“Thank you, Victor,” Andrea said, acknowledging the praise. “Your family always did appreciate innovative solutions to problems . . .”
“In order to enact this vision, we will need to rely on the expertise several of you possess,” Simon said. “Do I have your support?”
Dario pounded his cane on the floor three times. “Young Hitchlords, you have my support. I long for the day when we might rule again. It has been a long time since I have tasted that wine. Come now, and graciously tell us what name you have chosen for us.”
Simon paused a moment. One by one, the eleven people in the hall tapped the table three times with their hands, an ancient code symbolizing their support. According to tradition, once named, the group would be forever bound to secrecy. “Era,” Simon announced with great pleasure. “We shall be called Era.” He picked up a golden incense burner resting on the floor next to his chair. “Let the lighting of this urn bind us,” he said, as he struck a piece of flint to ignite the contents. “Let its smoke be the cloud that blinds our enemies and cloaks our passions. Inhale, my friends. We are now one.” Simon took a great whiff of the smoke and passed the urn to Andrea, who inhaled deeply before passing it to the man seated to her right. One by one, each of the other nine people did the same. A slight smile came to Simon’s face as the urn was passed back to him.
“In front of each of you,” Simon said, “you will find a small tin container. Heed well the instructions you find inside.”
The great bell sounded again. The eleven people grabbed the small wooden mallets resting on the table in front of them and with a single stroke smashed their golden masks. The shards slid across the polished tabletop, some falling to the stone floor. Their masks were no longer needed. As Era, they would act as one. “It is done,” Simon announced. “We are united! Long live Reges Hominum, the Kings of Men!”
“Long live the kings of men!” the others repeated in unison.
2
Everything that we are looking for is right in front of us.
The sages of old put their messages in plain sight. Just stop and look; life will have no choice but to reveal itself to you.
—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA
NEW CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, 3:00 P.M. LOCAL TIME,
JULY 15, 2069, 6 DAYS UNTIL FREEDOM DAY
Logan Cutler had been restoring the same painting at the Art Institute of Chicago for six months. The last few details were the most difficult, and the fast-approaching deadline was making the work stressful. Logan loved to paint and enjoyed working on his own creations far more than he enjoyed restoring other people’s work. He had always dreamed of having his own studio, where he could dedicate himself to his own work and teach others how to express themselves through art. But in order to do that, an artist had to gain recognition and the support of gallery owners who could sell his work for fantastic amounts of money. Logan hadn’t yet produced a masterpiece or even a painting that had attracted the attention of the critics and the gallery owners. He hadn’t had the time. He needed to earn a living. The best he could do was stay close to his passion by restoring other people’s paintings.
It was 3:00 p.m., almost time to stop for the day. Logan looked at the last section of the painting that needed restoring. It was the area that was giving him the most trouble; he just couldn’t seem to get the right color mix. Everything he’d tried had resulted in the wrong shade or tone. Logan stood staring at the painting while mixing a small cup of paint, debating whether to try one last experiment. The strange ringing sound had returned to his ears. It always seemed to come at the end of the work day and interfered with his concentration. None of the doctors he’d visited over the last few years had been able to explain or treat it. All he could do was wait for it to stop.
“Logan!” a voice called out.
Startled, he spilled the cup of paint on his hand and his already-stained apron.
“Some mad woman is on the main line for you; she says your PCD is not answering.”
Annoyed, Logan snagged a rag and wiped the paint off his hand, then walked over to the supply table and grabbed his personal communication device, where a holographic image of his ex-wife was projected.
“I still haven’t received the child-support check,” she said angrily.
Of course, mad woman, Logan thought. That should have clued him in to who was calling. “Yes, Susan, I know. I’ll have the money tonight, I told you that last week.”
“You’ve been saying that for months.” Susan’s voice was getting louder. “I’m going to call the attorneys!”
After fourteen years of marriage, Logan knew that tone all too well. He had married Susan when they were both only eighteen. He’d enjoyed their first couple years together, when they’d had few responsibilities except for their careers and had talked and dreamed of all the adventures they would have one day. They had plotted and planned the art empire that Logan was going to create and how they would deal with all the fame and money that would come his way. The arrival of children, however, delayed those plans. Their son, Jordan, and their younger daughter, Jamie, had consumed so much of their energy and time, and Logan had been forced to find a job that paid enough to support them. Before long, Susan had lost hope in Logan’s ability to attain the fame and fortune they’d once dreamed about. As it turned out, Susan had been more interested in the wealth than in the art and four years ago, they’d divorced.
“Listen, I’ll have the money tonight,” Logan reassured her, starting to feel quite agitated himself. “You know what I’m about to do, and you know how hard it is for me to do it.”
“I don’t care how—just do it, and get me that money!”
Logan’s thirteen-year-old son, Jordan, jumped into the projected image, interrupting his mother. “Hey, Dad, check it out! I’m building a model of an old SR-71 Blackbird airplane for my history class.”
Not wanting to be left out, Jordan’s eleven-year-old sister, Jamie, also entered the image. She was sporting a new dress and holding a violin. “Look what I learned to play!” she said, as she put the violin under her chin and played a piece Logan didn’t recognize.
“When are you coming to visit, Dad?” Jordan interrupted, speaking over his sister’s classical melody.
“The model airplane and the music are beautiful,” Logan said, wishing he lived close enough to celebrate their accomplishments. “I’ll see you really soon, and we’ll all go out for pizza and ice cream.”
Susan nudged the children away from the PCD. “If you want to spend time with them, get me that money,” she said in a threatening tone.
“I will. I will, and tell the kids I love—” The call ended before Logan could finish his sentence. The projection was replaced by a list of unanswered messages. Logan’s ex-wife was not the only one attempting to collect money from him. He still had outstanding lawyers’ fees from the divorce, along with late credit-card and car payments.
Logan tossed his PCD onto the table, and the device went dark. He ran both hands through his long hair. Logan missed his children. His wife had received custody of them and moved more than a thousand miles away to the ocean beaches of Nevada. The western part of the state had become beachfront property after the earthquakes and tsunamis of the Great Disruption turned California into a chain of islands. The desert landscape of the gambling state had quickly been transformed into a lush and highly sought-after coastline. Maybe I should move there and be with the kids, Logan thought. Life had become pretty lonely, and every day seemed to be a repeat of the day before. Maybe I could start my studio on the beach, he fantasized, as he rubbed his ear and tried to get rid of the annoying ringing noise.
He walked over to the small break room that adjoined the restoration hall. His coworker Melissa was enjoying a cup of coffee and watching a news broadcast on the 3-D HoloTV. Logan went over to the sink to wash the remaining paint from his hands.
“Have you listened to this woman?” Melissa asked.
“Who?” Logan responded, not paying much at
tention to the broadcast.
“This woman, Cynthia Brown.” Melissa pointed to the projection. “She and the Council of Satraya are planning their annual Freedom Day rally—if you can call it that anymore.”
“Yeah, Freedom Day. I can’t believe the twenty-first of July is almost here.” Logan continued to scrub his hands. “My parents thought a lot of Cynthia. They used to listen to her all the time and go to all the local rallies. People needed to be reminded of the past, they would say. And we should never forget what happened after the Great Disruption and what the Chronicles did for us.”
“Well, she’s a bit out of touch, if you ask me. That whole Satraya thing is past tense. The Rising is over. Some people just don’t know when to move on.” Melissa added some sugar to her coffee as she continued to watch the broadcast. “I guess we still get Freedom Day out of it. Another day off is always good!”
Logan didn’t pay much attention to the rally; he was still thinking about his family and his mounting debts. He dried his hands and gave Melissa a smile as he left the break room.
He walked back over to the large fresco he was restoring. It was a massive replica, five meters by three meters, of Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam. The original masterpiece, which had once graced the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, had been destroyed in an earthquake in Rome during the Great Disruption. The painting depicted God surging forth from heaven, vigorously extending his forefinger to the languid forefinger of Adam, the first man on earth, as he imparts to him the divine spark of life. The fresco reproduction belonged to a private collection; it had sustained extensive damage during the chaos of the Great Disruption but was still considered one of the finest remaining reproductions of Michelangelo’s work. Logan gazed at it now, focusing on the gap between the finger of God and the finger of Adam. This was the problem area, because Logan couldn’t quite match the color in the original masterpiece as depicted in the images from some digital archives he had studied. The various pigments he’d mixed weren’t blending well with the lime-based plaster he was using.
“Logan, my boy!”
Another interruption, Logan thought as he turned to see Mr. Rampart, the museum’s director, and another man Logan didn’t recognize walking over to him.
“Logan, I would like to introduce Mr. Sebastian Quinn, the owner of this wonderful painting that you have been working on so diligently.”
Logan greeted him with a firm handshake. “Hello, Mr. Quinn. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise, Logan, and please call me Sebastian.”
If first impressions mattered, then Logan was at a loss. It felt as if his mind went blank when he looked into Sebastian Quinn’s coal-black eyes. As hard as Logan tried, he couldn’t guess his age or what part of the world he came from. While he had never met the man before, Logan thought there was something familiar and comforting about him, something in his calm air and knowing expression. But Logan couldn’t quite figure out what it was.
“Logan’s parents, Henry and Alexandra Cutler, also loved the arts,” Mr. Rampart said. “They used to volunteer many hours during the height of the Rising to get the museum back up and running. Logan comes from good stock.”
“How is your work coming?” Sebastian asked.
“Good. Almost done.” Logan shifted his gaze away from Sebastian to the painting. “I just have to finish this section here, where the two fingers almost meet.” Logan pointed to the problem area. “But I’m having trouble matching the color,” he admitted.
“I am not surprised. That is the most important part of the painting,” Sebastian said, as he leaned closer to where Logan was pointing. “This painting has many secrets, you know. Michelangelo was a master at hiding messages in his work. He placed this one right under the nose of Pope Julius II, who commissioned it in the early sixteenth century.” Sebastian continued to examine the painting, evaluating other places where Logan had performed some restoration work.
“Secrets?” Logan repeated with interest.
Sebastian smiled. “Come, step back and look at this masterpiece again. You, too, Mr. Rampart.” Sebastian took Logan by the shoulder and moved him back a few steps. “Now, what do you see?”
Logan and Mr. Rampart stood silently a moment. Then Mr. Rampart took a stab at it. “The painting depicts God on the right and Adam on the left, and they are reaching out to each other with their fingers.”
Sebastian waited a few moments for Logan to answer, but Logan remained silent, so he went on, “Can you see that Michelangelo has depicted God within the outline of the human brain?” Sebastian stepped forward and drew his finger around the outline. “This dark shape from which God emanates resembles a cross-section of the human brain. God’s forearm and finger are emerging from what one could infer is a human being’s forehead or, as the ancients referred to it, the third eye.” Both Logan and Mr. Rampart stepped back a bit farther.
The third eye? Logan glanced over at Sebastian. Who is this man?
“It’s so obvious now that you’ve pointed it out,” Mr. Rampart said.
“It must not have been so obvious to the pope who hired Michelangelo,” Logan countered, winning a smile from Sebastian. “With its veiled imagery, this painting seems to challenge the very belief that God is a being that exists outside of us. To the contrary, it seems to suggest that the heavenly spirit emanates . . . from the forefront of the human brain.”
Sebastian continued to smile and nodded at the look of amazement on Logan’s face. “Many assumptions were being challenged at that time. You’ve heard of Copernicus, haven’t you? He was an astronomer who challenged the belief that the sun revolved around the earth. He had the audacity to propose that it was the other way around. This controversial idea paved the way for Johannes Kepler, Galileo, and other men to ponder the true relationships among the sun, the planets, and the stars when they looked up at the night sky. This, in turn, led to the Scientific Revolution and an open challenge to the way the physical world was viewed. Michelangelo did something similar in the spiritual realm, albeit more discreetly. To make even a few people ponder something they have never considered before is a great and valuable achievement. Do you ever wonder why people gaze at length at a piece of art that at first glance seems trite? Subconsciously, they know there is something more to see, and they can’t stop looking at it. This is one of those pieces.” Sebastian paused, allowing Logan and Mr. Rampart to take in his words.
Logan could think of only a few other people he’d met who spoke on such an abstract level. His mother and father were two of them. They both had read and studied The Chronicles of Satraya and had had these types of discussions. They’d spent long hours debating the esoteric nature of God, the Spirit, and the science of reality.
“And look there,” Sebastian continued. “Look at how Adam has been depicted as lazy, only half attempting to reach out and accept God’s blessing. Michelangelo is warning us that we should be watchful of our indolence, our laziness, that if we become complacent, we will lose sight of God and where his throne truly resides.” Sebastian tapped his forehead.
Logan felt a new appreciation for the painting he had been working on for the last six months. He was anxious now to learn all of its secrets. “And what do all those faces around God represent?” he asked. “Those of the angels there, surrounding God inside the brain? And the space between the fingers—you said that was the most important part of the painting?”
Sebastian smiled. “Those are yet more secrets. I leave them to you to ponder. But I assure you, you will not be disappointed by the answers. Just be patient. They will come to you out of the blue.”
Mr. Rampart, who didn’t seem as intrigued by Michelangelo’s hidden messages, looked at his watch. “Well, Logan, we will leave you to it. Mr. Quinn is passing through before he heads back home tomorrow. He wanted to make sure that you would be finished with the restoration a few days before the Freedom Day celebration.”
“Yes, I’ll be done by then,” Logan said, disappointed that th
is intriguing man was leaving.
“That is good news,” Sebastian replied. “I plan to donate it to a friend’s art gallery.” He shook Logan’s hand, and then Mr. Rampart escorted him from the restoration room.
Logan turned back to the painting, viewing it differently now. He looked again at the last place that needed to be restored, the space between the fingers. Secrets, he thought. Sebastian’s last words echoed in Logan’s mind: Be patient. The answers will come to you out of the blue . . . out of the . . . Wait, blue! Logan thought. Of course—blue was the missing color. The paint he was mixing needed a subtle amount to achieve the right hue. Logan turned, hoping to catch Sebastian before he left the restoration room, but he and Mr. Rampart were already gone.
The mixing of the paint would have to wait until tomorrow. It was getting late, and Logan needed to take care of an important personal matter. As he cleaned his paintbrushes and put away his tools, he thought about all the great plans he’d had for his life and how most of them had gone awry. He recalled his father once telling him when he was a teenager, “If your life is not going according to your plan, there is only one thing you can do: Get a new plan!” Tonight Logan was going to do just that. A small smile came to his face. But the relief didn’t last long. He wished his parents were still alive. Perhaps they could have suggested a better plan than the one he was about to enact.
3
The words we speak to you will one day be more valuable than gold. For these words honor the great potential within you.
Guard these books, and spread their knowledge. For one day, they may be the key to your survival and ultimate freedom.
—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA
CAIRO, EGYPT, MIDNIGHT LOCAL TIME, 6 DAYS UNTIL FREEDOM DAY
Journey Into the Flame: Book One of the Rising World Trilogy Page 3
