark interior of the parking garage and blinked in the summer sunshine as he tried to get his bearings. He was standing on the southwest side of Navy Pier, a thirty-three hundred foot dock that jutted out into Chicago Harbor. Originally called Municipal Pier, it had first been opened in 1916. Envisioned as a dock for commercial shipping and passenger boats, it had also been designed with indoor and outdoor recreational areas for public use. Later renamed Navy Pier to honor sailors who served during World War I, the pier underwent a number of changes before falling into decline during the latter part of the twentieth century. An ambitious redevelopment plan in the 1990s transformed the derelict structure into what was now Chicago’s number one tourist attraction. A century after its construction, the pier was enjoying a resurgence of interest because of its new amusement park rides, concert stages, pavilions and amphitheater.
Aboud scanned the crowds milling around him before turning eastward to traverse the length of the pier. Midway down the promenade, he spied the grand staircase which led to the upper level.
Stationed at the foot of the stairs was a tall, squarely-built blond man who grinned at his approach. “Hello, Rafi.” The man’s thick Slavic accent emphasized the “H” in the greeting.
The doctor smiled in return. “Hello, Vlad. I’m glad you were able to meet me on such short notice.”
The Russian regarded him with a wry expression. “I assume you have good news to report—finally.” He pointedly emphasized the last word.
“Oh, my news is very good, I assure you.” Aboud’s eyes followed the staircase upward where it terminated at the base of the pier’s most famous attraction—a giant Ferris wheel which could be seen for miles. “Should we take a spin on the Ferris wheel?” he asked flippantly.
“Ha!” Vlad barked. “That puny thing is unworthy of the name. The Moscow-850. Now that was a Ferris wheel! The tallest in all of Europe when it was built to celebrate the city’s eight hundred and fiftieth anniversary. Sadly, it’s been taken down now.” He shook his head gloomily. “Don’t remind me of past glories.”
“Perhaps we should walk this way,” Aboud suggested tactfully. He steered his companion along the south edge of the dock. To their right, excursion boats rode at anchor, taking on tourists eager to see the city skyline, the harbor, and the pier itself from the vantage point of the lake. The two men made no move to enter the pavilions and shops that occupied the center of the structure. Instead, they kept traveling along the dock’s perimeter. They finally stopped walking when they reached the far end of the pier and had put some distance between themselves and the crowds. About a dozen sightseers were ambling around the tip, taking pictures or resting on benches while enjoying the view.
Dismissing the tourists’ presence, Vlad turned toward Aboud and asked in a low voice, “What progress have you made?”
“A great deal.” The doctor beamed. “The virus and vaccine have both been perfected.”
A broad smile spread across Vlad’s face. “At last?”
“At last,” Aboud confirmed with pride in his voice.
“Then we are ready to proceed.”
“Not quite.”
The Russian’s smile faded.
“Let’s keep walking,” the doctor urged.
“Are you afraid you’ve been followed?”
Aboud glanced casually over his shoulder. “One can’t be too careful though it’s highly unlikely. My benefactor’s people wear ridiculous bl
ack suits that are very easy to spot. Moreover, they shun public attractions the way a vampire shuns garlic.”
Vlad chuckled appreciatively.
“Of course, my benefactor does employ one outsider,” Aboud added. “An idiot who wears a cowboy hat. He almost killed my prize specimen a few weeks ago.”
Vlad’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the sightseers around them. His height advantage allowed him a better view. “There is no one in a cowboy hat.”
The doctor shrugged. “I didn’t think so. The man’s a complete imbecile. I doubt he would have the wit to find his way here.”
They resumed their conversation and their walk, following the curve of the pier’s tip around to the opposite side.
“Why are we not ready to proceed yet?” Vlad persisted.
“I have one more loose end to tie up. Nothing that will take more than a week. When I leave my benefactor’s employ, I wish to do so on amicable terms, having met all his requirements. He will pay me well and give no thought to my future plans which will pay me better still.”
“I see your point,” the Russian conceded. “You don’t want this fanatic sending someone to hunt you down. But surely you’ll need to stay around after your work is finished, no?”
“I have made it clear that once I have developed his virus and vaccine, I will move on to other projects. My staff, however, will remain to fulfill his orders at least for a short time. My most able assistant, Maskeen, will oversee any additional production for the next month or so. Right now, he and my technicians are busy culturing plague and vaccine enough for one hundred and fifty men while I attend to the final task—the delivery device.”
“Since we know no one is following us, let’s sit down for a moment in the shade.” Vlad pointed to one of the hexagonal benches spaced at regular intervals along the edge of the pier. After they were seated, he turned to his companion. “Just out of curiosity, what sort delivery device does your benefactor have in mind? Everybody knows airborne plague is very difficult to dispense.”
The Sage Stone Prophecy (Arkana Archaeology Adventure Series Book 7) Page 19