A soothing female voice seemed to come out of nowhere. “Searching for A Christmas Carol.” One of the ladders along the west wall began to move. A red laser originating from the domed ceiling pointed to a particular book on the fourth shelf from the bottom. “A Christmas Carol, written by Charles Dickens in 1843.”
“Hypatia can find almost anything you are looking for,” Halima said. “Simple.”
“What if you want information about horses?” Britney asked.
“Find horses,” Halima said into the control panel.
“Searching for horses,” Hypatia said. All twelve ladders began to move. A hundred laser lights activated and pointed to a hundred books on the shelves. “Multiple results,” the voice said.
“You have a lot of climbing to do,” Halima said with a giggle.
“You get back to work,” Anita said. “Britney and I have to look for something.”
“What? Maybe I can help. I’m really good with Hypatia.”
“No,” Anita said. “You keep reading those assignments Mr. Quinn gave you.”
Disappointed, Halima walked back to the armchair with her book.
Anita stood at the control panel, with Britney beside her. “We need to figure out what’s so important about that painting Mr. Quinn sent off to someone,” she said, as she typed in “The Scream, Edvard Munch.” Ladders on all four walls moved; forty-four laser lights activated and pointed to books scattered throughout the library. “Too many.”
“Did Mr. Quinn say anything else about your headaches before he left?” Britney asked.
“No.” Anita tried to recall exactly what had happened the night of the vernal equinox. “I remember Bukya rubbing his ears, and I remember telling Mr. Quinn and my father that my violin was out of tune. Mr. Quinn told me that it was actually me that was out of tune. He turned to my father and said something about a masterpiece.”
“He said that a masterpiece needed to find a new home,” Halima said, poking her head around the side of her chair. “And he said something else, too. But since I’m not helping . . .”
Anita sighed. “OK, you can help us.”
Halima gave them a big smile. “He said that the voice of the earth was disturbed.”
“What does that mean?” Britney asked.
Anita worked the control panel and brought up a projected image of the picture by Edvard Munch.
Halima jumped out of the chair and joined them. “Is that the picture you were looking for? That man doesn’t look happy.”
“Let’s see if we can translate the writing on the black plaque on the frame,” Anita said. She pressed a few buttons and read it out loud.
I was walking along the road with two friends—the sun was setting—suddenly the sky turned blood red—I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence—there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city—my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety—and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.
“Well, that just brightens your day, doesn’t it?” Britney said. “Makes me want to rush out and run through Farmer Bigelow’s field of daisies.”
“An infinite scream passing through nature, the earth’s voice being disturbed,” Anita repeated. “That can’t be a coincidence. Whatever Mr. Quinn sensed that evening prompted him to send this picture somewhere.”
“How can nature scream?” Britney asked. “I’ve never heard it say a word.”
“It is speaking to us all the time,” Anita said.
Halima’s eyes widened. “Sarvagita!” she hollered, rushing back to the armchair. Anita followed her.
“Sarva . . . what?” Britney stammered.
Halima flipped through the book she was reading. “Here it is, Sarvagita,” she said, showing a page of the Enuntiatio de Tutela to Anita. “Do you remember reading about the Song of the Universe?”
“I do,” Anita said. “But it’s been a long time since I read it.”
“You’ll remember once you hear it again,” said Halima. She read a passage out loud.
Sarvagita is the voice of the universe. It is a vibration that passes through all things great and small, all things high and low, all thing moving and still. It is the voice that urges you to wake up early and gaze upon the rising of Ra. It is the voice that puts you to sleep, urging forth your dreams and gently asking you to forget the worries of the day. It is the voice that promises a tomorrow.
Be still and listen, can you hear its call? Can you feel something familiar whispering in your ears?
In a realm where nothing stirred, came a voice that nothing heard.
Behold, it said, I have arrived. I have a call so all will thrive.
Hear my name and speak it well,
For in my rhyme all can dwell.
My voice will echo to and fro,
Through all of life it will flow.
Look high and low, and you will see
My greatest song in your story.
Sarvagita will usher in,
A new world for all my kin.
“That’s beautiful,” Britney said. “Not that I understood a word of it. What’s the book?”
“It is called the Enuntiatio de Tutela.” A male voice suddenly echoed through the Alexandria Room.
The three girls turned and saw Lawrence coming down the spiral staircase, carrying a tray. “It’s a very rare book. In fact, that might be the only original copy in existence.” Halima took a cookie off the tray as Lawrence approached and set the tray on the table. He looked at the image of the picture that was projected. “Now, what are the three of you doing down here? And why the sudden interest in Munch’s masterpiece?”
“We’re solving a mystery,” Halima said, as she chewed a cookie. A stern look from Lawrence reminded her of her manners, and she swallowed instead of continuing to speak.
“Do you know what happened to Mr. Quinn’s version of this picture?” Anita asked, deciding to take a direct approach. “It used to be hanging in the Tapestry Room.”
“He sent it to Logan Ford,” Lawrence answered, matching his daughter’s directness.
“There you have it,” Britney proclaimed. “Mystery solved, next topic.”
Anita put her hand over Britney’s mouth, silencing her. Halima giggled. “Why?” Anita asked. “Why Logan Ford? And what does it have to do with Sarvagita and my sudden struggles with my violin?”
“Those are questions that only Mr. Quinn can answer,” Lawrence said.
“Did Mr. Quinn say that the voice of the earth has been disturbed?” Anita asked, persisting with her questioning.
“Yes,” Lawrence said.
“Told you,” Halima said, as she grabbed another cookie.
“A proper discussion of Sarvagita can run deep and long,” Lawrence said. “The poem that Halima just read points out that everything in the universe has a sound, a song, a frequency.”
“A voice,” Anita said, and then she recited: “ ‘My voice will echo to and fro, through all of life it will flow.’ ”
“Exactly,” Lawrence said. “Everything, from a grain of sand on the beach to an eagle soaring high in the sky, has a vibration or a voice.”
“We just learned that in my physics class,” Britney said. “A scientist by the name of Max Planck said that all physical matter is composed of vibrations.” Anita looked at her, impressed. Britney grinned. “I pay attention . . . occasionally.”
Lawrence nodded. “At about the same time as Planck, the scientist Nikola Tesla also identified that phenomenon. But it wasn’t until the early 1950s that Winfried Otto Schumann postulated mathematically that the earth emitted a vibration that the human ear could not hear. Schumann’s theory was later confirmed in the 1960s, when the vibration was actually measured. That is why the frequency of the earth’s vibration came to be known as the Schumann resonance.”
“The voice of the earth,” Anita said in a low voice.
“So the Schumann resonance is what Mr. Quinn said was disturbed?” B
ritney asked.
“Yes,” Lawrence said. “And if you read further into Enuntiatio de Tutela, you will learn that the individual vibration of every living thing on this planet combines to form the voice of the earth. Now, imagine if the vibration of every star, planet, asteroid, and dust particle in the universe were combined. What would that voice sound like?”
“Sarvagita,” Halima answered. “The Song of the Universe.”
Even Britney was captivated. “What more can you tell us?”
“As I said before, one could become immersed in the study of Sarvagita for a long period of time,” Lawrence said. “How the Schumann resonance relates to that work of art and its relationship to Anita’s violin are beyond my current understanding. Those are questions best left to someone more knowledgeable.”
“When is Mr. Quinn coming home?” Anita asked.
Her father shrugged his shoulders.
“Well,” Halima said, closing her book, “while we wait for Mr. Quinn and Bukya to return, how about if all of you help me with my own investigation?”
“And what investigation would that be?” Lawrence asked.
“Remember that necklace I found the other day? Mr. Quinn took it with him when he left.”
“Why would he take that old dog tag?” Anita asked.
“He didn’t say,” Halima said. “But I copied down the name, and I need some help finding out who the owner was.”
“That tag was probably there since before the Great Disruption,” Anita said. “It’s impossible to find out anything about people from that far back. All the records were destroyed.”
Halima was not happy with the lack of encouragement. “Come on, Anita. I need you to help me find Sumsari Baltik!”
“Finding Sumsari Baltik,” Hypatia said. Everyone turned and watched as a single ladder on the western wall began to move. It stopped near the northwest corner of the room. A solitary red laser emerged from the dome and pointed to a book on the top shelf. “The Unexpected Life, written by Felix and Maria Quinn in 2029.”
“Why would his name be in a book in here?” Halima asked.
“And one written by Felix and Maria?” Anita added.
“Those are excellent questions,” Lawrence said, before turning to Halima. “The Unexpected Life, all twenty volumes of it, contains the writings of Mr. Quinn’s parents in which they recount their extraordinary adventures.” He smiled. “It would seem, my dear, that your innocent search is about to become a very interesting investigation.”
There was a big grin on Halima’s face as she walked across the library and started climbing the ladder.
22
Has everything that can be done been done? If so, why are you here?
We assure you, there is much more to do.
—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA
NEW CHICAGO, 9:20 A.M. LOCAL TIME, MARCH 22, 2070
“They did a brain scan, and there are no signs of tumors or edema or cellular damage due to the fall,” Logan said to Valerie on his PCD. “They’re going to do a couple more tests. I’ll call you when we get the results.”
He ended his call and smiled at Jamie, who was reclining in an examination chair and had a neuro cap with numerous electrodes on her head.
“You look like you’re heading into outer space,” he joked.
When Jamie had complained about another severe headache last night, Logan decided not to take any more chances. After dropping Jordan off at school, he’d brought Jamie back to the neurologist who had examined her yesterday. The doctor had recommended that Jamie undergo further testing with his colleague, Dr. Timothy Zepher. Logan remained concerned about her, the images he had seen in the mirror the night before still fresh in his mind. The last time he had had such a vivid vision was in July, when he’d seen Valerie’s funeral. That hadn’t happened, but still, Logan wondered who the man in his vision was and what his daughter’s face appearing in the Munch picture meant. And worse still to think, what else had he seen that he didn’t remember?
“OK, Doctor, we’re all set,” the physician’s assistant said.
Dr. Zepher walked over to Jamie, gave her a set of earphones, and positioned the neuro cap’s visor over her eyes. “Jamie, we’re going to start a series of visual tests. Different-colored lights are going to flash in those special eyeglasses you’re wearing. You don’t have to do a thing; just sit back and relax.”
The doctor returned to the four monitors and the 3-D projector, and the test began. Logan watched as telemetry lines began to register activity. The assistant manipulated the controls, and portions of the projected image of the brain became colorized.
“As we run through the visual tests, we can see if Jamie’s brain is reacting properly to outside stimulus,” the doctor told Logan. “We can gauge her reactions by seeing which areas of her brain become colorized.”
“Hey,” Jamie called. “I just saw a giraffe. Oh, and there was a lion.”
“Very good, Jamie,” the doctor said. “Let us know if you see anything else.” He turned to Logan to reassure him. “Sometimes the light sequences cause the brain to fire patterns of recognition. It’s perfectly normal for people to see things that aren’t really there. In fact, we’d probably be more concerned if she didn’t.”
Logan’s PCD vibrated and began to make that annoying chirping sound. “Sorry, my PCD’s been acting flaky,” he said, reading a message from Jasper.
“We’re going to start a series of auditory tests now,” the doctor said to Jamie, and then he turned to Logan. “Sound affects a different part of the brain. While visual processing takes place at the back of the brain, auditory takes place in the right and left hemispheres. We’re cycling through tones that humans don’t consciously hear.”
“Interesting,” the assistant remarked as the telemetry was displayed.
The doctor sat up straighter in his seat. “Wow.”
Logan’s concern did not exactly dissipate. “What is it? Interesting and wow are usually not words you want to hear during a doctor’s exam.”
“It looks like Jamie is more sensitive to sound than most people,” Dr. Zepher said.
“That’s pretty impressive,” his assistant added, nodding his head in agreement. “These low-end frequencies don’t register with most people.”
“Ouch!” Jamie yelled.
“Hold up,” the doctor said to his assistant. “Jamie, does your head hurt?”
“No, not anymore,” she answered. “It did for a second, but now it’s OK. I saw a really bright orange light.”
“Again, interesting,” the doctor said in a low voice. He rewound the time-lapse recording of Jamie’s brain response and then moved it forward second by second. “We need to find the exact moment her pain centers fired.”
Logan leaned in for a closer look.
“There!” The doctor leaned back in his chair as he looked at a particular reading of Jamie’s auditory cortex. “What are the odds of that?”
“Odds of what?” Logan asked.
“We saw the same thing last night,” the assistant explained. “One of the people who came in last night complaining of headaches reacted the same way as Jamie when we ran the test on him.”
“And at this same tone,” the doctor said. “Eight Hertz. No one is supposed to react to those frequencies.”
“What does that mean?” Logan asked.
“I don’t know,” the doctor said. “We sent off his results to the Calhoun Medical Center in Washington for analysis. They have more advanced equipment than we do. Looks like we have another set of results to send to Calhoun. For some reason, Jamie’s auditory cortex is hypersensitive.”
“As a result of her fall?”
“Maybe,” the doctor said. “But the man who came in last night hadn’t suffered any trauma to the head.”
Logan could hear his daughter humming something. It was a short sequence of notes that she repeated over and over. “What are you humming?” he called to her.
“Just some tune that’s in
my head,” Jamie answered. “Grandma taught me to play it on the violin.”
“She plays an instrument?” the assistant asked.
“Yep, the violin,” Jamie said proudly. “Just like my grandma. Why do you ask?”
The assistant glanced at the doctor, who seemed equally intrigued by Jamie’s musical ability. “The man who came in last night complaining about headaches is a famous musician,” the doctor said.
“He ended up having to cancel his concert last night,” the assistant added.
“Ming Peera?” Logan asked. That was the musician whose performance Jasper had been planning to attend.
“Yes,” the doctor said, with a bemused expression on his face.
23
A seed must be planted for the coming rains to nourish it.
Much like philosophy, which needs the nourishment of experience before truth can grow.
—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA
WASHINGTON, D.C., 11:17 A.M. LOCAL TIME, MARCH 22, 2070
“How were the agents killed?” Valerie asked Zurich-based WCF field agent Colette Hasburg, whose image was projected on her PCD.
“Each was shot and killed with a flux round to the base of his skull,” Colette said, her Swiss-German accent cutting the words sharply. “A very precise strike through the spine.”
“What is a flux round?” Chetan asked.
“It’s like a melting bullet,” Valerie said, shaking her head. “Imagine if you were shot with a bullet made of ice. It would do the same damage as a lead bullet, but within a few minutes, it would melt away. There would be nothing but water left behind.”
“No bullet to analyze, no evidence,” Sylvia said. “Flux rounds came on the market three years ago. They are made from a composite alloy. The heat from the gunshot causes a chemical reaction in the casing of the bullet. Within twenty minutes, the bullet disintegrates; the only thing left is a big old hole in the victim, which looks like an acid wound.”
“We found the two agents stuffed in a barred tunnel under the dock,” Agent Hasburg said.
Journey Through the Mirrors Page 16
