She picked the receiver up like a reflex, setting the telephone to her ear. Silence, the line was dead, and her heart felt as if it could jump out of her chest.
Timothy had hurried from the alley meeting place, nearly running through the streets as the sun rose above that foreign city, with its unfamiliar faces already beginning to fill in around him, busy in their morning routines, heading either to work or to market.
The hotel lobby remained almost empty, and his running steps echoed through the ornate building. But the door to his family’s suite was left unlocked, and because of that he instantly broke from running.
He entered with a cautious horror that filled his throat, and made his breath dry and grainy.
���Hello?��� he said aloud. ���Mum? Dad?���
But there was silence, and he was sure something very terrible must have happened.
Chapter Eight
A Phone Call
Mayfield, England
���Every morning at seven. We have coffee, and she calls every morning a seven. She hasn’t missed a day,��� Matilde said, sitting at her kitchen table, keeping her careful attention on the phone on the counter, waiting for any noise at all, a ringing that would pacify her fears.
���She forgot, dear,��� Wilbur answered her, pulling back the morning paper. ���She’s having fun. Let her enjoy herself. She’ll call when she’s ready.���
���No, it’s not that,��� she said, and bit her bottom lip, while staring desperately at the phone. ���I know, somehow I do, that that’s not it.���
Wilbur took another bite of his rye toast and jam, and the crumbs were dusted on his lips as he spoke, and he did so, knowing that after forty-eight years of marriage that he ought not disregard his wife’s ���intuition���, as she called it. ���Fine. Call her, if it’ll rest you,��� he said. ���But she’s perfectly alright, you’ll see.���
Sheets still neatly tucked by the maids from the previous morning, their suite had not been slept in. The rooms were empty, and Timothy knew this because he had opened every closet and searched through every nook, behind doors and window curtains, and on the balcony.
He was standing in the center of the living room, trying to think of what next he should do, when there was a sudden, shocking sound that startled him to his core.
The phone rang unexpectedly, and Timothy let it ring a second time before he had the courage to answer it.
A pause, and for a moment no one spoke, although he could sense someone, a tangible presence on the other line.
���Hello?��� Timothy said, though not wishing that anyone would answer.
���You were not at home,��� the voice said, calmly, slyly, and overtly cruelly toned.
���What have you done with them?!��� Timothy nearly yelled into the phone piece.
���Such anger…��� the voice spoke, slithering as a serpent. ���Your mother is in our good care. You should be grateful for that, at least,��� the voice replied.
���Yah, well I’ll be grateful, when she’s brought back safely,��� Timothy shot back in response, then continued saying, ���And what about my father? What have you done with him?���
���Oh, your father is not yet in our protection,��� his words were measured and harsh in their sound. ���But he should know that we have our agents interspersed in every layer of government. You cannot seek out help, without first condemning yourself…���
The phone hung eerily silent for a few seconds. ���But there is a means by which you may save both their lives,��� the voice said.
And Timothy stood in the center of his family’s luxury suite, where he had been restlessly pacing the floor the night before.
���What do you want from me?��� Timothy asked, still mad, but almost certain that he may have to play along with their demands, in order to have any chance at all of rescuing his parents.
���Come to the museum tonight, after midnight, and we will discuss the matter, in private… and Timothy,��� the man’s voice said.
���Yes?��� Timothy replied.
���You should really consider shutting the balcony door, you will let in a frightful draft,��� the man said.
Timothy’s eyes widened. ���Outside,��� he thought.
And he ran through the open balcony door, and saw at once a man in the street, at a far distance away, being passed by men and women on the sidewalk, who was staring up intently toward Timothy, as he dashed out onto the balcony.
The man wore grey formal slacks, and a white shirt and matching grey tie, and the sides of his black hair had been greyed with age, as well. So that he was entirely monochrome shades of black and grey and white.
���A pleasure to make your acquaintance,��� the grey man said into the line, as he then waved from far away on the boulevard, so that there could be no mistaking that it was he who’d been speaking.
Click. The call was cut off, and the dial tone rang in Timothy’s ear, as the man folded up some bizarre clam shelled looking wireless phone device, sliding it into his pocket. And then he turned, walking confidently down the street, away from the hotel. Yet since Timothy could do nothing but glare at the man, and at his villainy, that is what he did, and vehemently, with such anger.
Wilbur gave Matilde a subtle expectant look.
���So?��� he said as a question.
Her mouth moved to the side, as if she were not happy. ���Her phone was busy,��� Matilde answered, still looking dreadfully bothered, knowing that her call had not helped to ease her nerves in the slightest.
But Wilbur took her words as good news, although he should not have. ���See, she’s alright,��� he said lifting his paper back over his face. ���Probably chatting with that friend of hers from Sussex, you know how she can be…��� And his words faded away slowly until they became a mumble, which is the normal way that he read the morning paper.
However, Matilde was not at all convinced, but slowly let it pass as she tried her best to enjoy her now lukewarm black coffee.
Chapter Nine
The Museum
The brown stone stairs leading to the entrance of the National Archeology Museum were empty, late that same night, and the grounds where the museum stood were vacant as well. Timothy had begun his travels much earlier, as soon as the sun had set, trying to remain hidden as he snuck to the place where he had met with Ata the night before. But no one came to his aid, that place too was also empty. And therefore Timothy left, feeling frustrated, feeling slightly abandoned, which led him to the steps of the National Archeology Museum, just before midnight.
And squeaking on their hinges, the double doors opened and he entered that echoing, foreboding place. His footsteps lightly set, but by the sound of it you might assume them to be made by the claps of a thunderhead. He did not wish to call out, to whomever might be waiting for him, for truth be told he did not wish to be anywhere near there. And so, he stepped as delicately as he was able, through the open exhibits.
A chiseled wall relief sculpture, of a lion with a man’s head and beard, and a sign overhead that read, ���A history of ancient Babylon,��� in decorative yellow writing. And inside he found artifacts, and great artworks, an artists depiction of what the Hanging Gardens may have looked like, and a written history of the rise and fall of imperious kings, the text taken from a scientific excavation, from stone books that had been recently unearthed.
And as Timothy gazed upon the books, he had a strange sense that he had seen them someplace before. Which in itself was a silly thought, and not true. Timothy had never set foot in this museum prior to this time, neither had he ever seen these particular tablets in any location, yet some distant part of them remained vaguely familiar. Though it was not those tablets nor the text that was familiar to him, it was the languag
e.
(If you may remember, there was a separate history and text, with magnificent illustrated artworks, painted upon the cavern walls of the underground cave that Timothy had found before they left Gleomu, that last time. Which was where they had found another globe, that had been hidden away in that world for centuries, and how they were able to make their return to Earth, after more than a year away from their old lives.)
And staring intently at them, Timothy began to realize this truth as well, that these tablets and the text surrounding the cave paintings were both written in this same ancient language.
���Does that mean the globe is Babylonian?��� Timothy wondered, as he left the display, going further and further into the heart and depths of that labyrinth building.��
A long hallway leaving the exhibit and a pronounced light beneath the door jam, there was someone there, all the other hall lamps had been partially lit, but that room was most definitely occupied.
Stopping only to strike up his courage, Timothy pushed open the door to a massive library hall, with double-high towering bookcases, and ladders on rails attached to each shelf, to help one reach the upper books. The room had arched ceilings and high windows above the bookshelves to let in the natural light, but at the present, there were electric wall lights lit in every corner of the library, and it was painfully bright.
And in the center of the room, there stood a man, peering over a many number of heavy books.
���Timothy Hayfield, I shouldn’t wonder,��� said the odd man, dressed in a pleasant tweed suit and bow tie. ���Your reputation precedes you,��� the man continued.
���You’ve heard of me?��� Timothy said. ���My reputation?��� he thought, while walking toward the reading man who stood within a cluster of tables, all with colossal books opened upon them, to exact pages.
���A good reputation, I hope…��� Timothy eventually said.
���Neither good nor bad, at the moment, only known,��� the man in the bow tie answered, pushing up his glasses and turning open the final mammoth book to a precise page.
And there after midnight, Timothy now came to a safe stopping distance, there at the edge of a cluster of tables, staring peculiarly at the man, who was most unexpected.
���And why do you know about me?��� Timothy asked with a questioning look.
Clearing his throat, looking up from his books and through a pair of spectacles that rested on the end his nose, the man answered, ���It is my job to know the stories of either great or influential men. I am a historian.���
���And what about me?��� Timothy asked. ���Am I to be written into the history books?��� he said with some uneasiness, glancing at the man.
The man stood upright, who was before slightly hunched and preoccupied with his weighted books. ���You are present history, and so, yes… I would imagine I will write of you,��� he answered, appearing to be proud of himself for something.
And then, as if reciting a well-practiced speech, he began, ���These are the histories of the ancient world,��� he said, motioning to his books upon the tables. ���Each written by a historian who has come before me.���
And Timothy noticed now, as he continued his speech, how the man’s expression had gone from pleasant and casual, to rather prideful and perhaps smug.
���See here,��� he said, pointing to the text and drawings in an aged book, with old browned pages. ���This history tells about the ancient war that Alexander the Great fought, to regain control over a long ago power, that the ancient Babylonian Empire had possessed…���
Timothy stepped closer to see the pictures, sketched into the books, and to listen to the man as he continued, ���And this one tells about Hannibal, waging war against the Cesar in Rome, for possession of some unnamed ‘great power.’ ���
However, this did not seem right to Timothy, who had never before seen these strange histories or drawings written into his own world history books at school. And so he interrupted the man, saying, ���No, excuse me, but I think you’re wrong,��� and the man halted giving him a skeptical glance. ���Didn’t Alexander just want to expand his father’s kingdom,��� Timothy continued. ���And yes, Hannibal tried to invade Rome, but that wasn’t the reason.���
���Was it not?��� the man answered sarcastically, adjusting his glasses as if falsely surprised. ���And where did you read about this? In your textbooks, no less?���
���Well actually, I did,��� Timothy said, and visibly frustrated by the man’s tone, that implied he was childish to read such things.
���Ha!��� the man exclaimed, pointing at Timothy as if celebrating his good guess, and then smiling as he continued, saying, ���Mr. Hayfield, there are things you should learn about the world… The first being, that history is the guess of old men, sometimes they get it wrong.���
Timothy scratched the side of his jaw and underneath his chin while thinking.
���Seems like some awfully big things to be wrong about. How much more have they got wrong?��� he asked.
���Have you got time to read?��� the man replied, while continuing to smile and pointing around to all the open books set upon the tables.
���Not really… but I see your point, a lot of it, I assume,��� Timothy said. Though he then asked, logically, how the man could be so certain then that his histories were correct, and not the others, and wouldn’t he be guessing as well.
���Ha!��� the man exclaimed, again. ���Because these are true histories… In every generation, it is the job of one man to catalogue the true events of the world as they happen.���
���And are you that man?��� Timothy asked.
���I am,��� said the man. ���I am the historian of our world, and of our time.��� And he continued, saying, ���If knowledge is power, then true knowledge-���
But he was interrupted by another man who had just entered at the double doors to the library, he spoke above the Historian, completing his statement for him.
���-is all the more powerful,��� said the man in the gray pants and gray tie, whom Timothy unwittingly sneered at, having recognized him as the man he’d seen from his balcony that afternoon.
���Very good, Solomon [which was the Historian’s name]. Well said.���
Timothy knew the man’s voice instantly, and he turned fully to yell at him with his face reddening, ���Where are my parents?!���
And he had wished wholly that he had been allowed to carry his sword along with him in the baggage carriage of the train, when he and his family had ridden the Express from England a week prior, so that he might face against his enemy properly.
���Such rudeness. I’m sure your parents will be disappointed with you, Timothy, knowing how disrespectful you’ve been to your elders. They will be so sad when I tell them,��� the man in gray replied, taking echoing confident steps toward the center of the great library.
���Sir, I think you’ve forfeited my respect,��� Timothy answered. But then he continued, speaking with more restraint than before, because he knew he should keep a calm head about him, and because it was not in his nature to be always yelling, he said again, ���What have you done with them?���
Yet, the man in gray still would not answer, but continued, ���After all, you weren’t so mean to Solomon, knowing him to be part of our operation,��� he said, point a slim finger at the Historian. ���…only to me. It’s not fair.���
And he made a face as if he were to mockingly pout. Though before Timothy could speak again, the man continued, ���And also, I’d heard you were quite pleasant with Professor Asim during your last meeting. So that, I did hope for better than this.���
The shock on Timothy’s face
was immediately apparent.
���Oh, you didn’t know?��� the fiendish man replied. ���Such a shame, I’d thought you would be clever enough to realize that you cannot go flying around the streets of Istanbul without our allowing it,��� he said, as if pitying Timothy.
���Oh, professor,��� the gray man called over his shoulder. ���Do come out and say hello to our young friend,��� he ordered.
And the professor came through the door, into the expansive room, looking helplessly sheepish and ashamed, his hair and appearance seeming to be even more so disheveled than they had been before.
And the man in gray held the professor by the shoulders, in almost a congratulatory way, as he said, ���And now that Asim has confirmed to us that you are a light traveler, and harmless, you will take us with you when you return.���
Timothy glanced at the professor, who looked disgraced for what he’d done, and then back toward the arrogant man in gray.
���And what if I say no?��� Timothy asked.
But to this the man in gray rolled back his eyes, as if that were mostly what he’d expected Timothy to say. Though since he’d often enjoyed making threats, he did not lose his snide grin the entire time, saying, ���Then it would be good of you to bear in mind, that we need only one of your lot, and we have three others to chose from. And I have it on good authority, that your girl compatriot has already graciously agreed to assist us, so that makes you nearly pointless,��� the man answered.
And with the last syllable of his words, a funnel of heavily armed men came stomping through the double doors into the great library hall, and some that had been hiding in the far faintly shadowed corners, behind towering bookshelves came out from their hiding places and encircled Timothy, who still stood within the center of a grouping of tables, beside the Historian, and with the true histories of Earth spread out across each study table.
The Histories of Earth, Books 1-4: In the Window Room, A Prince of Earth, All the Worlds of Men, and Worlds Unending Page 27