“Do you know who leaked?”
“Who knows? Could be the company those two mercenaries worked for; could have been someone else Rheese told about me.” He paused. “Could be Tuni. Or that African guy she was seeing.”
Meier took a deep breath. This was the window he had been hoping for. Now he could tell him. “Mmm . . . about that . . . have you . . . heard anything new? Say, in the past year?”
Matt looked at him dubiously.
“I’ll just say it. They’re . . . ah . . . still together. Tuni and Mr. Absko.”
“Hah!” Matt blurted. “She has zero idea who the guy really is. He scared the shit out of me, you know.”
“In Cuba?”
“No, in an imprint. Must have been a few months ago. No, probably longer—I don’t know. A year? It’s when I stopped trying to keep the imprints paused. I thought maybe if I let it get to the end, like with some past artifacts, that maybe it would just be done, you know? So I just let it roll. I’d eat and all—got food delivered, like I do now. But this thing never ended. There’s so much, it just keeps going, repeating the same imprints. I don’t know . . . I might have something to do with that. I could be willing a particular imprint to come up. Must have been through most of them thirty-plus times now. I’ve been Hatshepsut, Insis, Taleset, Abbrid, Minnitecet, Humehd, Ahmed, Isaac, Atli, Grim, Haeming, Finn, Bodvarr—”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” Meier said.
“Álvaro, César, Manuel, Pablo, Jivu, Ricardo, Garrett, Danny, Fando. That one, Jivu—or Mr. Absko, as you so politely call him. He left a message. You know how they don’t usually go in chronological order? Well, after I piece it all back together, put it in order, there’s this jump from the Middle Ages to two thousand three, when the opal was found. It skips from hand to hand before being reinserted into the Damascus sword—Sayf Allah. It’s handled here and there, marveled over, displayed. And then I’m looking at the opal in a pair of hands in a dark room. And a voice says, ‘Hello, Matthew.’ I sat up in my bed, thinking someone was in the room. Nearly shat myself. I’m just passively observing for weeks on end, and all of a sudden, this guy is talking to me. He says, ‘Hopefully, you do not ever see this . . . experience it . . . whatever you call it. And if you do, I hope it is not too soon. Either way, here we are. You do not know me, but perhaps you soon will. No matter what happens, though, I want you to know that nothing is personal, everything is business. This is always the case. You are a rare gem, rarer still than this gem you are holding. Because of that, I appreciate you in the same way I appreciate my beautiful opal.’ He goes on about how special I am, and finishes off by saying, ‘I apologize in advance.’ He was trying to hide from me—meaning an image of himself—as he recorded it, but like all narcissistic people, he had hundreds of pictures of himself in his head. I saw what he looked like, and I knew who he was. He was the man who shot Rheese and told me he was letting me live. He was your Mr. Absko. You know he’s running for the senate or something in Kenya?
“President. Quite popular—expected to win.”
Matt shook his head, smiling. “Tuni finally gets to be the princess she always was. It’s appropriate, actually. Don’t think I could have ever taken her that far.” He drifted off again. “She sent me something a couple months after it was all over. This little rock. No note, so I assume the rock was the note. It’s probably a big, long ass-chewing. I put it on my mantel, next to the one my father left for me. Maybe one day I’ll get to read them both.”
Dr. Meier wondered if he should bring up the last item on his list. He knew what Matthew would suspect, but it wasn’t as though he would be able to reach him on the phone. And making another flight to Raleigh, just to avoid upsetting him now, seemed unreasonable.
“I’ve thought about suicide,” Matthew said in the same even tone. “It’s exhausting to be alive. All I think about is sleep.”
“I’ve no words, Matthew. I couldn’t possibly imagine your anguish. I do wish you would accept help when it’s offered, though. A lot of people care about you—people who aren’t just looking to get something from you.”
Another car drove by, but did not slow.
“That’s kind of funny, coming from you. Don’t get me wrong. I believe you care, I do. But I know you want to ask me for something. Just say it. I won’t be mad. I don’t get mad anymore.”
Dr. Meier swallowed. Matthew indeed seemed a different person. Old, and with the wisdom of a thousand years. Even with another life, another world, playing out before his eyes. Best to be forthright . . .
“I’d like us to work on a second book: the Egyptian stories. Like we did on Southland, but I could come to you. No need for you to go back to New York. Believe me when I say that the excitement for the book sitting there next to you is nothing short of rabid, thanks to you. You may have lost your privacy, what with the whole world knowing who you are and what you can do, but in terms of platform, we couldn’t possibly do better. The skeptics blabbering about you all over the Internet only feed the fire. The fact that we have active excavations and evidence that corroborates the book—it couldn’t be more perfect.” He felt a little breathless and paused to inhale deeply. Matthew’s stare remained impassive. “Imagine the same for this second book, as archaeologists discover new tombs or structures or . . . cities, even! Egypt is back in fashion, as it were. Not making any promises, but we could have a multimillion-dollar book deal before a single word is written.”
Matt nodded.
“Well?” Meier blurted.
“Sorry. It sounds exciting and everything, but I’m standing in front of a crowd of a hundred thousand people right now, telling them about the weather. There are high priests on each side of me that pass the message to another set of men, who shout it to the crowds. Among the people standing on these pedestals are men whose job it is to repeat my words. It’s like a human-powered PA system. The people aren’t supposed to hear my voice directly, or they could die.”
“Fascinating . . . I don’t believe I’ve heard of that before. You’re a pharaoh, I take it?” Matt nodded, and Meier continued. “Yes, very interesting, this is what I’m talking about! But what’s your point?”
“My point is, I have enough shit going on as it is. I’m not helping you write another book, and I’m not interested in money anymore. If I was free of this thing, you know what I’d be doing?”
Meier shook his head in baffled exasperation. “What?”
Matt didn’t respond. Instead, he sat and thought for a moment then plucked a dry maple leaf from the bench beside him and broke small fragments from it as he spoke. “When the ship first gets to Canada after three weeks crossing the Atlantic, Haeming tells this . . . you know who Haeming is, right?”
Meier blinked and snapped a nod as he gestured at the book sitting between them.
“Oh, right—of course, sorry . . .” Matt sighed and continued, “There were a few kids that had come with them . . . this girl, Drifa, and two boys that the men sort of bullied around without thinking. It reminded Haeming of his childhood—the powerlessness of childhood. He wanted the abuse to stop, but he needed the men to stop themselves, and not for fear of punishment. So he told this story to all of them about a legendary man that everyone had heard of. I’ve listened to it more times than I can count, so I’ll just say it like he said it . . . ‘Thormelde of Hedeby, son of Hakar and Maemer, known as Thormelde the Strong to most Northmen. I doubt there is a man here who has not heard the story of his sunken ship, drowned crew, and his heroic two-day swim in winter water. As the story goes, he made it to a remote shore, took down a deer with his bare hands, and walked thirty miles to the nearest town.’”
Meier noticed Matthew’s posture had stiffened, and he’d lowered his voice.
“‘But I have heard the rest of his story. I know that Thormelde’s father was a cruel man that beat his son daily, made quarrel with neighbors, and killed English priests for begging him not to burn down their church. In one instance, he stripped his son of his nig
ht-clothes and beat his cheeks until they were purple, ending with a poke from a red-hot working sword from the fire. I imagine that as Thormelde’s father, Hakar, whipped his son as one whips a beast, that young Thormelde felt anger and hatred for his father. Oftentimes, the slaves would hide Thormelde in their house whilst Hakar shouted through the fields for the boy to come and get what he deserved.’”
Matt stood and began to pace before Meier, his hands gesturing as he went on, his eyes making contact with the individual eyes of an unseen audience. Meier realized that Matt was not simply quoting. This was Haeming striding across the gazebo, with Matt translating in real time.
“By the time Thormelde had grown into the legendary figure we hear of, his father had long since passed. Thormelde distinguished himself in war with the Danes, and returned to Hedeby with a pregnant wife. Two sons, he had, one year apart.”
Meier watched Haeming look over the invisible group to see that all were paying attention.
“At seven and eight years of age, Thorvinn and Kollvinn were caught forging a knife in their father’s smithy shed. They had neither asked, nor were they using the tools to their father’s liking and so, without a word to them or their mother, Thormelde beat them and then rode them on horseback far into the hills. He left them there—where the wolves and bears lived—with their blunt, bent knife, and told them to see if it would work on the predators, then to find their way home. His sons were never seen again.”
Haeming was silent for a moment. Meier shifted uncomfortably.
“There is a choice to be made by every man who truly sees the deeds of his father. Follow the same path or walk a new one.” Matt’s posture relaxed and he faced Dr. Meier. “You want to know what I would do?” He asked him, and pointed toward his front door.
Meier gazed across the yard to the littered door and steps.
“I’d be finding the people in all those flyers.”
END
Acknowledgements
There were a lot more people involved in the creation and production of this book than THE DIG, so I hope I haven’t left anyone out. First, I must heap praise and undying gratitude to my wife, Ana—forever my first beta reader (and beta listener, before anything is ever written). I am most proud of the quality of this book, and for that I must thank my trusty editor Michael Carr, proofer Erin Griggs (the Wordslinger), my agent Alex Glass of Trident Media (both for astute editorial direction and for excellent representation), Gloria for Español help, my beta readers Vicky, Alyssa, Eric, Stacey, Angela, Darlene, and Gunilla. Everyone above contributed to the content and/or quality of this novel, so I send out my heartfelt thanks to each one of you.
Gratitude also goes to everyone else at Trident Media Group involved in this project: Lyuba, Nicole, Beth, and Michael.
An Excerpt from Michael Siemsen’s Upcoming Novel,
A WARM PLACE TO CALL HOME
1. I am a Demon
Who’s ever heard of a demon named Frederick? I’m the only one that I know of. But to be honest, that statement should carry little weight as I’ve never actually met another demon. I have read and heard of others, and they have striking monikers like Rashk, Xaphan, or Neqa’el. Am I envious? Yes. I quite like those names. But here’s the thing—I don’t believe in those characters. I think they’re all bullshit. There’s no such thing as a demon, and certainly not the sort cited in the Holy Bible or discussed throughout the world’s mythology. The concept of these fallen angels doing the bidding of Lucifer is laughable. It’s all superstitious hokum, and anyone who subscribes to such nonsense is a moron. That said, I am a demon. And I’m self-employed.
What makes me a demon, you ask? Good question. Overall, I am not so different from you. I eat, drink, read, fornicate, text (verb form), watch TV (I’m quite fond of witty sitcoms and forensic investigator crime dramas), pore over YouTube videos like they’re the zenith of high art, and I take over the bodies of human beings. As far as I know, I am immortal, though I haven’t been around for thousands of years, watching empires rise and fall. No, I came to be in the early 80’s. Reagan had just become the U.S. President, Brezhnev in Russia, Thatcher in England. IBM launched the first PC running Microsoft DOS, the Post-It note was invented, and China cloned a fish. If memory serves (and my memory is perfect, when aided by Wikipedia), the average cost of a new house in the U.S. was $78,000, and a gallon of gas was $1.25. Unlike the prolonged extra-uterine gestation of human babies, I was conscious and aware the instant I appeared, if a bit confused.
I have few complaints. Usually no aches or pains, no deep emotional struggles or feelings of loneliness, no yearning for “something more” or desire to “belong.”My life is the perfect life and I do not take that fact for granted. You see, the problem with human existence is problems. When you have them, you have to deal with them. Because if you don’t, you must suffer the consequences—potentially for the rest of your lives. Ugh, horrible. That’s no way to live. Me, if I have a problem I can either ignore it, deal with it in a somewhat more brazen fashion than you might choose, or simply leave. Move to a new body. Bam. No more problem.
You may have difficulty sympathizing with my story, let alone empathizing. These are traits which I do not myself possess, and therefore being engaged by a protagonist such as I could be a challenge. If I lack empathy, how could I expect you to identify with me? Another valid question, and one with a simple answer: I honestly don’t care if you do. How could I—I’m incapable. Instead, perhaps feel sorry for my inability . . . yes,do that. Pity me my incapacity while you contemplate my status as protagonist or antagonist.
I’m a fascinating character, and captivating volumes could be written about my entire existence if I do say so, and I do say so. But this story will be limited to a relatively brief period: a recent and pivotal slice of my life beginning with my introduction to a man named Joseph Cling, and ending with the death of said man, Joseph Cling. I suppose that gives away the ending, limiting your emotional investment in the fellow, but bear with me and there should be a tremendous payoff. Or, I could be lying (I am, by my very nature, a liar), just stringing you along. Buttell me you’re not at least a little curious where this is going, and we’re only 643 words in.
There are a few important details about me that you must know before I go on: logistics, history, and whatnot. My beginning came as a surprise to me. That is to say, I was not expecting to come to be, and then I was! I did not seem to exist prior to that instant, but somehow knew that I was to exist thereafter.
I sat perched upon the bronze head of a soldier in front of a historic Virginia courthouse. To my right and left, frazzled pigeons flapped away and shot me disgruntled looks. I knew they were pigeons, that they were disgruntled, and I knew that I hated fucking pigeons. I knew the statue on which I perched was made of bronze, and how the depicted soldier stood in tribute to Confederate soldiers who had died during America’s Civil War. I knew I was calledFrederick, though hadn’t quite realized what I was. The critical things that I didn’t know were a) how I knew anything, and b) how I had come to be.
I sat there for a few minutes, fairly certain I could leave if I so wished, but chose to remain for a time and watched the trees sway in the wind, the white buds sail through the air then tumble across the grass, the squirrels hopping about in a seemingly constant state of panic, and I watched the people. Oh, the people.
There are these waves that emanate from you, like a hot road in the desert. They’re terribly beguiling. It’s a beckoning energy. It says, “Hey, Frederick, come inside and have a look-see around!” It says “Be here now!” It says “What the hell are you doing out there? Naked, dry, and loose?” Sea turtle hatchlings spend days digging themselves up through sand until they near the surface, wait for nighttime, and emerge. Then, inexplicably, they decide they must go into the ocean and swim frantically for a couple of days. Like countless species, they just know what they’re supposed to do. I knew I needed to be inside somebody.
I spotted at once a distinct outf
low ofwaves from the group’s center, there! But I held back despite the primal urge to go, as I looked over the rest of the passers-by. I quickly realized that no other candidate’s display could come close to the captivating, luminous plumage beckoning me forward. And so I was off.
Now, it’s not exactly flying, what I do outside a body. It’s more of a loose hovering, as if gravity has a light hold of me, but some sort of magnetic field doesn’t want me touching the ground. I jumped from the statue, scraped the pavement a bit and floated toward the group of children, teachers, and a uniformed guide, catching up quickly. Weaving between the whispering and giggling kiddies, I found the source of the waves: a girl—bright, shiny, curiousand happy, withcoiled, blond hair and ruffled white blouse with an integrated blue vest. Like the others, she was holding hands with an assigned “buddy”—in her case, a boy her age. As I neared, it was almost as though she began to suck me in. Beyond my own control, I accelerated, passed through her neck and back, and BOOM! I was in there! It felt amazing!Like bathing in warm, static-filled Jell-O.
But I had stopped her walking, and those behind her suddenly compressed and bumped into each other—including me—like a low-speed, in-traffic fender bender. Her buddy yanked his hand away at once, as if burned, and gawked.
“Keep walking, Morgan,” The teacher said, and so I complied.
It was easier than you might imagine, walking for the first time. Probably the same as what you do right now. You’re standing there, you want to walk, and so you just go. Your legs and feet begin to move without you having to think too much about it. For me, it is just like this. I am not some tiny alien in your brain, pressing buttons and pulling levers in rhythm. Well, perhaps metaphorically, I am.
The Opal (Book 2 of the Matt Turner Series) Page 31
