“There you are!” Mom says, walking into the kitchen.
I’m hit with a brilliant idea. “Hey Mom, remember I agreed to do a private study with you or Dad? Maybe I should start that now, during the summer.”
“What’s this about private study?” Dad asks.
“Instead of being shipped off to boarding school, I told Mom that I’d do some kind of independent study with you guys. And this whole code-cracking thing seems interesting, so maybe you could show me how you went about decoding my symbols. You know, if it wouldn’t interfere too much with your work—”
“I love it! Let’s start this morning,” he says.
“You really think you could decode it today?” I ask, excited at the prospect. “Don’t you have to rewrite the whole program?” I’m twitching hard about Dr. Tenzo showing up here and the more I can find out before he arrives, the better.
“No problem,” Dad replies, cracking his knuckles. “I was so close last time. C’mon, let’s go.”
Back in the library, Dad doesn’t realize that the paper he holds is the one I just put there this morning. He scans in the symbols, separates them so each is a unique piece of data, and then launches into this spiel about writing code to decode. I’d say that I’m an above-average techie for my age, but this is beyond me. I get it only enough to know when to say Really? and Wow! and Oh, I see. Which makes for a long few hours.
After he starts the program, Dad gets up and stretches and says it could take minutes or hours, so if I have anything else I’d like to do I might as well go do it. I tell him I’m here to learn so I’ll stick it out. He leaves to shower and get dressed for the day.
Settling in, I open up solitaire on a separate computer and play a few games. After awhile, from the corner of my eye, I see some action on the screen next to me. A word appears, and then another and another. It’s like watching popcorn popping. Sometimes two will come at once, then there will be a lull and then another will pop up. Finally the cursor starts blinking like it’s finished. It pretty random and doesn’t say anything about me in it so I figure it’s okay for Dad to see. I print out a copy for me and slip it in my pocket just as he comes back.
“You did it Dad. It worked!” I say as I point to the screen.
“Wow—faster than I thought! God, I’m good.” He sits down, reads it, and says, “Oh nice, it’s in verse. Let me break it correctly.” Then he puts it in to four lines and reads it out loud.
Know chi is in everything, through and between
Yet despite its great power it remains quite unseen
Its quality transforms as we tread backwards ’round
To the great year’s ores we are fastened and bound
He looks at me with a big smile on his face. “This is so cool Caity, I like that you did this in rhyme. And I think I recognize what you’re referencing!”
“Really?” I say, both stunned and hopeful. “You recognize this?”
“Let me take it to Mom. I’ll bet she can place it. She really is smarter than me, you know,” he says with a wink as he prints out a copy. “But seriously, don’t ever tell her I told you that.”
I follow Dad, who is whistling the theme to Doctor Who, as he runs up to Mom’s study. Her feet are up on her desk and she’s reading Safe and Vault Technician Monthly, Barbie leg in hand.
“Fiona, take a look at this,” he says proudly as he holds up the printout. “I still got it! I rewrote the program, decoded the symbols, and almost have the content pinned down.”
Mom reads it and starts working the Barbie knee. “Well, the first part about chi is obviously about dark matter, the energy of the universe that remains unseen. Then this second part, ‘Its quality transforms as we tread backwards ’round, To the great year’s ores we are fastened and bound ’ refers to the concept that the rise and fall of these ages are caused by the Earth’s wobble backwards through the constellations, also known as the ‘Precession of the Equinoxes’ or, as Plato called it, The Great Year—and the seasons of The Great Year are represented by metals, or ‘ores’ as Caity so poetically put it.”
“That’s it! The Golden Age, Bronze Age, Silver Age, and all that,” Dad says.
I don’t understand a word Mom said but she looks mighty pleased with herself.
Dad whispers to me, “What did I tell you about your mother?”
“Yep, a certifiable genius,” I say, hoping they won’t ask me any questions right now.
Mom grabs my chin. “Look at you, studying Plato and astronomy!”
“So are we all finished with our first lesson?” I say, totally baffled by all of this.
Dad shakes my hand and says, “Yes, and you graduate with honors, my friend.”
“St. Godehard’s in Austria is still accepting prodigies for fall term,” Mom yells after me.
“Great,” I yell back. “Then I’m sure you’ll get in.”
I create a protected Word file (password: bigfatliar) and type both decoded spirals in it. I’m shocked that my parents recognized any of this, and now I have to find some info on this stuff in case they grill me on it. I search for “Plato” and “Golden Age” and find millions of mentions. In my sketchbook I jot down the interesting bits that make sense.
I need to see if I can find anything else in the secret room, but there’s no way I’m going in there alone. I need to get Mr. Papers. (I know he can’t protect me, but it’s just nice to have someone else there.) Before I go, I send an email to Justine, hoping she reads it right when she wakes up.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: SOS
Hi J! Something really weird happened—my parents told me that Dr. Tenzo from Princeton is coming to the Inn next week!!!!!!!!!!!!! Do you know anything about this? I’m kinda freaking out, would your Grandpa really tell Tenzo where I live? I mean I know he was interested in those symbols and all, but then he supposedly agreed that they didn’t mean anything. This is borderline stalking. What do you think? XO, Caity
Down in the kitchen, Mrs. Findlay is sitting at the table writing out a menu. I pick up an apple and sit down with her, hoping I can ask about Alex’s father, her son-in-law.
“What do you reckon our guests from California would like to eat, Caity?” she asks.
“Old people love prime rib,” I say. “And they like more old-fashioned desserts, like tapioca. And fruit pies.”
She laughs and says, “Are you an expert on the elderly?”
“Remember, my mom doesn’t cook so I’ve been eating out all my life,” I say with a shrug. “Can’t help but observe.”
“Ah, I see,” she says. “Okay then, what else?”
“They like lamb. Plain, with mint jelly, not on kabobs or curried or anything. Old people are ‘meat and potatoes’ types. And speaking of potatoes, they love them scalloped.”
“Easy enough. That’s the food I like, too.”
“Oh, and soup. Old people love soup. They could have it before every meal. Given a choice of soup or salad, they almost always choose soup.”
She starts writing all this down, so I continue, “They need lots of fiber, too. Especially at breakfast.”
“Prunes and oatmeal along with the other breakfast items?” she asks.
“Yep. And speaking of breakfast, you know that Americans are totally freaked out by pork and beans at breakfast, right?”
“Really?” she says, genuinely surprised.
“Yeah, it’s weird. Pork and beans are strictly for hot dog night or camping.”
“You’re quite a font of knowledge now, aren’t you?” she says, as if I’ve offended her.
“Well, you asked …”
“Aye, you’ve been quite helpful. I thank you,” she replies as she continues jotting down menu items.
“So, um, Mrs. Findlay? Can I ask you a question? About your son-in-law?” She nods, so I continue, “Was he really killed here?” I ask quietly.
“Aye, he was.” Her lips get small and stiff
as she speaks, trying to hold back tears. “Bloody shame, that. Such a good man.”
“Did anyone ever figure out who it was or what they wanted?”
She shakes her head. “Nae, they must’ve had a boat; no one saw them come or go on the ferry. S’pose the castle seemed an easy target because of how isolated it is, but they didn’t take a thing.” She shrugs. “It’s never made sense to anyone.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Findlay. That must’ve been horrible.”
She pats my hand and says, “It has never stopped being horrible, child.”
“Can I help you with anything?” I ask, but she waves me off. I think she wants to be alone.
I feel terrible for upsetting her, so I just walk over to get Mr. Papers and then leave. Pulling him out of his cubbyhole where he had been napping, I cradle him like a baby—he’s all cuddly and warm when he first wakes up, which I love. I suddenly wonder how old he is, and how long monkeys live. “We’ve got a lot to do today, pal,” I whisper in his ear. He butts his forehead against mine and sinks back into my arms as we make our way up the stairs.
Finding no email from Justine, I decide to check again after we explore the room. I gather a stack of origami paper, some white paper for tracing more symbols, my tape, and a couple pencils—once I’m in the secret chamber I don’t want to have to keep coming back out.
An inventory of the carvings is in order, so I tack a piece of tape above one spiral to remember where I started. Then I systematically take a rubbing of each one that has not yet been traced, making sure to number them so they stay in order. As I pass by the very first one that I took a rubbing of, the one that mentions my name, I notice that there’s a tiny carving underneath that says, “In lak’ech, Fergus.” If he signed it there, that would mark the last spiral, so I put them all in order based on that one being the end.
Back at my computer, I do a search for in lak’ech, thinking it may be some important Gaelic saying. Turns out to be a saying from the Maya, the people who built all the cool pyramids in Mexico, that means “I am another yourself.” Apparently this is how they greet each other, like we say hello. It’s really strange that Fergus would use Mayan language, but then again Hamish gave me that clay Mexican symbol when I was born so maybe there’s some connection.
Before going back, I check my email again and see a reply from Justine.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: SOS
OK CMF, that thing about Dr. Tenzo is sooooooo weird. I’ve always thought he was creepy. He’s one of those guys with really really big red lips and kind of greasy hair. I have no idea how he found you, honest. I’ll call Gramps this afternoon after summer school and ask him about it. It’s just really weird. I’ll let you know when I talk to him but until then, don’t worry, I’m sure it’s just some freaky coincidence. XO, J
PS The reason I’m up at the crack of dawn is that today is my first tutoring session with David von Idiot. I’m excited to see his room—you can tell so much about a person by what their room looks like. Remember how we thought Sarah Finkler was so sketchy after we saw that she had pictures of all the CSI actors around her room? Anyway, I couldn’t sleep so I was happy to see your email. I’ll try to go downstairs and fall asleep on the couch watching infomercials. Ciao for now.
The Sarah Finkler thing makes me laugh out loud. We became friends with her before we knew how much she was into morgues and stuff; she had a serious “CSI” obsession. So I told her about this computer-based class on crime scene investigation to keep her busy and then Justine and I slowly—very slowly so as not to end up on an autopsy table—pulled away from her.
Now that I have all the rubbings, I decide to trace each one so they are ready once I find a way to use the new software program Dad wrote to secretly decode them all. While I’m on the second set, I hear Mrs. Findlay announce lunch on the intercom so I pick up Mr. Papers from the bed and go downstairs. Mom and Dad are already there.
“Hello Professor,” Dad says to me as I enter.
I give him a weak smile. I can tell they’re going to run this thing into the ground.
Mom says, “Well, we’ve got some good news. Your friend Alex will be spending some time at the house when our guests arrive. Mrs. Findlay has offered his services.”
“Yeah, she told me he might be doing that.”
“Mrs. Findlay, you should invite him to dinner tonight so we can talk about the job,” Mom says. “Oh, and we should have your daughter over as well.”
Dad snaps his finger. “Good idea! I can give Alex that computer tonight, too.”
Mom turns to me and says, “Caity, I got a call today on a job in Zurich. It should be a quick one, but I’ll be gone for a couple days.”
“What’s going on in Zurich?” I ask.
“Oh, it’s a safe in a lakeside chateau. One of those cases where the grandfather dies and leaves the house to his kids but forgets to ever write down the combination to the safe. It’s a classic double-door Cyrus Price. Definitely won’t take longer than a day.”
“When do you have to go?”
“I’m taking the ferry to a train tonight.”
“And after I take her to the ferry, I’m going to check out the scene in downtown Brayne,” Dad says. “It’s about time I met the locals. Thomas is going to take me to each pub to meet everyone.”
“That should take about two seconds,” I say as I finish my sandwich. After our first ferry ride from Scotland to the Isle of Huracan we docked in Brayne, the island’s only town, and Thomas gave us a tour. There is a butcher shop; a very small grocery store; a building that says City Government that was completely dark inside even though it was a Tuesday afternoon; and three pubs. The priorities here are obvious.
After lunch, Mr. Papers and I go outside for a walk and to investigate the outside of the tower. It just seems that if Fergus worked so hard to build this thing in secret, there must be something inside of it. All I know so far is (a) that Fergus and the Chinese guy built it alone, (b) there might be some clue to all of this in the spirals, and (c) there’s some Mexican connection with the in lak’ech saying. Now I just need to find out how all of this comes together.
Thomas is out with the clippers, shaping the hedges so tightly you can hardly believe they are living things. He looks up at us and waves.
“Just out for a stroll,” I shout as I walk behind the tower to the water coming from the base. It runs out of a big pipe made of stone and then flows right into the little canal that runs around the castle.
Mr. Papers jumps off my shoulder and onto the ground near the spigot and sticks his tongue in the running water as if he’s licking a Popsicle. He takes a mouthful, looks at me with his head cocked, and swishes the water around in his mouth like a pretentious wine snob looking for just the right adjective for the flavor.
I stick my cupped hand under the spigot and then take a sip. You know how the air is when you’re skiing and there’s absolutely no smells because everything is blanketed in snow? It’s as if the water carries no flavor at all, yet its flavorlessness is delicious. I can’t get enough.
Mr. Papers takes another scoop and then just stares at it like he’s watching TV. I glance over to see what he’s looking at, thinking he might have caught some little creature, and he immediately lets the water go as if his hands are on fire. I scoop up a big handful of water and examine it closely for bugs. When the ripples disappear and it becomes still, a weird image appears. I swear I’m not making this up; it looks like a picture of a snake eating its own tail.
I have the same reaction Mr. Papers had, releasing the water as quickly as I can. It must be some weird trick the sun and the trees are playing. I try it again, but don’t see anything at all this time. I try to push the image from my head as I search the back of the tower.
Moving to each side searching for entry points, I find only tightly mortared walls. I sense in my bones that this tower sits on top of what I need to find,
I just don’t know how to get in. Then I remember the blueprint that Mom and Dad mentioned.
On my way in I pass the inspector, Barend Schlacter. I’m not sure why, but the guy gives me the creeps. He has this weird combination of a boyish face with sinister eyes. I give him a huge smile, just trying to be friendly, and in return he looks me up and down like I’m a side of locker beef he’s examining.
Dad is at his computer in the library when Mr. Papers and I walk in looking for the castle blueprints.
“Hey Dad, whatcha doing?” I casually ask.
“A freelance project for World Bank,” he replies, without looking away from his screen.
“They don’t even care that you don’t have a name and a face, just a number that you bill with?”
“Skill is king in the programming world,” he says, twirling around in his desk chair to face me. With an arrogant shrug he adds, “When you’re one of a handful of people who can do what I do, you can go by any name or number you want.”
“You. Are. So. Cool,” I say.
He sighs. “I’m so underappreciated around here. If I didn’t have some of the largest financial institutions in the world licking my boots, I might just get a complex.”
“Ah, you know we worship you,” I say, as I lean over the big library table where the blueprints are sitting. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work. I thought I might take a look at the blueprints; find out where everything is.”
“Isn’t it strange to live in a house that has almost more rooms than you can explore?”
“I know,” I say. “It’s like that dream I always have where I’ll open a door I think is a closet and it’s a whole other wing of the house I never knew about.”
“I love when you tell me about those dreams. I wish I’d have one.”
“Now you’re living it—you don’t need to dream it.”
“I suppose I am!” he says, seeming amused by his own good luck. “Excellent point.”
The Daykeeper's Grimoire Page 5
