But he was wrong.
They were all One, all part of Gaia. What one animal, rock, plant, stream did in one corner of the Earth affected her throughout, just as one lesion on Lev’s body or one scar on his skin could cause infection that would stream through his own blood, poisoning the whole. Or as one cancerous cell grew, it would weaken him throughout. If one fed oneself vile fare, it permeated the body and polluted it. Weakened it. Eventually, destroyed it.
So it was with Gaia.
The lesions, the cancer, the poison … it was growing everywhere within her.
And she could no longer fight it herself. Powerful she was; but she could not battle it alone.
And that was why he had not been called back to her yet, melted back into her dust.
Now, his fingers spasmed over the aged book in front of him. The delicate pages had long been protected; at first by a glass case. And then, more recently, by flimsy, clear coating over each page to keep away the dust and the oils of his fingers, but also allowed for his studies to continue.
Just as he closed the heavy cloth cover, a faint whirring sound came from the door and it slid open to reveal his son. Lev drew in a deep breath to clear his mind, shake off the heavy mantle of grief that weighted him more often each day.
He was still Gaia’s Chosen, and he would not disappoint her. He would be strong.
“I thought perhaps I’d find you here, Father,” Roman told him as he strode into the room. Despite the fact that he was alone, he approached Lev and sank into a brief bow at his slippered feet.
“Have you anything new to report?” Lev gestured to a chair opposite his, and Roman settled into it. Now he would see.
Roman was a handsome man, and in many ways, Lev could not be prouder of him. His head, clean-shaven by choice rather than chance, was a perfect oval, and his scalp, smooth and unmarked. Dark, neat brows, a mixture of grey, black and brown, framed intelligent eyes that reminded Lev sweetly of his Irina. At age sixty, Roman still had a remarkably unlined face with a solid square chin. He stood much taller than his father; topping him by half a meter, and carried an abundance of confidence and charm that he used to his advantage at all times.
Now, settled in his chair, he looked around the room for a moment as if needing to choose his words. Lev wondered how much it would cost Roman to tell him what he already knew.
And whether he would be brave enough to do so.
As the silence simmered, Lev declined the urge to follow his son’s attention as it scored the chamber littered with books and scrolls borrowed from the Sacred. Several chairs, used only when other Shamans were present during study or their spiritual journeys clustered one corner of the room. The walls were the same smooth plaster-like material as the other buildings in their settlement, but instead of the blinding white of the hallways that led from Segment to Segment, the walls in this room had a soft yellow-gold tone, sloping gently from floor to ceiling. Inset lights provided illumination over two large tables, made from slabs of pine and the gently crossing antlers of the Great Elk. Crystals of various shapes, sizes, and characteristic were piled in the center of the table closest to Lev. And in the corner were the three ceremonial drums.
Lev waited until Roman spoke.
“The test phase has been completed to our satisfaction. We continue preparations for Phase Two, and have identified the three targets. They will be in the city of Detroit.”
“Three?” Lev pulled himself upright in his chair, ignoring the creak of his right elbow.
“We believe three will produce the optimal effect. There are the three major automobile manufacturers.”
“Did we not determine that two would have the appropriate strength and decrease the potential destruction?”
“I believe it must be three targets, Father,” Roman replied. “One can be considered nothing but a coincidence; two will not prove our seriousness. Three is a sacred number and will display the level of our commitment. One for each of the three elements affected by those targets: air, earth, and water.”
Lev reached for the oval-shaped carnelian stone next to him. He knew his place in the world. And he had made certain that his sons knew their places as well. Indeed, one of them had put his own dreams and desires aside to meet the demands of his father.
And one of them had not.
“You make a weak argument, Roman, for the third target. I do not approve of it, but I will commune with Gaia, and meditate whether we should proceed with your plans. I will be journeying to the Upper World tomorrow; that will be soon enough.” His last journey; not a physical one; but the trance brought about by the traditional, fast-paced rhythm of the drums, had dragged much from him. But he knew his duty; and his son would too. As Lev smoothed the scarlet stone over his right elbow, he watched Roman as he struggled to subdue the rash, angry response he wanted, but feared, to make. It was almost as if he was chewing on his tongue.
“I did not expect that you would be undertaking a journey again so soon. But of course, Father. We are prepared to proceed as you direct.”
Despite the fact that Roman was a grown adult, and had taken over the full leadership of the clan a quarter of a century before, he still feared his father’s power. It was right that he did; for though he coveted it, Roman was not yet ready to take on that role. He had more to learn: restraint, gratitude, forgiveness.
Roman might have the sharp, bright intelligence that had bettered their clandestine world through his initiatives and inventions, but he did not connect with the spiritual world as readily or as easily as one must to be the same powerful Shaman that Lev was. That lack would be his weakness as he continued to build his levy of supporters and his government. There were two critical aspects to leading the Skaladeska clan: intelligence and strategic leadership, and spiritual communion with Gaia.
Feeling the healing warmth from the crystal soothe his arthritic joint, Lev said mildly but firmly, “I will journey again tomorrow. Then we will talk again. Make no further arrangements until we have discussed it.” There was more, and he would have it from his own son’s mouth. He was tired of waiting. “When will Viktor arrive?”
Roman froze.
Lev smothered a shot of delight. He should not be celebrating his victory, as it confirmed his son’s perfidy.
“Viktor?” Roman repeated. Then he recovered. “A surprise that you have already uncovered, I see, Father. I should have guessed you would learn of his imminent arrival through your community with Gaia.”
“You kept it from me, and I am severely displeased.”
“Father, I was not sure how you would respond, knowing … knowing what happened. I felt it was the right time to bring him back, but I meant to talk with you about it first.”
“For what purpose have you invited him to return?” At one time, Lev did not think he would ever desire to see his son again. But now, with age … perhaps he could consider forgiveness.
Perhaps.
“As we implement the Phase Two, I wanted there to be no one in the Out-World who might be traced back to us. Safety for us, and for him as well.”
Lev nodded. His explanation made sense and he accepted it. “Indeed. I will not argue that Viktor could be a weak link in our chain. You will notify me when he has arrived, then.”
“I will.”
“Now then, what else have you to report from Out-World? It has been several days since you have visited alone.”
“That is true, but I meant only to give you the time for your meditations and journeys. It’s not the best tidings.”
Lev felt the darkness in his son’s mind, and knew that it was indeed bad news; but his easy acquiescence bothered him. “What is it?”
“An oil spill.”
Not what he had expected; a tragedy, not an error. “Where?” He lurched from his chair to his knees, brushing his hand over the covering on the floor, sending his energy through to the rock and soil beneath—to soothe and comfort her.
Oh Gaia.
The horrific images f
rom past oil spills assailed him. Seabirds, loons, eagles swallowed in thick black grease, so filthy their feathers turned blue-black and grey, and the dainty nostrils in their beaks, clogged and dripping. Helpless salmon, herring, even killer whale, gasping for breath in the oil-slick water; washed onto the beach, their scales slick and black, flopping helplessly in the sand. He felt their helplessness, breathed their demise, felt Gaia shuddering with them.
Crude pools and puddles shining on top of the water, winking with rainbow streaks in the sun. Gaia did not deserve this smothering of her oceans. Turtles, sea otters, penguins; all of them, destroyed, starved, swamped with the greasiness of man’s carelessness.
“It is not as bad as it could be,” his son told him. “It was the Crimson Shell. Our oil. She ran abreast of a sea rock, and spilled off the northwest coast of Ireland.”
No, not as bad as the Valdez or the Jessica Spill in the Galapagos, but bad enough. And dangerous for the Skaladeskas for different reasons. Any investigation into the spill could lead the Out-World back to them.
“I have already given the directive,” Roman told him. “The Kamut was applied within twenty hours of the report of the spill. And Fridkov … he has severed our ties with Medivir. Permanently.”
Lev nodded, his worry ebbing. Roman was more than capable when it came to operations and management. “Excellent. That was a dangerous mistake—one we cannot afford at this time. And the Kamut?”
Roman appeared to relax for the first time since joining his father’s presence. He settled back in his chair as he had when he first sat down and allowed his hands to move in graceful gestures. “It was applied in the early morning hours when the rescue workers had returned to their camp. There was one human casualty—a rescue worker who apparently woke early and returned on her own just after the Kamut was applied—but it is likely that she will recover. Varden has traveled to Dublin to see to it.”
“Varden will soon return? He must be by your side when the second phase is executed. He’s wise in the ways of the Out-World. I want there to be no chance that he would be apprehended or injured during the events.” And Rue Varden brought a more purposeful, tempered view of the Out-World. He was a needed foil and trusted confidant for Lev’s linear-minded Roman.
“Yes, of course. I have commanded him to return within three days.”
Lev waited for a moment, watching Roman closely. There was more. He would wait, for here was the test.
His son shifted on his chair, and Lev sensed him curtaining his mind; obscuring something he did not want to discuss.
But discuss they would. He had moved beyond his pain, his desire to seep back into the ground and to give up. It was not yet time for him; and while he walked the earth, he would command and lead with the strength he always had. He might not wish to acknowledge it, but Roman still answered to him.
Lev considered his son. Despite his placation, there was something else Roman was not telling him. Rather than force it from him at this time, he would wait. He had other ways to learn what happened beyond these walls.
-22-
July 8, 2007
L’Anse, Upper Peninsula of Michigan
Marina sat on the edge of the bed, at the rickety table in MacNeil’s hotel room. Because the Best Western was booked, they’d resorted to taking rooms in the simple, worn, but clean Lake View Motel. Since the busiest season for motels in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan was not during the summer, but during hunting season, Boris was welcomed as well. He wasn’t the first hunting dog to stay in the log cabin inn; in fact, the front desk boasted a sign offering dog dishes upon request. The room smelled like Pine-Sol and smoked whitefish, and its solitary double bed was draped in red plaid flannel—even now, in the middle of summer.
The owners of the motel were so welcoming to Boris, in fact, that their pre-teen son had asked if he could take the dog for a walk along the lake. Marina agreed, knowing that Boris needed some time out of the small motel room.
On the low table in front of her rested the book they’d found in Dad’s hidden cellar. Marina turned the brittle pages and scanned each one, looking for something that she could translate.
The inscriptions were hand-written in some kind of brushed ink. The characters flowed with ornate curlicues and sweeping serifs on the first line of every page, but the rest of the text showed more restraint. The ink was a dark green color, and the fancy letters decorated with blue, red, yellow and violet were not unlike the scripts written by Christian monks in the middle ages of Europe.
How old was this manuscript? What did she hold in her hands? Something more important than the Lam Pao Archive?
The key to an entire world she hadn’t known about … or had forgotten?
Diagrams appeared throughout the text, often taking up a whole page. The same symbol of the Skaladeskas left on the paper in Marina’s office also littered the pages and diagrams.
Marina smoothed her hand over the crinkling, textured pages, staring at words and characters that she knew she’d seen before, struggling to read them, but managing only a word or phrase per page.
But it was there; they were there. Swimming at the edge of her consciousness, ready to burst forth. Sometime.
MacNeil sat on the bed behind her, long legs extended and ankles crossed. He was finishing the last piece from the pizza they’d shared for a late dinner and, she was sure, was waiting impatiently for her to translate the book while he flipped through the news channels. She couldn’t help that her attention kept wandering toward him instead of being focused on the pages in front of her. Gabe had seemed to warm considerably toward her since they’d left Ann Arbor.
Bergstrom had returned to Langley, leaving the two of them to spend another day at the ruins of her father’s house. If only Gabe would leave to get some air, instead of alternately glowering impatiently or checking her out when he thought she didn’t notice. It was the latter that befuddled her more than the impatience. His restlessness she could handle. But the other, the subtle awareness of her…well, that was unsettling.
Not necessarily in a bad way.
“Are you getting anywhere?” he finally asked. He walked over to the small wastebasket, already overflowing with the pizza box Bergstrom had tried to jam in there, and shoved in the wad of paper towels he’d been using as a plate. “I’d like to give Bergstrom something when I call.”
“I think I recognize a few words, articles and pronouns mostly. The word ‘Gaia’ appears quite often—the goddess of the earth.”
“Isn’t Gaia a Greek word?” MacNeil asked, surprising her.
“Yes. I always wondered about that; how a small tribe in Siberia used a Greek name for their goddess.”
Marina smoothed her hand over the rippled, translucent paper. “I wonder what this is made of, if it’s some kind of ancient text … or just the way they make books in Skala Land.”
“You can’t read anything else?”
“Not now. Maybe later it will come back to me. It’s … familiar, but I can’t read it now. I feel like I’m on the verge of the language flooding back into my memory … .”
Perhaps if she took a break; let her mind wander, it might shift into place. “You agreed to tell me what you know about this whole mess. Now would be a good time to tell me why you think a small tribe of earth-worshippers in Siberia are a threat to the US. Or my Dad. They are his people, after all.”
MacNeil sank onto the only chair in the room, which was next to the wastebasket. His blue eyes became sharp as he settled wide, tanned hands over his belt. “Do you remember the sarin gas attack on the Japanese subway in 1995?”
“Of course. It was conducted by a small religious cult. Oh, I see where you’re going with this … .”
“Aum Shinrikyo. Yes, they were a relatively unknown religious cult that had been overlooked by Japanese intelligence until their leader, Shoko Asahara, induced them to execute the attack. Five thousand people were injured, and the Japanese were taken completely by surprise. They knew practically no
thing about the group—and certainly didn’t consider it any kind of threat—until it was much too late.”
“But Aum is a doomsday cult, and they conducted the attack because they believed it would help bring on the Apocalypse. There’s absolutely nothing to indicate that the Skaladeskas are violent, or preaching the end of the world as Aum was. They’re simply a small religious cult. Harmless.”
“The fact is, any religion can go bad. When there are fundamentalists of any faith or cult, we see it happen. They make absolute truth claims, require blind obedience from their followers … declare their version of a holy war. And it’s true that the Skaladeskas may be harmless, as you say. But Bergstrom and I aren’t going to be looking in the mirror at our guilty faces the day after the shit hits the fan if they aren’t. There will be no Aum Shinrikyo on my watch. No horrific surprises.”
Colleen Gleason Page 14
