Circles of Seven (5 page)
Ashley lifted her index and middle fingers. “Two things I would guess. Your most pressing thought is ‘I wonder when breakfast is served on this flight.’” She then gestured toward her carry-on luggage under the seat. “The second is, ‘She still hasn’t told me what’s in that heavy briefcase.’”
Walter yanked off the headset and moaned. “You’re three for three!” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “I can tell this is going to be a long trip!”
Ashley pulled the bill of Walter’s cap down to his chin. “Then sleep all the way to London, and I’ll experiment with Apollo by myself.”
Walter jerked up and straightened his cap. “Apollo? What’s Apollo?”
The airplane began backing up, and Ashley checked her seatbelt buckle. “I’ll show you when we’re at cruising altitude.”
Walter fastened his seatbelt, then used his shoe to nudge the briefcase that was neatly stashed just in front of Ashley’s toes. “You’re always the one for mysteries, aren’t you?”
Ashley yawned and leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes. “Get used to it. It’s like I always say, ‘Too much information can make your brain choke.’”
“Maybe. But not enough information makes for a lot of dead cats.”
Ashley opened her eyes and squinted. “Dead cats? What in the world are you talking about?”
“You know, ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’ And I have enough curiosity to start a feline genocide.”
“Feline genocide?”
“Yeah. If you don’t explain Apollo, the cat kingdom will crumble. Cats all over the world will suddenly plop down in unmoving masses of fur, their food will dry up in smelly chunks of liver and fish, and when people call, ‘Here kitty, kitty, kitty, no cats will come running; they’ll just—” Walter suddenly stopped. A blank expression covered his face.
Ashley poked his ribs with her finger. “What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”
Walter stared straight ahead. “I just realized . . . if all those things happened, no one would even notice the difference.”
Hartanna broke through the clouds and zoomed downward in full daylight, hurrying to conceal her presence in the woods below. Billy and the professor held on, bracing themselves for a sudden landing. Having found an open space in the canopy of beech and ash trees, she settled to the ground with a surprisingly soft touch amid an enormous flurry of wings.
Billy and the professor climbed down, dropping to the mat of dead leaves with a muffled crunch. Hartanna stretched her long neck toward a western slope. “My old cave is nearby, but it’s too close to populated areas now for me to use.”
A twig popped somewhere in the forest, followed by rustling and the sound of running footsteps. A pair of hands parted the thin branches of two short trees in the distance, revealing Bonnie stepping high over a muddy patch. With her wings now hidden in her backpack, she glided through the remaining brush with ease. When she looked up, her eyes brightened. “Billy!” she called. “I heard Mama coming back, but I didn’t expect to see you!” She greeted him with a warm hug. “I’m so glad she found you!” She then hugged the professor and stepped back. “Did you enjoy your ride?”
The professor pulled down his sleeves and squared his shoulders. “Indeed we did. Quite exhilarating!” He ran his hand through his tousled hair. “But I seem to have lost my favorite beret.”
Bonnie’s head drooped as her smile faded away. “Did you hear about Clefspeare?”
Billy snapped a stick under his hiking boot. “Yeah, and wait’ll I tell you what happened during the night where we were staying.”
“Save your story for a moment,” the professor said. “First we must find our way to civilization and back to our rental car at Cadbury.”
“A town is close by,” Hartanna said, “but I cannot safely fly you there. It is not more than a half hour’s walk, and I saw a major road running through its center, so finding transportation back to Camelot should not be a problem. Since I am able to sense Clefspeare’s presence, I will continue my search for him before the trail gets too cold. When you get to your car, make haste back to Glastonbury and alert Sir Patrick.”
The professor raised his hand to his chin and gazed blankly at a heavily knotted old tree. “Yes . . . We must go to Glastonbury.” He grabbed his cell phone from a belt clip and punched in a number. “William, I’m calling your mother to see if she is able to meet Ashley and Walter at Heathrow. It’s a six- or seven-hour drive from Glasgow to London, so she could get there in plenty of time. You must prepare for your mission while Sir Patrick mobilizes our men to help Hartanna search for Clefspeare. Our veil of secrecy has obviously been torn to shreds, and any delays may further endanger our efforts.” He paused, lifting the phone to his ear. “And our lives.”
Chapter 4
Ashley unlocked the hefty briefcase and opened the lid. With careful hands she pulled out what looked like an old-fashioned hourglass, except that the glass enclosure separating the top and bottom circular platforms was rectangular and had no constriction in the middle. Four, foot-long wooden dowels surrounded the glass, one at each corner of the rectangle, and one of the rectangle’s glass faces had tiny hinges on one edge as though it could act as a door to the inside.
Next, she drew out a black cylinder, which she attached to the top of her hourglass gadget with a quick twist. The cylinder, about double the thickness of a hockey puck, carried four protruding springs on top, each about six inches long with a marble-sized plastic bead swaying back and forth at the upper end.
Walter narrowed his eyes at the strange device. “That’s Apollo? The top looks more like—”
“A hockey puck with springs for hair?” Ashley interrupted.
Walter fumed at her correct guess, but he kept his face relaxed. “Something like that.”
Ashley popped the beads off the springs, gathering each into her cupped hand. “I put the beads on to make it look like a toy so security wouldn’t ask a bunch of questions, but they never even noticed it. The wire coils are antennae that serve to transmit and receive data.” Ashley pulled two headsets from the briefcase and handed one to Walter. “Put this on. It’s wireless, so you don’t have to plug it in anywhere.”
Walter stretched the headset’s saddle apart and slipped it over his head. “What am I supposed to be listening to?”
Ashley put on her own headset and placed the hourglass device on the seat tray in front of her. “You’ll see.” She flipped a switch on the side of the communications “puck,” and a barely perceptible whirring emanated. She then tapped her jaw with her finger. “Are you there?”
Walter adjusted his headset. “Of course I’m here.”
Ashley put a finger to her lips. “Shhh! Not you. Karen.”
A voice crackled in Walter’s ears. “Sorry. I was in the kitchen making breakfast.”
Walter closed one eye and reached for Apollo. “You’re talking to Karen through a high-tech hockey puck?”
Ashley batted his hand away. “Karen, how am I coming through?”
The scratchy voice returned. “There’s a lot of static, but you’re hitting six on the meter. Not bad.”
“I expected the static,” Ashley replied. “Walter’s doing mental somersaults, so he’s probably jamming the circuits.” She smiled and gave Walter a friendly shove on the arm. “I think we’re at about 37,000 feet, but I can’t guess what our electromagnetic reflection angle is. I’m sure Apollo will work better at ground level. We’d better not try a material generation until we’ve landed.”
Karen’s voice buzzed again. “How about something small? What could it hurt? It only absorbs light, not power. The plane engines won’t feel a thing.”
“Okay . . . I guess you’re right.” Ashley pressed her index finger on her bottom lip. “Use the same program I wrote when we transmitted from the transfer box to the kitchen. Maybe if you keep Gandalf away from the power grid, it’ll work this time.”
“Don’t worry. He hasn’t set a paw in the computer room since the infamous tail-fire incident.”
Ashley rotated Apollo until a rectangular metal flap on its base faced her. “Good. Let’s try sending the button again.”
Walter sat up straight and pushed the headset tight against his ears. “This is cool! Beam the button up, Scotty!”
Ashley slid the metal flap to the side and spun a tiny dial. “She can’t hear you, Walter. Just watch the bottom of the glass enclosure.”
“I’ve got you locked in,” Karen buzzed. “Are you ready?”
A light flashed down from the top platform, illuminating the inside of the glass rectangle, a strange, sparkling light, thick and green, like an electrified, emerald mist. The lights from the airplane’s overhead panel dimmed, and a shroud of gray shadows enveloped their seats. Seconds later the sparkles congealed, falling to the bottom of the glass rectangle, a shimmering green snow shower in a crystal cage. The particles spun around at the bottom like water swirling down a drain, throwing off their jade pigment and finally settling into a small, round disk.
The light switched off. At the bottom of the enclosure sat a small white button, like those on the cuffs of a man’s long-sleeved dress shirt.
Ashley tilted Apollo back and peered into the enclosure. “Karen, didn’t you use the blue button?”
“Yeah. The blue one. Just like last time.”
Ashley squeezed her lips together and shook her head. “The spectrum encoder must be on the fritz.”
“Could be. I’ll ask Larry.”
Walter mouthed, “Larry?” but Ashley ignored him.
“No,” Karen continued. “Larry says it’s on your side. It’s the decoder, not the encoder.”
Ashley shook her head again. “No way. I checked it this morning. Put Larry on.” She turned Apollo, bringing the door of the rectangle to the front, and placed a finger on her left ear pad. “Larry. It’s Ashley. What’s the deal with the spectrum translator?”
An electronic voice sputtered, “You’re the genius, Ashley. If you think it’s the encoder, then why don’t you fix it yourself?”
“Don’t get smart with me, Larry. I’ll have Karen bust you down to a Windows machine faster than you can say Microsoft.”
“You programmed me. If you don’t believe what I’m telling you, you’re calling yourself a liar.”
Ashley slapped her palm against her forehead. “Oh, why did I have to go and put a logic booster in his AI unit?”
Walter grinned. He thought Larry was a hoot. “AI? Artificial Intelligence?”
Ashley opened the door to the glass rectangle. “Yeah. Larry’s almost like a real person. Sometimes he gets on my nerves.”
“A talking computer with an attitude problem? Haven’t I seen that in a dozen B-grade, sci-fi flicks?”
“Of course. Where do you think I got the idea?” She picked up the button, but it crumbled and fell in a tiny pile of glittering dust. “Oh, no! The bonding factor must be way off!”
A new voice broke in. “Excuse me.” A female flight attendant peered at them from the aisle surrounded by several wide-eyed adults and children.
Ashley brushed the button dust away and smiled at the attendant. “Yes?”
The tall brunette smiled. “Some of our passengers saw you playing with that toy. It’s a long flight, so they were wondering if you could explain how it works and maybe let them try it out.”
Walter flashed a wide grin and leaned back with his hands behind his head. “I’m sure Ashley would love to explain her little toy!”
Ashley cleared her throat and held the device up with both hands. “This is an antimatter, tachion reversal engine made by Stalworth Enterprises. Lots of fun, but you have to be qualified to use it. I’ll have to lecture you in quantum physics and antimatter theory for at least two hours and then give you a thorough written exam.” She glanced around at the onlookers. “Who’s up for that?”
The crowd began to disperse, several people shaking their heads and laughing, but one little old man who smelled strongly of cheap cigars and used gym socks stayed put. With his wispy gray hair blowing in the draft of the plane’s circulating air, he nodded slowly. “It’s been a while since I wrote my doctoral dissertation on antimatter theory, but I’m willing to spend a few hours polishing up what I remember.”
Walter got up and squeezed past his sleeping neighbor. He motioned for the little old man to sit, then strolled down the aisle, grinning back at Ashley. Her face had wrinkled into a tight, red fire alarm. “Have fun,” he called. “I’m going to find another comic book.”
“Walter!”
After hiring a van and driver in Yeovil, Billy, Bonnie, and Professor Hamilton endured the short drive back to Cadbury Castle. They rode in physical comfort, though not in peace. The chauffeur, a leather-skinned man in his seventies, battled verbally with the professor over every subject that could possibly concern an English citizen, from the value of the British pound versus the Euro, to the congestion tax in London, to the importance of the royal family in government. They disagreed on everything, the driver rattling on in a cockney accent and the professor responding in the quiet dignity of an Oxford sophisticate.
The chauffeur flicked his tweed driver’s cap higher on his brow. “I mean it’s so bleed’n obvious, innit? The queen’s useful as a nine-bob note, all dolled up wit’ nowhere to go.”
“But you must understand, my good fellow, that Her Majesty is more than merely a cultural icon; she represents the hopes of all England. She is the symbol of our past and our future. And, trust me, the future of the monarchy is getting brighter every day.”
As the two talked in the front, Billy told Bonnie about the burglars, the sword battle, and the strange microchip-embedded cloaks, although he had to keep his voice down to protect their secrets and lean close to her ear to compete with the incessant chatter.
When they arrived at Cadbury Castle, they searched for the body of the man Hartanna had killed, following directions she had provided. They found him on a steep slope in a dense thicket about a hundred yards from the grassy field. Like Billy’s nighttime attacker, this one wore a black hood and robe coated with wire mesh.
Kneeling on the surrounding undergrowth, the professor stripped off the hood to reveal a tawny-faced man with high cheekbones and a short, trimmed beard. He looked a few years older than the previous attacker, but he still seemed young, too young to die in the service of this “New Table” conspiracy.
The professor sighed. “Another sacrificial lamb, I’m afraid.”
Bonnie stepped away from the body and folded her hands behind her back. “Sacrificial lamb? What do you mean?”
The professor draped the hood over the man’s face. “Whoever is sending these men into battle must know they are too inexperienced to deal with fire-breathing dragons and a paladin who wields Excalibur.”
Billy shoved his gloved hands into his coat pockets, a hot flush surging into his cheeks.
The professor rubbed his fingers along the man’s black cloak. “The microchips in this garment,” he continued, “may explain the mystery.”
The professor and Billy removed the cloak and draped it over the dead body. The professor then stood and flipped open his cell phone. “Please excuse me while I make a call.” He walked up the slope and stood behind a pair of oak trees.
Crouching next to the body, Billy picked up a stick and twisted it into the ground. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the morbid scene, a dead, young man covered in the funeral trappings of shimmering black. Although he didn’t know how Hartanna had killed the man, his crumpled body gave evidence that she may have crushed his bones. Perhaps his strange robe protected him from her streams of fire, and she resorted to bashing him with her powerful tail.
The professor returned, clipping the cell phone on his belt. “If we take the cloaks with us, our pursuers might be able to track us enroute, so I called one of my compatriots to arrange for their transport to Sir Patrick’s residence. He will also take care of the corpse. If the chips don’t identify him, perhaps his fingerprints will.” He motioned toward the path leading to his rental car. “We must hurry to Sir Patrick’s. Clefspeare’s life hangs in the balance.”
Without the Cockney cabby around, the trip to Glastonbury was much more peaceful. Bonnie related her flight across the Atlantic and gave more details about the ambush in the forest. She was a masterful storyteller, providing Billy with vivid images painted in bright colors across the canvas of his mind. He drank in every word, leaning his head back and closing his eyes, sometimes peeking at Bonnie to catch her facial expressions while she untied her braids and brushed out her hair. Her excited eyes were always fun to watch as they widened and narrowed with the highs and lows of her tale.
After the story, Billy had a hard time concentrating on anything. Thoughts of Clefspeare kept bursting into his mind. He tried to shoo them away, arguing in favor of indifference. This dragon wasn’t really his father anymore; he was a . . . a dragon. Dragons could take care of themselves, couldn’t they? Clefspeare didn’t really need anyone to watch out for him . . . or to rescue him. Not really. His arguments barely made a dent in his anxiety. The shivers running up and down his spine proved that he wasn’t very good at lying to himself.
When they arrived in the outskirts of Glastonbury, they drove along a narrow road that meandered into a beautiful rural setting: perfectly manicured lawns the size of a dozen football fields bordered by meticulously trimmed hedges intermingled with tall, robust oaks. Far in the distance a green hill stood alone amidst the lush, flat fields. On its apex, a tall monument towered over the valley, like a stone shepherd standing erect and vigilant. The protruding hill seemed out of place, high and steep in a land of low-lying farms.
“That’s the Glastonbury Tor,” the professor explained. “A very strange landmark, filled with mysteries and legends. My favorite story involves two natural springs that flow from a chasm under the hill. One deposits a reddish sediment, an iron compound of some kind, while the other leaves a white residue, calcium carbonate, I believe. After your mission, I should like to visit Chalice Well Gardens where the red spring emerges, and there I will explain the legend.”
After driving to the end of the narrow road, they followed a long, winding driveway leading into one of the magnificent fields of green. Autumn flowers—myriad pansies and chrysanthemums of purple and yellow—lined the pristine, brick path, as though a colorful carpet of greeting had rolled out in anticipation of their arrival.
The professor pulled the car to a stop in front of a wrought iron gate bordered by two massive stone columns that looked like totem poles, each one chiseled with eight gruesome faces, vertically stacked. The face on the top level looked more feminine than the seven below, and they all scowled with equal malevolence, as though they had been placed there to discourage visitors.
The gate opened by itself, apparently monitored from within, though there wasn’t a trace of a hidden camera or any telltale cables. Billy wondered if the eyes of one of those ugly totem faces doubled as the eyes for a security guard inside the house. He also wondered at the professor’s strange countenance, troubled and distant, as though he were doing battle in his mind.
