“That,” Cass suggested, “is where all the controversy begins.”
“Truly,” agreed Brendan. “Our view is that the aim of the process of creating all these independent conscious agents is to promote the formation of harmonious communities of self-aware individuals capable of knowing and enjoying the Creator, and joining in the ongoing creation of the cosmos.” He paused, then added with a shrug, “In a nutshell.”
Cass bit her lip. This sort of talk always made her uneasy: the grand claims of visionaries, charlatans, and madmen sounded very much alike to her. She had had a bellyful of that in Sedona, and before that from various cranks with whom her father had, at one time or another in his career, chosen to entertain. She was fed up with their quasi-scientific and irrational beliefs.
“I see we’re confusing you,” Brendan observed. “Perhaps we should start again.” He bent his head in thought, pressing his fingertips together beneath his chin. Then, brightening suddenly, he asked, “Have you ever heard of the Omega Point?”
“Not as such,” Cass replied. She searched her memory, then shook her head. “No.”
“The Omega Point is conceived as the end of time and the beginning of eternity, the point at which the purpose of the universe is finally and fully realised. When the universe reaches the point where more people desire the union, harmony, and fulfilment intended by the Creator, then the balance will have been tipped, so to speak, and the cosmos will proceed to the Omega Point—that is, its final consummation. The universe will be transformed into an incorruptible, everlasting reality of supreme goodness.”
“Heaven, in other words,” Cass concluded.
“Yes, but not another realm or world,” corrected Mrs. Peelstick. “This world, this universe, transfigured—the New Heaven and the New Earth. It will be a place of eternal celebration of God’s love and goodness where we will live and work to achieve the full potential for which humanity was created.”
“Which is?” wondered Cass, acutely aware that she had managed to sound sarcastic again.
Mrs. Peelstick returned her wondering glance as if to say, Don’t you know?
“I’m not trying to be difficult,” blurted Cass. “I’d really like to hear your theory.”
“Human destiny,” replied Mrs. Peelstick, “lies in the mastery of the cosmos for the purpose of creating new experiences of goodness, beauty, and truth for all living things.”
“And,” added Brendan quickly, “extending those values into the rest of the universe at large. You see, the universe as it exists now is but Phase One, you might say—it is where living human souls are generated and learn the conditions of consciousness and independence. The ultimate fulfilment of the lives so generated, however, will only be found in the next phase of creation—a transformation we can hardly imagine.”
Cass shook her head. Clearly, she had paddled into deep water— but what did any of it have to do with inter-dimensional travel or, come to that, with her?
“The quest for the Skin Map is merely the beginning,” said Mrs. Peelstick. “But there is so much more.”
“The Skin Map?” wondered Cass.
“Has no one mentioned that?” asked Brendan.
Cass shook her head. “Not in so many words.”
“Well then, I will tell you a story, shall I? Many years ago a man named Arthur Flinders-Petrie—”
Mrs. Peelstick put up a hand. “Please, spare the poor girl.”
“Mrs. P. has heard all this a time or two before,” Brendan confided.
“Yes, and I don’t need to hear it again now.” She gave them both a sunny smile. “If you two will excuse me, I am going to pick up some things at the grocer’s—and if you will take my advice, you will get out and enjoy this beautiful day. Cass has never seen Damascus. Why not show her around the Old Quarter, Brendan?”
“That is a splendid idea, Rosemary. I’ll do just that.”
“Good.” Rosemary started away. “Don’t wear her out with your ramblings, Brendan—you know how you are—and try not to be too late. I’ll have a nice supper ready when you return.”
CHAPTER 22
In Which Despair Gives Birth to Audacity
The journey to Black Mixen Tump always filled Charles Flinders-Petrie with dread. Although the gentle hills of the Cotswold countryside appeared benign enough, it was the destination that cast a pall over all that went before. He felt it now—and he could not even see the great mound from the window of his carriage. But it was there, hidden from view, waiting for him. The thought made his heart skip a beat.
Almost fifty years had passed since his father, Benedict, had introduced him to the infamous mound—and still the thing occupied a baleful place in his psyche. An earthwork of incalculable age, the tump had been raised by the hands of primitive labourers using nothing more than deer-antler picks and reed baskets. Why this primitive society thought it necessary to build yet another hill in a landscape of nothing but hills remained a mystery. “The Age of the Monument Builders,” murmured Charles to himself. An age, so far as he could tell, that was rife with mysteries of every kind.
The carriage lurched and took the turning in the road, leaving behind the village of Banbury, and Charles regretted his decision to come to this godforsaken place. Even more, he regretted that the decision was necessary. But something had to be done. His last exchange with Douglas had made that abundantly clear.
The boy had always been headstrong; as a child he had been willful, wayward, intractable. Charles, bereft after the death of his dear wife in childbirth, despaired of the boy’s rebellious and destructive nature and packed him off to boarding school in the hope that a stern institution would instil the discipline he himself was unable to generate. Stoneycroft School had made the lad more mannered and well behaved, to be sure; but it had also made him far more devious. That, combined with a self-confidence bordering on reckless audacity, cast Douglas as a most formidable adversary to anyone or anything that crossed him. In short, from a selfish, unbearable youth, Douglas was fast becoming a cunning, implacable, and dangerous young man.
“I do not see what difference a piece of paper makes anyway,” Douglas had complained during their last in a long series of confrontations. “Nothing they teach is any use on the quest. Anyway, it is my birthright.” He glared at his father. “Or will you deny me that—as you have denied me everything else?”
Charles exploded. “Ingrate! How can you say that? In all good conscience, how can you possibly even think it? I have denied you nothing.” Rising from his chair, he began pacing about the parlour. “All I ask is that you gain a little more learning, apply yourself to your studies, show me you can achieve something through your own efforts.” He looked at Douglas’ sullen face and saw he was not getting through to his unruly son. He tried another tack. “You are not stupid, Douglas. In fact, in many ways you are amongst the most intelligent persons I know. If you were to apply even the smallest portion of your native wit and mind to your studies, you would achieve wonderful things.
“Listen, I’ve secured your place at Christ Church, and all is arranged,” Charles continued. “Three years is nothing—you’ll be busy, make new friends, and establish associations that will serve you through the rest of your life. If you apply yourself, time will pass just like that.” Charles clicked his fingers. “On the day you finish your exams, I will personally place the map in your hands.”
“Why should I believe you?” grumbled Douglas. “How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“Now, son—that’s not fair.”
“You should know—you’re the one who sold grandfather’s collection and gambled away the money. Was that fair?”
“That was wrong. It was a sad and terrible mistake, and I’ve been paying for it all my life.” He thrust out pleading hands. “Douglas, please, try to understand. I know I have kept it from you—I admit as much—but the last thing I wanted was to see you make the same mistakes I made when I was your age.”
“So just because you fai
led, now I have to make up for it. Isn’t that what you mean?”
“All I want is for you to be prepared. I want you to be better at the quest than I was.” He paused. “And yes, I failed. But you have it in you to succeed. To do that you must be thoroughly grounded in language and history. Oxford can give you that.”
“And if I refuse to go? What then?”
“It is not as if I am asking the impossible,” Charles pointed out. “It is for your own good, after all.”
“Since when have you ever known what was good for me, Father?” The question was a slap in the face.
“Douglas, there is no cause for—”
“I see it now, Father,” he sneered. “You get sent down in disgrace, so now I have to go and restore the family name. You tried the quest and failed, so now you want to keep everyone else from even trying.”
“This discussion is over,” declared Charles, collapsing behind his desk. “I have told you what I expect and what you must do to inherit. You either take up your studies or suffer the consequences.”
Douglas rose from his chair, his fists balled at his sides. “You don’t frighten me with your threats, old man.” He turned and stormed from the room, slamming the door so hard it rattled the lamps on the mantle.
“Douglas!” called Charles after his son. “Come back!”
Another door slammed in the hall, and the house was quiet once more.
Why does it always have to be like this? wondered Charles, shaking his head sadly.
That was a two-year-old argument, and still it rankled. Douglas had taken up his place at Christ Church, but from all Charles was able to learn, his son rarely attended lectures and was never seen in any of the university’s libraries. Douglas might as well have been a ghost as far as his tutors were concerned. Then, when the demands for money from the town’s merchants and publicans began arriving, Charles read the writing on the wall. He sent pleading letters, one after another . . . letters that went unanswered, never a reply.
Then came the straw that broke the longsuffering camel’s back: an urgent message from the college chaplain stating that, along with two other students, Douglas had been arrested for being drunk and disorderly and starting a public affray. The Rev. Philpott indicated that the young miscreant could be released on bail of fifty pounds; otherwise he would be forced to spend time in gaol until the case was called to court.
Filled with despair, Charles had made up his mind before he had even read the signature on the letter. Douglas would remain in gaol and take his chances with the magistrate. He could not count on his father to save his worthless hide this time; it might even do the boy some good to suffer the consequences of his actions. But gaol was at best merely a stopgap, not a solution—and a solution was desperately needed. If Charles was ever to have any peace, he would have to be bold and ruthless—more audacious than he had ever been in his life to now.
He spent three days and nights in intense cogitation, thinking up and then discarding one desperate plan after another until he hit upon an idea that offered the perfect solution. Thus, as the sun rose early in the morning on a clear May day, Charles made the decision that would solve his immediate problem. Unfortunately, this decision, born of despair, would also confound the quest for generations to come.
The carriage jolted back and forth over the rutted road, moving deeper into the countryside. When Charles stirred and looked out the window once more he saw the dark, unnaturally conical shape of the mound looming in the near distance and felt the skin on the back of his neck tingle with apprehension. Black Mixen Tump was only a portal, he told himself. He had used it before; there was nothing to fear.
Charles drew a deep breath and glanced at the flat wooden box beside him on the seat. He pulled the box closer and rested his hand on the polished lid. If ever he needed assurance that he was doing the right thing, he needed it now. “God help me,” he whispered. “Give me a sign.”
He turned his gaze to the imposing dark mass of the tump and saw the Three Trolls—the ancient oaks growing from the flattened top of the mound. As he watched, three crows rose from the uppermost branches—one from each tree. Was it the sign he had requested?
Charles shrugged. It would have to do.
CHAPTER 23
In Which Kit Plays the Waiting Game
They have all gone, you say?” wondered Abbot Cisneros. He raised his eyes from the work on his desk and pushed his glasses up his nose.
“Yes, Your Eminence—all are gone,” replied Brother Antolín, the abbot’s secretary.
“Where have they gone?” The abbot put down his pen and blew on the ink, still wet on the page before him.
“To the ecumenical conference, Eminence,” replied the brother. “The one convened by Cardinal Bernetti.”
“The Lucerne Conference, yes, I remember.” The abbot picked up his pen once more and waved it in the air. “Is there no one else?”
“It would seem not, Holiness.”
The abbot replaced his pen on the desk once more. “Am I to believe that no one else speaks English in this entire abbey? One of our many international visitors, perhaps?”
“We considered that, of course,” replied Brother Antolín. “But it was thought unwise to involve outsiders in what may turn out to be a sensitive matter.”
“Ah.” The abbot picked up his pen yet again. “You are right. Best keep this to ourselves until we know what the outcome might be.” He paused, thought for a moment, then wondered, “Have you asked at chapter?”
“I did, Eminence—before bringing it to you. But it seems those possessing a fluency with English are all in attendance at the conference.”
“How extraordinary.” The abbot resumed writing.
The secretary folded his hands before him and awaited the result of his superior’s deliberation.
Presently the Abbot of Montserrat finished the sentence he was writing and asked, “Have you seen this fellow?”
“Yes, Eminence. He appears ordinary enough—though he is dressed very oddly.”
“Some would say the same of us,” observed Abbot Cisneros.
“Indeed, Eminence.”
“You say the local police merely dropped him off at the gate with the porter, is that right?”
Brother Antolín nodded. “That is what I understand.”
“And no one can be found to speak to him?”
“It is thought that Brother Lazarus knows someone—an occasional assistant, a German nun, I believe—who speaks English.”
“Aha!” The abbot raised his pen triumphantly. “Summon the sister and proceed accordingly.” He returned to his writing. “Oh—and, brother, I think Prior Donato should deal with this from now on. See that he is informed of all pertinent details.”
“Tomas is in Lucerne at the conference, Eminence.”
“Of course he is.” The abbot waved him away. “Bring word when the matter has been successfully concluded.”
“It will be done.” Brother Antolín backed from the office, closing the doors as he went, and returned to his own desk in the outer vestibule where a young novitiate was waiting. Addressing the monk, he said, “Abbot Cisneros has decided to leave the matter in my hands for the time being. Take word to Brother Lazarus that I wish him to meet me at the porter’s lodge. He is to bring his assistant—the German nun. She will serve as our translator.”
After being dropped at the gate by the policeman, Kit had been left in the care of the porter, a squat Spaniard with pudgy hands and the face of a cherub. Kit spent the next few hours idling in the gatekeeper’s lodge as a sort of quasi-captive—he was not locked up, nor was he free to go, for every time he got up and tried to leave, the porter came running after him, scolding in Spanish, and he was pushed back into the lodge. Kit was given to know that he was being made to wait until adequate provision could be made for him. In the meantime he was given cool lemon water to drink and some small, dry biscuits. Occasionally church bells sounded, and once a priest came to look at him, exchanged
a brief word with the porter, and disappeared again. Kit, none the wiser, was left to himself once more.
There was no point in getting stroppy with the fellow, Kit decided, and in any case getting stroppy in Spanish was quite beyond his abilities. His best option was simply to remain pleasant and compliant, and wait for whatever Providence would toss his way. The waiting continued, and the day drew on towards evening. Then, shortly after the bells in the abbey tower sounded for the third time, Kit heard voices in the gravel yard outside. The door opened, and the gatekeeper motioned for Kit to come out. He was met by three priests: two very large hulks in dusty, worn habits—manual workers, Kit decided—and the priest who had looked in on him earlier.
“Gracias,” he said, marshalling the little Spanish he possessed. The priest smiled, patted him on the bare shoulder, and motioned him to follow. Happy to oblige if it meant he could at last leave the confines of the gatehouse, Kit stepped out into a day fading towards evening. The jagged grey peaks, blushing pink in the light of the setting sun, soared high above the abbey precinct, casting all in shadow. The air was already starting to cool with the approach of night.
The little delegation climbed a long, winding boulevard to an enclosed courtyard. One side of the courtyard fronted the great abbey church, which seemed to be carved into the very stone of the mountain; on another side was a grand stone edifice with a baroque façade. Kit was conducted into the building, where a tiled vestibule gave way to a long panelled corridor that smelled of beeswax and wood polish. He was marched to a waiting room that contained nothing but wooden chairs lined up around the perimeter.
“Siéntense, por favor,” said the priest.
Kit entered the room, and the door was closed behind him. “What a palaver,” he muttered.
Having spent most of the day sitting, he decided to pace instead, and occupied himself with the same questions he had been asking since his arrival. What were they doing? Why couldn’t they just let him go? What were the chances of getting a proper shirt and trousers? His animal-skin clothing, in this setting, made him look and feel ridiculous.