"We'll have to swim out!" Francesca gasped.
"Fat chance," I told her. I could hear the surf pounding onto the rock directly outside, and I had seen it earlier from above at high tide. The fury of the attack upon those rocks was an awesome sight; anyone caught in that maelstrom would be reduced to hamburger faster than he could think about it.
I knew that our only chance lay in elevated retreat. We grabbed our clothing and began searching for such a possibility; found one in the form of a narrow ledge projecting from the darkened back wall at about the level of my shoulders. It was uptilted just a bit and looked as though it would provide secure footing if nothing else, so I hoisted Francesca up, threw the clothing onto the ledge, then managed to pull myself up sufficiently to hook the smooth lip with a foot and slide aboard sideways. Picture that as a nude action please—bare skin and all appendages against sheer rock—but it really was not all that bad. I discovered why as soon as I got there. The surface was smooth and slippery. Francesca was not there, and the clothing was not there. Neither was I, for long.
I told you that the ledge appeared to be projecting from the wall at an upward tilt. Actually, it was projecting through the wall with about four feet of headroom, almost like a chute providing access to another chamber beyond that wall. As I said, it was slippery. It was also deeply inclined, and I knew a moment of consternation when I realized that I was sliding into a black void. I tried to twist about for a finger hold on the outer lip but I was already beyond that point. I could hear Francesca's frightened pantings directly ahead, but I had already collided with her before I could gather my wits toward any attempt at communications.
She grabbed me and clung for dear life—too scared to even speak I guess—and, yeah, it was scary; she was entitled. We were in utter darkness; God knew where; but there was a bright side, and I tried to make that point: "Least it's dry," I told Francesca.
But it was also very quiet.
I could not hear the surf, or anything else.
For the first time in my life in fact I understood what it meant to be as quiet as the grave. Our breathing and our heartbeats were all the ear could hear.
Francesca must have been entertaining similar thoughts. She whispered to me, "Are we...what are...are we dead?"
I chuckled as I replied, "If so, we came down on the bad side. Always heard the path to hell was greased and slippery."
"Very funny," she said, but she was not laughing with me.
I found our clothing and tried the cigarette lighter. It was dry and functional, its flame bright and straight in the still environment, and it revealed to us the immediate dimensions of our "grave." We were in a narrow cavern, about a yard wide at the floor, with sloping walls that converged to form the uneven ceiling at varying levels— hardly more than a crawl space at the tighter points but it appeared to twist along in a more or less horizontal fashion and to extend beyond the reach of our light.
There was not enough light to reach to the top of the chute that had deposited us there, and I could not hazard a guess as to its length, but I knew without more than tentatively trying that it was going to be a hell of a difficult climb out of there. So I suggested that we venture on and see what lay at the other end of our crawl space.
I was thinking of my dream you see—the mission control dream—and wondering if it had been precognitive in some way, as many dreams are, especially many of my
dreams. And since it would be many hours yet before the tide began to ebb, even an exit via the chute was not a practical option at the moment.
I offered to venture on alone but Francesca would not hear of it. We struggled into our clothing and I made a leash of my belt, forming a loop with the buckle at my ankle. Francesca twisted the other end around her hand and we set off single file on hands and knees. It was slow going along the uneven rocky surface and a bit rough on the knees, but I got no complaints from Francesca and we moved steadily forward through many twists and turns for probably ten minutes—pausing now and then to hit the lighter and check our surroundings—before I saw the faint glow at the end of the tunnel.
"Light ahead," I announced with a happy grunt.
Francesca panted, "Thank you, God."
"Don't thank him yet," I cautioned. "Could be no more than a tiny vent like those above the tidal chamber."
She said, "Has to be more than that. I could not possibly go back."
We lay there and rested for a couple of minutes and talked to cheer each other. I said, "Sorry, kid; really didn't have all this in mind when we left the house."
She said, "Who even had a mind when we left the house? But you're not really sorry for what happened, are you? I'm not."
I replied, "Sorry for that, no; for this, yes. Feel like a jerk. Should've known better. Did know better. Just lost the time."
She said, "Hey, it's my beach. I damn well knew better. And I feel like the chicken who went back for his feather."
"What chicken was that?" I asked.
"You know, the joke about the chicken who lost a tail feather while crossing the road. Went back to get it and a car ran over his head. Lost his head over a little piece of tail. That's me."
I said, "Well gee, thanks. Just a little piece of tail, eh? That's all it was?"
She giggled tiredly, replied, "Okay, so it was a big piece. We still lost our heads, didn't we?"
I said, "Well it's not hardly worth it if you don't, is it. Speaking strictly for myself, Ma'am, it was worth it."
She said, "Thanks. Isn't that what I said?"
"You said a lot of things," I reminded her. "But I'll chalk it up to the heat of the moment, if you'd like."
"What did I say?"
"Said you love me. Always have, always will. Said we've walked the star trails together."
She laughed lightly, a bit self-consciously. "Must have been the other me."
I said, "Okay."
She said quickly, "No, it was me. Really me. I remember every lovely moment of it. And I remember some things that you said too."
I said, "Okay."
"You said God had me in mind when he created woman."
"Okay."
"And he had you in mind when he created me."
"I said that?"
"You sure did."
I said, "Must've been the other me."
She jerked on my leash and said, "Rat."
We went on then and a couple of minutes later emerged into a large chamber much like the tidal cave but much larger.
It looked, yeah, like the mission control center in my dream—very much like it except without the equipment. There were tiered levels though, and I could not see to the end of it. Like the tidal cave it all lay beneath a tremendous domed ceiling and was lit naturally from high above. The air in there was good and dry and even sweetly scented.
And, well, there was some equipment in there, if you want to call it that. Several long tables—looked like stainless steel—occupied a slightly raised level along one wall. They were clean, spotless even, and not a thing upon them. And set into the rock wall behind the tables were a number of vaultlike doors made out of the same stuff; I call them doors for want of a better name: think of a circular wall safe with a door about twenty-four inches in diameter but just set flush into the wall with no handle or keyway or anything else to make it open.
Or—maybe this is better as a simile—think of the cold-storage section of a modern morgue, where the bodies are kept in sliding drawers behind little round doors.
Francesca seemed a bit dazed by the whole thing. She stood exactly in the same spot where she'd emerged from the tunnel, hands on hips and gawking at the natural wonder. I had to call her name twice to get her attention and show her the man-made wonder.
"What do you suppose it is?" she asked in a hushed voice.
"Well I don't think it's a kitchen," I replied. "What do you think?"
She said, "It's warm in here. Why do you think it's so warm?"
I said, "Some sort of natural heating proba
bly. Have you ever heard of hot springs in this area?"
She shook her head, ran a finger along a shiny table, looked at the finger, remarked, "No dust. Why is there no dust? How did they get this stuff in here? Surely not the way we came."
I asked, “They who?”
She said, "They whoever put this here. When, do you think?"
I said, "Hell, I don't know." I was probing with a fingernail around a steel cylinder or whatever in the wall; could not find a crack or chink anywhere. I told Francesca, "It's like the rock wall cooled from a molten state around this thing."
She said, "That's ridiculous. Isn't it? This rock must have formed millions and millions of years ago. They didn't have stainless steel back then. Did they?"
I said, "Not unless there's a lot we don't know about dinosaurs."
I took my lady by the hand then and led her out of there.
I knew the way, you see.
I'd been there before.
Whether in a dream or as a contemporary of the dinosaurs, I could not have said.
But I knew the way.
We ascended natural stairs that had been cut into the rock by some means affording laserlike precision, and
came onto a large shelf near the dome of the chamber. As we turned and looked down, I saw the fire in Francesca's eyes and knew that she too was getting a flicker from another time.
She gasped, "Oh God, Ash. It looks so familiar."
Familiar, yeah, that's how it looked.
And I was beginning to get a feeling about the secret of Pointe House and a two-hundred-year-old land grant that had to be protected at all costs.
Just a feeling, sure...but a very familiar feeling, and maybe even contemporary—who knows?—with the dinosaurs.
Chapter Twenty-Two: Bodies Terrestrial
We emerged via a pivoting rock door into the pit of the elevator shaft. The cage was still there, resting on the bottom stop just above our heads. Circular steps in the rock took us easily around the machinery in the pit and deposited us on the rock ledge in front of the cage. I had noted those steps earlier and assumed them to be for maintenance access to the elevator machinery.
Francesca seemed a bit dazed. Maybe I was too. She was watching the surf, now well above the little wind cave, as it crashed onto the rocky point and I knew what she was thinking. I too was doing a bit of projection into that hillside and trying to relate the location of the tidal chamber from this point of view. It could have been a watery death for us in there—that much was obvious; it was a sobering view.
She stood beside me with an arm encircling my waist and told me, "I have felt a fascination for this beach from the first time I saw it. I even come down sometimes in the middle of the night and stand right where we're standing now and watch the surf climb the rocks."
I said, "Yes, it's beautiful."
"More than that," she said. "It's more than that."
"In what way, do you think?"
She shrugged, shivered, clasped me more tightly, said, "It's cold out here, isn't it."
Compared to inside the mountain, yes; there was quite a difference in temperature. But I wanted to pursue the more-than-that idea. I said, "You told me yesterday, Francesca—the other you told me—when we were together on the sand that you first came here from Vienna in the year 1872."
"I told you that?"
"The other you told me that."
"Then the other me must be crazy as a loon, wouldn't you say?"
I said, "Maybe not. The real you told me earlier today that your ancestry is Austrian."
"Are you suggesting that the other me is actually my ...what?—grandmother?—great-grandmother? Let's see, 1872 would be..."
"Roughly five generations back."
"Then that would make her..."
"Three greats back, more or less."
Francesca gave me a murky look. "How did she get here?"
I gave her one back. "Valentinius brought her."
"Valen...the same...our Valentinius?"
I said, "It seems there's only been one."
Francesca shivered again and said, "I want to go up now."
So we stepped into the elevator cage and returned to the house. She'd gone silent on me, wrapped in dark thought and withdrawn throughout the ascent. When we emerged into the atrium I knew that the other Francesca was back. She was cool to me, almost rude—well okay, downright rude and more hostile than cool.
"You were brought here to mind the store," she said haughtily as we crossed the entryway, "not to sample the merchandise."
I replied, "Is that what this is?—a store? And the merchandise is bodies terrestrial? Or is it bodies celestial?"
"Don't be impertinent, Ashton. You know very well what I meant."
I said, "I think you're jealous."
"Damned right I'm jealous," she replied.
She left me standing there scratching my head and strode off toward the studio. Hell, I let her go. It had been a long day already. I wanted a shower, a bit of rest, some time alone to think.
I guess I knew instinctively that it was going to be an even longer night.
It certainly was.
See, we have a mix-and-match mystery going here. Bodies terrestrial or bodies celestial? Or maybe both? How 'bout neither? Bodies celestial have no need of subterranean chambers or mechanical contrivances. Technology is the artifice of bodies terrestrial, but what manner of those could have developed life-prolonging techniques hundreds of years ago when the cutting edge of modern medical technology is still frustrated in that quest?
Take a guy like St. Germain now. Was he really a de Medici and heir to the throne of Transylvania?—or was that just a convenient cover of mystery for a body celestial with a terrestrial mission? If the former, then why did the man stalk the royal halls of Europe throughout that century of prologue to the modern age instead of claiming his own inheritance and becoming a historical figure in his own right? Why would he range far and wide in secret and hazardous missions for the throne of France, dabble in technology and alchemy and metaphysics, set up laboratories and manufacturies and turn them over to others—and never have a real life or identity of his own? As a real person—a terrestrial—Le Comte de St. Germain makes no sense at all, not even if he did find a way to greatly extend his own life span.
If, on the other hand, St. Germain was really a celestial, at least the mystery itself makes sense. And who is to say how much influence, within that mystery, his being here had on the course of human history. History as narrative is necessarily greatly abridged and is made up of final impressions, not active details. Historians are not seers; they are merely impressionists and convey to us their impression of the relativity of events.
But if St. Germain is celestial—and if St. Germain is also Valentinius and therefore Valentinius is celestial— then why all this involvement with things terrestrial? Why Pointe House and legal problems; and hollowed-out mountains beside the sea? Why, indeed, the two talents and two personalities of Francesca Amalie? And why the hell is Ashton Ford mixed into it?
Why so much death in an atmosphere of immortality, and why all the weird characters-in-residence in a mansion fit for royalty?
For royalty?
Uh huh.
Call Pointe House a castle then, and remember that all self-respecting castles have dungeons. Recast your mystery into terms of things celestial and things terrestrial and try to keep the two separated until both strands come together at the true moment of crisis.
Do that, and you'll have another leg up on me as I retire to the royal suite to rest and repair all my bodies while I try to figure out some way to exercise my proxy.
Or was I doing that already?
I got my shower okay, but the rest of it was not in the cards—not, that is, with Hai Tsu in the picture. She is a very dutifully determined young woman, and I had a hell of a time keeping her out of my bathroom. Also a locked door seems to mean nothing whatever to her. Whether by passkey or whatever, she comes and goes as she da
mn well pleases. I don't know; maybe walls mean nothing to her either. I do know that I showed her to the door twice—the last time rather forcefully—but still she was standing there holding a big terry cloth towel for me when I stepped out of the shower.
I was feeling very exasperated but also probably a bit resigned to it as I told her, "Damn it, Hai Tsu, this really isn't necessary. I can dry my own damned back."
She said, "Yes, Shen," and went right on drying it for me.
So hell, I lit a cigarette and stalked around naked while she laid out clothes for the evening. I figured, what the hell, let's get some mileage out of this, so I asked her, "Who's for dinner tonight?'
Those dark eyes glinted joyfully as she replied, "The same, Shen."
I said, "Same old same old, eh? Don't you ever get tired of this?"
"Oh no, Shen. Hai Tsu very happy."
I asked, "How long?"
"How long? Is name?"
I had to laugh. It did sound like a Chinese name. I explained, "No, I meant how long have you been at this?"
"Many year, Shen."
"How many is that?"
"Hai Tsu very privileged. Hai Tsu very happy."
Hai Tsu also cagey as hell.
I asked her, "When did you come here?"
"Come with Shen. Long ago. Hai Tsu come China, long ago. Shen come China, long ago. Hai Tsu very privileged serve Shen. Is Shen not happy with Hai Tsu?"
I said wearily, "Wait a minute. Ibo many shens make it confusing. You call me Ash. Okay? I am not Shen, I am Ash. Okay?"
"Okay, Ash Shen."
Ashen was what I was by this time. But I thought she'd worked it out rather well.
"When did you come China with Valentinius Shen?"
She never lost the adorational joy but something else was mixing with it now—something maybe just a little nervous or apprehensive. "Hai Tsu must serve Ash Shen, his every wish. Does Ash Shen wish Hai Tsu violate honorable conduct?"
Heart to Heart: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective Page 12