The Royal Stones of Eden (Royal Secrecies Book 1) (7 page)

Does he truly believe this crap he is dishing out, David thought.

The entire time that Peter spoke, Haj truly acted like a maniac. He threw a chair against the cell wall. It rammed against the see-through partition, but there was no sound. It was an obvious attempt by Haj to break the barrier. It was also apparent that he was yelling or screaming something. He raved like a madman, just as Peter had predicted. Still, there was no sound that exited the barrier.

Finally, the man in the cell sat down on the cell’s floor in an apparent state of exhaustion. Sweat poured down his dark face. He had a three-day beard, and he wore a white tank top saturated with sweat. His cotton pants were white, and he wore no shoes.

Inside the room, there was limited furniture. There was a desk, a chair, and a cot. There was no pen or paper on the desk. There was nothing for the man to use to write any message on, although he was clearly trying to speak or communicate.

“Why the sound barrier?” inquired David once again. He was not satisfied.

“We keep it for security mostly. He can be most convincing, conniving, and, quite frankly, profoundly vulgar. Sorry, old boy!”—Peter offered more assurance in his tone.

David decided to amuse Peter to find out more about the situation. He decided to make him think that he was no longer alarmed and that all of his questions were truly, and satisfactorily, answered.

“Peter, I am truly sorry. I had no idea of the scope of any of this,” David said as he held out his hand. “Truce?”

“Absolutely!” Peter said with some doubtful relief. “Our friendship means more to me than anything else. You should know that. Now that you know the whole story, I want you to think about coming on board and helping me test this energy field—let’s make a true difference in the world. Imagine what a difference this kind of technology could make. We might be able to save millions of lives, and we might be able to prolong the lives of those otherwise destined to die at an early age.”—Peter said this in a further attempt to defend his position to test the amazing field of energy.

“Yes, but Peter—this kind of experimental technology may be too dangerous. It may also be difficult to keep it from people that would want to exploit it. In fact—” David suddenly paused while he looked at Haj, who now sat on his cot. David gazed down at Haj’s left foot, and then to his toe, which moved rhythmically up and down with an apparent regularity of some kind.

What was this rhythm? I have seen this somewhere—but where?

David was in deep thought but didn’t want Peter to know it. He quickly offered a question to him to distract him.

“Peter, how did you move the energy field from Egypt to here?” David asked while he attempted a genuine grin. He tried to throw Peter off.

While Peter explained the process of transportation, David focused again on Haj’s toe.

“…concrete reinforced containment transportation by ocean liner…”—Peter rambled to an inattentive David.

The toe was tapping. Tap. Tap. Tap.

That’s it, tap, tap, tap, dot, dot, and dot. He is also sliding his toe and tapping—it’s Morse code—of course!

What is he spelling? Ok, he is starting again. T-R-U-S-T…Trust N-O…Oh my god! Trust no one. Trust no one...David. Where have I heard this before?

David realized what the message said. Haj spelled out quite clearly: “Trust no one with this, David!” He now connected the dots. Haj typed the same message that the man in the cloud had said to him once. It was when the man had thrown the stone toward him. It was when, at the age of eleven, he had found his father dead in his room, shot in the head. But what was Haj’s connection to this, he thought.

David interrupted Peter and offered a lie to him.

“Peter, now that I know that everything is fine here, let me talk to Mattie about joining you here. Maybe I should change my career path and work with you! What do you say? We can talk tomorrow about our new future. Although, I could use some sleep. It’s been a long night.”—David’s offer was accepted. Peter held out his hand in a trusting manner, and they shook hands.

“Of course, David. Sleep on things. Get some rest and call me tomorrow. Better still, take a few days to think about all of this! Take a holiday in fact!” Peter said.

Once they left the room, Haj lay down on his cot, stared up at the ceiling, and smiled contently.

Chapter 5

Peter before Egypt

In the Words of Peter

My father called her Jen, or Jenny, depending on his mood at the time. I just called her mum, a term I had learned from a nanny of mine. Jen had golden locks of slightly curled hair, worn longer the older she grew. To grow older was a relative thing to me. I always saw her as young and energetic. I never saw her as an old woman.

I loved my mum dearly. So when she fell ill, I had a dreadful time dealing with it. She was always there for me whenever I got into some mischief. She protected me from a father who never seemed to connect with me or what I felt deep inside my soul. In fact, at times he did not seem to connect to the current world in many ways. It felt as though he was in another world, or clinging to some archaic past while my mother and I were in the here and now. As for my mother’s illness, all that I knew was that she suffered from an unknown disease that was incredibly difficult to pronounce.

My school was my diversion over losing my mother and once my great passion. Before my serious studies in college, I attended a preparatory school for boys, near the River Thames. I obsessed about graduating and studying archaeology. It was a school that required little commitment—except actual and physical presence—if you were wealthy. Some students called it dreadful, and hard work but these were the students who were there without title or heritage. It was a school that had a reputation for providing an education that was stimulating, but not stuffy. I merely thought it a great bore and nuisance.

I just wanted to leave my home in London one day. I wanted to explore the world. That was my goal. I never considered London my home because of a forced reclusive life that I had outside my mandatory schooling. I lived in a mansion with eighteen bedrooms, on what my father used to call, “old Queen’s Road,” and what my schoolmates used to call, “bloody Kensington Palace Gardens.”

Part of my anger with my father was that he forced me one day to mingle with the regular locals in London, at an early age of thirteen. It was, according to my father, to “better myself and acquaint myself with other persons my age.” I thought that he was trying to infuse me with some commoner blood or attitude when he sent me to school. I was appalled and resentful until I realized that I could make it an outlet for an unknown oppression and prison. It was a cage that I had lived in since birth, and I was completely unaware of its absolute hold on me.

One does not know their prison that they make for themselves in this life. We all do it, some rather well I think. Some do not do it well at all. One of my prisons was an elitist attitude. My father thought my outlet of school would be a complete escape from it. In fact, that mentality never entirely left me. I always thought of myself as more superior.

The fact that new schools meant new friends in London meant nothing to me, and mere acquaintances did not remove my feelings of superiority. It only reinforced my arrogance to know people whom I thought I could control or have power over by virtue of my perceived position. I wanted to have friends who could see the world as I did. I vowed that one day I would make friends that lived on pedestals of intellectual or some other kind of superiority.

My mum was above, or rather below, or even outside of this attitude. She was truly what my father called “fair.” She was a contented soul. She would have survived in any culture, and in any place, time, or position. She seldom differed or argued. When she would disagree, she would usually reply with an, “as you wish,” or, “as you say.” Her smile was more commanding than any bark from a soldier. She was a compliment to my father and me.

Maybe I inherited my arrogance from my father. Money was his obsession—and keeping it. I did not know precisely how my father had attained his wealth or maintained it. I do not remember as a child ever developing a relationship with him to find out.

My father was often ill, with chronic and frequent colds, as I remember. During his last days, I found him very disinterested in my life, more so than usual. He did not care about what I truly wanted out of life. I was detached and clung to my dreams of exploring the world and working in archaeology. I wanted life to be an adventure. I cared not for my demanding father who always seemed to be preoccupied, distant, or sick.

On the day that he announced that I would first attend a school with commoners, after reaching the age of thirteen, I found out some of the reasons for his unattached feelings. He called me into his bedroom, and I saw him buried under several quilts. His white beard was draped over the covers. It made him look ancient. He had a scarf around his neck, and it was unusually long.

He looked at me and grabbed my arm, once I was close enough to him, and I immediately noticed that he had gloves on both hands. It was a day of one of his bad colds.

“I am sending you to a regular school, boy!”—he peered at me with ancient and glazed eyes.

“What? What about my private studies and my activities?”—I had an affinity for riding horses every afternoon.

“You are going to learn other things. And, now that you are thirteen, I want you to know something. It is something that I should have told you a long time ago,” he said in a gruff voice. “Peter—you are adopted!"

My father had a different definition of a legal adult than any recognized law in the United Kingdom. He felt that it was appropriate to tell me such a thing at an early age. He followed
his
law many times.

“In my day, a boy had relationships that changed him and challenged him, and you shall have the same, my lad,” he ordered and waved his long judgmental finger toward me.

Who says “lad” these days? He says it like an old lord and master from Merry Old England.

“Adopted?”—I felt somewhat and suddenly worried.

“Peter, your mother and I loved you as a son. And, if you grow to meet the challenges of life as a man, I will leave you my full inheritance. But, you must grow out of your selfishness and your arrogance. Do you think because I am wealthy and preoccupied with a business that I am like you?”—my father looked away from me and toward a dresser against the wall, where a picture of my mum rested.

In the photograph on the dresser, she wore a white and lacy gown, and around her neck hung a beautiful rectangular blue stone that radiated and gave off a wondrous feeling of contentment when viewed.

“You will go to school and learn from others! You will learn how to get along and interact with people that are not of your class.”—Father coughed between words. I thought I saw bits of blood come out of his mouth.

“I caught this damn cold, and I’m trying to shake it,” he spewed. “Go on. Pack your belongings, and Robbie will take care of you. Off with ya, lad!”—he pointed to his butler, Rob Lock, who had just appeared, and was behind me, a moment before he spoke the words.

Rob Lock was more than a proper, tall, and thin family butler. He was my friend and my companion. He had helped my mother raise me, and he had taken me to my many horse racing outings. His responsibilities varied. He likewise experienced the chore of managing my father’s business interactions with his many corporations that he possessed. I was privy to none of this, of course.

Robbie, as we all called him, a term my mum had started, I think, led me down one of the many hallways toward the wing where my bedroom was. Robbie was sharp and keen. He was always properly, but not overly dressed—usually in a suit and tie.

“Sir, there is a bus waiting for us within an hour. We have a brief taxi first.”—Robbie escalated me to a royal title.

“Robbie, you always called me Peter”—I was surprised by my aversion to the title. Superiority had a touch of arrogant disregard about it.

“Peter, he wanted me to start saying this to you. He told me he wants me to start calling you ‘Sir’ from now on. I thought I would honor his wish, at least within an ear’s range—you know?”—he smiled and tapped me forward into my room.

My room of globes and maps spoke of a boy's room. The world was on my desk, and several flags of the world hung on the wall above my bed. I collected dreams.

He stopped me once in my room, and then he knelt down on the floor in front of me. Robbie pulled out a necklace with a familiar blue stone on it. It looked like the one in the photograph—the one in my dad’s decaying room of history.

“Your mum wants you to wear this for good luck.”—he extended it toward me as it sparkled in his hand.

“Where is she?”—I was more concerned with talking to my mum about my newfound knowledge of my adoption. “Did you know that I was adopted?” I added.

“Your mum is in Wales—and yes I did,” Robbie beamed. “Peter, your mum told me to wait until you were older to tell you.”—Robbie looked at me with understanding. Robbie cared for me like it was a mission or penance for something dreadful that he had done or experienced. His dedication to my upbringing showed the most when the sounds of sincerity came through his voice.