Protecting Truth (11 page)

::15::
A Preview

“I’m sure it’s just Gabe’s theatrics, but stay close, just in case,” Bishop says.

Just as a chaotic rumble of nervousness breaks through the crowd, something strange starts to happen. Beautiful little twinkling notes from a pipe organ fill the entire room. The sound is eerie, magical, and beautiful, all at the same time. The music resonates through my body, causing the hair on my arms to rise away from my skin.

From the ceiling, a hazy, undulating, electrified dust solidifies into one hundred ornate parasols. Holographic woman in festive Victorian corsets, short ruffled skirts, and fishnet stockings hang below each of them like a troupe of glowing Mary Poppins. All of them float, descending slowly through the room at various heights, as the organ music continues.

The crowd coos.

When the ladies land, they run to gather in a group. Huddling together with their parasols above them, they form a beautiful solid mass. And that’s when the music quickens. The women spin their parasols as the music crescendos into a climax. Snapping their umbrellas shut, they dramatically fall away to the ground, revealing Gabe standing at the center.

“Come one, come all, to Gabe’s extraordinary vaudeville circus!” he announces theatrically. The crowd roars. Now in his element, Gabe smiles brightly. Somehow the smell of popcorn and warm salty peanuts wafts through the space, making my mouth water.

“And no circus would be complete without a
ringleader
!” he yells and bows, taking off his sparkling miniature top hat. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses it, sending it spiraling into the crowd. Students roar louder.

To a dance song remixed with organ circus music, Gabe sashays in a circle. He slides his white-gloved hands over his fanciful corset with long tails extending down the back of his legs and onto the floor. His palms slide onto his tuxedo pants and up to a lacy white collar. It stands on end like a fan behind his neck, looking like an Elizabethan ruff.

“We’ve got a sneaky-peeky of the fall gala dance that will blow your little pumpkin-headed minds!” Confetti shoots from his hands. Sparkles flutter through the air.

A holographic elephant walks into the arcade, seemingly out of a solid wall. The elephant, decorated in cascades of red velvet and fancy gold trim, bows to one knee, extending its trunk. Gabe steps up and perches himself on the elephant’s head. The massive animal turns slowly, allowing Gabe to blow kisses to the crowd.

“What would a circus be without
these
?” Gabe points across the room. A spotlight pops on. Acrobats rush out of the brilliant light, down the steps, and flip themselves over the backside of the elephant. They twirl through the air, twisting their bodies like tornados.

“And what about
these
?” Gabe yells with excitement and points dramatically in a new direction. A spotlight pops on revealing jugglers. The men, dressed like mimes, toss flaming clubs toward the ceiling. Fireballs float through the air for an impossible length of time before they race back down to their owners. Even though I know they’re holograms, I lean away from the railing every time one streams past, because I’m certain I feel the heat of the flames on my face.

Monster-sized holographic lions roar and saunter down the main stairs, weaving in and around students toward our group. Their paws are so large, they barely fit in the width of a single step. Sam edges behind me, ducking.

A holographic vaudeville circus has broken out before our eyes. Except for a hazing electrical zap here and there, every holographic performer, animal, and fanciful costume appears as real as the people standing next to me. Professor Raunnebaum is an inventive genius and Gabe is a theatrical one.

When the sideshow acts multiply into an absolute frenzy, the holograms snap off. After a dramatic moment, a single spotlight pops on. Gabe stands alone, center stage, in a new outfit. Red and orange sequined flames wrap around the legs of his white jumpsuit. A scarlet cape blows behind him, making him look like a glamorous Elvis impersonator.

Gabe stands, statue still, chin lifted dramatically, hands clenched at hips and legs slightly spread, solid with authority. He rises from the floor as though he’s standing on a platform. But as he drifts higher into the air, he seems to be standing on top of a holographic smoke stack. When the stack’s height reaches the fourth floor, Gabe hops up in the air, snapping his legs and arms close to his body. He falls straight down the smokestack pipe, disappearing. The pipe crashes, falling to one side, revealing its true purpose. With a blast of smoke and a loud
kaboom
that makes everyone cover their ears, Gabe shoots out of the cannon, arcing through the air and over our heads. A cloud of iridescent smoke follows him.

“Prepare to be amazed!” he yells, right before he dissipates into a ring of shimmering wander dust. Confetti pours from the ceiling, raining down. The lights snap off again, leaving us in complete darkness.

Everyone cheers and whistles, delighted by the extravaganza, one that ended with a literal bang. I wonder how Gabe will top the experience at the actual gala. But it’s stupid for me to think that he won’t.

The holograms and their realism shock everyone. Even I’m excited by the thought of what they can do, how they interact seamlessly with the real world. Like those I use in my defense training, these are called touchable holograms. Scientifically, they are light years beyond what the Normals now know as holograms. This is the machine that Turner was installing on the ceiling—the projectors that make the solid 3-D images come to life.

When the metal shades retract from the windows, revealing the outside sunlight, students migrate downstairs into Olde Town, toward their next class. My next class is the Physics of Wandering with Professor Raunnebaum.

Sam, Bishop, and I walk across the bridge, through the Lion’s Gate. We step into the far tunnel, weaving underneath the West Academy and past the Relic Archives entrance. Several hundred paces in, the lanterns for the Archive Library entrance flicker to life. We push through the tall doors and into the room. Several students follow.

The library, wrapped in mahogany bookshelves lined with antiquated books, rises several stories high. Every time I enter this room, a musty vanilla aroma tickles my nose. A catwalk winds around the second and third floors. A brass chandelier hangs, centered, from the ceiling. The room’s architecture is familiar, duplicated over and over again in connecting chambers. How many times, I can’t be sure.

Professor Raunnebaum stands at the front of the main room, tinkering with a contraption sitting on his desk. He peers up from over his glasses when we walk in.

“Come in! Come in! Take a seat, and I’ll be with you in one moment.” He gestures toward the long desks before him.

Bishop, Sam, and I sit in the second row. I slide into the aisle seat and lean back in my chair.

I’m busy absorbing the room when a finger slowly slides across the width of my desktop. My eyes follow the arm attached. Perpetua flashes a fake smile and tosses her body into the seat right in front of mine. She crosses her bare legs at the knee. Her skirt, rolled at the waist, makes the length ten inches shorter than mine. I guess the more leg she shows, the more attention she commands from the boys. She swings her arm over the back of the chair and turns.

“Did you find my crystal yet, witch?” she asks.

“Really? Still crying about your mysterious rock?” I laugh a little, knowing it will annoy her.

“Perpetua, I told you, she doesn’t know anything about it,” Bishop offers. But when I look at him, it seems as though he knows more about this than me.

“Maybe she doesn’t have it—
yet
,” she says to Bishop, then turns to give me a cold stare. “But when you
do
take it,” she leans onto my desk, moving right up to my face, “know that there will be hell to pay.”

“Okay, class!” Professor Raunnebaum claps his hands twice. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Perpetua turns around and smiles at the teacher, folding her hands on her desk. Her ponytail bobs gently behind her. In my mind, I imagine leaning over and ripping it off her head.

I take out a pen and paper, not for taking notes, but for passing notes. On the small pad, I scribble, “What do you know about her crystal?” I tilt the note toward Bishop.

He only shrugs, whispering, “Nothing.”

I study his face. I want to believe him, but I can’t, only because he seems so unconcerned about it. Sure, he rescued me from her beat-down in the hall the other day, but why isn’t he concerned beyond that? Especially when she’s still pushing the idea that I somehow have this stupid rock of hers—something I haven’t taken
yet
. Resolving the issue quickly is something he would have done in the past.

I analyze the situation until Professor Raunnebaum starts the lecture.

“This is going to be a very exciting class, indeed,” the professor says as he paces, staring intently at the floor. “We’ll be discussing general relativity, the speed of light, wormholes, paradoxes, entanglement, and many other scientific theories. All things you may have heard about, but we’ll be analyzing them from a new point of view. One that you may not be familiar with, a Wanderer’s point of view!” His arms jerk, swinging in choppy movements.

He turns to face the class and quickly glances around before he races through his words again. “Galileo Galilei, Sir Isaac Newton, Albert Einstein—geniuses, yes! But they lacked knowledge of one thing—one thing that would change their entire perspective of time travel. And what is that?” He stops, snapping his legs closed, staring at no one in particular.

Sam’s arm pops up, extending rigid above her head.

“Yes, Miss James.” The professor nods, his tangled hair jolts.

“Us. They have no knowledge of Wanderers.”

“Exactly!” The professor holds up his finger, pointing into the air with a plastic smile. “So, we’ll start with what the Normals theorize to be true, then we’ll add in the missing details!” He runs toward the contraption he’s been tinkering with, picks it up, and runs to the back of the class.

The library lights click off. The machine snaps on.

“I’ll have you enjoy a lecture from Mr. Albert Einstein, himself. A filmed lecture given in the 1920s at Princeton University on the Theory of Relativity,” he says with excitement.

A hologram buzzes in and out, sputtering blue electrical charges. The figure walks around the front of the class before its form completely solidifies. The man bears small resemblance to the Albert Einstein I’ve seen in photos. This man is much younger; the only similarity is his thick black mustache. He brushes his hand over his coarse salt-and-pepper hair and begins speaking with a heavy German accent.

::16::
History and Mythology

When we arrive for our next class, Wandering Histories and Mythologies, Mr. Attah Tash sits with his long dark legs crossed on a small, ornately carved pedestal, meditating. His hands rest, palm up, two fingertips touching. Three relics float at eye level before him. Together, the objects blaze, shimmering and sparkling.

Sam sits at the very front; her insightful eyes evaluate the small Indian man with thick black hair and a wide brow line. Surely she’s admiring his phenomenal abilities. The more experienced the Seer, the brighter a relic burns.

Students quietly sit on silk pillows scattered around the tiled floor. Bishop and I settle at the back of the intimate room. The space reminds me of the Moroccan restaurant he took me to in London. Just like he did that night on several occasions, he grabs my hand and plants a kiss on my palm. He gazes intently into my eyes, and I realize he’s thinking the same thing, which makes me smile.

When the class bell rings, Mr. Tash inhales an enormous breath, making his chest rise. His dark eyes flutter open, and he smiles. Even as he relaxes his meditative stance, the relics, which I can now see are pieces of chalk, continue their playful levitation, orbiting around his head like planets.

“Welcome, class,” he says, but continues to hold his pose.

“Whoa!” The class gasps in unison at the aged Seer’s control. I’ve heard rumors that well-developed Seers can control objects with levitation even in their waking states like telekinesis, but I’ve never seen it for myself.

One piece of chalk glides away from his body and lands, poised to write on the chalkboard. With only air to hold it up, it scratches the word, Gibeon, in capital letters across the surface.

“Washington, D.C., London, Paris, Bangkok, New Delhi—every state or country has its own capital. Gibeon is the Society of Wanderers’ capital,” Mr. Tash says, his voice rich with an Indian accent. “Some of you may have heard about it, but soon, as new members of the Society, you will make a pilgrimage there yourselves. This is one of the cities of a time. A place where your entire team can travel together.”

This information induces a cheer from the class.

“Yes, very exciting, indeed,” he agrees.

Mr. Tash walks to the edge of the chalkboard, where he positions himself into a new yoga pose. His hands rest palm to palm, and he raises them above his head, pointing skyward. Then he lifts one foot, anchoring it on his opposing thigh like a flamingo. “Please, class, stand and try the tree pose with me. A balanced and quiet mind is a disciplined one.”

Sam easily arranges herself in the awkward pose. Somehow, when I try, I’m leaning on Bishop, using him as a crutch. There are quick giggles around the room. Students bobble and fall over, then try the pose again.

Mr. Tash releases his stance and walks around to instruct each member.

“Seraphina, you must use your core, hold your stomach strong, and rely on yourself to keep this pose, not Mr. Bishop.” He gently straightens my body, pulling me away from Bishop. “Breathe as though meditating.” He demonstrates the proper technique.

I manage to hold the pose, which makes Mr. Tash smile. Though, while I should be concentrating, I can only think of how glad I am that Macey isn’t here. We’d collapse to the floor in laughter over a history class taught in conjunction with yoga.

“Yes, wonderful! You’ve got it! This will increase everyone’s strength, flexibility, and alignment,” Mr. Tash praises in a gentle voice.

“Gibeon’s the only place where time literally stands still. At any moment in history, no person knows the true position of Gibeon. Its secret location on earth randomly switches, never allowing it to latch on to any time zone.”

“How does an entire city move locations?” I ask. My pose wavers, and I lose my balance. My toes touch the ground. Quickly, I reestablish myself as a yoga tree.

“The relocation of the city is random and quite violent. Great forces of nature such as earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, hurricanes, and tsunamis often mask the geological shift,” he explains.

“The Grand Lodge, the capitol building, is where your oaths to the Society will take place.” He walks to the front of the class. The second piece of chalk leaves from circling his head and draws a detailed picture on the board.

“This,” Mr. Tash points to the new drawing, “is the Grand Lodge. It’s the most important building in the city of Gibeon, and it’s where governing decisions are made on behalf of the Society.”

The drawing is that of a ziggurat, a steeply pitched, stair-stepped building reminiscent of the ancient flat-topped pyramid-like temples in Chichen-Itza, Saqqara, and many other places throughout the world.

“As you can see here, Animates patrol every level of the building. They keep a watchful eye over the city and its numerous inhabitants, promoting balance and harmony among our kind.”

“Now, class, release your tree pose and please move to a high lunge.” Mr. Tash starts with his feet together, hands in a prayer, then he lunges backward, deepening himself into the pose, completely in control.

I rearrange my body into the easier pose. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bishop teeter, almost losing his balance completely. I smile but try to remain focused.

“The history of Gibeon is a complicated one. The city itself was a gift from our Makers as a place for our kind to colonize on earth.

“At that time, the city of Gibeon did not move. For a thousand years, Wanderers lived happily in Gibeon. But it’s said that a young woman roamed past the limits of the city and befriended those of a nearby village of Normals. Although forbidden by our Makers, she taught the Normals our secrets: magic, weaponry, science, mathematics, farming, hunting, etc., giving them the keys to better themselves, and perhaps, become more evolved than was meant to be. She also fell in love with a Normal.

“This secretly continued for some time until the nearby town, whose rulers had become corrupt, drunk on their new knowledge acquired from the young girl, decided to attack Gibeon for its wealth of unlimited enlightenment.

“Gibeon, always peaceful, was suddenly occupied by Normals.

“The Makers immediately wiped out the new rulers and punished Gibeon’s inhabitants for the girl’s actions. Each was stripped of their powers—their wings, their magic, and their super-strength, whatever non-human power they possessed. But they bestowed on us a new ability—Wandering—so that we could time travel and always look back and learn from our mistakes. The Makers hoped that Wanderers would endeavor to become more evolved. And in dividing the ability between three persons—Wanderer, Seer, and Protector—each would have to consider their actions from many points of view.

“As further punishment, the Makers put Gibeon in motion, never allowing it to rest and move through time normally. So randomly, sometimes several times a day, the city moves violently as a reminder of their shortcomings and so that Normals would not find their location ever again.

“Of course, this is mythology. There are many different stories of our beginnings. Some Wanderers believe and some do not. Since then, Wanderers have left the limits of Gibeon, and mingled with Normals quite seamlessly. In doing so, many Wanderers have accepted the ways, religions, and customs of the Normals.”

“The city moving daily must lend some truth to the story,” Bishop remarks.

“Yes, Mr. Bishop, I completely agree. There are many truths to learn from our mythology,” says Mr. Tash with a wide smile.

“With your new wandering compasses from your oath package, you can travel to Gibeon. But please, when you finally make your pilgrimage, do not be shocked by the people visiting from various time periods. During my recent visit, I chatted with Jules Verne. Very exciting, indeed.”

This comment launches a new peppering of questions. Several minutes pass before Mr. Tash returns to his lecture.

“Now, please take out your wandering compasses,” Mr. Tash instructs.

I have yet to open my oath package, so I drag myself closer to Bishop. From his vest pocket, he pulls out a clear glass orb with a compass suspended in the middle. It hangs from a looped leather band, one that can easily fit around his wrist. The leather is decorated, embossed with the markings of a Protector, a scorpion. When I lean in to admire the compass’ face, I notice that the name, Gibeon, sits in the place of a north marker. Several names of other wandering cities are marked around the edges. These must be the other cities of time.

“I will teach you how to use these now.” Mr. Tash steps to the center of the room.

Students stack pillows at the wall and stand in a circle surrounding Mr. Tash.

“Pay close attention, class, to everything that I do. The compass can be used to travel back and forth from Gibeon. You cannot wander there normally because a life path cannot be connected with a location that moves, but you may wander normally from Gibeon, back home, if necessary.”

Mr. Tash stands with one bare foot in front of the other. His hand, positioned at his hip, holds the leather strap loosely around his wrist, compass tucked into his cupped fingers. With a quick flick of his hand, a bronze chain unwinds from around the compass like a yoyo, dropping the orb toward the floor.

“Keep the name
Gibeon
in your head as your keyword,” he reminds.

Mr. Tash rocks forward and back, changing his weight from one foot to the other. Near the floor, the compass moves with him, swinging like a pendulum. He flicks his wrist again, quicker this time, and the compass rotates in a complete circle at the end of the chain. The orb whirls in wide rotations repeatedly, building speed and creating a whipping sound, which intensifies into a wild buzz.

Mr. Tash’s body blurs, disconnecting with true time. And after a few seconds, he’s completely gone—vanished to Gibeon.

We stare at each other in shock. For me, it’s the first time I’ve seen someone wander without the aid of falling or running—the world, for once, not crashing, catapulting them into a wormhole.

Amazing.

A blur reappears, accompanied by the buzzing whirl of the compass. Mr. Tash’s body solidifies. While lost in my astonishment, the bell rings, signaling the end of class.