Beneath the Hallowed Hill (38 page)

“Doesn’t he know the police are here?”

Before Michael could answer, the gate swung open and Arnold stuck his head out. “Come on. What are you waiting for?” The two followed him around a jacaranda bush to the back door. Arnold tried the knob, but it didn’t budge. He pulled out a tool and unlocked it.

“Why don’t we just go to the front door?” Franz whispered.

“The police will ask too many questions,” Arnold breathed to him. “Wait here.”

They hid behind a large freezer on the back porch. The minutes crept by until Arnold reappeared. “They’re upstairs, probably checking the jewelry,” he whispered, then gestured for them to follow him. He glided down a hallway, frowning at Michael when his shoe squeaked, then pushed a door open by increments. Brilliantly colored tapestries depicting a variety of deities came into view. Low tables were overturned, the floor scattered with small statues, incense burners, Shiva lingams, and other stones. A large black statue of Chandi lay on her side, one of her many arms broken off, the tray of fruit and rice before her trampled. A serene Buddha surveyed the mess.

“Look at this,” Michael whispered. Franz joined him at an empty metal base with a raised edge around it. One side was bent down. “Do you think this was the pedestal for the sentinel crystal?”

“Could be.” Franz said. “Looks like they may have gotten it.”

Arnold slipped away from the door. “The police are coming down,” he said in an undertone. They backtracked through the house, sneaking out the back door just in time. “I’ll find out what the family reports missing,” Arnold said once they were in the car.

* * * *

A few days later, Cagliostro stood on the deck of his yacht putting on his diving equipment as if it was a ceremonial robe. He hung Paul Marchant’s crystal key around his neck as an afterthought. He doubted it would be important now that he had the three sentinels, but why not bring it? Yesterday, he supervised the team of divers bringing down the three crystals, forcing them all to move at a snail’s pace, mindful of every detail of the operation. They set up the stones to his exact specifications, which he triple-checked.

He still had a dull headache from being underwater so long, but he wasn’t willing to wait another day. This time he was going down alone. No Miriam. No assistants at all, except Mueller up top scanning for intruders. He sent Miriam after the Roerich fragment. A wild goose chase, that. He didn’t need it because it was just something to keep the Le Clairs confused. With a nod to Mueller, he secured his extra tanks and lowered himself over the side of the boat. He followed the line from the day before down to the bottom where his underwater temple awaited him.

He set the sentinels in a triangle around the large Fire Stone, still lying on its side in the sand. The expert from Black Ops said it would take a crane to lift it. It could be done, but Cagliostro decided against it. It wasn’t because of the expense; he couldn’t risk damaging the stone. Based on his last attempt, the crystal was working, although not perfectly. Maybe the distortion from the angle kicked him out. He couldn’t be sure there actually was another being present. The whole experience was a blur. The three sentinels should help stabilize the field.

Moving carefully and methodically, Cagliostro positioned his body at the mid point of the triangle, about halfway up the body of the Tuaoi Stone. Still tethered to the line, he closed his eyes and began. First he reinforced the directions and sealed his circle. At home in his laboratory, he was able to activate the sentinels by thought alone. He hoped the new environment would not change that. He began an inner chant. Sensing a shift after just a few minutes, he opened his eyes. All three crystals glowed with light.

He turned his focus to the larger crystal, switching on the prerecorded chant he made, hoping the water would not distort the sound. He reinforced the chant in his mind. Nothing happened for a while, but just when he wondered if he miscalculated and needed a second person, the atmosphere deepened with the pressure like that of an approaching storm. The large crystal came to life, light streaking up through the stone, illuminating the cracks, sending out rainbow bursts. Cagliostro sank down to the flank of the stone. He pictured the chamber he glimpsed that time clearly in his mind, then he reached out and touched the crystal.

Nothing happened. Schooling himself to patience yet again, he kept up the chant. After another minute, the stone warmed under his hand and then softened like a lover loosening beneath his attentions. Cagliostro’s fingers sank beneath the surface. He started. Could it be? Could this be the way the transports were accomplished? He couldn’t remember what happened last time. Maybe they wiped his memory. Steeling himself, he pushed against the flank of the crystal. It gave way. He was inside.

Cagliostro fought to control his excitement. Again, he built the image of the chamber in his mind, and in answer, the crystal sent a surge of energy through him. His body became transparent. He forced down a wave of fear. Everything dissolved in light. When he could see again, the room he sought shimmered outside the wall of the crystal. The floor came into focus first, blue tile with gold symbols embossed in it. Around the wall stood crystals, twelve tall sentinels, all lit up.

Cagliostro moved toward the surface of the Fire Stone, pushing his now naked body forward through the congealing crystal as if walking through a strong current. He emerged, newborn, falling to the tiles, gulping air. When he caught his breath, he stood on shaky legs and looked around. The Tuaoi Stone towered above him, the clear base reflecting the dying light in small bursts; the flanks soared above his head, tapering to a translucent point. Above the tip, the sun shone through paper-thin crystal panels in the shape of a flower. He made it at last. He was in Atlantis.

Names and explanations for the symbols on the floor began to come to him—the Platonic solids. The equations for balancing the energy of the crystal appeared in his mind. It was all so clear, simple really. How could he have forgotten? He moved toward the doors of the temple. Beyond them, the city—his city—waited for him. He stopped, realizing he needed clothes. More doors led off the main chamber. He tried the first. It led to an observation lounge. The next opened on a hallway with small rooms furnished with cots, then on a central bath. Finally he came to a dressing room. Robes of various sizes, shapes, and color hung off a series of pegs. Cagliostro chose green; it reminded him of something…he couldn’t stop to remember what. He made his way back across the blue tile, past the row of sentinels and to the doors. He pushed them open.

The sun blinded him at first—tropical sun, somehow different, whispering to him. He shook his head against it and kept walking across the flagstones. Soon the path forked, one branch leading up the hill to a pleasant villa tucked amongst the trees, the other heading toward a larger building of yellow limestone blocks. This would lead to the city.

He walked through a series of gardens—nooks of brilliant flowers, a small tree filled with flowers past a splashing fountain. A smaller building lay ahead. What looked like a car sat outside waiting. Two people got in and it lifted off. Cagliostro stopped in his tracks to watch the silver craft fly through the sky. Someone spotted him and waved him forward. The man asked him something—the language, he didn’t speak the language—then gestured to a worker inside the building. Another silver craft pulled forward and the man opened the back door. Cagliostro stepped inside and sat down. The driver turned and said something. He nodded in reply, and, miracle of miracle, the craft lifted off.

Like a small boy, Cagliostro pressed his face to the window and watched the beautiful temple complex grow smaller. The blue expanse of the ocean opened up beneath them, then the craft turned and the emerald green of the plain stretched away. The mountains appeared in their blue and purple, and the round cone of a volcano. The craft tilted once more and before him lay the city—the three circular canals that Plato told of gleaming blue, the buildings golden in the mid-morning sunlight, a riot of colorful gardens crisscrossed with small streets. The vehicle flew past, toward the hills.

“No,” Cagliostro said, his hand flying up to the window. “No.”

The driver frowned and hit a switch. “Have you forgotten your translation crystal, sir?”

Cagliostro stared. He hadn’t thought of this, a foreign language spoken in his own home. “Yes, I’m sorry.”

“No problem. It’s understandable with all the excitement.”

“Uh, yes.”

“You don’t want to go to your guild, sir?”

“My guild?”

The driver’s eyes darted to his robe.

“No. The city.”

“Of course.” The craft banked at an alarming angle. “Anywhere in particular?”

“Uh, the market.” Yes, that would put him in a crowd. He needed to look around and get the lay of the place, before searching for the artifacts the Shadow Government always coveted. The driver still frowned, so Cagliostro said, “The main one.” That seemed to satisfy him.

The craft set down minutes later at another garage-like building just off a series of crowded streets. Cagliostro got out, briefly wondering if payment was expected.

“Here, sir.” The driver handed him a small tabby connected to an even smaller silver box. “A translation device.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry. The Crystal Guild keeps plenty on hand.” He nodded. “Enjoy your stay in Eden.”

Eden. Yes, it was paradise, wasn’t it
?

“Thank you,” he said. The man got back into the craft and Cagliostro walked to the street.
She must be here somewhere
.

The stalls and shops of the city of Eden enthralled him. He smelled essential oils from Egypt, sampled exotic spices and foods from the Americas, tried a horn from the mountains of the east. When the sun passed its zenith and began its journey toward the western mountains, he found a restaurant serving the most ingenious stew he ever tasted, made of some root vegetables, beans, and spices. He drank a fruit drink of citrus and mangos—at least he thought that’s what was in it. They expected no payment, just like the cab driver.

Satisfied, Cagliostro strolled the streets, looking for a vantage point. The dome of the crystal temple was beautiful, but nothing compared with his memories. First he would find the area of the city he remembered, then…but the desire to do the bidding of the Shadow Government was fading. They didn’t know he succeeded in reaching Atlantis. He went in search of those airy domes, those spires of captured fire. He would find her there and decide what to do next. He walked toward a large garden he saw from the air.

Everywhere the talk was of the trial. Shopkeepers and customers speculated on the crimes that were committed. “I heard they were restructuring our genetic code.”

“No, no, they’ve killed other creatures, changed them somehow.”

Outside a crockery shop, someone said, “Have you heard about the attacks from the mountains?”

“Attacks? What are you talking about? Atlantis has been at peace since…well, forever.”

“Right, that’s why we have an army,” a young man sneered.

“I heard the animals are retaliating,” the girl on his arm added.

Cagliostro listened to the talk with growing alarm. Did he come at the wrong time? This did not match his memories of peaceful days spent dallying with his friends, drinking sweet mead, sailing the barge on the water…and her, always her—her smiling face, her laugh, her flame-red hair. Where was she? He hurried into the park and walked through the sheltering trees, searching. He came to the edge of the hill and a vista opened up before him—houses built of golden stones nestled among trees, streets that meandered up the small hills, the city farther north. Yes, there were domes of glass and even one spire stretching to touch the ever-blue sky, but this was not it. This was not the city he remembered.

Agitated, he made his way back to the street and walked. He must get back. He must get back to the crystal. He must go home. Maybe he came to the wrong city. Perhaps the place he remembered was south of here. He didn’t know. All he knew was he had to return. He had to find her. He would go back to the portal. He would hold the image in his mind. The Tuaoi Stone would return him. Finally realizing he was lost, he went to the nearest shop and asked for directions. The man frowned at his curt tone, but Cagliostro didn’t care. He was close, just around the corner. At the garage, he asked for a ride back to the Crystal Guild. He rode in silence, hands clenched, eager to return, to go back and sink into the Fire Stone and to go home again.

The craft set him down outside the Crystal Guild complex, and he made his way back up the hill to the temple. The sun was setting. He hurried in, relieved to find the place empty. He closed the door and began the ritual of switching on the great Fire Stone—the chant, the sequence of tones, it all came to him. It was so much easier to think here, to remember, but it wasn’t the right place. He would come to his real self once he found home. Soon the towering crystal sang to life. He dropped his green robe and chanted more, but there was an edge to his voice and an unfamiliar urgency in his soul, and the hum of the crystal was rough. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but to open it up. He sang again, and the crystal answered him, softening under his touch. He forced his way inside, groaning against the pain, then he showed the stone where he wanted to go, the airy domes and towering spires of his home. The crystal waited, emitting a high-pitched whine, vibrating alarmingly.