Dara stopped reading and put down the notes. If this, in fact, was true—that there was another line of the Longshan culture developing on the North American continent at the same time it was developing in China—the implications would be enormous and history would be rewritten.
* * *
Later that night Carolina slept fitfully as dark, angry visions filled her dreams. Then, just before dawn—during the witches’ moments—she was suddenly awakened by a scream. It was her scream, and she was terrified by the vision she had seen. She turned on the table lamp next to her bed and sat up, trying to still her pounding heart as she rationalized it. Usually whenever she had a bad dream, it would go away as soon as she turned on the light, making everything at once visible and familiar—her bedroom, her beige damask draperies she had sewn, her lamp that she found at an antique shop, her braided rug—and leaving nothing to fear. But this dream was different. It was real. And no matter how hard she tried to explain it away, she knew the horrible image of the coiled, five-clawed, fire-breathing dragon dripping in blood wasn’t going to disappear no matter how many lights she turned on.
To help ease her anxiety, she called Larry. “Do you think it might have to do with the dragons at the Villa Mondragone?” she asked, referring to the numerous dragons carved into the brown stone edifice of the historical monastery in Frascati where she and the FIGs had done research on the Voynich Manuscript. “Maybe thinking about Mackenzie finding her mother has brought up those memories since that is where I found my mother,” she said, realizing it was only 3 o’clock in the morning and Larry was still half asleep. But even as she asked the question, she already knew the answer just as Larry did. “I think you need to watch Mackenzie closely until we know what is going on,” Larry answered. What she had seen in her dream had nothing to do with the Old Villa or its carved stone dragons. The yellow dragon in her dream was evil, the dripping blood represented death. And it involved Mackenzie.
After eating a light breakfast, Carolina locked the door to her bungalow behind her and stepped out into the early-morning sunlight. She kicked at the scattered leaves that had accumulated on her porch steps, and felt the cold, brisk air against her face, an indication that a light hoarfrost had come during the night. With winter break only two weeks away, she was busy completing class assignments, grading final exams, and getting things lined up for next semester’s course work that would begin shortly after the first of the year, when she and the FIGs returned from China.
Mrs. Killebrew was happy that she had called. At least Carolina thought she was. “Of course your rooms will be ready,” she barked. When Carolina and the FIGs first met Mrs. Killebrew, they had been more than a little intimidated by her brusqueness and her rules. In spite of that, they had grown fond of Mrs. Killebrew; and they liked the fact that she wore a pink bibbed apron with the words “HOT STUFF” printed on the front. She had made them feel at home with her Victorian furnishings and pressed-glass vases filled with jewel-toned flowers—dahlias—cut from her own garden. And she had helped Larry find them in those horrible tunnels when they were searching for Dara and her mother. “And when you know your flight schedules, I will get Grai to pick you up at the airport,” she said, leaving no room for discussion.
Grai, they had learned when they were in New York over the summer, lived at Mrs. Killebrew’s boarding house and helped her look after things now that her husband was dead and she was getting on in years. He was a childhood friend of Larry’s and from the same tribe in Italy; and like Larry, he had chosen to leave the gypsy way of life behind him. Larry trusted Grai; therefore, Carolina did as well, even though there was a great deal that she didn’t know about him. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Grai, Carolina and the three FIGs might still be in underground tunnels of Grand Central Terminal fighting for their lives. Now that they were returning to New York, it gave her added peace of mind knowing that Grai would be there to look after them and make sure they got to wherever they needed to go since he had his own taxi.
Spending time with Dara, Mackenzie, and Jennifer again, traveling to China and seeing the archeology site that Dara was involved with and visiting Yellow Sea Laboratories with Mackenzie—it should have made Carolina excited and happy. But her thoughts were filled with the image of a yellow dragon and the whispered warnings of Lyuba telling her that Mackenzie was somehow in danger. It was the warning of a choovihni, and now her mother had shown her a vision—the fire-eating dragon dripping in blood. All of her instincts were telling her that it had something to do with Mackenzie’s mother. Not knowing what that danger was, however, all Carolina could do was to be careful and watchful where Mackenzie was concerned.
Carolina was thinking of these things on her way to class when an especially cheerful voice—one she hadn’t heard in a while—greeted her on the brick walkway dressed in his usual conservative gray suit and pin-stripe tie.
“Headmaster Harcourt!” Because of the depression he had been experiencing now that the FIGs were no longer at Wood Rose, she never knew if she should speak to him or not. Noticing the big smile on his face and the slight bounce in his walk, however, she decided to risk it and ventured more, “It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it? I just love this time of year.”
The headmaster glanced up at the trees displaying the remnants of autumn colors, at the beautiful gray stone buildings, at the expansive lawns now yellowed by the cooler nights and covered in leaves already fallen, then back to Carolina. “Yes. And I must say, we—that is, Mrs. Ball, Miss Alcott, and I—are really looking forward to Jennifer’s performance of The Wish Rider in New York.” Slightly hesitating and surreptitiously glancing toward the giant red-tipped bush growing in front of his office window—his prized Photinia frasen—he asked in a slightly hushed tone, “Will the FIGs be coming back here over the holidays?”
Carolina explained that they would be going to China for their winter break and because of a demanding schedule, she didn’t think they would be able to visit Wood Rose—at least not this time. She couldn’t help but notice that his broad smile got just a little less broad. “They are doing well, then, aren’t they?” Once again glancing up at the trees, at the gray stone buildings, and the leaf-covered lawns now yellowed with the approaching change of autumn into winter, “Their suite of rooms will always be available for them,” he said and walked away, having expressed what was on his mind. Mrs. Ball had told her he seemed to be coming out of his funk the closer it got to their winter break.
Chapter Ninteen
The Wish Rider, a fugue in B flat minor, was Jennifer’s musical creation in three movements which represented Dara’s story:
Dara’s mother vanishes
Dara searches for her mother
Dara’s mother vanishes
It was performed by a full orchestra, and like in her symphony she had written previously, The Gypsy Cadence, Jennifer played principal first violin. The audience loved it and they loved this petite young girl dressed in black velvet, her long blond hair framing her face and cascading down her back. When the final note was played, they begged for encores repeatedly from this brilliant musical prodigy.
Like before when they had attended The Gypsy Cadence, the much sought after choice seats for this sold out performance—center parquet B section of Carnegie Hall—were occupied by Carolina, Mackenzie, and Dara, along with Larry, Grai, and Mrs. Killebrew. In addition, also occupying the choice seats were Headmaster Harcourt, Mrs. Ball, and Miss Alcott, who had once again made the trip from Raleigh, North Carolina, as representatives of Wood Rose Orphanage and Academy for Young Women. Arranged and paid for by Miss Alcott, it was the least they could do to offer their support for one of their most brilliant graduates.
Following the performance, Mrs. Killebrew insisted that everyone, including Headmaster Harcourt, Mrs. Ball, and Miss Alcott, come back to her boarding house for a post-performance late-night snack. The “snack” turned out to be much more, even by Mrs. Killebrew’s standards, and included cooked prime rib that h
ad been cut special for Mrs. Killebrew by her favorite butcher just down the street, a roasted duck with the orange sauce that Mackenzie particularly liked, and her killer chocolate five-layer cake “that Carolina and the FIGs enjoyed so much when they were here last time.” In the dining room where everyone had gathered, soft light from the crystal chandelier reflected in the floor-to-ceiling windows covered in ecru Victorian lace and from the highly-polished table set with china bowls and silver platters spilling over with Mrs. Killebrew’s favorite recipes that she had obviously been preparing for several days. It was a relaxed and cheerful group; conversations and laughter between old and new friends and acquaintances who had been brought together on this special occasion because of the one thing they shared in common—their on-going interest and love for Carolina and the FIGs.
While everyone ate and talked amicably in a room that was decorated in antiques from another era, Larry ran out to the nearest news stand in order to get the first reviews. “Brilliant!” was the headline describing Jennifer’s performance of The Wish Rider, which he read to the others as soon as he returned. “More – Please from this Amazing Talent!” he read from another paper, bringing cheers and applause from around the table. However, the high praise and jubilation were lost on Jennifer, for some time during the evening, she quietly disappeared.
Later, after everyone left, and Larry and Grai had turned in for the night, Carolina, Mackenzie, and Dara went upstairs where they found their friend in her room decorated in wallpaper covered in white magnolias on stripes of burgundy that adjoined theirs. Still wearing the black velvet gown she had worn for the concert, her hair now tied back into a ponytail, sitting cross-legged in the middle of her bed, she was frantically writing down the notes of the ancient Chinese banhu on eight-stave paper. Propped on the floor against the wall next to her bed was the painting she had been working on earlier: the beautiful, impasto-painted yellow and red flowers and one single blue lotus, no longer obscure, but prominent, rich in texture and detail, and distinct.
Of course, the others knew Jennifer had been painting something that symbolized the music she was writing. That was what she always did. It was part of the way her creative mind worked. They just hadn’t seen it before now. Mackenzie’s eyes were drawn immediately to the yellow dandelion, but when she looked more closely, she gasped. “Of course! That is it!” She immediately pulled the small computer from its holder on her waist and began punching in numbers and equations while at the same time trying to explain to the others.
“All of the research that’s been done so far has been with yellow dandelions. But there is a red variety called Taraxacum centrasiaticum. It is very rare—in fact, it only grows in alpine meadows at an elevation of 11,200 to 11,500 feet in the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region of western China.” She glanced at Dara, Jennifer, and Carolina to see if they understood. They didn’t.
She punched in more calculations. “You see, there was something not right—a reason why the formula wasn’t working. It is because everyone has been using the molecular structure of a yellow dandelion. But the molecular structure of a red dandelion will be different, and that difference is what will give us the correct formula.” She glanced up from her calculations again. “Of course, it will be months, maybe even years probably, before we can get this worked out, but I know this is the missing piece.” Then back to her numbers, “I just know it.”
When Carolina and Dara went to bed later that night, Mackenzie and Jennifer were still working on their “projects”—Mackenzie with her complex calculations of replacing the equation for the molecular structure of a yellow dandelion with that of the red dandelion, and Jennifer writing the beautiful sweet music of the elusive banhu—because that is what made them geniuses.
Somewhat troubled by the strange coincidence of the ancient Chinese writing in Dr. Wu’s notes and the symbols she had seen beneath Grand Central Terminal, Dara couldn’t sleep. Oracle bone inscriptions were first discovered in 1899. They referred to a mystical or religious practice where a hot instrument was applied to the back of a tortoise shell or animal bone and the hidden meaning in the cracks produced was then interpreted. This practice was later refined to an early form of writing when people started incising symbols on the oracle bones and keeping records.
Dara was already familiar with many of the 4600 known characters, and what was most troubling to her were what many of the symbols meant in Dr. Wu’s notes. All of them seemed to have a threatening undertone, and she wondered if it had anything to do with human sacrifice. Words like “dragon” and “blood,” as well as peculiar word combinations—“dragon’s milk” and “clock flower.”
Sometime during the night she tiptoed into Mackenzie’s room. Not finding her there, she went into Jennifer’s room where she found the two of them sound asleep. Understanding only that something important and possibly dangerous was happening but not knowing what, she slipped into the bed with her best friends so she would be close, wanting to be there if they needed her.
* * *
Every day and every night since arriving at Specchia, the small southern town perched high on a hilltop overlooking the Mediterranean, Lyuba had been reading the Tarot, desperately seeking the answers, trying to understand its full meaning. The only thing revealed was that Carolina and the FIGs were in danger, and that danger was getting more imminent each day.
As the black moon approached its position high overhead, Lyuba unlocked the old, carved wooden box made from the dogwood tree that had been passed down to her by her mother and her mother’s mother before that and all the generations past. Inside was a crystal, wrapped in black silk. Tonight, she would gaze into the crystal. Scrying she called it. She would once again patiently seek the answers. She would try to understand.
The crystal rewarded Lyuba for her patience. As the blackness of night dissolved into soft gray shades of dawn, Lyuba hastened through the meadow that the gypsies called their winter home—the place where the goat herder brought his animals each morning at sun-up to graze. Carefully making her way down the rocky path toward the sea, she did not stop until she reached the massive rock. There she knelt holding a single dandelion with the knowledge that extended into the darkest reaches of time. With her bare hands, she dug into the earth at the base of the rock until she uncovered the small purple stone, worn smooth by the river of another time and another place—her good luck charm—still wrapped in the remaining fragments of white paper. It was the offering she had made all those years ago to protect her little girl when she was taken from her. Now, she replaced the dirt-covered fragments of paper with a clean white piece and once again placed the stone in it. Only this time she included the single dandelion—picked in the shadows of the Old Villa—with the knowledge that it would only react to the bad, but provide strength to the good.
As she continued kneeling she scattered the bread she had brought with her and water from the nearby sea. “Rock mother, I feed you; feed me in return.” With her eyes closed, her face lifted toward the heavens, she canted the spell as it had been passed down to her from her mother, also a choovihni, all those years ago, and her grandmother before that. “Rock mother, I quench your thirst; quench mine in return.” She then returned the stone along with the small dandelion wrapped in clean white paper to the earth dug at the base of the rock, saying, finally, “Rock mother, I bring you a gift; bless me by protecting those I love in return.” She put both hands on the rock. “Rain falls, wind blows, sun shines, grass grows.” She repeated it three times and then, without looking back, she walked away. When she did, a warm gentle breeze—barely perceptible—stirred from the Mediterranean and softly caressed the enormous stone that had been placed there even before there was a sea.
* * *
The frightening vision once again woke Carolina during the night, this vision more real and more terrifying than the ones before. Once again she turned on the lamp beside her bed, but it didn’t remove the panic that had become her constant companion. Knowing she wouldn’t
be able to go back to sleep, she quietly peeked into each of the adjoining rooms to check on the FIGs just to make sure they were safe. It was in the room decorated with magnolia-flowered wallpaper that Carolina found the three of them, bed covers and sheets of eight-stave music paper strewn everywhere, sleeping soundly.
Before coming to New York, Carolina had tried to research what the meaning of the dragon was in Chinese culture, and, specifically, the five-clawed coiled yellow dragon she was seeing in her nightmares with an elongated head that resembled a boar. Seen as a symbol of imperial power, she learned that there were some who considered themselves descendants of Emperor Huangdi who according to legend was immortalized into a dragon and had ascended to Heaven. Many of these so-called descendants had a birthmark that resembled a dragon, and they had the power to rule their own dynasty.
Even with the explanation, it didn’t help; she just didn’t understand how it involved Mackenzie. All she could do was trust that Lyuba would reveal what she needed to know when the time came. Until then, she knew she would continue to see the visions and she would continue to be horrified for what might happen to Mackenzie.
* * *
Having returned to the university campus the day after Jennifer’s performance, Larry sorted through his mail until he found what he was looking for. He ripped open the large envelope and quickly read through the documents. They were copies of legal papers and other information that had to do with a Chinese family by the name of Xing Qiang.
When everything else had failed, he had contacted Lucia in Italy who was head of the adoption agency in Frascati and had been working there when Carolina was taken from her mother as a small child and put up for adoption. It was Lucia who tried to help Lyuba all those years ago, and then years later had helped Carolina find her mother when she and the FIGs went to Frascati to research the Voynich Manuscript.
The Clock Flower (THE FIG MYSTERIES Book 3) Page 9
