A Darker Place

  There was no doubt that charlatans abounded in this burgeoning science, but the mere possibility that a person might have a recipe for gold put that person into danger; for centuries, alchemists were kidnapped, tortured, and murdered for their formulas. As a result, the secret doctrine became even more so. Rich symbolism and heavily allegorical writing served to obscure the process to all but those who were already in the know. Poetic imagery rather than clear description was used for speaking of the stages the metals went through within the alembics: the Peacock for the rising up of colors from the substance being heated, the Dragon for the fighting of the elements. Zodiacal symbols were used to refer to chemical substances, drawings of men with suns for their heads and women with moons for theirs represented gold and silver, and a king and queen in connubial embrace showed the joining of opposites that was necessary to the success of the Work.

  Beyond that, Ana’s knowledge began to dissipate, becoming thin and frayed around the edges. Deadly explosions in alchemical laboratories—fulminate of mercury?—Roger Bacon—Alexandria and the Arab Jabir, all bubbled up and burst in her mind, along with the conviction that Jung had written at some length about the symbolism of alchemy, and the clear memory of an illustration by Arthur Rackham that showed a dark and cluttered workshop peopled by a squat gnome of an alchemist, holding up a small glass vessel in which the gleam of gold provided the only light in the shadows; the alchemist was gazing at his miraculous creation in astonishment and dawning awe.

  Ana felt a bit like the gnome in his workshop herself, all her discomfort and distraction swept to the side as she held up her shiny discovery, studying it from different angles. It was truly a beautiful thing, this pure knowledge of the distilled essence of Change, but as with any treasure, possession was not enough. How could she use it? And even more urgent, how could she add to it? Knowledge here was both the key to authority and a resource doled out in tiny dribbles. She had no intention of waiting years to earn her right to a silver chain around her neck. One obvious shortcut was Glen, but as a member of Change, she could no longer just climb into Rocinante and drive into town without attracting too many questions, and the U.S. mail and the telephone system were far too vulnerable to Change eyes and ears.

  Still, she had to reach Glen somehow, both to show him her treasure and to request a heavy dose of additional information about the alchemical process. Retrieving his gathered information, then finding a means of studying it in private, was a problem she would face when she came to it. Now, however, how could she free herself up to reach Glen?

  • • •

  The next day a slim opportunity came up. In a moment Ana had seized it, wrenched it wider, and ruthlessly pushed her way through it.

  One of the many advantages of working with a relatively small group of students is the ease of combining parts of the curriculum. Math lessons can spill over into English, a practicum such as filling out an income tax form or balancing a checkbook can be worked into government classes, and economics can be made to include family planning. (Just how much does it cost to raise that failure to use a condom up to college age?)

  A few days earlier, Ana had been making her way along the circular hallway, the classrooms opening off to her right and to her left, the blank wall broken only by displayed notices, papers, and assorted pieces of student artwork, and she had idly thought what a waste of a long, unbroken stretch of wall it was.

  She had mulled it over during the morning and at lunch she had turned to Teresa.

  “You know that inside wall of the hallway? Has anyone thought about having the kids do a mural on it?”

  “A mural?”

  “Yeah. Each class could have a segment, maybe the one across from their doorway, and it could be along a theme like the one in the dining hall, only longer. I was thinking that it would be kind of fun to have the kids trace the historical development of Arizona, from dinosaurs to Anasazi cliff dwellings and settlers to now. It would be a great history lesson for them, and even useful for kids in the future. Of course, there are lots of themes they could work up, but it would be interesting to have the entire wall an integrated unit.”

  “It would be an enormous task,” Teresa said dubiously, but Ana had made sure before she began that there were others within earshot, and she pressed on, aware that they were listening.

  “It would take a lot of organization, but once it was done it could be left in place for years. Or painted over, if teachers wanted to do their section over again. We could ask about getting the paint donated. The biggest problem I can see would be covering the floor so the carpet doesn’t get trashed, but I think we could manage that.”

  Dominique had been one of those listening in, and she spoke up.

  “I think it is an excellent idea. We probably wouldn’t finish it before June, but we could stretch it out—or even let the kids work on it over summer vacation if they wanted to. Which they would.”

  It was discussed some more and tentatively approved, depending on the cost. The school buzzed, preliminary sketches were made, themes were hammered out.

  In the meantime, the business of school went on, and Ana prepared the other half of her plan.

  For convenience and interest, Ana had combined her two high-school-level history groups into one. At this time they had been working on the idea of colonialism, with the eleventh graders covering the historical and social aspects and the seniors concentrating on economics and governmental choices. When the topic of the mural came up, she brought the discussion around to their own backyard, as she tried to do with regularity, and asked them what effect colonialism had had on the local inhabitants, the Navajo and Arapaho, the Hopi and Zuni peoples.

  She was not actually surprised when few of them could think of any particular effect offhand, nor that fewer of them, even those of minority blood, thought of the white intrusion as colonialism. She professed astonishment, however, and again during lunch she told the story to her colleagues, exaggerating slightly both the ignorance of the students and the consternation of their teacher.

  “You know,” she said to Dominique as if the thought were suddenly occurring to her, “we really ought to take these kids down to the ethnology museum in Phoenix, not only for this but as research for the mural. It’s possible to do field trips, isn’t it? Just for the day?”

  Ana knew it was possible; after all, the students had all been on a field trip when she first arrived. Dominique objected that they had just gotten back from a trip, and Ana retorted that soon it would be too late in the year, that they needed to get the future muralists started in the right direction, and furthermore, she pointed out, they would soon all be so concerned with the end-of-the-year testing that the opportunity would be lost. She kept on, stubbornly finding more reasons that it was a good idea, convincing two or three of the other teachers to join in, until suddenly all opposition collapsed and the trip was set, in ten days’ time.

  She had forced open the door to an opportunity to make contact with Glen; the delay made her impatient, anxious to get to the heart of this community, get the information Glen needed, and get out again. On the other hand, she did not have a lot of time to fret over the delay, since in addition to planning the mural and her other duties of teaching and taking turns in the manual labor of the community (chicken shed, kitchen, and clean-up crews—gardening and building duties were still on winter status), she had also to prepare herself and her students for the field trip, which involved numerous telephone calls to the museum docents and the school district.

  Dozens of times during those days she would look at the telephone sitting on the desk in front of her and think how simple it would be just to phone Glen. She could punch in the familiar numbers and in thirty seconds tell him what she needed and when she would be accessible, but in the end she did not, because she was fairly certain that she would be found out, and that the repercussions would be heavy.

  She was fully aware that she was being watched. It was only to be expected. All of the newcom
ers were under careful scrutiny. She suspected that she was more closely watched than the others simply because she was involved in teaching the children, and the Change authorities needed to be certain that she could be trusted not to introduce subversive outside ideas. Her classes were monitored, the papers the students wrote for her gone over by Dominique or one of the others, her reading list vetted, her computer time observed. She took care to stick to the syllabus, and allowed only those diversions and creative ideas that fit with the community beliefs. She kept a tight lid on her personal thoughts, was careful not to voice too much criticism of the outside authorities, and left religion in the realm of sociology. She did not think her rooms had hidden microphones, but she took no chances. She wrote in her diary, she meditated with the others and by herself, she walked out into the desert each morning to watch the sun rise, and she took no chances.

  Her main goal was the gathering of information and worming her way into Steven’s confidence, and in both of these the school became her focal point. At first it seemed an ordinary enough teaching institution, despite its setting, with very little Change doctrine working its way into the curriculum. Gradually, this picture deepened.

  Ana had been given Teresa’s class—or, as she discovered, the class Teresa had been forced to assume when Change had lost two teachers, one to apostasy, the other to Boston. It seemed to Ana that her colleague stepped back into her former role as the school’s administrator with a trace more relief than a seeker after psychological hair shirts ought to display.

  Teresa’s removal from the classroom after five months inevitably created a great deal of reorganization and makeup work, and many after-school meetings with the other teachers. It seemed to Ana that the number of these requiring the presence of one particular instructor, Dov Levinski, was quite high, although as he was responsible for the math and science side of the curriculum, it made sense. Still, Ana was intrigued. When Steven began to come down for those meetings as well, although she recalled that Steven, too, had been trained in the hard sciences, she thought she might take a closer look.

  So it was that one afternoon two days before the planned museum trip, she walked into Teresa’s office with an administrative problem she had been saving up and found the three of them sitting at the round conference table. Teresa looked irritated at the disturbance and Dov surprised, but Steven merely wore his customary look of mild interest and wise inner amusement.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Ana said, coming farther into the room. “I needed to give you something, but I didn’t realize you were busy. I’ll just stick this on your desk.”

  Teresa nodded coldly and closed the file she had on the table in front of her, which may have hidden the specific information inside but at the same time revealed the cover to be PROPERTY OF THE ARIZONA STATE DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS. Seven such files lay on the table, four of them stacked in a pile to one side, the others distributed among the occupants of the conference table.

  “Anything I can do to help?” she asked brightly on her way past the table.

  “No thank you, Ana,” Teresa said repressively. Dov had closed his folder, too, and was patently waiting for her to leave the room, but Steven sat back in his chair and pushed his own file a couple of inches in her direction.

  “Yes,” he said. Teresa’s mouth dropped open and Dov looked equally startled. “Let’s see what Ana makes of this decision.”

  Ana stood and looked the situation over with care. She wanted to see what the files were, but she did not wish to alienate the two teachers, and although Dov was merely surprised at Steven’s words, Teresa’s dark cheeks had flushed. However, she couldn’t very well withdraw the offer once it had been accepted, so she walked over and sat down in the chair next to Steven’s, pulling the folder over in front of her.

  It consisted of the brief biography and not-so-brief criminal record of a fifteen-year-old boy named Edgardo Rufina, who three years earlier had gone to live with an alcoholic aunt in Kingman with two charges of prostitution in her past. He had been in and out of trouble ever since. In school he was getting one B, one D, and the rest Cs, and had spent at least a week in custody every term. His violent acts were escalating, with his last offense the serious one of assaulting a police officer.

  She read to the end and looked up. Steven reached across the table to retrieve the two folders from in front of Teresa and Dov and pushed them over to her. As she opened the first, Teresa stood.

  “Does anyone else want something to drink?” she asked in a taut voice. Dov did, Steven did not, and Ana thanked her and said no. Teresa took her time in the lounge, and returned with two glasses of iced tea as Ana was nearing the end of the third and last file. They waited until Ana closed that one, which like the second had concerned a young boy with few offenses but those serious and escalating, who had a family but one that was broken and itself marked by legal wrongdoings. Gabe Martinez, the boy of the second folder, had dropped out of school in Tucson; the third boy, Mark Gill, was in the process of flunking out in the border town of Nogales.

  “Which of the three?” Steven asked.

  Ana had been a teacher long enough to know a test when she heard one.

  “Well, it sort of depends on what you want,” she replied immediately, although keeping her voice casual, even diffident. “If your goal is to get a bad kid off the streets for a while, then by all means take Gabe or Mark and do society a favor. On the other hand, if you’re looking for a bright boy who’s acting out an impossible home situation and might respond to a positive environment, whose troublemaking has been spontaneous and emotional rather than premeditated and self-serving, then I’d say grab Edgardo. He’s even bright enough to keep up in school despite his brushes with the law.”

  “He’s not bright enough to avoid being caught,” Dov pointed out.

  “Some kids find the structured setting of being in custody a nice change compared to their home life,” Ana suggested mildly, and stood up. By the smug expression on Steven’s face she seemed to have passed his test, and nothing would now be gained by outstaying what small welcome she’d been given. On the contrary, enigmatic statements and tantalizing glimpses of Ana Wakefield’s abilities were precisely the effect she was striving for. A game, yes, but one she had to win.

  CHAPTER 16

  Letter via e-mail from Anne Waverly to Antony Makepeace, August 25, 1995

  The drive to the Heard Museum in downtown Phoenix took a little over three hours, so the bus carrying twenty-nine students and the twelve adults necessary to keep them in line left at seven in the morning. This would be the first time some of the students had been off the compound in months, and excitement was high. The adults, scattered throughout the bus, were kept busy asking them to sit down, changing seat partners who in some way or another rubbed on each other, and deflecting teenage misbehaviors.

  Ana was sitting toward the rear of the bus, looking four rows forward at the back of Jason Delgado, who, along with about half of the other eighth graders, had been included in this high school outing. He was rigid, staring out the window and radiating animosity, and the source of his discomfort was not difficult to determine: It was seated right beside him.

  In the aisle seat was an overweight blond boy with bad skin and a worse attitude. Bryan was two years older than Jason, looked younger, and resented the fact—and Jason—mightily. Ana already knew him as a troublemaker, although the school avoided that judgmental term, and she could see that he was deliberately provoking Jason with regular incursions of elbow and shoulder into the younger boy’s space and the odd muttered phrase, inaudible in the next row over the noise of the bus but causing Jason to stiffen further.

  After an hour and a half, the bus stopped to allow the cramped passengers to stretch and use the toilets. Ana walked her way over to the two teachers sitting in Jason’s section, one of whom was Dov Levinski, and suggested that either he or Bryan be moved.

  “We can’t, sorry,” said Dov.

  “Why not? Just trade seats wi
th somebody—Bryan gets along okay with Marcos; put him there.”

  “Bryan and Jason have to sit together,” he said. “Steven’s orders.”

  “Steven? But that’s—”Ana caught herself before she committed the offense of criticizing Steven, and changed it to “He must not be aware of the problems between the two boys.”

  “He knows,” Dov said curtly, and moved away to suggest that two girls might not want to squirt each other from the drinking fountain.

  Strange, Ana thought. Why would Steven force two boys who hate each other to sit together? And particularly when one of them was a boy in whom he had expressed an interest?

  They got through the rest of the trip without a scuffle and were met at the museum by three strong and determined-looking docents, who divided them up into groups with the big, scar-faced woodworker and shop teacher David Carteret in charge of the first group, Dov Levinski the second, and Teresa Montoya the third. As they went inside, Ana glanced at the map in her hands, looking for the location of the public telephones, and found one under some stairs near a rest room on the other side of the courtyard. It was very exposed, but she needed only two minutes to make the call. There didn’t seem to be much choice but to leave her group when everyone was safely in the depths of the museum and take an emergency bathroom break, hiding her diary and a brief note for Glen somewhere—in the towel dispenser perhaps, or the toilet seat cover case—and make the call. No time to find a photocopy machine; Glen would have to arrange the journal’s return somehow.