Ancient Illusions

by Joanne Pence

  Michael hated thinking about those days.

  Stedman soon left the room.

  “Is that why he went to Japan? To get as far away from that family as possible?” Michael asked.

  “He wanted to get away, but his first stop was the U.S.,” William Claude said. “In Cincinnati, Ohio, he got a job on the city’s newspaper, and then married a woman whose mother had been a slave and her father an Irish plantation owner. To him, the two shared having been abandoned by their Irish fathers. Lafcadio had no idea that in the U.S. such an interracial marriage was illegal. He was immediately fired, and soon after, he and the woman had a falling out.”

  Michael shook his head. “And since they weren’t really married …”

  William Claude nodded. “Exactly. So off he went to New Orleans where he became fascinated with voodoo. That brought him to the West Indies where he met Victor Rempart.”

  The name surprised Michael. “Victor? The man who built Wintersgate?”

  “That’s right. Victor left France and moved to Martinique when he was twenty-five. There, he and Lafcadio talked about voodoo and such, as well as about alchemy. They realized that the Hearn family was from the same part of Ireland as John Kelley, our famous alchemist ancestor. They discovered they had other ancestors in common and so must be cousins.”

  “Cousins? Lafcadio Hearn is a relative?”

  “So it seems,” William Claude said with a shrug. “Anyway, Victor grew tired of the heat in Martinique and headed north, ending up buying these twenty acres and building Wintersgate. When his talented cousin’s wanderlust caused him to want to go to Japan, Victor helped him out.”

  “And that’s why so many of Lafcadio’s unpublished letters and such are in this house?” Michael asked.

  “Yes, although I don’t know why he sent them to Victor.”

  “Interesting,” Michael said.

  “But unimportant.” William Claude finished his drink. “What’s important is that Victor’s money, obtained through alchemy, allowed him to help the poor man, cousin or not.”

  “With you, it always goes back to alchemy, doesn’t it?”

  “Why else would I want you here?”

  The words thundered in Michael’s head. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s time for you to help. Your power is great. I have a need for it.”

  Michael stood. “I didn’t come here to help you! I came here for the truth!”

  “The truth? What truth?” William Claude stopped, then rolled his eyes. “My God. Are you still blathering about that woman? She’s not important.”

  Michael stiffened. That woman was Irina Petrescu. She was the daughter of William Claude’s housekeeper. “She was important to me,” he shouted.

  “Was! Was! She’s nothing now. What’s important is alchemy and all we can do with it.”

  Michael froze. “What do you mean, she’s nothing now?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Michael stared. “No. I don’t believe you.”

  “I heard it from her mother this past winter.”

  Michael felt himself crumbling inside.

  Irina … dead. Of all possibilities that had crossed his mind about how he would reconcile himself to the past, he had never thought she might die before he could see her once more. “What happened to her?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

  “Auto accident. Single car. That’s all I know.”

  Michael’s flesh turned ice cold.

  “I’m sorry, Michael,” his father said. “Sorry that you never understood everything I did was for you, for what I believed would be best for you.” His lips curled into a bitter sneer. “I would never have allowed that woman into this family. Her family was the cause of your mother’s death, the cause of so much trouble and sorrow.”

  The words were like so much noise spinning around and around in Michael’s head. “What are you talking about?”

  William Claude’s gaze turned cold and hard. “Do you think I would have allowed her to be rewarded with any part of the Rempart heritage? And if the two of you had children, do you imagine I would have allowed what my ancestors built to go to them? Never!”

  Michael stood, furious. “Instead, this heritage you’re so proud of may well end with me. I hardly see love, marriage, and a family in my future.”

  The look William Claude cast on his son was one of pure contempt. “That may be for the best. You don’t deserve to be a Rempart!”

  Michael walked away, in no mood to hear any more of his father’s rant, his mind filled with Irina’s death.

  In his room, he sat on the bed trying not to think, trying not to acknowledge the shock he felt. But he had no tears. As a young man, he had shed too many because of her. Then, one day, they stopped.

  Since then, he had learned to control such feelings and to hold everything—everything—inside. Only a couple of times in his life had he allowed his emotions, his “alchemist nature,” loose. That was when he had learned just how strong and potentially terrible his power could be. At times, knowing he was William Claude’s son actually scared him.

  Chapter 6

  Salmon, Idaho

  * * *

  A feeling of dread hung over the coffee shop next door to the sheriff’s office in Salmon, Idaho. It was early morning, and the local ranchers and townspeople gathered there were scared, including a stringer for the Idaho Statesman. All of them remembered the strange things that had happened two years earlier, and they were all wondering if this might be round two. The Lemhi County sheriff, Jake Sullivan, had gone into the River of No Return Wilderness Area two days earlier to investigate some strange livestock mutilations, and hadn’t returned.

  A search party had been gathered, and they awaited their assignments. In charge was a deputy sheriff from Idaho Falls. Deputy Sheriff Brunswick had more experience dealing with difficult situations than Salmon’s Deputy Bill Mallick. Mallick remembered the heat that had rained down on Jake Sullivan earlier when eight students and teachers from Boise State vanished in the wilderness area. Mallick was glad to let Brunswick handle it.

  Just then, the door opened, and in walked the focal point of their angst, Sheriff Jake Sullivan. Jake was barrel-chested and broad-shouldered, with close-cropped brown hair mottled with gray, and a craggy, weather-beaten face. Born in Salmon, he had left it for Los Angeles where he joined the police force and worked his way to a detective in Robbery-Homicide. When things didn’t turn out as planned in California, he had returned to Idaho where life was supposed to be a lot quieter.

  “I heard you guys might be looking for me,” he said with a grin.

  “Jake!” Charlotte Reed stood up. She and Jake had lived together almost two years, ever since they met during the search for the missing university group in the back country north of the Salmon River. A widow, she had worked as a forgery investigator for the Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency. Her expertise was in Ancient Egyptian and Mesopotamian art and antiquities.

  Jake opened his arms and, as soon as he did, she ran to him. “You had us worried, you old coot! Where were you?”

  The two kissed and hugged, and then Jake faced the room. “Thank you, everyone. I never imagined you’d mobilize so quickly, but it’s good to know you have my back.” He turned to Deputy Sheriff Brunswick and extended his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” Brunswick said, shaking Jake’s hand.

  “So am I,” Mallick said, as the deputy gave the sheriff a quick, awkward hug.

  “What happened?” Brunswick asked.

  Putting an arm around Charlotte’s shoulders, Jake again spoke to the group. “Someone jumped me out there—knocked me off my horse. When I came to, my horse, satellite phone, and gun were gone. I walked toward the river and the next day reached Corn Creek Landing. But then I didn’t see a soul until sundown when a couple came by in a boat. Their communications equipment had stopped working, and they didn't know why. We didn’t travel when it was dark, so it
took a while to make it back here. Soon as we got back—about ten minutes ago—I heard about this meeting and rushed over. So, please excuse my appearance.”

  “You’re safe,” Charlotte said. “Who cares.”

  “Listen, Jake,” Brunswick said, “I’d like you to fill me in on what’s going on out there. It sounds plenty strange, and maybe I can offer help. But for now, I’ll keep an eye on things while you get some sleep.”

  Jake nodded. He was exhausted.

  The coffee shop owner, Emily Parker, a woman Charlotte had grown uncharacteristically jealous of, handed Jake a cup of coffee. “I thought you could use this,” she said with a dimpled smile. “And, if you’re hungry, I made you some eggs, sausage, and biscuits. I know how much you love them.” She put the plate on a nearby table.

  “Perfect! Thanks. I’m starving,” he said as he walked to the food. “Want some, too?” he asked Charlotte.

  “I’m fine.”

  They sat as he ate. She was being unusually quiet.

  “Are you okay?” he asked after a while.

  “Other than being scared to death, you mean?”

  “I’m sorry,” Jake said.

  She gave him a long, worried look. “You always are. But that doesn’t make it easier.”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  “I know you don’t.” Her tone was quiet and sad. “That’s the problem. There’s something drawing you away from me, from Salmon, from everything important to us. It’s changed you. Whenever you go out the Salmon River Road to Telichpah Flats or beyond, you come back even worse. And this time, you almost didn’t come back at all.”

  He put down the biscuit, his brows crossed. “I don’t know why you feel this way. That’s not how I see it.”

  “Right. It’s all my imagination,” she said. “But it isn’t. Something is wrong.”

  “You’ve got that right, at least!” He was angry now. “Someone crazy is mutilating sheep and cattle, and my job is to find the son of a bitch.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “I agree.” He picked up the biscuit and took another bite, his demeanor calmer as he said, “The amount of livestock killed has been unusual.”

  “I’m saying the manner of the deaths is the problem.”

  “And you think something surreal is going on?” Jake asked.

  “Not surreal. Supernatural.”

  “You’re wrong—and you’ll see that when I catch the very human bastards behind this mess.” He finished his breakfast and stood. “Let’s go home.”

  Chapter 7

  Michael spent the afternoon on the patio reading Kwaidan, which he found quite enjoyable. The ghost stories of Lafcadio Hearn were poignant—and of course more exotic—than those by Edgar Allan Poe or H. P. Lovecraft. And they were tinged more with human sadness than with fear.

  Being here also caused him to remember how much he always loved Wintersgate’s setting: the beach, the cliffs edging it, the choppy blue waves of the Atlantic. He understood why his father wanted to protect it, but it made no sense that his father wanted to keep it away from Irina Petrescu, or what her family might have had to do with his mother’s death.

  When Michael returned to the house, Patience told him William Claude had retired for the night. Once again, Michael dined alone.

  After dinner, a call from Charlotte Reed surprised him.

  “Michael, I’m sorry to bother you, but something is going on here in Salmon.” She told him about the animal mutilations and the nervousness all around her.

  “How’s Jake handling it?” Michael asked.

  “He tries to ignore it, or deny it’s anything weird. Instead, he bellows at people—including me—who try to talk about it.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  There was a pause. “He thinks people are still nervous.”

  “Which is not unreasonable,” Michael said. “What happened out there two years ago was unique and frightening. So now, anything weird would naturally have people up in arms.”

  “Maybe.” Her voice was tiny.

  “You think I should go out there and talk to Jake? Check things out for myself?”

  “I don’t know. I hate to say it, but there could be something else going on.”

  “Like what?”

  “Something mundane … something I don’t want to admit.”

  “You’ll need to explain, Charlotte,” he said.

  “God, I don’t know if I can bring myself to say it.”

  “Hey, you can talk to me, you know,” he said gently. “Out with it. Okay?”

  She hesitated, but once she began, the words tumbled from her like a dam bursting. “I think he may be seeing another woman. He denies it, but I’ve seen him with her several times. And he looked happy! He told me I was seeing things. But I wasn’t. Maybe it’s as simple as that. He’s met someone else.”

  “Do you really think that’s what’s going on?” Michael asked.

  “I don’t know, Michael. A part of me says ‘no,’ and yet…. The other woman—what a clichéd life I’m living—is probably ten years younger than me, with long, shiny blond hair, and a body that looks like the best money can buy. Why wouldn’t Jake be interested?”

  “Because he has you at home waiting for him.”

  “Thank you, Michael. I knew there was a reason I like you so much.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Two, three weeks I’d say.”

  “I just can’t imagine Jake caring about anyone else. Maybe the livestock deaths have him rattled. It can’t be anything serious with Miss Salmon, Idaho there.”

  Charlotte tried to laugh at his lame joke. “I hope you’re right. I’m sorry I troubled you. But I think our conversation helped me put things in perspective.”

  “I’ll come out there if it might help,” he said.

  “No. Not yet, at least. I’ll try talking to Jake. But thank you for offering, and for listening.”

  The conversation over, Michael couldn’t help but reflect on it. He had the feeling this wasn’t the last he would hear about it.

  After a while, he returned to the library to look at more of the Lafcadio Hearn material.

  One book of stories and essays with the awkward title of Kotto, Being Japanese Curios, with Sundry Cobwebs, had a bookmark jutting out of the top. He flipped to the page and found a lightly penciled arrow directing his eye to a passage that began, “Transmutations there may be…. But nothing essential can be lost. We shall inevitably bequeath our part to the making of the future cosmos—to the substance out of which another intelligence will slowly be evolved.”

  As Michael continued the passage, he discovered that Hearn followed the philosophy of the alchemist—that nothing ever died, but transmuted into some future form of life. The belief was that the atoms that made up everything in the world never ceased to be, but continued to exist in different forms. They become part of the inevitable chain of life, and all of us are a part of that chain.

  Michael turned his attention back to the books. He selected three of them and took them to his bedroom where he stayed up half the night reading and then fell asleep, too tired for dreams.

  Vancouver, British Columbia

  * * *

  Every day, Li Jianjun said a little prayer that Michael Rempart would decide to do an archeological dig in some remote corner of the world. The remoter, the better.

  Jianjun was Michael’s assistant and technical expert. Age thirty-seven, born in China, now a Canadian citizen and a computer genius, he handled the logistics for the digs, including getting all necessary governmental okays. It was a job that could take weeks, but Jianjun never minded fighting with government bureaucrats. He had never yet failed to receive a go-ahead. Maybe he didn’t always act in the most up-and-up way, but he did nothing that would harm anyone. Just a few hacks into government systems and databases, and things turned in his favor.

  Right now, he’d hack into the Pentagon if it would get
him a job away from home. Working with Michael, traveling the world, looking into strange pieces of antiquity was more fascinating than he had ever imagined it could be. Not because of the archeology—that was Michael’s area–but because of the people he met and the places he saw. His job provided the best, and the worst, parts of his life.

  The best because he never felt as alive or as needed as when he worked with Michael. And because the last time they had worked together, he met a woman named Kira Holt. She made him realize how wonderful life could be.

  But he couldn’t think about Kira now. Not when he was home with Linda, his wife, who hated him. And that reminded him of the worst part of his job—encountering people and other creatures that seem to want him dead.

  Living with his wife, he should have been used to it.

  The last time he spoke with Michael, the archeologist was in New Mexico and had needed no assistance. That meant Jianjun remained stuck at home.

  Jianjun was so ready to travel he would be willing to return to Mongolia, as desolate a place as he had ever seen in his life. He would even be willing to drink more of that awful yak milk if it would help. If not, there were a lot of islands around Indonesia he wouldn’t mind seeing. Right now, the jungles of Papua-New Guinea sounded good, cannibals notwithstanding, a clear sign of how desperate he was. Anything was better than staying home one more week. He couldn’t remember ever having been so bored or, frankly, so unhappy.

  He was going through internet news sites trying to find some exciting place in the world to pique Michael’s interest when his phone rang. It was an international call.

  “Li Jianjun?” asked an accented voice.

  “Yes.”

  “I am Yamato Toru, calling from Japan. I have been trying for several days to reach Doctor Michael Rempart, but he does not answer my call or messages. I am hoping you can help.”

  “I'll try, but if he doesn’t want to talk to you, there’s little I can do,” Jianjun said dismissively. Michael received a lot of weird requests from people.