“Look,” Patrick said, pointing to a man who was polishing a bronze statue of a giant guy holding what looked like the world on his back. It looked familiar but I couldn’t place it. “Look at the guy’s arm.”
My mouth went dry. The man had a cloth patch on his sleeve. It was a red star. The symbol of Ravinia.
“I guess Ravinia is alive and well,” Patrick said soberly.
“I want to know how big this place is,” I said.
“For that we have to get up high,” Patrick offered.
We kept walking, looking for some sort of structure that would give us a bird’s-eye view. I was thankful that Patrick didn’t suggest that we turn into birds and get an actual bird’s-eye view. We needed to get up high the old-fashioned way. It didn’t take long for us to find what we needed. I’m not sure why we didn’t see it until we were almost on it. Maybe it was because the trees were too dense. Maybe we had been too close to get perspective. Maybe there was so much to see on ground level that we hadn’t been looking up. Maybe we were just idiots. Whatever. When we stepped out of a thick stand of trees, it was my turn to gasp. We were staring at one leg of a giant, golden, four-legged structure. Though I had never seen it in person, I recognized it for what it was. It was impossible, yet it was there.
“Is this a replica too?” I said, my voice cracking.
Patrick was staring straight up at the giant golden tower. “It has to be,” he declared. “What other explanation is there?”
People strolled casually through gardens that were situated under the massive structure. A small orchestra played classical music. Vending stands with festive red and white awnings were set up, offering drinks and ice cream, though it didn’t look like anybody was paying for the treats. They just walked up and got what they wanted. It was like some big, private party… happening beneath the Eiffel Tower.
“We’re not in Paris, are we?” I asked, stunned.
“Let’s find out,” Patrick answered, and walked toward the closest leg of the tower, and an elevator that would take us up and give us the view we needed. Neither of us said a word as we entered the red elevator, where a woman wearing a dark green khaki worker uniform greeted us.
“Which level?” she asked with a smile.
“Uh, first stop is fine,” I answered awkwardly. I had never been to the Eiffel Tower and figured going up to the first observation level would be plenty high enough. The elevator clattered as it ascended through the golden trusses.
“It can’t be the real deal,” I whispered to Patrick. “The Eiffel Tower isn’t golden, is it?”
Patrick shrugged. It only took a minute for us to rise to the first level. The worker opened the door with a smile to allow Patrick and me to exit.
“Thanks,” I said to the woman.
She gave me an odd look, as if I had said something strange. How could that have been strange? All I said was “thanks.” Odd.
“It must be a replica,” Patrick said as we walked across the wide expanse of the first observation deck to get a view out and over the edge. “Who would go through the trouble and expense to transport such a huge tower across the ocean and-”
The words caught in his throat as we got our first glimpse of the world we had been exploring on the ground. We were looking out over an enormous sea of trees, all enclosed by that mighty wall. What we had seen from the ground was only one small section. The wall did wrap around. There was no telling how many acres were enveloped by the massive structure. Hundreds? Many hundreds? It was a vast oasis within a dead world. To our right and left I could see beyond the walls, where there was next to nothing. I made out faint outlines of some of the destroyed buildings, but other than that there was desolation. The swirling dust that blanketed the ruins of New York City were somehow kept away from this lush environment. The contrast of this green world against that bleak gray was like night and day. Life and death. Real and surreal. Though I’m not exactly sure which was more surreal-the gray, destroyed city on the outside, or this impossible paradise.
The Eiffel Tower wasn’t the only recognizable structure. There were others spread randomly throughout this park. I saw the Clock Tower from London’s Parliament, where Big Ben chimes. The Greek Parthenon sat on top of a massive rocky hill, though this wasn’t an ancient ruin. It looked fully restored, with gleaming marble and colorful friezes. Directly across from where we were, maybe a mile away, was a structure that looked as if it were the center of this strange universe. It sat high above the trees, gleaming in the sun, looking down on all those below. It was the Taj Mahal. Or at least a building that looked like the Taj Mahal.
“One thing’s for sure,” I said. “We aren’t in France.”
“Is it possible?” Patrick mumbled. “Could these be the actual buildings that were somehow brought here?”
“What else is down there?” I added. “Maybe that statue was the real David. Could there be other works of art? Sculptures? Paintings? Have the Ravinians brought all the great treasures of the world to this one spot?”
“If that’s the case,” Patrick thought out loud, “they’ve taken the best of what the people of Earth have created, and brought it here to decorate their own paradise.”
The moment was broken by the sound of a shrill whistle. We both looked to the ground to see a man running through the garden below. The guy looked scared. He bumped into a few people, nearly knocking them over as he desperately tried to escape from… Who? What? A second later we saw two red-suited, golden-helmeted Ravinian guards sprinting out from under the tower, chasing the guy.
“I wonder what he did,” Patrick said.
I thought for sure the guy would get away, because he looked to be running for his life, while the Ravinians were jogging with no urgency. Turned out the two guards weren’t the only ones in pursuit. Four more Ravinians closed in on the guy from up ahead. He was surrounded. He changed direction. The Ravinians countered and cut off his escape. Moments later they had him.
“They must be dados,” I said. “They all look pretty much alike.”
“We should get down there and see where they take him,” Patrick said.
He started to run off, but I saw something that made me stop him.
“Wait,” I said.
We both looked down to see that instead of hauling the guy off, the Ravinians forced the guy to his knees. The garden was full of people, but in spite of the drama going on right under their noses, very few seemed to care. They all went about their business of enjoying the day, without so much as glancing at the action.
Only one other person seemed to care. It was a young girl, no more than six. She ran toward one of the soldiers and pulled on his belt as if to get him to leave the runner alone. The soldier turned quickly and loomed over the girl threateningly. The girl froze in fear. Instantly a woman who must have been her mother ran up and grabbed the girl to protect her. The little girl started crying. Her mother bundled her up and sped her away as the soldier turned his attention back to the prisoner. It was then that I noticed that the other people hanging around weren’t necessarily oblivious to what was going on. I caught several people throwing nervous glances over their shoulders, as if they didn’t want the soldiers to know that they were being watched.
“What are they afraid of?” I asked Patrick. “That they’ll be next?”
“Next for what?” Patrick said. “What are they doing to the guy?”
The answer came quickly. One of the Ravinians strode up to the man. He was holding a three-foot-long silver wand with a black handle that I thought might be a silver weapon like the dados used on Second Earth. I didn’t think he needed it. That guy wasn’t going anywhere. I didn’t realize how right I was. The guy was kneeling with his head down, being held by two Ravinians. The guy with the silver weapon stood behind the man and pointed the silver end of the wand at the back of his head. He held it there as the two guys who were holding the prisoner stepped away.
“Wha-” was all Patrick got out.
We heard
a sharp, shrill sound that cut through the air like a laser. Paf! There was a brilliant flash of light. An instant later the guy on his knees had turned to black dust.
“My god!” Patrick cried.
It was a horrific sight. A small, thin tower of ash hovered in the air where his body had been. It hung there for a second, then crumpled into a small pile that the Ravinian with the weapon stepped on and crushed into the ground.
“They killed him,” Patrick cried. “They just… killed him.”
My stomach twisted, not just because of the gruesome execution, but at the thought that no matter what the guy had been accused of, the Ravinian guards had the ability to act as judge, jury, and executioner. The six Ravinians strode away as if nothing had happened. None of the people who witnessed the execution reacted. If anything, they turned away from the soldiers, so as not to make eye contact.
“I guess paradise comes with a price,” I said softly.
“What has Earth become?” Patrick whispered.
I didn’t know, but I had an idea of where we would find out. I looked back out over the green oasis to the awesome building that looked down over it all. The Taj Mahal. This opulent building was in the center. It was a place of importance. I felt sure that whatever answers we needed, we would find there.
I also felt that along with those answers, we’d find Saint Dane.
Chapter 11
We took the elevator back down from the first observation level of the Eiffel Tower and started walking in the direction of the Taj Mahal.
How bizarre a sentence is that?
We walked among the people who were enjoying the day, seemingly unfazed by the fact that they had just witnessed a swift, grisly execution. Or maybe they were in denial. A few guys threw a Frisbee. A family had a picnic on a flowered blanket. A couple sipped wine while laughing at some secret joke. It was all so creepy. Seeing such normal activity after what had happened was almost as chilling as the execution itself. Did they truly not care? Or was it an act they put on for the Ravinians, to avoid stepping into their sights as well?
“The Taj Mahal is set up to be the center of this strange Eden,” I said to Patrick. “I’m thinking we’ll find answers there.”
After walking quickly (but not so quickly as to attract attention) through the winding paths, we found the train that had been our vehicle into this world. It was stopped at a small building that looked like a replica of an old-fashioned brick train station, complete with a green-shingle roof and a wrought-iron fence around it. Like the rest of the place, it was immaculate. The paint sparkled like new, as if the station had just gotten a fresh coat that very morning. An overhead sign ran the length of the shelter roof. In elegant golden letters were the words “Taj Mahal.”
“I guess we’re here,” Patrick declared.
“Where?” I asked. “Disneyland?”
A flagpole rose up next to the building, holding a flag that fluttered in the breeze. Looking up I hoped to see an American flag. Or a New York State flag. Or any flag other than the one that was there.
It was a red flag with the Ravinian star.
The train was parked on the far side of the station. Beyond that was a row of tall, thick trees that blocked our view of what lay beyond. Patrick and I walked past the train and onto a platform on the far side. We followed a brick path that left the station and snaked through the tall trees to reveal…
The Taj Mahal. As with the Eiffel Tower, I’d never seen the real thing, but I’d seen enough pictures to know that this was either a pretty good replica, or the real deal. You couldn’t miss that single, huge onion-shaped dome that crowned the gleaming white building. Smaller domes surrounded the center one, while four circular towers stood tall like sentries, one on each corner of the foundation. A long reflecting pool stretched out before us, leading to the grand structure. To either side of the pool was grass and trees and more sculpture gardens. Lined up in rows to one side, it looked like hundreds of statues of life-size Chinese soldiers.
“I’ve seen those before,” I said. “Like in National Geographic or something.”
“It looks like some of the Terra-cotta Army of Emperor Qin,” Patrick answered. “They were created to guard him in the afterlife. I think it was in something like two hundred BCE.”
I gave him a sideways look. The guy knew his stuff.
People strolled around the statues and enjoyed the gardens here as well. But I noticed something a little different. There were more Ravinian guards hanging around. Each had a silver weapon strapped to his back. They walked in pairs, which said to me they weren’t out to enjoy the day. They were working. They were there to provide security.
That meant we were in the right place.
Patrick and I walked casually, trying to look like we had no purpose other than to check out the statues and enjoy the day.
Patrick spoke softly. “Is it possible that the Ravinians transported all this from around the world?”
“I don’t know” was my answer. “I guess they could have built their own. Either way, this place is all about living large. I haven’t seen a single house that isn’t like, awesome.”
With each step we took toward the massive domed structure, my feeling grew stronger that we were getting closer to Saint Dane. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Or maybe I was beginning to consciously tap into the whole spirit of Solara. I can’t say, but I felt sure it wouldn’t be long before we once again faced the demon. Our goal was to find out what he was up to on Third Earth.
When we reached the high platform that the building stood on, we saw that the Ravinian guards had increased. Instead of patrolling randomly, they were stationed at entry-ways built into the box.
“Do we turn into birds now?” Patrick asked.
The solitude was broken by the sound of a helicopter. We turned to see two tailless choppers heading our way. They descended quickly and landed near one of the archways that led into the base of the building. No sooner did they touch down than several Ravinian guards sprinted for them. Two left their post at the entrance to the building, directly in front of us.
I looked to Patrick. “Could it really be this easy?”
We walked quickly for the building. Before ducking under the arch, I took a look back to see that the Ravinian guards had opened the side doors of the choppers and pulled out four people who seemed to be prisoners. The guards grabbed them by their arms and dragged them toward the building. In that brief instant I recognized one of them. It was the powerful guy with the long black hair, who had helped all those people out of the building at the zoo. My stomach sank. He was a hero. Now he was done. At least he was still alive. For the time being, anyway.
“C’mon,” I ordered, and we ducked inside.
All I knew about the Taj Mahal was that it was built by some emperor in India to be a mausoleum for his wife back in the day. Not that I know much about mausoleums in India. Or mausoleums for emperors. Or their wives. Or anything about any mausoleums, for that matter. But what we saw inside looked nothing like a place for the dead.
It was a palace. Seriously. The walls were lined with ornate tiles that depicted all sorts of detailed scenes of idealized countrysides. Hanging in what would be the sky of these scenes were paintings. Paintings that I recognized. Again, I don’t know much about art, but in the fourteen years I lived on Second Earth, you kind of couldn’t miss seeing the big, famous paintings of the world. I didn’t know any of their names or who painted them, but they sure looked familiar.
“Van Gogh,” Patrick uttered. “There’s a Degas. And a Picasso. Those two are by Cezanne. Dali, Matisse, Lautrec, and Jackson Pollock. My god, Pendragon, these are some of the greatest paintings of all time.”
I guess Patrick knew art, too. Heck, he was a teacher.
“I know that one,” I said. “Mono. Lisa, right?”
Patrick nodded, dumbfounded. “They can’t all be replicas. They’re too… too… good.”
“So maybe that big statue we saw o
utside really was the original David. And those soldiers really were pulled out of a tomb in China.”
“And maybe these buildings aren’t replicas, either.”
The idea was staggering. Did the Ravinians steal great artworks from around the world for their own personal collection?
“There is something odd, though,” Patrick commented, frowning.
“Gee, you think?”
“All the artwork we’ve seen dates from the early twenty-first century and before. I haven’t seen a single piece of notable art that was made in the three thousand years since then.”
“And you’d know it if you saw it?” I asked. He gave me an impatient look. Of course he would. I shrugged. “Okay, genius, what do you think that means?”
“It could mean that from the time the Ravinians took power on Second Earth, no notable art was created.” “That’s kind of, I don’t know, scary,” I said.
Patrick nodded. It was a sobering thought.
We heard the sound of a heavy door being thrown open, followed by the scuffling of feet. The sounds were coming from deeper in the building. There was a small forest of tall pillars ahead of us. Patrick and I used them to hide behind as we made our way toward the sounds. We only had to move a few yards before we came upon the dead center of the Taj Mahal, directly under the massive dome. The central area was open, with ornate mosaic tile work on the floor. The whole area was ringed by marble columns. I nudged Patrick and pointed to the floor inside the ring. He looked, and winced. The tile pattern formed a giant, red Ravinian star. To our left was a wide set of stairs covered with rich red carpet. On top of these stairs was a platform, upon which was a heavy golden throne. The detail on it was incredible. There were intertwining vines and flowers that looked to have been molded from solid gold. On the seat and the back were rich red cushions.
“So who’s the king?” Patrick asked.
I didn’t know. But I had a pretty good idea.
Opposite the throne, across the center area, light blazed in from the doors that had been thrown open. A group of people hurried in-the Ravinian guards with their prisoners from the helicopters. The poor guys weren’t putting up a fight. They looked too beat up for that. The guards dragged them inside the ring of marble columns, but stopped before entering the circle that contained the Ravinian star.
The Soldiers of Halla tpa-10 Page 9