by M. J. Rose
Chapter 100
Thursday, May 1st—8:23 p.m.
An obese man in a tuxedo was coming at Meer and was going to mow her down if she didn’t get out of his way. But there was nowhere to go. The crowd had her hemmed in. He shoved her as he ran by; she fell, smashing her leg on the side of a seat. The pain hit as the next note of the ancient flute split the air. It was glorious and horrible in a way that had nothing to do with ordinary music; the note seemed to shatter into a million sparks of light that pulled her back into Margaux’s storm.
There was sorrow in Archer Wells’s eyes as he aimed the pistol at Margaux’s chest and his voice sounded sincere. “I’m sorry but this whole scheme has taken on ramifications far beyond what you imagined. The British government can’t take the chance of this becoming an international incident. Don’t you see? If you refuse to steal the flute from Beethoven and sell it to the Tsar now he could become belligerent and leave the conference. The same could happen if you do sell it to him and it doesn’t work. I have to take charge of this. If only you had kept to our bargain. When I negotiated with you I made you an honest offer—”
“Based on a lie! You told me my husband was still alive.”
Archer ignored her taunt. “Now we run the risk of this becoming a political inferno and I intend to stop that from happening. I must have everything connected to the damned flute and the music. And that includes that box. Give it to me.”
“No!” Beethoven had asked her to do this for him and she didn’t intend on letting him down.
As she watched Archer’s finger move on the trigger, Margaux fired her pistol at him and simultaneously kicked her horse. Pythagoras rose up—partly from the noise of the gunshot and partly from her boot in his ribs—and took off. Margaux let him ride full out, galloping toward the estate. She didn’t look back at Archer and had no idea if her bullet had hit its mark or not. She didn’t care as long as she got away, as long as she made it to the mansion and handed Beethoven’s gift to his friend, Antonie Brentano.
Margaux couldn’t see Archer lift his gun in his right arm, despite the throbbing pain in his left shoulder, and take aim at her retreating form.
When she heard the bullet she thought the sound was more thunder. When it hit her and burrowed deep into her side she thought someone had set her on fire. She was aware of only two things—the pain and the thought that before she collapsed she had to reach the main house and deliver the gaming box to protect the secret that Caspar had died for. They’d know how to help her at the house, how to relieve the pain. She just had to make it that far.
A bird sang in a tree behind her. Amazing. To hear birdsong now while she galloped through the storm-drenched forest. She thought about the bird and then about Beethoven. About the flute. About its secret. About her husband. His hand holding hers.
Sebastian took a breath before starting the song over again, and in the beat of silence Meer’s mind came back to the present and she found herself sitting on the carpet, sheltered by the chairs. She had to get up and get to the stage and stop him. Around her, the chaos had intensified as people’s memories sparked more suffering. Pulling herself up, Meer checked the aisle. The crowd still surged, but she had no choice. She was too dizzy to move but she had to. Margaux was dying and Meer wasn’t sure she could go through her death. Didn’t know if she would survive feeling the pain of it.
Margaux could no longer sit up on her horse and lay slumped over, holding on to Pythagoras’s neck with both hands but she barely had any strength left. The pain was so powerful that she didn’t want to stay conscious, except a small part of her mind knew that if she gave in she might not be able to hold on and then what would happen? Would Archer overtake the horse, or worse, shoot him to get to the box?
Gritting her teeth, she clamped her jaw and tried to think about what she would say when she reached the house—the fewest words to explain what was happening—but it wasn’t about words, it was about the music that Beethoven didn’t want anyone to hear. That was what she needed to warn them about…to make sure they didn’t let anyone steal the secret of the music.
Meer fought her way down the aisle, through the crowd, finally reaching the stage where she climbed up onto the proscenium and maneuvered through the throng of the orchestra members, who, like the audience, were in extreme discomfort and duress.
One musician lay on the floor rolling back and forth and shrieking as if he were on fire and trying to put out the flames. Another cowered under his chair, his hands in front of his face, trying to protect himself from an invisible enemy, shouting the same phrase over and over in a language she didn’t recognize. Some of the performers were in physical discomfort, others in mental distress. The very few who were unaffected tried to help those who were in worse shape.
Ignoring them all, Meer kept advancing toward Sebastian who, immune to the havoc he created, played on. His eyes were closed and so he didn’t see her approach, didn’t see her reach out…until he felt the pressure of her hand as she tried to pull the flute away from him.
He opened his eyes, and when she looked into them all she saw was desperation as he held tight and blew the next note. Meer fought to stay present, focused with all her energy on staying present, the pain in her back intensifying with every breath.
“You’re done. You can’t keep playing it over, Sebastian. You’ve done as much as you could. Give it to me now.”
In her peripheral vision Meer could see a half-dozen police officers making their way onto the stage. Sebastian saw them too, and for one second his fingers loosened on the smooth bone and she was able to pry it from him and slip her hand under her jacket, hiding it. Stepping back she made room for the uniformed men who’d jumped up on the stage and surrounded Sebastian. None of them seemed to notice her. Had they even seen her take the flute? Did they understand that the instrument Sebastian had been using wasn’t the silver-and-black oboe on his music stand? She didn’t think so. She’d told Fiske but she doubted there had been time for him to alert everyone. Either way she wasn’t going to wait and find out.
Putting more distance between herself and Sebastian and the police, she started backing away. None of the policemen followed her: three remained with Sebastian; the rest walked among the psychically wounded, offering help.
Meer was heartbroken. Her father was gone. And it was Sebastian’s fault. He’d done a terrible thing to her and her father and to the people in this hall, but he’d also unlocked the secret she’d been looking for all of her life. This—what she held in her hand—was all that was left of Devadas. Was what Caspar had died for. Was what her father had put himself in danger for. No one was going to take it away from her again. She was bewildered about everything except this: in time, over lifetimes, she had been responsible for this object, and now she was its guardian once again. No matter what happened or what it took, she would do the right thing with the memory flute. That was her karma. It had been before. It was again.
Chapter 101
Thursday, May 1st—8:25 p.m.
The symphony had been hijacked and so had David’s plan. But there was still time if he acted fast. Except his head felt like it was exploding and there was too much pain. And so much sadness. He thought about the woman with dark hair and almond-shaped green eyes…about Ohana…and her father…and…impossibly…his own death. Tears streaming down his face, he reached for the det cord. He needed to activate it and apply the current to the wire.
Fumbling, he struggled to get control of his trembling. He had to stop thinking about the past, except he could still smell the flowers from the sacred ashoka tree and feel the agony of the blows. Could see the older man coming at him with the rock again. Could feel Devadas’s horrible pain.
David willed his fingers to pick up the cord but they didn’t move. He was lying on the ground, blinded by pain, and then, somehow, surprisingly through the pain, he experienced the joy that Devadas had experienced as he lay dying, knowing he’d saved the life of someone he’d loved.
David’s wife had told him once his news stories saved lives. If Lisle was here now, she’d tell him it had never been his karma to cause violence.
Except he couldn’t give up now. He had to do this for her, for them. Reaching once more for the det cord, he picked it up, held it and tried to remember what he was supposed to do next. Two steps. There were only two steps left.
The old man brought the rock down again.
No! There were only two steps left, create the short circuit and force the explosion. He stared at the science project and felt a sadness so heavy descend on him he thought he might never be able to get up again. Maybe he could just stay down in the catacombs forever, become part of the rock, part of the ancient burial ground.
Do this, he silently screamed at himself. Do it now. Get it over with. He held the wires in his hands. Felt the heavy strands of Lisle’s hair.
Who had he been kidding? He’d never been capable of killing anyone. Not even the rats down in the caves with him. But if he didn’t do this now, the rest of his life would be an endless loop of loss. If he stayed on and lived out all his days missing them, his family would be gone from him in a more final and aching way than at any time in the last eighteen months.
The rock came down on Devadas’s head for the last time.
His hands fell open and dropped to his sides. He saw endless blackness. No matter how many people he’d loved and lost, could he really do to others what had been done to him? Could he be the one to disturb the fragile threads that tied people to each other over time and through time?
Do it. Do it now.
With a burst of resolve, he picked up the wires and the Semtex and the det cap but instead of connecting them to each other, with one great last effort he heaved them all into the shaft, into the same empty channel he’d forced the rats to crawl through, the same hollow that the music had traveled through.
He had to hurry. His computer was set to automatically send his articles to the newspaper in less than an hour. He had fifty-four minutes to get out of there, up to the surface and back to his hotel if he intended to save his own life tonight. The last life he ever would have guessed he’d care about saving.
Chapter 102
Thursday, May 1st—8:27 p.m.
Meer stood stage left watching the police take Sebastian away. There would be time later to try and understand how it had happened and what the ramifications would be of the fact that tonight, here in Vienna, he’d caused thousands of people to remember brutal, horrific experiences from lives they’d lived before. And died before.
More than once, when her father had tried to explain the mystical light of wisdom to her, he’d told her how when we die our souls leave our bodies as pure light that shatters into thousands of fragments, and how each of those fragments returns in another time as another soul. The ultimate goal was that one day all those fragments would be made whole again.
Whose soul inhabited Sebastian’s body? Was it really a fragment of the same soul that had lived in Archer Wells? So it seemed. First Archer and then Sebastian had succumbed to base and selfish motives, defiling the promise of the flute. Why couldn’t Sebastian have learned his karmic lesson? What was he still working out? And why had so many others needed to be hurt in the process? Had part of her purpose been to give him this chance to do the right thing, repair what he’d done before?
If it was, all she’d managed to do was help him to fail.
An arm gripped her from behind. Strong and secure. The voice was familiar and kind. “I think it’s time for us to leave, Meer.”
Hearing Malachai’s voice she slumped with relief but he kept her supported. “Let me help you. I’ll take care of everything now. Just come with me.”
“I have it—” Meer showed him the flute.
“I know. Just hold tight and let me get you out of here.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“Meer,” Malachai whispered, “we need to hurry now. We have to keep the flute safe. You understand that, don’t you? We have to protect our memory tool.” He chanted soothingly, leading her farther away from the police and Sebastian.
They were in the wings, his arm in hers, when she realized he didn’t know about Jeremy. “Malachai—”
“We can’t stop to talk now. We must get you and the flute out of here without anyone noticing. Please, just keep walking. All of the exits in the main hall are blocked off so the police can control the exodus in an orderly fashion. We need to use the stage door.”
Ahead of them a group of three musicians were running and assuming they knew where the exits were, Malachai followed in their path, leading Meer deeper into the guts of the backstage area. The shouts and screams coming from the hall were muted now and she could hear her footsteps and Malachai’s on the concrete. They rounded a corner and were alone. So much quiet after so much noise was disconcerting.
“This way,” he said as he took a right in the direction of a glowing red exit light at the end of a long otherwise dark hallway. By the time he saw there were two security guards flanking the oversize metal door, it was too late to turn back.
“We’re going through. Don’t try to act brave. It’s all right that you look shaken up,” Malachai whispered. “They expect everyone to be upset. The only thing I want you to do is act as if you’re used to coming and going this way. By now I’m sure they all know someone’s been arrested and taken into custody. I doubt they’re looking for anyone else. Probably just trying to keep the situation calm. If they stop and ask to see what you’re carrying, show it to them, tell them it’s your instrument, that you’re in the orchestra.”
Clutching the bone, Meer tried to use Malachai’s words to keep her in the present but time was shimmering.
Ohana was running away in the ancient past. Everyone she’d ever been had run away. Always running away. She had to learn to stop and stay. This time she was trying to escape from Sunil’s wrath. Clutching the bone, all she had left of her dead lover Devadas, she kept running, not knowing where she was going, only knowing where she had been and that she had to leave there.
“Meer? Meer?”
Time shimmered again. She was with Malachai, backstage at the concert hall in Vienna. Her father had died, not a man named Devadas. From behind her, scurrying footsteps rushed by. Suddenly the hallway was crowded as a group of four dark-suited men escorted a well-dressed couple through the area. Malachai gripped Meer by the wrist and pulled her back, deep into the shadows.
Meer thought she recognized the thin, tall tuxedoed man who was weeping but she wasn’t sure. The blond woman with him was trying to comfort him, whispering to him but as they reached the exit, he collapsed and everyone rushed to his side.
“We should stay here,” Malachai whispered. “Until they’re gone.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“They aren’t going to want anyone to see him like that. That’s Edward Fields, the head of the American National Security Commission. It would exacerbate the perception that chaos has been unleashed. I don’t want them to realize we saw him and detain us. Let’s turn around. Go out the front. Give me the flute—if they stop me I’ll do some sleight of hand to confuse them.”
Meer’s fingers tightened around the bone instrument.
“Give it to me,” he repeated.
“No. I can’t. I can’t let anyone else have it.”
“Meer?”
“No one.”
Chapter 103
Thursday, May 1st—8:39 p.m.
The street was illuminated with old-fashioned lamps and Lucian Glass had no trouble seeing Malachai and Meer as they emerged from the concert hall’s front doors. Paparazzi, originally there to cover the concert, jostled each other for position, shooting the horrific expressions on the exiting concertgoers’ faces. The continuous explosion of flashes lit up the street so that for seconds at a time it seemed as bright as daylight.
Lucian was still haunted by what had happened inside the concert hall when the music turned into
human cries. Suddenly there was no air and no space and no time and it didn’t matter that he couldn’t breathe because breathing wasn’t necessary. He was smoke, floating, no longer seeing what was in front of him but visualizing another time and place in some eternal, intuitive way.
He’d been watching Meer make her way up on the stage when she transformed into a different woman with longer, darker hair, wearing a torn and tattered blue robe…she held a flute…and was crying…no…it wasn’t a flute. Not yet. It was just a small bone, broken off at one end, and she was handing it to him, telling him she’d stolen it from the burial site. While she spoke she continued crying and her face was filthy except where streaks from her tears had made tracks.
Lucian didn’t know who the woman was. He’d never seen her before but he felt as if he’d never not seen her. None of this made sense but it didn’t matter. He’d been emotionally and physically mesmerized by the vision.
Watching through an expanse of space that seemed to have no connection to distance as he knew it, he saw a man he was part of and who was part of him take the bone out of the woman’s hand. Then in quick moving images illustrating different scenes of the same story, he saw the man—he saw himself—carving seven holes in the bone and turning it into a flute while the woman slept nearby, close to a fire in the workshop he used to share with his brother, Devadas.
