“You two.” Anne shook her head. “The situation in the Congo is horrible, you know.”
“Yes, but it has nothing to do with White Spring,” Garth said. “Nevertheless, I’ll make my donation to stop that atrocity. She’s quite right that the goddess needs proper honoring in this world and that women should be treated with more respect.”
Bran nodded his agreement then answered Garth’s initial question, “The spring seems happy enough this morning, but I’m still not easy about it.”
“Nor am I,” Garth said. They reached the gate at the end of the meadow and walked up to the bench on the lower slope of the Tor, where they sat down. Bran chose the ground. Below them, the cows nosed around in the spring grass. Garth sat in silence, which didn’t seem to bother Bran. Finally, he spoke. “I’d like to set a watch. A discreet one, of course. Any change in the water should be reported directly to the both of us.”
“I’ll see to it.” Bran stood and brushed off his trousers. “Anne,” he doffed an imaginary hat at her.
“Nice to see you again. Let me know what I can do to help.”
“You and your man have helped more than we could have hoped for. Where is he this fine morning?”
“Gone to do some research.”
“We’ll keep an eye out for you, then.” He jerked his head toward a man lingering in the meadow below.
Anne looked down and saw Bob. “Oh, he works for my family. Security.”
Bran nodded. “Good, but we’ll keep an eye out regardless.”
Anne’s eyes filled and she shook her head, annoyed with the strong and unexpected tides of emotion she was experiencing. She said simply, “I appreciate your kindness.”
Bran walked down the hill and Garth stood up. “I have business as well. Let me know about any dreams or visions. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks for everything,” she said.
He left her sitting on the bench. Bob wandered past her, and she turned and climbed the Tor after him, enjoying the burn in her calves. At the top, the green of England stretched out to every horizon. Tourists stood in the tower, looking up, one narrating the Christian history of Glastonbury. Anne took the path down the other side of the Tor and walked down the road to her house.
A small truck pulled up just as she reached the steps. A workman got out of the car and pulled his toolbox out after him. He started up the stairs.
“Hello,” Anne called. “Did you come about the locks?”
“I did.” He turned and waited for her.
“I’m Anne Le Clair, the current owner.” He shook her hand. “I’d like to change all the locks. We had a burglary recently.”
“Indeed? Unusual in Glastonbury.”
“Yes, well,” Anne said. “Also, there’s a door in the basement that I haven’t found a key for.”
Once inside, the man set to work. Anne went to check her cell phone to see if Michael called, but found no messages. She went to the desk to check her email, but the empty wood grain surface stopped her short. The computer was stolen along with the manuscript. She touched the crystal hanging between her breasts, grateful the thief did not take the most important artifacts in the house. The workman stood in the hallway, waiting for her attention. “Yes?”
“I’ve replaced the locks on the outer doors. Here are you are.” He handed her two shiny new keys on a circular ring. “You said something about a locked door in the cellar?” He bent down to pick up his tools, and a pentagram on a black leather cord fell out from his shirt.
Pagans are everywhere, Anne thought.
She led him to the kitchen. “Leave the door open until I switch on the light.” She made her way down the steps in the semi-dark and found the string hanging from the ceiling. She gave a sharp pull and harsh light invaded the corners of the basement. The man climbed down the steps, his heavy boots setting the boards vibrating. “It’s just back here.” She walked to the low passage, ducking slightly, and walked to the rounded oak door. The man had to hunch over. “See this old door?”
He frowned and shook his head. “That’s quite old, madam.”
“Yes, but surely you have the tools to open it.”
He stood looking at the door for a while. He glanced surreptitiously at her, then back at the door, and mumbled something about needing different tools. The stairs vibrated with his footsteps. Anne waited by the heavy oak door, tracing the engraved dragonhead on the handle with her finger. He seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time. Finally, she went upstairs and walked to the front door. His truck was nowhere to be seen. Anne walked through the yard. She looked up and down the street, but the truck was gone. Perhaps he didn’t have the right tools with him and went to get them. She didn’t even pay him, for heaven’s sake. He was a trusting sort.
Anne went inside and looked up the locksmith’s phone number. It rang through to his voice mail. She hung up and tried again. This time he answered.
“This is Anne Le Clair. You just left my house. Have you gone for special tools?”
After a pause, he answered in a stiff voice, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you with that door, madam.”
“What’s the problem?”
Another pause. “I just can’t help you.”
Anne frowned. “Could you recommend a specialist perhaps?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, uh, what’s the problem?”
No answer came.
“We may be selling the house, and I need to pack up everything.”
“Selling that house?” The man sounded scandalized.
Anne didn’t see what business it was of his. “I haven’t paid you for the new locks.”
“I’ll send a bill,” he said, and hung up.
Anne stared at the phone in her hand. What in the world is his problem?
* * * *
Michael sat alone in front of a thin computer monitor in the Rosicrucian Order’s large library in Freiburg. Shelves of books and manuscripts stretched to the far wall, with chairs, sofas, and computer desks closer to the enormous stone fireplace. The place brought Robert strongly to mind. They shared research in a library like this one in England. Most of the German collection was scanned into an electronic database. His first search term, “Chintamani Stone,” resulted in a blinking message: “Bitte Wartezeit für Abstand.”
Franz Maier arrived in the library moments later and glanced around, only slightly ruffled by the unusual event. Michael stood and waved at him. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, Frater Maier.” He introduced himself and extended his hand.
“A pleasure to meet you.” The man shook Michael’s hand. “Please call me Franz. Thomas spoke about you and of course, I know your work. No one told me you arrived.”
“Your secretary assured me you were in the middle of something important.”
Franz went to Michael’s computer, typed in a password, and offered him the chair. “Now you may continue with your search.” At Michael’s questioning look, he continued, “The computer is programmed to alert me to certain types of inquiries.”
“I see.”
Franz smiled. “I believe we have a conference scheduled for this afternoon?”
“Yes,” Michael said.
“I am in the middle of another matter, but look forward to talking with you then.” Franz turned to go, then hesitated. “How is the Le Clair family? You are almost a member now, yes?”
“So I’m told.” Michael smiled wryly.
“They’ve sustained such losses recently.”
“Two deaths, but they’re doing all right. You know the Le Clairs.” He smiled weakly. “Adversity has toughened them.”
Franz nodded, but still hesitated. “Is there something else?”
Michael shook his head, but a wave of grief made him tighten his jaw.
&nbs
p; Franz sat in a chair near the fire. “Tell me.”
“It’s nothing that can’t wait.”
“Please. What is it?”
Michael stood up again and went over to the fireplace; it was almost big enough to walk into. He turned his back to the fire, letting the warmth sink into him. In the wet spring, Freiburg didn’t live up to its reputation for being the warmest city in Germany. “The head of my lodge, Robert Rhodes, was killed on the equinox.”
“Killed? I heard of his passing. It wasn’t an accident?”
“It was murder. The Le Clairs tried to keep that out of the papers. No need to draw unwanted attention.”
Franz’s features hardened. “Was it the Illuminati?”
Michael nodded. The fire grew uncomfortably hot, so he took a few steps away.
Franz shook his head. “You think the Chintamani Stone is somehow a part of this?”
“Maybe. They stole an ancient crystal he was transporting.”
Franz stood up. “I’ll finish up this other business as quickly as I can. The archives won’t tell you where it is, but they will give you a thorough background on the stone. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
“Thank you.” Michael sat in front of the computer, opened the first document, and started to read. The piece gave him a summary of the Roerich’s adventures in the East, most of which he already knew, followed by the various claims about where the stone was currently located. One author maintained that the stone was donated to the Moscow Museum, another that it was held by the Museum of Natural History in Manhattan. Michael already checked those places and found the stories to be false…or maybe they were deliberately circulated to mislead.
He clicked on a link about legends and read again how the stone was a gift from an extraterrestrial civilization to the Atlantean Emperor Tazlavoo. Several abstracts promised an in-depth discussion of the exact star system they came from. Orion, Sirius, and the Pleiades had the most links, but Draconis, Ursa Major, and Orphiuchus were among the contenders. It was enjoyable reading, but of no consequence to his current problem.
An Asian legend claimed the stone belonged to a dragon named Makara who lived in a palace in the bottom of the sea. The dragon figure, of course, must refer to the telluric forces of Earth. One version of the myth claimed the creature was a dolphin lord. It might be a reference to Atlantis, but Asian myths usually favored Mu.
Another link led to the Tuaoi Stone, the fabled Fire Stone of Atlantean technology. Michael poked through the references to find out why the two stones were linked, but found nothing more specific than the fact that they were both legendary crystals with connections to Atlantis. The Tuaoi Stone seemed to have no contemporary stories connected to it. He reread the Australian aboriginal tales of Lemuria’s sunken towers of crystal, marveling at how closely these descriptions matched the European and Latin American ones.
He found a reference to the “Turoe Stone” in Ireland, a white granite omphalos with spiraling patterns. The report said it was carved from 150 to 250 BC. The spirals and animals heads were beautiful, and the name seemed to come from the Gaelic, meaning “Stone of the Red Pasture;” that might refer to the ritual sacrifice of kings, or the red dragon. Either way, there was nothing of relevance here, either.
Michael made his way through a summary of Cayce’s readings about the Tuaoi Stone. The crystal tapped into the basic energy of the universe and was used to power the Atlantean civilization and to uplift consciousness, some thought even to heal, at least until the very end. Several complicated dissertations speculated on the sacred geometry likely involved in the crystal’s function. They would demand very close reading and some review of quantum mechanics; he’d come back to them if need be.
Another link led to a claim that the Chintamani Stone was the true Grail in Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parsifal. The article linked the Chintamani Stone with the Philosopher’s Stone and various meteorites of Moldevite. It then made many complicated connections showing how the Johannites, those who held that John the Baptist was the true Messiah, traced their spiritual lineage all the way back to Sanat Kumara. The two brothers Sanat and Sananda Kumara were reputed to have arrived in Lemuria from Venus where they revealed the sacred teachings of the temples on their home world. They were now venerated in Sri Lanka and other sites in Asia. Interesting, to be sure, but not immediately applicable.
After two hours, Franz reappeared and Michael closed down all his links with a sense of relief. While these legends would ordinarily keep him reading for weeks at a time, teasing out all the various permutations of the original folk tale and then the convoluted interpretations and wild speculations offered by centuries of metaphysicians, nothing here pointed him in a direction that would solve his current problem. He needed to identify Cagliostro’s next target and stop him from gaining control of whatever remained of the Atlantean technology lying beneath the waters of the Atlantic or tucked away in hidden chambers in the ancient sacred sites of the world.
“Let’s walk,” Franz said. “I find it clears my head.”
Michael followed him out to the formal gardens. The sun won out and now shone from behind nimbus clouds rapidly moving away into the east. Leopard’s bane, wood anemone, and primrose already crowded out the hyacinths and daffodils. They turned into the herb garden where each square sported varying shades of green. Finally, Franz broke the silence. “Tell me what you know so far.”
Michael recounted the details of Robert’s murder, what they knew about the theft of the Austrian crystal, and Cagliostro’s activities.
“This Austrian stone was thought to be a sentinel for the Tuaoi Stone?”
“Perhaps,” Michael said.
“What makes you so certain Cagliostro is after that other stone?”
Michael smiled at Franz’s veiled reference to the Tibetan crystal. They both greeted a gardener pushing a wheelbarrow full of weeds; the man passed them and headed toward what appeared to be a compost pile. “I thought he’d go after the most powerful artifacts.”
“You say your man tracked Cagliostro from Bimini to his country home in England, and he took out his yacht with diving equipment?”
Michael nodded.
“Perhaps he has found it.”
Michael frowned. “The Chintamani—oh.” He stopped in the middle of the path. “The Tuaoi Stone,” they said in unison.
“Could it possibly be?” Michael asked. “I can’t believe I’ve been so dense.”
Franz shook his head. “Who could imagine it, really?”
“You did,” Michael said. “This could be disastrous. He could set off more earthquakes.”
“Surely not,” Franz said.
“What’s to stop him? He’s got one sentinel, perhaps two.”
“Are there others?”
They took off toward the library at a run. They burst in, breathing heavily, the door banging. Thankfully, the room was still empty. The fireplace radiated heat, and Michael threw off his coat. Franz typed something into the database and waited, his finger tapping impatiently on the desk. Michael walked up behind him. One response to Franz’s enquiry blinked on the blue screen. He clicked on it and they both read the entry:
Crystal, Atlantean. Most likely a sentinel stone. Psychometry done by Frederick von Greter on July 4th, 1913. Held by the Chishty family in Chandigarh, capital of Punjab and Haryana Districts.
They stared at the screen. Franz turned to Michael. “We must combine our efforts.”
Michael grabbed his cell phone and dialed New York. He didn’t even check the time. They were probably days behind Cagliostro.
Chapter Eighteen
Once Govannan reached the metal fence outside the New Knowledge Guild’s building, he dove through the weak spot he found before, catching his arm on a torn bit of wire. It left a line of red on his skin, but he didn’t feel the sting. He follo
wed the trellis along the curve of the hill. Some part of his brain registered the green of the grape leaves and the brown of the wood, but he couldn’t stop to feel his return to natural surroundings and regain his balance. Could he ever? He had to make it to Rhea and tell her.
He reached the greenhouses, but instead of ducking inside, he ran outside toward his hovercraft, heedless of the impression he made. It wasn’t until he clipped a worker, sending a tray of seedlings flying, that he came to himself. Apologizing profusely, he stooped to pick up the mess until she shooed him off for breaking more stems. “I had bad news. An emergency,” he mumbled.
“Perhaps you should attend to this business, then,” the woman suggested, her tone of voice at once compassionate and chiding.
“Yes, thank you,” Govannan said, and hurried to his craft. He willed his hands to steady, then lifted off and flew as fast as he could to the Crystal Guild Headquarters.
Once aloft, the images flooded again—the terrified eyes of the tapir, the eyes of the monkey that begged for death. Dry heaves shook his body. Govannan forced his mind back to the song of the Crystal Matrix Chamber and the golden laughter that came from the woman from Sirius when she realized he was in love. These memories seemed pale and removed, as if locked behind a glass wall. He flew across the jeweled city beneath him oblivious to its beauty, forcing himself to scan the airspace around him for other crafts and birds.
How could he not have known? How could he not have sensed such a breach in the balance of things? He shook his head against the horror of it.
Finally he saw the glass dome of his home, faithfully reflecting the afternoon sun in streaks of pink and mauve. He pushed everything from his mind and brought the craft down. Once the bubble top rose, he leapt from the seat and ran headlong toward the Guild Headquarters, his steps pounding. The door to the Guild Mistress’s office stood open and he dashed inside, ignoring the growing pain in his leg. The startled attendant jumped to his feet, knocking small message tabbies on the floor.
“I must see her,” Govannan said, and turned the knob of the inner office’s door.
Beneath the Hallowed Hill Page 24
