“I’m fine,” Val replied briskly. But he didn’t think he was. He tightened the muscles in his strong arms to steady himself.
I have seen and partaken in every gruesome act a person can experience. I have been covered in blood and barely able to walk. I have suffered great physical and emotional deprivation.
And I have never lost my ability to perform my duty.
It was no doubt an unusual set of circumstances which appeared to be something other than it was. It happened on the battlefield all the time.
Val vowed to consider all this later, and, for now, to do the job he came to do.
“You don’t look fine.”
“In fact, I’ve never been better.”
44
Uncovering Secrets
“It is astonishing. All we see before us has been covered by sand for thousands of years.” Upon arrival at the archeological site, Val investigated the markings on the walls.
“What is your opinion, Captain Ravensdale?” Mr. Mariette, a man with no laugh lines, was unable to stop smiling.
“As you surmised, this is the burial ground of the workmen and laborers who built the pyramids.”
“Yes, but which workers? There were many who served the Pharaoh.”
Val regained his composure as his intellectual curiosity and the thrill of discovery took over. After some minutes of study, he replied. “These are the tombs of the artisans and the overseers.”
Mr. Mariette whistled, shaking his head in agreement and astonishment. “This only confirms what I observed; I am not surprised to learn these are the artisans. Some of the tombs are exquisitely decorated. This is clearly not the burial grounds of royalty, but I thought this could not be the tombs of ordinary laborers. This is the greatest find in a thousand years.”
Val felt some relief. These were not the tombs of the slave laborers but the artists. This was where the similarities to Alita’s strange story diverged and it became a mere coincidence.
They then proceeded up a narrow flight of steps leading from this cemetery up the cliff face to larger tombs, partly carved out of the rock.
“And here we are, Captain,” Mr. Mariette pronounced giddily. “I believe you will find this compelling. They seem to follow you wherever you go.”
“What is following me where?”
Mr. Mariette pointed to one tomb, fronted by a mud-brick wall. In the wall was a small hole.
“I don’t see anything remarkable here, outside the fact that everything is remarkable.”
“Look through the hole in the wall,” Mr. Mariette directed.
Val did so. On the other side of the mud-brick wall, painted on the tomb, was a pair of gleaming eyes created from jewels and paint. The eyes were vividly real and seemed to follow one.
Val caught his breath in his chest as the realization hit him.
“It can’t be,” Val whispered, wondering if he had died and was being tortured for his sins. If so, his punishment was aptly chosen.
Nothing is worse than to doubt my logic and its conclusions, the basis for my entire life.
“Fascinating, isn’t it? We only recently discovered this.”
Val stood still for a seemingly long time, frozen, staring at the eyes. Finally he pulled away to face his companion. His voice empty of all emotion, he asked, “How long did it take you to unearth this second set of tombs, Mr. Mariette?”
Mr. Mariette shrugged, calculating mentally, before answering. “About forty-eight hours.”
“Bloody hell. Impossible.”
“It was an unusually quick excavation, but everything was going so well, and we wanted to complete the process before the looters got wind of the find.”
“Very wise,” Val muttered mechanically. His head was in a spin, but he continued forward as if sleepwalking. He wished he might awaken, never having seen any of this.
Ordinarily he would be completely focused on the artifacts before him, but he was shaken to the core, the foundation of his beliefs—his very being—challenged. This was the find of a lifetime—thrilling beyond compare—and the most terrifying moment of his life. He would rather be shot in the head. It felt as if he had been.
“Are you all right, Captain Ravensdale?” asked Mr. Mariette. “You’re usually quite a fellow for conversation, and you seem almost speechless.”
“Believe me, I am.”
“I understand. I have never been so awestruck in my entire life. One could live and die without ever experiencing anything of this significance—much less to be associated with it. This is so stupendously unexpected that it makes one feel as if everything one has ever believed is in question, does it not?”
“Precisely.”
And as if I, very possibly, have lost the one love of my life unnecessarily.
Mr. Mariette sighed heavily. “To be in the presence of magnificence. It is beyond anything I have ever personally experienced.”
Val nodded without speaking, his brain contemplating all possible explanations.
Of which there were none.
As they turned the corner, Val’s attentions were diverted by magnificent drawings. Entranced, he momentarily set aside his extreme disorientation to study the hieroglyphs. His brain had saved him at every point in his life, and surely this was no different.
“I believe these chambers to be the king’s,” Mr. Mariette uttered, his excitement rising.
“King Unas, if I’m not mistaken,” Val said.
“Precisely. The last king of the Fifth Dynasty,” Mr. Mariette added.
“King Unas apparently instructed that the walls of the internal chambers be covered with vertical columns of hieroglyphs.” Val studied his surroundings.
“What do you see, Captain?” asked Mr. Mariette with excitement.
Val took some moments to read the hieroglyphs. “Magical spells and incantations stemming from solar and Osirian religious beliefs, the intent of which was to solidify a prosperous afterlife for the pharaoh.” Val’s heart began to pound faster, if that were possible, his curiosity overcoming other concerns. He smiled at Mr. Mariette, beginning to feel himself again.
“Astonishing! It keeps getting better and better.”
“You are quite right, Mr. Mariette. This is a major discovery. These hieroglyphics will open a new chapter in the study of Egyptian religious beliefs.”
“And it was written here to record the spells for posterity,” Mr. Mariette remarked.
“I don’t believe that was the purpose, no.” Val contemplated, reading as he spoke. As an afterthought he murmured, “It is, essentially, to invoke power.”
“Yes, yes, Of course.” Mr. Mariette nodded. “It is not a mere recording of events. Writing transforms reality.”
“Precisely. The storyteller is the magician. All one must do to make the story real is to write it down. Writing was to the ancient Egyptians the power of creation.”
Mr. Mariette murmured, almost as if to himself, as his eyes scanned the hieroglyphics, “It was believed that the act of transferring a thought to a visual—in this case a picture, but in modern times the equivalent would be the written word—would magically make the story happen.”
“It is a difficult concept for modern man. For the ancient Egyptian, so magical is the act of writing that doing so transforms not only thought into word but thought into future reality—” Val caught himself short, not believing that which he had just uttered.
His world was spinning out of control around him. Everything he believed was standing in line at the guillotine. Val leaned against the pyramid wall to steady himself.
“Ravensdale?” asked Mr. Mariette. “Do you need a doctor? I was selfish to bring you, but if I’d known you were ill…You looked quite well when we left.”
“I’m not ill. Though I’ve been better,” muttered Val, shutting his eyes. “I just need a moment to rest.”
The proclamation played again in his mind. So magical is the act of writing that doing so transforms not only thought into word but thought into
future reality. He had uttered the words himself. The prophecy had come out of his own mouth.
“Is there anything further, Mr. Mariette?” Val asked reluctantly. Ordinarily he would have been drinking all this in like a man dying of thirst, but he was forcing himself to complete the task at hand. He feared that his legs would collapse from under him. There was some possibility his heart might give out in the middle of this investigation.
“Yes,” stated Mr. Mariette with apprehension, clearing his throat. “We found the temples. But perhaps we should go back. You need to sit down and rest. Possibly you need a drink of water?”
“It wouldn’t help.” Val’s lips formed a crooked smile. “Let’s finish the tour. I’ve the balance of my life to rest.”
Which probably wouldn’t be that much longer.
Unless I am already dead and don’t know it.
They continued toward the temples, Val forcing himself to observe the points of interest as they walked, lending his interpretation, fighting to keep his spinning thoughts at bay until he could later address them. He had no intention of allowing Mr. Mariette to see the full extent of his discomfort.
“We have cleared away the sand from these temples and found decorated blocks from the causeway,” Mr. Mariette explained.
“Astonishing,” Val murmured. “Quite exceptional—and breathtaking to behold.”
“Indeed. We were surprised at the beauty of the treasures. As you can see, Lord Ravensdale, the temples are richly decorated with wall reliefs and adorned with statues of the gods and the king.”
As they viewed the carved scenes on the decorated blocks, Val stopped short.
There, before his eyes, was the scene Alita had painted for him weeks before in excruciatingly identical detail.
45
Family Ties
“Hartshorne! Hot water bottles! Extra blankets! Hot tea and toast! Immediately!” Lady Elaina exclaimed, assisting her daughter out of the carriage while Jon took Alita’s other arm. It had taken Lady Elaina all of two seconds before she regained her wits and began issuing instructions right and left to the servants and her family, demanding precise and absolute obedience in defiance of their efforts to calm her.
“Heaven help us!” she had gasped in dismay when she had first laid eyes on her daughter an instant earlier. Far from appearing refreshed from a holiday, Alita’s face was drained of all color, and dark circles accented her eyes. How emerald-green eyes could appear dull was yet a mystery to her, but there it was. Alita had always been thin, but now her frame was almost skeletal.
Lady Elaina turned in shock to gaze upon her mother, desperate for an explanation, who only shook her head from side to side. She had never before seen such an expression of helplessness on the duchess’ face. Her Grace had heretofore always believed nothing was beyond her power to solve, placing herself somewhere alongside the Messiah and natural disasters, depending on the circumstance.
“Lita, are you sick?” asked Julianne. “What is wrong?”
“Julianne, dear, I’m so happy to see you,” Alita murmured, reaching out to touch her sister’s cheek. “All will be well, now that I am home.”
Somehow her assurances were less than reassuring.
“Don’t ask so many questions, Julianne,” hissed Harvey. “Can’t you see Alita is not well?”
“Please do not fuss,” Alita admonished. “I am perfectly fine, I assure you. It was an emotional journey. Please attend to my Grandmamma, she is the one who has endured the most, all for my comfort.”
“That is very true,” the duchess agreed.
“Take my arm, sweetheart,” Dr. Stanton commanded to his daughter. “Let us go inside.”
“Yes, Papa.” Alita stood to get out of the carriage and promptly fainted.
46
Irrefutable Truth
She had been right about everything.
The location. The fall. The eyes. The forty-eight hours. The message.
The painting.
Val was dazed as his mind automatically reevaluated his entire life. Everything he believed was now in question.
There was no possible way she could have known. Unless…she has the sight.
Impossible. And the only explanation.
Back in his room after examining the archeological site, Val’s head was spinning. Frankly, it had never stopped spinning.
Pacing the room, he ran his hands through his hair. He had never been more shaken in his life, despite the fact his life had been destroyed and rebuilt more times than he cared to recall.
Kicking his chair away from his desk, he sat down, taking his pen in hand.
The pen slipped through his fingers as he stared at the notepad.
She can’t have sneaked into the tombs with her pink silk parasol. The burial tombs hadn’t been discovered at that point, much less excavated.
They were still underground and covered with earth while Alita painted the rendition of the altar.
And if she had been right about the picture, to exacting detail, could she have been right about the content of the message?
The message uttered from his own lips.
The storyteller is the magician. All one must do to make the story real is to write it down. He threw his head into his hands and closed his eyes. The power of creation.
Damnation! This was her message to him, the sole point of this elaborate show.
Stunned, he opened his eyes and shook his head. Alita had once said to him his translations possessed the potential to bring the world together with a power most politicians only dreamed of.
He stood up and began pacing the room again.
Bloody hell. Cursing under his breath, his eyes were captured by Alita’s painting, just as his heart had been captured by her. He leaned against the wall of his study, one shining black Hessian bracing his weight against the wall as he studied the painting.
He shut his eyes as if to shut out this unwelcome invasion into his well-ordered philosophy of the world. Instead, his mind betrayed him, picturing and juxtaposing the canvas against the carved face of the altar, every detail so vivid to him, even from memory.
Val opened his eyes. It is no use to pretend any longer.
A lucky guess? He laughed out loud at his own supposition. He knew his mind was grasping for straws now, desperately attempting to contradict the truth he could no longer escape.
The subject matter of the painting was unique and unusual. And never before seen.
Alita Stanton has the sight. Val whistled to himself. He hadn’t believed in the sight. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around it.
And yet she has it.
He could tell himself it wasn’t possible to see into the future. But he would have to ignore the evidence in order to come to that conclusion.
She was half touched in the attic, he had thought. And all the time Alita had been seeing things clearly. Possibly it was the rest of the world which was a bit skewed.
I need a drink. He continued to hold himself up against the wall of his study. He needed to sit down. He needed to run. His mind was racing, and his heart was not far behind. He was utterly exhausted, and it was an impossibility that he should sleep tonight.
Val walked to his mahogany cabinet and poured himself a glass of whiskey. Slowly and gingerly Val picked up Alita’s painting, setting the onion-skin wrapping on his desk. With a deliberate fastidiousness he lowered himself to sit at his desk, drinking the glass of whiskey in one swallow. He took off his boots, keeping his eyes glued to the painting, and kicked them out of the way.
He had lost the only woman he had ever loved because of a lie. A lie he devised.
She loved me. He felt as if his heart might dissolve into nothingness right then and there.
Val ran his fingers lightly along the surface of the image as if he would find her in the picture.
He shook his head in disbelief. It was almost an exact replica. The detail was exquisite.
Unbelievable. Unfathomable. A beautiful work.
The clock chimed once. Val didn’t know how much time had passed. Was it 1:00 a.m. or 1:00 p.m.?
It must be a.m. Should he try to sleep? No, it wasn’t possible.
Alita Stanton had seen into the future. The thought repeated itself round and round in his head.
She said he was capable of impacting the world, of being a positive influence. He thought her words were all foolish flattery.
What if…What if there were some use for his abilities?
Val let out a deep breath. What would it feel like to be able to do what he loved and to make a difference?
Val closed his eyes and let himself be immersed in the feeling. The idea that his interest was also his purpose sounded too good to be true.
“You’d better come back to reality, Ravensdale,” he muttered.
Laughter sprung from his lips. He wasn’t sure what reality was anymore.
If Alita had been right about all these events, and she had been, could she be right about him?
Val shook his head in response to his internal argument. He was an out-of-work soldier whose information assisted Britain in running her colony. When he spoke of his translations, people’s eyes rolled back in their heads.
Unable to remove his eyes from the painting, his lips formed a slight smile. The first amusement he had felt in some time. Since Alita left for London, in fact.
Alita Stanton had certainly managed to get his attention. And she wasn’t even here.
There is no use. Blazes to Hell, I can’t believe it. I simply can’t wrap my mind around it.
He did not believe in the idea of Val Huntington. But I am beginning to believe in Miss Alita Stanton. It was the glimmer of a thought in the midst of so many, as yet, unformed worlds.
Forcing himself out of his daze, he studied the hieroglyphics more intently. Hieroglyphics which she drew. She had spoken her prophecies in his language, a language he couldn’t ignore, a language she did not know. She had spoken to him in a manner she knew he could hear.
The Destiny Code: The Soldier and the Mystic (Daughters of the Empire Book 1) Page 36
