“The map shows the lost continent of Atlantis. Kircher claimed that it was based on a map the Romans stole from Egypt and later discovered in the cellars of the Vatican.” His eyes were twinkling. “What is even stranger than Atlantis being on the map, however, is that north is pointing downward, to the bottom of the map.”
“That is strange,” John muttered, just wanting to get out of the room… out of the house.
“The one next to it is the 1531 map of Oronteus Finnaeus.”
John adjusted his eyes, just playing along. “I don’t recognize the area.”
“That’s because it isn’t covered in ice. Do you notice all the mountain ranges and the rivers flowing to the sea? All these things are now covered with miles of ice.”
“How is that possible?” Keep his attention on the wall…
“Apparently, the map was made by someone who was familiar with Antarctica a very long time ago.” He pointed. “Look to your right. That is Philip Buache’s map, made in 1737. It actually shows Antarctica divided into two large islands, something that was only recently learned. His map must have been based on even earlier records than Finnaeus’.” He took a step further into the room. “But over here is the famous Piri Reis map of 1513, discovered in Istanbul in 1929.” He walked beside it, motioning at its detail. “You see that it shows South America, part of West Africa, and part of the ice-free coast of Antarctica? Reis gave the credit for his map to twenty other maps he claimed dated back to the times of Alexander the Great. But we all know that, even at that time, Antarctica was already covered in ice. So the maps that he used to make this one must also have come from much, much older sources.” He smiled. “I know what you are thinking. How is that possible when writing itself wasn’t invented until the Sumerians?”
Actually, that was the furthest thing from John’s mind.
“Part of his map was based off another map that was actually in the possession of Christopher Columbus. It is believed that the maps came from the Library of Alexandria and ended up in Constantinople. The center of the map, Johnny, is synchronized with the center of Upper Egypt.” He turned away from the map and began walking back toward the door. “The ancient maps are accurate to within one-half a single degree of longitude, something not achievable until the chronometer was invented in the 18th century. Also recorded are islands no longer existing, West Africa with an ample water supply, and lakes in the Sahara.” He walked out of the room and waved for John to follow. “But come, let us rejoin your friends.”
****
It was a pointless trip, and now they were just wasting time. Ronald had watched Henry sail out of the harbor weeks ago and hadn’t seen or heard from him since. And now they were all drinking tea. But something else wasn’t right here. Invisible bunnies and fertile Antarcticas aside, John’s spidy-senses were tingling big time. Though Ronald had no other information to offer, John had the distinct feeling that the author was trying to keep them there. Of course that didn’t make sense, couldn’t make sense, and yet story after story just kept rolling off the guy’s tongue, more tea being poured to the persistent reassurance that Henry was probably fine.
Finally, John had enough.
“Why did Henry want to see you?” he snapped in the middle of another boring story.
Not fazed by the interruption, Ronald answered calmly, “He was interested in my writings.”
John’s eyes were barely visible through the slits of his eyelids. “And which ones, exactly?”
“It would be hard to explain to someone who hasn’t read them.”
“Actually,” John stated, “there was one question I had about your writings. You said something about demons, how they’re characterized apart from fallen angels.”
Jackson looked shocked, and he quickly tried to interject another thought into the building tension.
Ronald waved him off, wanting to answer the question. “Well,” he began, “the New Testament describes demons as spirits, doesn’t it? And angels as beings clothed with spiritual bodies, not as disembodied spirits. The Gospel of Luke and the book of Philippians attest to that. It is also clear from such passages as Acts 23:9 that the Jews believed in such distinctions. The Sadducees believed that neither angels nor demons existed, a clarification that seems a bit unnecessary if the two were actually believed to have been the same. But aside from the biblical…” he waved his hand in circles, searching for the appropriate word, “…discrimination against demons, Homer simply applied the term to the gods. And Plato understood them to be disembodied spirits privileged with superior knowledge. In fact, he said the interaction between man and the gods was carried out through the mediation of demons, teaching that they were the interpreters of prayers and sacrifices to the gods on behalf of man and the interpreters of the commands and the rewards of sacrifice to man on behalf of the gods.”
“What’s he talking about?” Paul growled, wondering what ocean of weirdness John had just uncorked.
But Ronald pressed on. “It is believed that these demons are actually the spirits of men who lived during the Golden Age and, having been canonized as heroes throughout the world, are now acting as deities. In his Works and Days, Hesiod wrote: ‘First of all the immortals, who possess the mansions of Olympus, made a golden race of articulate-speaking men…’” Ronald closed his eyes as if he were an English professor worshipping Shakespeare and continued reciting from memory the ancient words. “‘These lived in the time of Cronos. Like gods they spent their lives, with hearts void of care, apart and altogether free from toils and trouble. All blessings were theirs. And so they occupied their cultivated lands in tranquility and peace with many goods, being rich in flocks and dear to the blessed gods. But after that earth had covered this generation, they indeed by the counsels of mighty Zeus became demons, kindly ones, haunting the earth, being guardians of mortal men… and going to and fro everywhere upon the earth, watching both the decisions of justice and harsh deeds, and are dispensers of riches. Such a royal prerogative is theirs.’”
“You believe that?” John asked.
Ronald opened his eyes and smiled patiently. “I would encourage you to read the account in Genesis, of the firmament being formed, a little more carefully. And then ask yourself, why is it that the Hebrew God did not pronounce this day’s work to be good?”
“Why don’t you just tell me now?”
But he only smiled.
John stood, his patience completely running dry. “You said you watched Henry sail away?”
“That’s right.”
He looked around the room, at the others. “Then there’s nothing more we need from him, is there?”
“You must have been close to him,” Ronald said, a mock sympathy forming on his face.
“Henry was — is his brother,” Chris tried explaining.
Something happened to Ronald’s eyes at that moment, something that John couldn’t quite explain but that woke up the spiders weaving webs down his vertebrae nonetheless.
“Are you sure about that?” he asked, staring.
Jackson smiled despite the expression that floated in his eyes, one that revealed how much he loathed the situation being taken from out of his control. “Yeah, he’s sure. John Carter.”
“Carter, huh? You know, my last name is Carter as well.”
“What’s your point?” John asked.
“No point. I just find it interesting, is all.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for all the stories.” And he walked out the front door, letting it slam shut behind him.
****
He was almost to the bus stop on Mangrove Bay Road when Hunter came running up behind him.
“Hold on, John!”
John turned, light traffic and raindrops decorating his immediate surroundings. He focused on Hunter. “Let me ask you a question, Hunter. How did Jackson get you here?”
“Get me here? Henry’s like a brother to me. No one needed to get me here, Johnny.” He was implying that because John did have to be made to ge
t here, he was less of a brother to Henry than were his Teammates.
“Then why am I here?”
Hunter paused, sighed. “He said you knew about the stuff Henry was into. He thought you’d know where to look.”
“Know where to look?” John blurted. “What does that even mean? Do I look like I know where to look? And even if I did, I don’t recall anyone asking me!”
“You read the guy’s books.”
It sounded like an accusation. “I bought them last night, because I wanted to know who he was and why Henry would want to see him.”
Hunter seemed to ponder his own words before speaking them. “Do you have the dreams?”
“What dreams?”
“Henry had these dreams. And, after he found your father’s diary, they just kind of consumed him.”
“What’re you talking about?”
A pause. “You really don’t know any of this?”
“I haven’t spoken to Henry since my father’s funeral. I don’t know about any dreams or diaries. I don’t know why I’m here.” He lowered his voice. “You didn’t know that Jackson knew this guy?”
Hunter shook his head.
“Well, I think I’m going to make my exit from this charade a little early.” He turned back to the bus stop.
“Wait. Ronald said there was a thick fog over the water that day. He said Henry’s boat might have struck the reef.”
“I thought he said Henry was,” he pretended a British accent, “‘probably just fine.’”
“Listen, just come out with us. We probably won’t find anything, but if we do… he’s your brother. You should be there.”
John saw the others, spearheaded by Jackson, approaching them from over Hunter’s shoulder. “Whatever.” He went and sat on the empty bench, waiting for the bus.
A minute later, Jackson sat down beside him. “I acquired a boat. We’re gonna go sail around the reefs, maybe do some diving. If we don’t find anything, then you can leave. How bout it?”
“Fine, Jack.”
A pink bus took them all back to the ferry.
****
His tingling senses having turned to raging volcanoes, John slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked off the ferry. Black clouds were stretching across the sky like an insect plague, the wind pulling at his jacket and pushing white caps across the harbor.
“You want to dive in this?” John asked.
Though they didn’t say anything, John could tell that a few of the others shared the same concern.
“Weather’s supposed to be bad the next couple of days. This is the only chance we’re gonna get, Johnny. We’ll beat the storm and be back before it makes landfall. Don’t worry.”
They climbed into a taxi.
“Grotto Bay Resort,” Jackson told the driver.
****
They bypassed the hotel and followed Jackson straight to the private beach, making their way through lounge chairs, umbrellas, and grounded kayaks to the dock that sat stretching out into the harbor. A mega sailing yacht, over a hundred feet long, sat resting at its end, rocking gently in the waves.
“A bit excessive, isn’t it, Jack?” Chris asked.
Jackson ignored him. “Come on!” He urged them to hurry as he walked briskly down the wooden planks. “Everything’s ready to go.”
This is apparently what Jackson had been doing in the time between the Causeway and Ronald’s house. But if that were so, if he indeed had arranged for the yacht and scuba equipment, intent on sailing out to the reef ahead of the storm, before Ronald even suggested checking the reef, then Jackson either had an inclination on his own about the reef, or they were going sailing for some other reason.
And then another thought struck him. Whereas his theory about Ronald being Henry’s murderer and the SEALs being out for vengeance seemed pretty silly now, John was wondering if perhaps they could have killed Henry. It was an outlandish thought but one that actually fit all the known facts surprisingly well. After all, they were the only ones claiming to know anything about Henry’s whereabouts. So, what if they killed him (for whatever reason) and this was all just part of a ploy to wash their hands of it? What if they had taken the liberty of making reservations for him in a nice and cozy private section of coral reef, still planning on pinning Henry’s murder on him after the “accident” he was sure to have?
But as the boat grew nearer and its name came into focus across its stern, John found his feet suddenly fastened to the dock, his heart lodged in his throat.
Stenciled in big blue letters was the boat’s name. The Gegenes. The name Frank had called him with earlier that morning.
Henry’s boat.
Frank said that, according to the records, the boat should still be at its quay, but when he went to check for himself, there was only a vacant spot of water.
“What’s the problem, John?” Paul called back to him. “Let’s go!”
And then John began running down the dock. He jumped into the boat, shoved past Chris and Nick, and grabbed Jackson, spinning him around. “Where’d you get this boat?”
Jackson extended his hands into John’s chest and threw him backward. “Shut up, Johnny. And sit down.”
But John stood up. “Did you kill him?” He shoved him into the side of the boat and against the railing.
Jackson turned and unleashed a shot to John’s head that sent him reeling to the deck. While struggling to get back to his knees, John saw another one of Jackson’s punches coming straight for him…
And then darkness.
****
It felt like he’d been unconscious for hours, but as he looked around, he saw that they were only just leaving Castle Harbor, sailing between a few small islands, King’s Castle situated to his right. Struggling to his feet, he brought his hand up to his jaw and winced. But a surge of anger erased the pain just as quickly, and he set out to find Jackson. He was halfway to the front of the boat when Hunter came up from behind and grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.
John shook Hunter’s hand away, turned back around, and came face to face with Chris.
“Listen,” Chris said, holding up his hands. “Just go along with him for now, okay? We don’t need an incident out here.”
John stared into Chris’ eyes. “And just what exactly are we doing out here?”
“He wants to dive on the reef to make sure Henry didn’t go down on it.”
“Well, I find that very hard to believe… considering we’re on Henry’s boat right now.”
“What’re you talking about?” Hunter demanded.
John explained, “I met a police officer last night who promised to look into it for me. He called me this morning and confirmed that Henry Carter arrived on The Gegenes and that, although there’s no record of him leaving port, both he and his boat are gone.”
Chris looked at Hunter, an expression of disconcertment invading his tanned face. Then they both turned their heads toward the front of the sailing yacht as John’s words sunk home.
“You know we aren’t out here because Ronald suggested it. Jackson was setting all this up before we even got to Ronald’s,” John stated. “And why does Paul have a gun?”
“Because he doesn’t trust Jack,” Chris whispered over the wind.
John pointed into the western sky as they approached the reef, and the islands began growing fainter off their stern. It wasn’t hurricane season in Bermuda, but the sight off starboard could have fooled anyone. Menacing darkness was unrolling across the sky and charging directly at them. “You better find a way to get us back or we’re gonna get caught on the reef in the middle of this thing.”
“I think you’re right, Johnny,” Chris agreed, but before he could set out to do anything about it, the sound of banging suddenly erupted from below deck.
“You hear that?” Hunter stepped closer to the stairs that descended down to the cabin. “There’s someone down there.”
All three o
f them climbed down below and discovered the banging to be coming from behind a locked door.
“Get me out of here!” a man’s voice was hollering between blows.
“Get away from the door!” Hunter yelled back. And with a powerful thrust of his leg, he kicked the door in.
The room was mostly comprised of a large bed and some nautical decorations, but off to the side was an open closet containing a chair, a large length of rope lying on the floor around its legs. In the middle of the room stood a man with short black hair and glasses. There was a frantic look on his unshaven and weathered face, his blue eyes sweeping back and forth like darting mice.
“Who the hell are you?” Hunter demanded, still looking around the room as if it might provide the answer sooner than the stranger.
“Chadwick Aland,” he answered cautiously. He wasn’t sure whether to be fearful before captors about to cut him up in pieces or to be grateful for his saviors.
“What’re you doing here?” Chris stepped toward him.
“I don’t know. I think he drugged me. I woke up tied in the closet.”
“Who drugged you?”
Just then, Paul entered the room with his own profanity-strung inquiry as to what was going on.
“Where are we?” Mr. Aland asked.
“In Bermuda, heading out to the reef in the middle of a storm,” answered John tersely on his way back to the stairs.
Paul stopped him. “What’re you doing?”
“Someone has to stop him before he kills us all.” He stopped short of the steps. “But seeing that you’re the one with the gun, it should probably be you.”
Paul hissed, “You just hold on a second, Johnny.” Then he looked at Chris and Hunter. “Where’d this guy come from?”
“New York,” Aland answered for them. “I was supposed to meet somebody…”
Progeny Page 12
