Shadows in the House With Twelve Rooms

by J. Price Higgins

  "Heavens, Matthew. Those scrolls would not only have to hold a powerful message, they would also have to be ancient beyond ancient to receive such confirmation!"

  "Both, it seems. They predate by at least a thousand years anything found thus far, and part of the translation, a significant part as far as I'm concerned, declares that the concept of a living force—call it soul, spirit, Ka, or whatever—created by a divine being is a myth, a story concocted by our antediluvian forefathers to keep their slaves entrapped. Basically, the Pittman confirms what materialistic science has argued for centuries: man is the product of specific chemical actions, not some privileged life form subject to the whims of a magical being. In other words, when you're dead, you're dead. Literally. There is no more."

  Ellery shivered. She had heard words like that before, when she was five years old and asking questions. She turned on the water, rinsed platters and glasses, and stacked them neatly in the dishwasher, remembering. She shoving the memories away and said, "Interesting premise. One that could have a strong appeal for all those who question the validity of divine retribution, but what about the rest? "

  "Heresy was the word heard most often around Washington. I imagine it was the same elsewhere."

  "No doubt," she said, recalling the recent conversation she had listened to in a nameless diner. "That word seems to pop up any time a different hypothesis is introduced to a culture. You would be surprised how often ‘heresy’ was applied to new research programs at Tartarus when our theories went against traditional scientific truths." She stood in thoughtful silence for a moment before continuing. "Truth is slippery, Matthew. Also accommodating. The great truths of the universe are no exception. It's all in how we see it."

  "Well, an awful lot of people are seeing it the way the Pittman Scrolls present it. The Church of Universals is taking full advantage of that fact now that the freezing technique has been perfected."

  "Are you telling me Pope Munoz is sanctioning body preservation?" Ellery could hear the shock in her voice.

  "More than just sanctioning, Mom. He's encouraging his congregation to see the freezing process as the fulfillment of a covenant."

  "Why?"

  "According to the Church, we may have lost a mythical soul but not eternal life. Death need no longer be feared—eternal life was the promise and is still the promise. In other words, we don't have to end up in the dustbin. If we want to live forever, we can."

  "Oh really. Just how do we manage that?"

  "Put yourself into a freezing vault. Over and over, as many times as you want. It's like having eternal Paradise in your back pocket."

  "Good Lord, Matthew. That's trading one fairy tale for another. There are many theories about the origin of life, of death and consequences, of birth and rebirth, but I don't think the idea of planned resurrection is going to be added to that list. The novelty will wear off."

  Matthew shook his head stubbornly. "This new choice has struck a nerve in a lot of people. It's like giving them carte blanche to take what they want, when they want, by whatever means they want. With death and damnation removed from the equation, life has lost its conscience."

  "Such a philosophy would require a major moral change, Matthew. That could take centuries."

  "The acceptance of the Pittman Scrolls has spread so fast that it's a singular coup in the world of religion. Pope Munoz is being hailed as the new Messiah in many corners of the world, and the implied concepts of his translation are being embraced with open arms. It's like a malignant disease out of control. Last year, crime jumped two hundred percent and it isn’t slowing down. Men and women are walking away from their families, away from their jobs and their commitments to give their lives and their life's work to the freezing vaults. I've seen more diplomatic pouches go out to the Pope's whore—"

  The tips of his ears turned pink.

  "Sorry, that just slipped out. More pouches have gone out to Doctor Raborman than I've seen go out to any nation since I've been in Washington. They're all filled with freezing requests. It's as if they have no choice but the vaults."

  Ellery sat rigid as she listened. She could feel her heart pounding the way it did with nightmares. Why was she so afraid? She tried to pluck the answer from her mind, but found it always out of reach. Perhaps she had been better off in her tunnel after all; she hadn't been frightened there. Shuddering, she forced her mind away from the fear and back to her son.

  ". . . and other times, I find myself in total agreement with the idea, will defend it to the hilt if someone questions its validity. Week before last, I went so far as to actually fill out one of those reservation forms—and don't ask me why. I don't know. If I hadn't inadvertently laid it in my incoming mail tray, my request for in-vaulting would be on some clerk's desk right now—waiting for a priority number. It's crazy!"

  Speechless, Ellery stared at her son. His amethyst eyes had changed to the deepest purple she had ever seen. The glints of wine no longer sparked, but pierced the dark centers like shards of slivered glass; he was being defensive unlike any she had seen him in before.

  It is crazy, she thought. If Matthew, with his ability to take in information, process every conceivable effect of that information, and project an error-free outcome, succumbed to the impulse for in-vaulting, how did anyone have a chance?

  "That's enough, Matthew," she said, galvanized into action. "Get your jacket, we're going to the repository."

  "The archival library? Why?"

  "I want to read for myself, first hand, what these Pittman Scrolls say. The library should have a copy and if it doesn't, why . . . I may have to try a church or two. Grace Cathedral should be a good place to start."

  "Use your reader. It's much faster and we don't have to fight the traffic."

  "Son, I don't have a reader and I don't intend to ever have one. I like the feel of substance. Besides, if it isn't sanctioned by the government, the information flow is scanty at best. You know that, and so do I. If those scrolls are that important, there's a printed copy somewhere. Our governments won't allow originals to pass out of existence. They'll retain a permanent record as backup."

  "For some things, I would agree. But the Pittman? No scant supply there."

  She whirled and strode through the archway and up the stairs. "That may be, Matthew, but we're going to the repository. While I get my sweater, you start the car. No sense wasting time."

  World, you and I are about to get reacquainted, she thought. Sorry I've been so long gone. Whistling, she grabbed a sweater from the drawer. A moment later, secured beneath her lap bar, she grinned at her son. "Let's go see what's out there."

  As Matthew drove toward the hub of the city, Ellery saw the vast sweep of tidy homes with new eyes. "You know, when I was a little girl, we were taught that at one time this entire area was a magnificent park, filled with flowers and trees. It must have been a beautiful place."

  "It was." Stopping at a signal, he pointed to her right. "Over there was a pavilion where you could sit and listen to live music, and four paths beyond, you could sit beside running water and listen to the birds if you wanted to. I go there sometimes when I need a quiet place."

  The light changed and he moved forward with the traffic, describing sights and sounds she would never experience. Ellery heard the tinge of envy in her questions. Sometimes she wished that the gene she carried would let her travel into the Chi mists, too.

  As they neared the library, traffic slowed to a crawl. "Why did everybody have to choose today to come to the library?" she grumbled as her son squeezed his little Run-A-Bout into a vacated space between two large trucks.

  Matthew chuckled. "I doubt they're all in the library, Mom. There are other businesses in the area, you know."

  Inside, Ellery made her way to the front desk. Arm moving like a metronome, the desk clerk slapped "For Sale" stickers on damaged books. Without looking up, she said, "May I help you?"

  "The Pittman Scrolls—do you have a copy of the translation?"

&nb
sp; "They may all be checked out. It's difficult to keep any on the shelves. The P's are straight ahead."

  "Thank you." Ellery strode forward and then stopped so suddenly, Matthew bumped against her. Scowling, she whirled and returned to the desk.

  "There's nothing on those shelves but digitals. I thought this was an archive repository. What happened to your honest-to-God printed books?"

  The librarian looked up. "They're being phased out—are phased out except for a designated few. We've been advertising that for two weeks, now."

  She hesitated and then turned to a terminal and began pressing keys. The machine bleeped. She pointed to her left. "Upstairs, aisle four, section 'D'. There should still be two copies of the scroll translation available. I can't guarantee how long they'll remain, though. If you want to check one out, I'd suggest you do it today."

  In aisle 4, section 'D', Ellery traced along the volumes until she reached the P's. Pittman. Two copies side by side.

  She pulled one of the volumes forward, mildly surprised at its size. She had expected to find something slim, something with a few pages. Opening the book, she stared at the title page. No wonder it was so thick. This was a bible. Her gaze flicked along the shelf. There were no other Pittmans there. Flipping to the first page of text, she began to read.

  "In the time of Being, I Am that I Am created all things and set to them a number. He made the light to be day and the dark to be night; He divided the waters above the Firmament from the waters below the Firmament and caused dry land to be gathered above and below. To all these things he set a number each after its own place in the Universe. And the number was myriad for it was fruitless and could not multiply."

  She read swiftly down the verses.

  "Matthew, have you read this?"

  "Didn't have to," he answered, his head bent over another book. "The gist of that translation was all I heard in Washington for months."

  "Well, you need to read it. If nothing else, just so you have it in memory. Listen to these two verses:

  "I Am that I Am said, Behold, let Us make from the dust of the Earth Our own Image and it was done. I Am that I Am saw that what They had fashioned was good and called Their creation Man and said: to him shall we give dominion over all that was made manifest from the Chaos for he is in Our Image, and in the time of his days, he shall confirm the Truth of all which We have made in Heaven and on Earth. When his time is too long ripened like the fruit of the tree that falleth to the ground, he shall return to the dust from which he came nevermore to rise. For such is the way of Chaos."

  "And to Man he gave a number because he hath dominion over all those things which soon perish and the number of Man was myriad."

  She looked up to find Matthew standing transfixed, his eyes pinpoints of color, his breathing heavy. He was whispering.

  "And I am that I Am saw that what They had made was good and said, Let Us make for Man a Soul that he may know he is one with his Creator in the Image of his Creator. And the Soul, perishing not in the manner of dust, but dwelling in the House with Twelve Rooms, shall gather into itself one hundred and forty-four years each room in its turn. Nine times shall that which was created make a circle by the Law of Twelve. Twelve times twelve times twelve times shall the gathering be. Thus will that called soul know all the Creator hath wrought, and I Am that I Am shall taste of worldly ways for naught is perfection without imperfection."

  Ellery looked back to the book she held, turning the pages furiously as her son continued to whisper words she could not find. Heart pounding, she dropped the book and ran to where he stood. His face was ashen and his eyes were closed.

  "Oh, my God, where has he gone? Matthew," she cried. "Matthew, come back to me."

  But he continued his litany.

  "To the Living Souls he gave a number that was not myriad for they would not perish but be in the manner of everlasting life. I Am that I Am said: the Living Soul perisheth not, but taketh for a time allotted My shadow of dust called Man."

  "Matthew," Ellery screamed, not caring who heard. Reaching up, she grabbed his arms and began to shake his rigid body. "Come back, Matthew. Come back."

  There was no response.

  Only the words, going on and on.

  Without thinking, she drew back her arm and slapped him as hard as she could with the palm of her hand.

  The whispering stopped.

  His body relaxed and he slumped to the floor. Dropping to the floor beside him, she gently rubbed the mark she had left on his cheek.

  "Need help, Ma'am?" She looked up to see the floor monitor standing beside her. "Do you want me to call a doctor?"

  Ellery breathed a sigh of relief as her son's eyes blinked open. "No," she said. "I am a doctor. He'll be all right, now. Thank you, anyway."

  The woman nodded and walked away.

  Matthew sat up with a groan. His hand went to the back of his head. "Man, I don't want to do that again. Not without a lot more practice," he said, his voice groggy and hoarse.

  "You scared me half to death, Matthew Jensen. What happened and where . . . don't want to do what again?"

  "Ride the rings." He struggled to a standing position. "If you've found what you wanted, let's get out of here."

  "Now wait just a minute, son."

  "Not now, Mom," he said. "I need some air." He propelled her down the aisle and out of the building. At the bottom of the steps, he paused, staring at delivery trucks.

  "Looking for something, buddy?" A burly man in blue coveralls walked in their direction.

  "Uhh—No. I was just making sure I could get my car out of the space behind your truck. I can." He urged her around the side and yanked the door open as the man walked back to his loading chores.

  A moment later, weaving in and out of traffic, he headed toward the wharf. Clinging to the armrest, Ellery was thankful she had fastened the seat bar securely across her lap.

  Chapter 39

  Bianca

  "It's phenomenal, Raphael." Bianca looked up from the report she held. "Seventy-five million dollars profit from the Lemay campaign alone. I had no idea George was so good with advertising."

  "He's more than good, my Dear. He's a genius." Munoz pointed his index finger toward the report. "That's net profit. We've paid enough taxes to the Transnational group to fill their war chests to the brim, support the cost of all their military research, and pay their Senate salaries. What's left over will more than take care of their poor and needy—or whatever."

  "I thought the Vatican was tax exempt."

  "Not any more. We agreed to pay taxes for the privilege of introducing Lemay Cosmetics to the Transnational population." Leaning back in his chair, he tented his fingers beneath his chin. "A small price to pay, don't you think?"

  "I'm not so sure, Raphael. That influx of tax dollars could be dangerous. We're receiving requests from the Transnationals on a daily basis now. All military oriented and all paid for with cash."

  "Such requests could take years to perfect. Will take years. Is that not so?"

  "For the most part, yes. But that's not the point. The Transnationals are gearing up, Raphael. If we aren't careful, we're going to find ourselves right in the middle of a global war."

  "The Triune nations, the Eastern Bloc—they are not catching up?"

  "What do you think?"

  Munoz grinned. "Balance is everything, Bianca. Until that is removed, there will be no war."

  Bianca said, "I hope you know what you are doing, Raphael. I really do." God help us if the public ever finds out who owns Tartarus, she thought. Or Deuteronomy International, or The Kayman Keys or the hundreds of other organizations he has scattered around the globe.

  As if he had read her thoughts, Munoz spoke. "Stop fretting. The Plan is solid, built on a truth far greater than you or I or the Church."

  "Many truths have fallen beneath the sword, Raphael," she said wryly. "If you continue to support the military ambitions of every major nation on this globe, yours may be one of them."
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br />   He threw his head back and laughter rolled across the room. "I continue to support because those ambitions are mere shadows in the grand scheme of things. Besides, if they're concentrating on their own objectives, they can't focus on mine. Has that mind of yours been so engrossed with George Kayman that you have forgotten the other elements necessary to gain world ownership?" He wiped the moisture of laughter from his eyes.

  Bianca felt the sting of anger spot her cheeks. "Do not laugh at me, Raphael."

  He sobered instantly. "Oh, my dear, my dear. It is not you I am laughing at. It is the world. How they fight each other for supremacy, how weak and divided they become while I . . . We grow in strength. Do you not see the humor in that?" He glanced at his watch. "Enough chatting. I must finish this report before Vittorio arrives."

  Bianca leaned against the window sill and looked down into the piazza. The fountain, lit from below, sprayed upward to form water tulips of green, blue, and dark amber. The fragrance of roses drifted and eddied. The grounds are beautiful, she thought, but not as beautiful as my bluff palace. Her eyes lifted and she gazed out at the city sprawled all around the Vatican domain, the lights twinkling like ground stars. Lights that were supplied by grid power that pulsed across the lands from massive fusion plants half a continent away. Her mouth drew into a broad smile. Of course. How could I have forgotten. The fusion plants! Specifically concentrated in, and designed to be controlled from, the Triune lands. And the Church holds the Triune reins. One flip of the switch would close down every grid in the World and then where would military might come from? Of what use if their equipment received no grid signal?

  Chuckling to herself, she turned back to the man sitting at the large desk behind her. Her face grew thoughtful. How did it feel to be the Pope of Universals, to have such power? When all was said and done and the plan was fulfilled, would he keep his promise? Would he share his throne with her?

  She studied the face bent so intently over the papers before him and nodded to herself. Yes. He would keep that promise. Raphael Munoz was as intricately bound to her as she was to him.