Many long kisses later, they reached the door of Caitlin’s apartment building. Ben hesitated on the sidewalk.
“Well, this is awkward,” he tried to joke.
“You can come up,” she said, turning his face to meet her eyes.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. But—”
“I know.” He grinned. “We have to dial it back.”
“Huh?” she said, before realizing what he had meant. “No. Maanik’s drawing. I want to check it out now.”
They both laughed as she led the way up the brownstone steps, her back burning warmly and steadily under his gaze.
Jacob was asleep and so was the sitter, who departed drowsily. Ben sat at the table and pulled his tablet out of his bag, bringing up Maanik’s scrawl. Caitlin—who was immediately preoccupied again with the puzzle—realized she desperately wanted the drawing to mean something. Because she also knew that what she had told the Pawars was true: she could not justify leaving Maanik at home very much longer.
She and Ben huddled over the glowing screen. The drawing seemed unrelated to either the Viking longship or the symbol of crescents. Its wobbly lines seemed to undulate from upper left to lower right with something like a purpose, yet the lines themselves were as organically shaped as frost or the edges of a stain. Directional . . . textural . . . they appeared not to be casual.
But appearances are not necessarily reality, she reminded herself. They could be nothing more than random scrawls on which she was attempting to force pattern recognition.
“Thoughts?” she asked.
“Either too many or not enough,” he said, tapping a few keys. “Two years ago, even a year ago, it would have been hell figuring out what this might be. Now that image-search capabilities have improved . . .”
He finished uploading the image and they watched an online search begin. The “best guess” image that first appeared was an example of an irregularly shaped freckle—an indication of carcinoma, which dampened their spirits. Ben slowly scrolled through the long list of possible matches: children’s drawings; several poor illustrations of shorelines, which gave them pause; and a number of microscopic images of skin cells. Then Caitlin stabbed her finger at the screen.
“Hold on. That. What is that?”
Ben tapped on the image and it filled the screen. It was a map, yellowed and ancient. Ben placed it side by side with Maanik’s drawing and both of them felt the temperature of the room plummet as her image fit easily into the shape of Antarctica, matching the ancient map’s outline with remarkable precision.
“The Piri Reis map,” Ben read. “From the early sixteenth century.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Caitlin murmured. “It showed the contours of Antarctica before it was covered with ice. Which is impossible.”
“Right,” Ben countered, “which is why it says here that’s a still-disputed claim. The best explanations are that the map shows something else altogether, possibly a combination of two or more maps that were thought to be contiguous.”
Caitlin didn’t reply. Grabbing Maanik’s file folder, which had been at the top of her stack ever since she met the girl, she flipped through its pages. Past the drawing she had made of the Norse longship, through her notes on Haiti, down to the bottom, where she found the drawing Maanik had made with her right hand, her nondominant hand—the drawing Caitlin had thought resembled a steep cliff and water. She showed it to Ben.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“An iceberg,” Ben said instantly.
“Drawn by Maanik during one of her earliest episodes,” Caitlin said. She put the paper on the table and they stared at the images. Then Caitlin added the drawing of the longship. “The Vikings got as far as North America. Maybe they went even farther. To the south.”
“To Antarctica?”
“Why not? Maybe not Vikings exactly, but their ancestors. We’ve been on this planet, and probably seafaring, for quite a while.”
“Yes, but that’s still a whopping great distance, Cai. From anywhere to Antarctica.”
“Not necessarily,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Continental drift,” she said. “The landmasses were all closer, once.”
“During the Triassic, yeah, maybe you could’ve walked from Australia. But there were no people then. No mammals, in fact.”
“All right, what about—and we’re speaking just for the sake of argument here—what if it wasn’t Vikings coming south to find Antarctica? What if there were people sailing north from Antarctica?”
“Cai . . . ,” he cautioned.
“What if ancestors of the Vikings lived there and sailed primitive longships away from the ice?”
“That’s a very big ‘if.’ ”
“Why?” she asked. “Because we haven’t found traces of a civilization in the least explored continent on earth, where ice freezes and melts and shifts in a way that would stifle extended archeological research, hide any and all clues?”
“No, look at this.” He pointed at text on the Web page. “The argument that the Piri Reis map shows an ice-free Antarctica rests on an assumption that Antarctica was ice-free around 4000 BC. Most scientists are sure Antarctica was covered by at least three million years ago. Humans were barely out of the trees.”
Caitlin was silent.
Ben looked at her reflection in the tablet. He added quietly, “It also doesn’t explain what any of that would be doing inside Maanik’s head.”
“No,” Caitlin agreed. Her voice felt heavy, her words dropping like brass weights into the air. “But even you said that Maanik is seeing or channeling or experiencing something big.”
“Yes. It’s like a disaster movie of the mind,” he said. “The operative words being ‘of the mind,’ a kind of waking dream. I’d even possibly, maybe buy a shared dream.” He turned to look at her. “Why? Are you back on past lives again?”
“I don’t know that I was ever there,” she admitted. “I just don’t know what else to think.”
Ben shook his head. “Show me a Mongolian connection and I’ll try harder to buy into it. The language definitely shows traces of Mongolian ancestry. But even so, Antarctic Vikings sailing north to Central Asia? That’s a reach, Cai. About eight thousand miles of a reach.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “Yeah. Fine, I’ve got nothing else.”
“It was a good try, though.”
“Sure, sure. A unified theory that explains everything . . . and nothing.”
“Let’s put it away for tonight,” Ben suggested.
Caitlin gathered up the drawings and put the file folder away, trying to stop her mind from chewing on the problem. When she turned back to Ben, his focus had changed. He was sitting there looking at her, not at her analytical avatar, and he was sitting very still. She reached out with her right hand and picked up his left hand. Instantly she felt a waterfall surge through her body, vaguely channeled through her right hand. It brought a feeling of such immense relief, she laughed. Ben smiled and inhaled deeply, as if he had just downed a liter of water and was catching his breath.
“Jacob said he wasn’t big enough to help hold it,” Caitlin said.
“Huh?”
“The ocean.”
“What made you think of that?”
“Nothing,” she lied.
Ben was silent, choosing his words carefully. Then he said, “I have a lot of empty space. To hold things.”
Caitlin stared at him, seeing all the countless moments he had been alone in his life. “You’ve got room for my slosh-over, you mean?”
He didn’t have to answer.
She shook her head. “That worries me. Relying on someone, emotionally.”
“Why? People help each other, Cai. It’s what we do.”
“Well, people do a lot of other things too, and some
of them are pretty rotten.”
Ben chuckled. “And you think I’ve got a problem with commitment.”
“I never said that.”
“Not with words,” he said, smiling.
“Maybe we have complementary problems,” Caitlin said slowly as she stepped to him, gently pushing his shoulders back and draping a leg over his lap to straddle him. Her back was to the table edge, her body molded into his.
“Even a crazy fit is a fit,” Ben whispered.
She held her lips to his and they breathed together, deeply, as he laid his hands on her lower back and pulled her in tight. Ben was right: it was a crazy fit. But at the moment, it was a fit.
CHAPTER 24
The nocturnal world outside the Global Explorers’ Club mansion was uncommonly still.
Earlier that day, pigeons had avoided the area just north of Washington Square Park. Dogs had not seemed eager to walk on lower Fifth Avenue; they hit the broad street and stopped, refusing to go farther. Cats that normally sat in the windows of buildings across the street avoided their perches altogether.
Arni Haugan had not noticed any of that. He had been working in the basement of his chaotic chemistry lab for fourteen hours straight, since just before dawn, when Mikel had arrived with the artifact. The Group’s leading field agent had been delayed in Montevideo due to something about an albatross rookery and problems with the electronics of the private jet.
“You’re getting as sensitive as people,” the Caltech wunderkind muttered at his tablet as he waited for the results of a capillary electrophoresis test. Arni loved his tools; he just didn’t always appreciate their temperament.
Like now. The computer insisted there was a problem with the current being carried by the borate ions, and the homogeneous electric field was unstable. Which meant there was a problem with the electrophoresis setup, the software, or both.
He grunted. It was time to stop. He would start fresh in the morning.
Arni shut the tablet and pushed back from the table with his usual cocktail of relief and frustration. Work was never done but it felt good to lay it aside for a while. He needed to plug back into the real world. The air in the Group’s basement was rigorously filtered and purified as part of Flora Davies’s war on dust—the “silent, corrosive killer of relics,” as she described it—leaving the atmosphere with an almost electric perfume.
Arni was a synesthete, having always experienced one sense accompanied by another, especially colors with odors and sounds. The kids in elementary school used to call him “Nutso” because he used his Crayolas to illustrate what he smelled, heard, and tasted. This produced rhapsodic little works of art that no one understood but everyone responded to. His mother had always said that he should become an artist. She was one of the few parents, he suspected, who had ever regretted that her son elected, instead, to become a PhD.
Flora had found his synesthesia fascinating and potentially useful. He was convinced that this, not his strong but less-than-brilliant postgrad record, had scored him this job.
That, plus the fact that she needed someone willing to work in the opposite of an ivory tower, he thought. A scientific wine cellar.
The smell down here registered in his peripheral vision as straight, metallic, bright yellow lines. They didn’t impede his work and didn’t bother him until he’d put in over eight hours. Then they became constricting, like neon prison bars.
Arni had turned on a jazz playlist from his iPod to add a thin purple nebula to the yellow lines haunting his vision. Now he unplugged it, sending the basement into sepulchral silence. There had once been a pendulum clock rescued from a decommissioned train terminal, but when that died, Flora replaced it with a silent red display on the wall, like the countdown clock at Cape Canaveral.
Arni stretched, reviewing what his day’s work had produced: little more than confirmation of what they already knew. He had shaved a slice of rock from one unmarked corner of the card-sized stone and hunkered over it with the light microscope to affirm that, yes, as the weight and location had suggested, it was a pallasite meteorite with a nickel-iron matrix and olivine crystals, and a bit of chromite as well. He had dug out a minuscule sample of the substance inside the carvings and run chemical tests, affirming that no, they still had no idea what kind of tool had made them. There was no trace of non-indigenous stone or metal, no hint of thread from a cloth or fur from a pelt that may have been used to smooth it. Arni admitted to himself that a dull familiarity had set in when he compared this object with the others in the Group’s collection. Whether in stone or metal or clay or eroded alabaster or even rotted wood, the carvings were all alike in terms of relative size and depth. The only thing that altered between them was the arrangement of carvings.
Still wearing his latex gloves, he stowed the object in a large safe with the other eight objects.
“Cras dies novus est,” he said, quoting one of Flora’s favorite Latin expressions. “Tomorrow is a new day.” It always put an unapologetic, unbeaten cap on the day.
Arni flicked off the light. Just one stop in the locker room and he would be out of this sharp air and onto a nice, pungent uptown bus.
He e-mailed his friend Bewan to tell him he was on the way. Hanging up his lab coat, he pulled a new white button-down shirt from his locker. He was tired, but tired was the best way to enjoy Uranium, a throwback to the 1980s with disco music and black lights to make its cocktails glow. The sounds and tastes would become colors, unimpeded, and he’d finally relax.
Arni started to close his locker door and then stopped, going still.
The electronics. In the plane. In the lab.
A bloody meteorite!
Of all the tests they’d tried on the carved objects, they’d never checked to see if the objects were radioactive. There was no reason to. Everyone knew that pallasite meteorites weren’t radioactive—not enough to speak of. But “everyone knew” were words of death in scientific research. It wouldn’t take more than a minute to grab a Geiger counter and wave the wand over the object.
Arni opted not to change clothes again. He returned to the lab, flicked on the lights, and found one of the Group’s Geiger counters. He retrieved the meteorite and placed it on the worktable, then waved the Geiger wand in front of it. The count of ionizing events—evidence of radioactivity—was almost nonexistent. The Geiger produced a couple dull clicks at a limping, almost dead pace, generating one or two light brown spots in the corners of Arni’s vision. Nothing to get excited about.
Arni heard a ring. Damn. His phone back in the locker room. No matter. It was probably Bewan saying he would meet him at the club, was already in line. Arni had to hurry. He gave the wand one last sweep. Suddenly, brown drops began pattering in Arni’s vision like rain. He heard dull clicks at a rapid pace. The Geiger counter’s needle was beginning to twitch toward the right of the gauge—even though that was impossible. An object couldn’t suddenly develop radioactivity.
Then his synesthesia created a thin gray fog with black edges in his peripheral vision.
“Okay—that’s just crazy,” he said.
The gray fog was his unvarying response to recorded spoken voices, not the clicks that emanated from the Geiger counter.
“No,” he said out loud. These aren’t clicks coming from the machine.
They were dull, soft voices . . . coming from the stone? He moved closer, bent lower. There was no doubt about it. They were like voices on the wind—the chanting of angels came to mind. Arni practiced no religion nor believed in supernatural beings, but there the voices were.
He drew a sharp breath as the carvings began to pulse, not with his synesthetic lights but with an internal luminescence, ivory-white. The symbols were lighting up in a nonlinear order, each carving showing a soft visual pulse with every corresponding sound. The tones themselves were fractionally louder now. They reminded Arni of language tapes, native pronuncia
tion slowed for the novice, but he immediately squashed that thought. The human propensity for personification meant that any unidentified sound resembling vocalization would automatically be interpreted as words and language. That was wishful, not scientific. He felt in his pocket for his phone. He had to record this—
His phone was in his locker. He reached over and rebooted his tablet. There was an audio recorder built in.
While it turned back on, Arni picked up the meteorite and turned it over, trying to see if there was a point of origin for the hum. He discovered that the stone was vibrating, but not in a way that could be producing the tone. The buzz was more like a mild electric current than a cell phone. It was not unpleasant to the touch; it was soothing, in fact. It made him want to hold it. The current seemed to magnify inside his body, as though triggering his own energy centers—the top of his skull, his forehead, his throat, his heart—
His thoughts suddenly felt muddy and something began throbbing behind his eyes, forcing itself forward. Something moving, something wholly other. Rust-red and swirling in a cyclonic cone, as if seen from the top, it was becoming thinner as he descended. Now, a landscape. A manufactured landscape of domes and spires incorporated among what seemed to be natural elements, long curves and slopes. The natural parts were enormous, making the artificial components seem like part of a train set or Christmas nativity—small. Very small. And nearly everything was white, as if the entire image was backlit or bottom-lit, somehow, as if light rays were extending up to create the image, yet no rays were visible.
Is this you or me? he asked the artifact.
Again Arni heard the voices. His orientation with the image changed. It tilted suddenly, in an uncanny lockstep with the sounds, so that Arni was looking up: specifically at a stone pillar about three stories high. It was tipped with something glinting green that made him think of the olivine crystals inside the meteorite. He looked around and saw that similar stone pillars circled the city . . .
And then the sky seemed to burst red again across its huge expanse. The landscape shifted, revealing a street, a route, at the end of which was white and blue in a riot of motion. This was not him, not his synesthetic response. The colors, the images, the sounds—they were all coming from the rock.
A Vision of Fire Page 18
