"Well, sorry. Damon's been watching us both for a while."
"Both of you?"
"Yeah. That's why he killed me. To get to Marsh. Lucky me."
"But he can't get to Marsh."
"Yeah, he can. It all started when Marsh broke the crucible."
Ree looked like she was about to pass out. If she hadn't reached up to grab the overhead bar, I think she would have gone over.
"He broke a crucible?" she said, barely above a whisper. "How did he get it?"
"I don't know, but he did. I saw him break it myself. He was pissed off about something and threw it against a wall. The thing exploded with blood and then the ground started shaking. Damon said it had some kind of spell over him and breaking it somehow made it weaker. Does any of this make sense to you?"
Ree fell back into her chair. When she looked to me, I saw tears in her eyes.
"Unfortunately, yes."
I held back from telling her about how I knew about the other crucibles and that I was hunting for one in the Black. I didn't mention the poleax either. I wanted to know more before admitting to anything.
"How do you know?" I asked. "I thought you couldn't go to the Light."
"I discovered the crucibles when I was alive."
It was my turn to grab on to the overhead bar for support. "So that's how Marsh got it?" I exclaimed. "From you?"
"It's why I'm here," she said. "I foolishly set something in motion that I'm desperately trying to stop before it goes too far."
"What is it?" I asked. "What's happening?"
Ree wiped the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. "The destruction of the Morpheus Road."
The subway car lurched and stopped. Ree stood up, wiped her eyes, and once again looked like her confident self.
"You need to see this," she said as the doors slid open.
She strode out of the train and I was right after her. The signs on the pillars of this station read 42ND STREET. As we climbed the stairs, we started passing people. They looked like more of Adeipho's soldiers. Or Ree's Guardians. Or whatever the heck these freaks were. None of them wore masks, which was a relief, but they were still a strange mix of types. There were men and women. Some were dressed in ancient rags. Others wore modern suits. I saw nurses and soldiers and even a UPS guy. There was nothing that tied these people together, other than the fact that they were in Ree's vision. Someone was stationed at every intersection, which made me think they were guards or sentries. Ree gave a quick nod to a few, but that was it. None of them seemed to care that she was there. They were too busy staring at me. I was an outsider. An intruder. Trouble.
We climbed out of a stairwell into a wide, well-lit corridor with a newsstand and a coffee shop that looked familiar. I'd been there before. In the Light, anyway. It was strange to see the place so deserted because normally it was loaded with thousands of people. I followed Ree around a corner and we stopped before entering the vast expanse of Grand Central Terminal. It was a massive indoor train station that could probably house a 747. I'd been there with my parents, and with Marsh when we took the train into the city. Dad passed through every day on his way to work. It was a magical place. A crossroads. It was designed to inspire, from the massive glass windows that let in soft daylight, to the soaring ceiling that was covered in twinkle lights that were arranged like giant constellations.
Besides the fact that almost nobody was there, the place was different from how I remembered it. There were huge lighted billboards covering most every wall, advertising everything from watches to whiskey. One entire wall of the concourse held a giant lighted mural that was a stunning photo of a snowy countryside. It was an advertisement for Kodak film. It was definitely Grand Central Terminal, but not the one I remembered.
"This is 1978, remember?" Ree said, reading my mind. Her voice echoed through the monstrous, empty space.
Oh. Right. All of those billboards must have been there back in her day. They were colorful but kind of tacky-looking, which is probably why they were eventually taken down to reveal the historic station. In spite of the ugly advertisements, there was plenty about the place that I recognized. The portals to the tracks lined the wall to our left. The wall opposite the tracks held the ticket booths, over which were the big train schedules. In the center of the huge room sat the information booth. I remembered there being a big round brass ball that held a clock on top of it. The brass ball was there, but the clock wasn't. From where we were standing I couldn't tell what had taken its place. What I did see were four of Ree's Guardians standing around the booth as if protecting it.
"What's over there?" I asked.
"It's what I want you to see," she replied.
Our footsteps echoed through the empty cavern as we approached the guarded information booth.
"I'm sorry you were dragged into this, Coop," she said. "Both of you. It must be because of your relationship with Marsh and his relationship to me. But like it or not, you're in it now."
"Yeah, whatever it is."
"I'll tell you what it isn't. It isn't about protecting Marsh, or saving yourself. It's far bigger than that."
We arrived at the information booth.
"Beneath this structure is the Rift," she explained.
"I thought there was a lower level to the station," I said.
"In the Light, sure. In my vision too, but the Rift leads to an entirely different place."
I looked at the information booth to see . . . nothing out of the ordinary.
"Gotta say, I'm not sure why this needs guarding. What exactly makes this a rift?"
"This isn't Grand Central Terminal," she said, sounding a little irritated. "This just happens to be my vision. It's something tangible for the Guardians to exist in. The Rift is real. It exists and it would be here no matter what the vision was."
"So what exactly is the Rift?"
"It's a tear in the fabric of existence," she explained. "There's only one and we're here to make sure there will never be another."
"A tear in the . . . ? You're making my head hurt."
"I know. I'm sorry. But you need to understand what it is, how it came to be, and why it's critical that we protect it."
It all seemed so incredible until I focused on the brass ball that used to hold the clock. It was a beach-ball-size casing that stood on a fancy pedestal. Circling the base was the word "Information." There were four large openings in the globe where there used to be four clock faces. The brass structure was empty, except for one small item. Suspended in the center of the globe was a small golden ball about the size of a plum that was covered with strange hieroglyphic-type carved symbols.
I had found the crucible.
"Tell me," I said, staring at the golden orb.
. . . and Ree told me the truth about her death, her afterlife, and why Damon wanted me to destroy the crucible.
Terri "Ree" Seaver's Tale
I've heard that curiosity killed the cat.
But I never bought into that because to me, curiosity makes things happen. The thirst for knowledge is what drives the evolution of societies and the advancement of everything from technology to art to the basic understanding of the human condition. I was drawn to photography out of curiosity. I found that by capturing images I could peel back the superficial layers of a subject to reveal an inner truth. A photograph freezes and captures a moment that can be studied in a way that is impossible in the fleeting moments of real time. A photograph is a window into another world. An honest world.
I say this not to justify the things I did, but to try and explain what led me into making the choices I made. I was not driven by greed or glory. That doesn't mean I was not responsible for what happened. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I told myself that there would be no harm. I was simply searching for knowledge. What I found was that curiosity may not have killed the cat, but that's small consolation because there are some things worse than death.
"I found it!" Ennis yelled. "It is here, just as I thought!" Enn
is Mobley had burst through the door of my hotel room clutching an ancient book with yellowing pages and a brown cracked binding. He was acting like Marsh on Christmas morning, thrilled with the anticipation of unwrapping newfound treasures. He opened the book on the bed and fell to his knees to leaf through the antique volume. "I told you, Terri," he said, teasing. "You should never doubt me. I am far too thorough."
"And tenacious," I added.
Ennis and I had worked together for years. Whenever I traveled on a photo assignment, he handled the logistics, which freed me up to concentrate on taking pictures. We had been everywhere together, from the Blue Mountains of New South Wales to Prince Edward Island to the Great Wall of China. Ennis was Jamaican and though he tried to temper his accent, the lilting island patois usually snuck through. Especially when he was excited.
"It is here, near the town of Messopotamo," he announced triumphantly.
Ennis was a student of history, particularly of Greek history, which is why he was thrilled when I asked him to come along on this assignment. It was a two-week gig to photograph villages along the western coast of Greece for a travel magazine. It sounds exotic but it wasn't particularly exciting work. There are just so many ways that you can shoot a small harbor to make it look quaint and inviting. But the towns themselves were lovely and the weather was perfect. It was the kind of trip I would have loved to take with Michael and Marsh, but work and school prevented that.
"How did you find this book?" I asked.
Ennis smiled. "As you say, I am tenacious."
I gave him a look that said, "Just give me a straight answer."
"It was in the town library," he answered.
The book showed a drawing of a stone building that looked like an ancient temple with a large dome and arched doorways. The text of the book and the inscription beneath the drawing were in Greek, which meant it looked like gibberish to somebody who had barely passed high school French.
"The building dates back to Roman times," Ennis explained. "The English translation is 'Temple of the Morning Light,' though over the centuries it was also used as a school and a hospital."
"So it's a temple, not a tomb."
"Originally, yes. But its history is clear. It is what I have been looking for."
Whenever we were headed to a new destination, Ennis would first scour the Internet to research the history of the place to try and uncover obscure nuggets of information that might slip past the casual traveler. His feeling was that these jobs were special opportunities to visit far-flung locales that he wouldn't normally get to. It's one of the things I loved about Ennis. He was as curious as I was.
"So you were right," I said. "It's here. Satisfied?"
Ennis gave me a surprised look. "Well, no. I want to see it for myself."
"I was afraid you'd say that. We don't have time."
"But we do!" he exclaimed. "Our flight does not leave Athens until Monday morning and you have already completed your assignment. How many quaint harbors must you photograph?"
He had me there.
"That gives us two full days," he went on. "It is only twenty kilometers to Messopotamo. A short drive. Though I believe we should make the journey as the ancients did."
"And how's that?"
"We should drive to Ammoudia and travel by boat up the River Acheron."
I took a deep breath and said, "The River Styx."
Ennis smiled. "You know more of this myth than you let on."
I shrugged. "It's a great story . . . a river that leads to a portal where you can speak with the dead. I'll bet tour boats leave every half hour."
"Pilgrims no longer believe in the Oracle of the Dead, but the ruins of the Necromanteio are a popular tourist destination," Ennis explained.
"Sure. Who wouldn't want to spend valuable vacation time consorting with the dead?"
Ennis frowned. "From what I have read it was all a hoax."
"Gee, you think?"
"I have no desire to see the Necromanteio. I wish to find the temple."
I stared straight into Ennis's eyes, trying to read him.
"Why are you so interested?"
"How can I not be?" he answered innocently. "To find a tomb that is thought only to exist in myth and prove that it is real? Those opportunities do not happen often."
"I don't believe in myths," I said bluntly.
"Nor do I," he argued. "My facts are based on history, not fables. And my interest did not begin when you called me about making this trip, Terri. I learned of this story years ago and have done extensive research. It has proven to be a fascinating hobby."
"Sure. For Indiana Jones."
"I do not seek adventure. Solving a centuries-old puzzle would be reward enough."
"I don't know," I said doubtfully. "You'd think if it was really there, somebody would have found it by now."
"You assume they would want to find it. The story states quite plainly that what is buried should remain buried."
"Sounds like good advice," I said.
"It does if you believe in myths." He smiled mischievously and added, "But you do not."
I still wasn't convinced.
"Look at it this way," he said. "At the very least it will be an interesting side trip and you will take photographs that will be more unique than the cliché travel shots you have been making. The temple alone is worth photographing, is it not? But if there is some small truth to the story, you may be the first to bring an image to the world that has never before been seen. I know you, Terri. Surely that intrigues you."
I looked at the sketch in the book that lay open on the bed. I had to admit, it was a unique structure. I wondered what it would look like at sunset with the low, warm light . . . and what secrets it might be hiding within.
"What was the guy's name again?" I asked.
"The English translation is 'Damon of Epirus.' Though he has been referred to as Damon the Butcher."
"I'm guessing that wasn't because he made hamburgers."
"No," Ennis said somberly. "At least not from animals."
Three hours later I found myself on a small boat being powered by a rumbling old smoke-belching engine traveling up the River Acheron, headed for a tiny town that supposedly housed the portal into the next life. As always, Ennis had made all the arrangements. He knew I'd agree to go and hired the boat long before he showed me the book with the drawing of the Temple of the Morning Light.
Ennis stood at the bow, scanning the shore of the narrow river, soaking up the view and the hot afternoon sun. The water was a deep green-blue and the banks were tangled with grass. There wasn't a building in sight. It was like we had gone back in time.
Ennis never wore a hat, no matter how hot it was. He had on a short-sleeved striped shirt and long khaki pants and looked about as fresh and cool as if he were hanging out on our porch in Stony Brook sipping lemonade. A backpack was slung casually over his shoulder that I hoped held a thermos with the aforementioned lemonade.
Unlike Ennis, I was sweating like we were slogging up the Amazon. I wore the same wide-brimmed khaki hat that I always took on such adventures. My light skin didn't take kindly to the burning sun. Marsh called it my bwana hat because he said it made me look like I was going on safari. He wasn't far from right. I never shot a gun in my life, but I was always on the hunt . . . for images. I wore shorts, my hikers, and a lightweight T-shirt. I wanted to travel light so I was armed with only my Nikon digital SLR with a single 10-to-120-millimeter zoom lens.
At the helm of the boat was an elderly captain with skin as dark as my boots. He didn't speak English, which wasn't a big deal because Ennis knew enough Greek to get us where we were going. As he piloted our course up the quiet river, I got the feeling that he had traveled this route many times before, ferrying tourists to the Necromanteio. I wondered what he would have thought if he knew our destination was someplace entirely different.
Ennis joined me by the rail and said, "Imagine how many pilgrims traveled this very same route in the hop
es of speaking with their departed ancestors."
"But it was all a sham."
"That is the popular belief. People would stay at the Necromanteio for days while sorcerers prepared them to get a glimpse through the gate into the afterlife. But that preparation meant taking large doses of hallucinogenic herbs. After a few days of that, the visitors believed anything they saw."
"So they thought they were looking into the next life because they were stoned out of their minds?"
"Apparently. A pulley system was discovered that would levitate the sorcerers, who would pretend to be spirits."
"How very Scooby-Doo."
"But the pilgrims believed and I wonder if there might have been some truth to it."
"Seriously? A doorway to the afterlife? You'd think something like that would make the evening news." Ennis chuckled. "I do not think it is so simple but I accept that some places hold spiritual significance. I do believe that there is life after death and perhaps it is easier to connect with spirits in some places than others."
"That's pretty—I don't know, what's the word? Cosmic?"
"Perhaps the word you are looking for is 'nutty,'" he said.
"I was being nice."
He smiled and shrugged. "I simply believe in possibilities."
"What's so important about this tomb? The guy was a soldier, right?"
"Damon was a general in Alexander the Great's army," Ennis explained. "The accounts I've read claim that Damon was responsible for slaughtering thousands, most after the battle was complete and victory assured."
"So he was a murderer."
"Of epic proportions. He was not satisfied with simply vanquishing an enemy. He wanted to wipe them out and often did so by his own hand."
"Seriously? He personally killed these people?" I asked.
"From what I've read he never took part in the battles himself. He was strictly the tactician and quite brilliant at it. Then, once the fighting was complete, he would line up the prisoners and behead them himself."