Chapter 3
Tanit
For over two millennia she had drifted, formless, in a void of eternal blackness...
her mind ever searching, ever waiting. For over two thousand years there had been no
prayers to warm her, no sacrifices to strengthen her, no blood upon her altars to
nourish her, no man-creatures to call her own.
Her civilization had died at the hands of Rome two thousand twenty-nine
summers ago. She hungered... she yearned for the throb of life within a body and the
pleasures only flesh can offer.
She had begun to hear their minds. She could understand the minds, but not the
languages in which they thought. No matter. She knew their needs, and that their needs
would fulfill her own.
She could feel the vibrating molecules of space. "Patience, beloved," said the
voice that had whispered to her since the beginning of time. "Your time nears... reach
out... grow strong... prepare."
She stretched her mind as far as her weakness would allow. She sensed that
these man-creatures had changed, that their minds had expanded, while their spirits
had narrowed. No matter. They were here, and soon within reach. Some, at least,
would be hers. Soon, she would become.
< < + > >
San Francisco
Kymberlee Rayne stepped upon the chair, stretched herself to her full height,
and then some. She scowled. Life's a bitch being so short. Again, she teetered on her
tiptoes, struggling to make her five feet, two inches grow another four. She was
determined that she was going to hang the new breakfast room blinds and curtains by
herself, then let the whole household discover the change on their own. This was her
favorite room. "Well, maybe my second favorite, now that I think about it," she said
to herself, blushing, though no one was there to see her cheeks turn pink.
With it's big bay window, plants, and white wicker chairs it was the lightest
room in the entire house... not just bright with sunlight, when the Bay wasn't fogged
in, but in mood and furnishings as well. It seemed more like her family's summer
retreat up the Hudson, near Tarrytown.
Standing on the chair, she took in the full vista offered by the clear California
afternoon. It was magnificent. Sailboats bounced on blue water and white chop. How
could she have ever felt homesick for New York with something like this at her kitchen
window? The view was nearly one hundred eighty degrees.
To the far left, the east, were the Berkeley hills, with the university's Italianate
clock tower, a replica of the campanile in Venice's Piazza San Marco, protruding from
the trees. To the southeast was the Oakland Bay Bridge and man-made Treasure
Island, where Derek had told her the 1939 World's Fair had been held. Kym turned her
gaze straight ahead, due south, to the San Francisco skyline and Alcatraz. She had
learned to distinguish Coit Tower on Telegraph Hill and the great white spire of the
Transamerica Pyramid. Off to the right, the southwest, she let her eyes follow the shore
to the green hills of Golden Gate Park and the Presidio, which sat at the southern end
of the Golden Gate Bridge. The breeze had pushed the fog all the way back to the
orange span itself, which looked as if it was floating on a bed of goose down. How
could it be that her husband owned this view?
"Making changes already," said a voice behind her. She jumped... sometimes
Derek could move as silently as a cat. "I like it," he added.
"I don't know about that," said Johnny Boyle, following her husband into the
kitchen. "Looks awful frilly to me." With a practiced wrist, he flung his faded baseball
cap to hook it dextrously on the back of one of the chairs.
"Maybe kitchens should be a little frilly," Kym retorted as she stepped down
from the chair.
"Where's Dominick?" Derek asked, looking for his majordomo.
"Gone over to Tiburon," said Kym. "I think he said he wanted to find a birthday
present for his niece. He made fresh coffee and left some snacks... said he'd be back
by four."
Derek poured himself a mug of coffee. "Want some?" he asked his security
chief. Boyle shook his head no, and went to search the refrigerator. Derek took his
usual spot at the long oak table and reached for the newspaper, stacked at the far end.
He had been trying to get to it all day, but trivial things kept interfering. Kym scooted
the plants away from the west window, then slid her chair in place.
Suddenly, the room began to shake. She could hear the wooden beams crack
and the window panes rattle. The dishes on the kitchen counter clattered.
"Oh, my God!" she cried in panic. "Is it an earthquake? What do we do?"
"Hope it stops," replied Derek, who barely looked up from his newspaper when
the shaking began.
With near hysteria, Kym shouted, "Shouldn't we get in a doorway, or
something?"
"Calm down, Liefje," said Derek. "Just get away from the windows."
It was gone as quickly as it began, but Kym could not be sure whether the
quivering she felt for the next few minutes was the house or her own body. "Calm
down?" she exclaimed. "Are you serious?"
Johnny, his head still buried in the refrigerator, chuckled to himself. "And I
thought New Yorkers were supposed to be tough," he mumbled.
"We don't have these in New York!"
"No, but you got pretty damn good ears," the ex-soldier said as rose from his
refrigerator expedition with a packet of ham in his hand. "I say it was a four point
seven down near Fremont... it definitely rolled from the south."
"Three point four off Point Reyes," stated Derek.
"Two bucks on Fremont."
"You're on... but make it five... turn on the radio and we'll see."
Kym couldn't believe what she was hearing. "We just had an earthquake and
you guys are betting where and how strong! No wonder they say California is the land
of fruits and nuts."
"Kym, dear...," said Derek patiently, raising an eyebrow as if to say...
Easterners
The radio announcer spoke calmly. "...and I'm sure you all just felt that trembler.... Reports are coming in from around the Bay area of canned goods being knocked from supermarket shelves.... We are waiting for readings from Berkeley's Lawrence-Livermore and from Cal Tech in Pasadena.... It's just coming in," she continued, "they believe it was about a magnitude three point five in the ocean northwest of Point Reyes."
"Pay up, Major Boyle," said Derek, smiling.
"Derek... you cheated," protested the Luna Foundation's security chief. "You used your 'Sight'."
"No... just a good sense of direction."
<< + >>
Libyan Desert
"Oo-kuf! Stop!" Moustafa Kalil shouted. "Oo-kuf!" He pushed the operator away from the machine's controls and slammed the lever down. "Stop, I said! You'll ruin the drill's bit. We need a different one. We've hit something too hard for this one.... Akim!"
Yousef calmly stood aside and mopped his brow. He was used to the foreman's excited outbursts... the man couldn't let anyone do their job without interfering. He stepped into the shade of a canvas awning and adjusted his red and white checked kuffieyah. He tugged at the head scarf to set it more squarely, then slanted the black double cord of his ighal at its usual jaunty angle. He yawned. Watching the stocky man, sweating in his western khakis, make a fuss over nothing always made him yawn. Off in the distance, through the heat mirage, he could see the palm trees of Al-Kufrah. That's where he belonged... lounging through the mid-day heat with his wife and children... not out here in this griddle of rock, sand, and concrete, working for a bunch of blood thirsty lunatics.
Kalil impatiently punched at a button on the control panel, the machine hummed. He watched for the drill's head to emerge from the steel casing. When it did, he stepped through the scaffolding to inspect the jagged metal wheels. It was too hot to touch, but he could see the wear on the teeth. He pulled a pencil from his pocket and scraped some dust from around the top of the mechanism into the palm of his hand. With a small magnifying lens he took a closer look at the dust, then tasted it with the tip of his tongue.
A young man in a tan and white striped caftan-like jallabah
came running. "Na'am, yes, Mr. Kalil?" he said, leaning into the derrick."Akim... when you go into Al-Jawf this afternoon to pick up the two Irishmen, stop at the hotel and see Hassan ibn Aziz. Tell him that if we are to finish with this well by tomorrow we will need a different drill bit. Tell him... though I don't see how... that we may have hit granite."
From the distant oasis, Kalil and his workers, heard the trill of the muezzin from the minaret's loudspeaker. "Allahu Akbar... Allahu Akbar." Kalil glanced at his watch... time for the midday prayers. As his crew spread down their prayer rugs and knelt to face the east, he dismissed them for the afternoon.
Snapping the sand from his small, fringed carpet, Yousef watched the few non-believers meander over to the shade of a nearby concrete block building to wait out the afternoon's heat with wine, dates, cigarettes, and siestas. What a self-centered people to ignore their duty to God.
The call to prayer, the adhan, vibrated across the stillness of the desert: ... Hayya 'ala 'I-salah. Come to prayer. Hayya 'ala 'I-falah. Come to salvation. Allahu Akbar... God is great... La ilah ill'Allah. There is no god but Allah.
<< + >>
Angel Island
Kym pressed her body against the rungs of the library's ladder and scrunched her hair on top of her head, reclipping it with her plastic hair clip. She was a mess... tousled hair, no makeup, paint-stained T-shirt. She was still enough of a newlywed that she didn't want her husband to see her this way, but she was in the midst of October's term paper hell.
Derek had told her that she could use any book in his extensive collection except those pertaining directly to Legacy investigations. At the moment she was searching for an unpublished dissertation on the churches of Cappadocia. Her own paper, due at the end of the week for an art history class, was a discussion of early Christian iconography in present day Turkey. She knew it had to be up here on the top shelf somewhere, along with the other texts on early Christianity and the Middle East, but she couldn't spot it.
"I can't believe this," Kym said to herself with an exasperated half-smile. "Here I am surrounded by books... am I too blind to find the one thing I need?"
"Schatje," said Derek from the doorway. "It's nearly time for supper."
"Oh, Derek... I'm a mess," she said, quickly reaching up to touch her red hair. "I didn't know you were home. How was the meeting? I'll just be a few minutes," she added, climbing down from her perch. "I'll go change."
Smiling to himself, Derek caught her hand as she started to pass. "No need. You're adorable just the way you are. We can eat in the kitchen or I can have Duncan send Lourdes up with something. Then you won't have to stop."
"It's OK... I need the break," she said, giving her husband a peck on the cheek.
He grasped her around the waist and the peck became a deep, consuming kiss. "Or we could skip dinner all together," he suggested.
"Hold that thought," Kym said when their breaths ran out. She reached up to brush an unruly lock of brown hair off his forehead. "I'm hungry... for food... and I do have to at least get a draft of this paper under my belt tonight. But later...." God! He smells good.
"Of course," said Derek, following with another kiss. "I have some work to do myself. I'll have something sent up, but I am holding that thought. I'll be in my office."
The corners of Kym's mouth turned up as she watched her husband walk out. God! She loved him. Then a thought occurred. "Derek, wait," she said. "I've been looking for a dissertation listed in the catalogue... it's on the churches in Cappadocia... you know... the ones hollowed out of the mountains... but I can't find it."
Her husband paused for a moment to think. "It's probably one that we put on microfiche last year. Check the cabinet in the control room."
"Thanks," Kym said. "And expect something a little nicer than a dirty T-shirt tonight."
Derek's eyebrow raised. "Nothing will be just fine," he replied over his shoulder as he headed toward his office. "Call me when dinner arrives."
* * *
Kym and Derek had eaten at eight, then she had returned to her research. By ten, she was running out of steam. "I'm exhausted," she admitted wearily to herself. It was one of her weaker moments, one that was demanding a choice between wife and student. "Why did I ever decide to do this?" She scolded herself, "How can I do it all... be a wife, especially when I have to fulfill my obligations to the foundation and the museum as Mrs. Derek Rayne... be a full-time student... and a part-time Legacy researcher?" How could she not be the latter, when the Legacy was her husband's life?
She had almost completed a rough draft, but she still needed to check on that Cappadocia paper. She gathered her notes from the conference table and reshelved the books she had used. Then Kym stepped over to the shelves on the north wall, where she placed her thumb on what seemed to be an exquisitely bound copy of Sir Richard Burton's translation of Tales from the Arabian Nights. "Open Sesame," she whispered as the tiny scanner read her thumb print. The wall-sized antique map slid aside. Kym chuckled. Couldn't Derek have thought of something more original? On the other hand, perhaps no one would ever think of it because it was so obvious. What was it that Sherlock Holmes had said about the best place to hide something was in plain sight... or was that someone else?
The lights brightened as Kym stepped over the threshold into the control room. A wall of a dozen closed circuit monitors flashed the images from security cameras placed at strategic points around the island and house. She had only been in the room a couple of times. Derek had given her a guided tour of the equipment and resources, but she couldn't quite recall where the microform cabinet was, other than that it was concealed behind the wainscoting on her right. Kym pressed on each panel. It was the third which bounced open for her, revealing a drawer with rows of index-card-sized microfilm. One day, Kym thought, that door is just going to pop open and smack me right in the derriere. Now, where can I find what I'm looking for?
Suddenly, she noticed that the microfiche were divided by subject cards. She spotted "Middle East" and decided to start there. Written on each white envelope was the author, title, and date. She had to be careful because some fiche contained more than one work. As her fingers walked along the row she read aloud to herself. "Jones, H., Jr., Ph.D., Chronicles of (Princeton, 1948)... Jones, H., Sr., Ph.D., The Rosetta Stone: Translation Inconsistences between the Greek and Egyptian (Edinburgh & Princeton, 1938)... Lawrence, T.E., Crusader Castles (London, 1936, limited edition). Hmmm, Lawrence of Arabia. Rayne, Winston, Report on the Findings of the O.S.S. Concerning Nazi Germany's Search for the Ark of the Covenant (San Francisco, 1950)... Rayne, Derek, Ph.D., The Use of Trepanation in the Medical Practices of Ptolemaic Egypt (Oxford, 1979)... Rayne, Derek, Ph.D., The Influence of the Judaic Tradition upon the Cathars of Montségur (University of California, 1980).
Somehow, seeing Derek's name in print made her proud... a true Snake, Emily Liu would say... ever learning and investigating. Finally she saw it... the fiche she wanted, Puckett, Rev. Moses, A Discussion of the Baptismal Images and Their Placement in the Churches of Cappadocia (1924).
Kym slipped the black plastic rectangle between the glass plates of the boxy microfiche reader, pushed them under the lens, then leaned back in her chair to look at the screen. She twisted the lens to focus the printing and brightened the reader's light. Since Reverend Puckett had not been kind enough to provide an index, she quickly scanned each page. After an hour or so, the image of the carbon typescript was beginning to blur. She had had enough of Cappadocia for tonight. She slid the microfiche back into is paper sleeve and flipped off the reader.
She started to place the fiche in her notebook, but thought the better of it. Too easily lost. Kym decided to return it to its proper place. Simple enough to find again tomorrow. She bounced the cabinet door open and pulled out the metal drawer. As she looked for the tab that read "Middle East," she allowed her curiosity to take note of the other resources the file held. At the right rear of the drawer she saw the tab "Newspapers."
An impulse scratched at her mind. She slipped her fiche into its own place, then began to scan through the newspaper files. There was the Baltimore Sun, Chicago Tribune, Le Figaro, Le Monde, London Times, Los Angeles Times, New York Times... The New York Times... a memory flitted across Kym's mind. Sometimes it was the little things that she missed most about being so far from home. Then she saw it... the San Francisco Chronicle. All issues from the end of April 1906, just after the great quake, through December 1981 were on these few pieces of plastic.
What was it that Madame Liu had said about Snakes and the weather? One born on a hot summer day would be happy, but one born on a stormy winter's night would be in danger for the whole of their life? Derek was born in November... the night of November 16th, 1953 on Angel Island. Why Angel Island? Why not a hospital?
She was sleepy and wanted to join Derek in bed as she had promised, but her curiosity prodded her fingers to hurriedly search the microfiche. There it was... the San Francisco Chronicle for June through December 1953. Nervously, she pulled the fiche from its jacket and returned to the reader. She slipped it in and flipped the light back on. There! Friday, November 20... back up... Wednesday, November 18. Suddenly she spotted the announcement:
Derek Emrys Rayne, born Monday last, to Winston Rayne, founder and chairman of the Luna Foundations, and his wife, Barbara, at the Rayne home on Angel Island. Mother and son doing well.She pulled the handle toward her... Saturday, November 14. "Dammit," she whispered, "Sunday, November 15... there it is... Monday, November 16, 1953.... Now, where is the weather?" Kym searched the index. "Section B4," she said. Slowly, she moved the fiche down. There was the map with it's isobars and front lines. "Today's weather," she read, "heavy rain and gale forced winds likely as a cold front out of Gulf of Alaska moves through the Bay area. High: 52; Low: 40."
"So that's why he was born here and not the hospital. They couldn't get off the island. It's only Chinese astrology," she told herself, and tried to believe it. "It doesn't mean anything... so what if Derek was born during a winter storm." Kym pulled the fiche from the machine and placed it back in its sheathe. Her hand trembled slightly... this is silly. She turned to refile the fiche, then gathered her notes. "Time to join my husband," she smiled with anticipation.
| CHAPTER 4 |
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