Cryptic Spaces

by Deen Ferrell

  He told her the whole story—about the encounter with the tall man who called himself Beelzebub, the encounter with Gates, and the discussion with H.S. He told her everything. She listened quietly, not saying a word. When he was through, she stared at him, and then out over the choppy blue of the sea.

  “So you don’t hate me for not telling you about your father.”

  “No,” Willoughby said, and he realized that he meant it. “I didn’t tell anybody about seeing floating numbers in the air initially, or about seeing the tall man.”

  “Who do you think he is? What do you think he is?”

  Willoughby leaned back. “I don’t know. But he seems to have interest in us both, so, maybe we should stick together.”

  Sydney smiled, sneaking a glance over at him again. “Okay.” After a moment, the smile faded. She looked away. “This has all come upon us so fast. Everything has changed.”

  It was Willoughby’s turn to scour the cove. For some reason, he felt a stinging in his eyes. “It’s like I woke up in the middle of a nightmare, only it’s real! It’s my life! And the stakes aren’t just life or death, they’re like, you’re the hero, here—go save the world.” He rubbed his eyes. “I may be good at math, but how is that going to stop this guy? How is that going to help me find out about my Dad, help us find our friends? I feel like suddenly, everybody is looking at me, and that’s,” he sniffed, “that’s a lot worse than just facing death.”

  Sydney was watching him. She slipped her arm into his, looking away as she softly took his hand. “You ever heard of the great stage director, Vsevelod Meyerhold?”

  Willoughby sniffed. “Uh, no.”

  “He was perhaps the greatest stage director of the 20th century. As a contemporary of Stanislavski, Tolstoy, and Chekov, and teacher of Sergei Eisenstein, he changed the face of modern theater.”

  “I’m familiar with Tolstoy and Chekov. Wasn’t Eisenstein a famous film director?”

  “Yeah,” Sydney looked over at Willoughby with a quick smile. The wind was toying with her hair and the sun shone golden on her face.

  “So, what happened to this Meyerhold guy? Why haven’t I ever heard of him?”

  Sydney frowned. “His wife was brutally murdered—a woman he loved more than life itself—and then he was arrested and accused of being a spy. He was shot by a firing squad and all of his works and papers were ordered to be burned. What we know about him is only because Eisenstein and a few other friends secreted his works away, hiding them in the walls of their houses.”

  Willoughby looked over. “And this story helps because…?”

  “Well, it’s a fascinating story, set against the backdrop of the Russian revolution, but my point is that, in a letter to his wife, Meyerhold spoke symbolically about the storms that used to swoop down on him when he was a little boy. He never forgot them, and saw in them some of what one experiences in life. He described them as terrible and yet beautiful at the same time. What he was saying is that real life often has two faces, both staring at us at the same time. We have to choose which face we see.”

  Willoughby smiled. “So, no more requiems?”

  Sydney tapped his arm. “Promise—not for a while, anyway.”

  “There are good things about this trip. I got to meet you. I know more about Russian theater. I, I know what it feels like to be crammed into your chest.”

  Sydney punched him.

  “Come on,” he yelled, standing up. He turned and shouted at the waves. “YOU DON’T SCARE US, BEELZEBUB! We WILL find our friends—so there!”

  Sydney jumped to her feet. “Yeah, and we’re not afraid of you, you old bully, whoever you are!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. “We’ve got sunsets to see, and beautiful music to write, and problems to solve, and a lot of dramatic stuff that still needs to happen—with musical accompaniment!”

  “Yeah, and good, very dramatic musical accompaniment!”

  “And we have family we need to find, and family members we need to learn to talk to!” Sydney added. “So…”

  “So,” Willoughby added, “bring it on!”

  “Yeah! Give us your best shot!” Sydney yelled.

  People in the white apartment buildings that lined the ridge and the top of the cliffs were probably searching the waters to see who these young people were yelling at—or what. The two of them screamed for a good five minutes, brandishing taunts and throwing rocks. Then, arm in arm, hand in hand, they turned and headed back along the beach, following the footprints they had earlier made, their feet somehow lighter on the sand.

  The Absconditus crew is dead and its murderous hijackers have been drowned in the sea—well, mostly. True, the ship is sitting on the bottom of the ocean, but Willoughby has already had to face one of its hijacker goons as a white-eyed zombie. What if there are others?

  There is little time to consider as every passing hour brings him new challenges. He must find his friends, Antonio and T.K., lost somewhere in the sands of time. He must save James Arthur from the threat of a mysterious scar-faced witch. He must find out what the self-proclaimed Demon Lord, Beelzebub, really wants, and figure out a way to thwart him. He needs to come to terms with his growing feelings for Sydney, whose idea of a rough day is trying to fit 189 designer accessories into a single yacht closet.

  From the snow capped peaks of the Andes, to the center of the Bermuda triangle, from the Minsk Theater in St. Petersburg, Russia, to The Treasury in Petra, Jordan, the action never stops in this riveting sequel to the award winning Cryptic Spaces: Foresight. Adventure has a new game—and winning is so much more than just staying alive.

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