Final Solstice (5 page)

Chapter 9

The elevator ascended gracefully. Surrounded by glass, Mason had initially suffered the sickening feeling that he was being levitated or blown up by a steady wind. Dizzy, he tried not to look below his feet, through the glass to the awesome sight below, the marble tiles merging with the earthen floor, the stones in a perfect circle, their shadows lengthening in the glancing sunlight. He saw through the treetops, the lush grove, the rock tables, the flowing stream and the minor waterfalls pumped in from the northeast corner.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked his guide, Annabelle. She was petite and cute in a way, freckles on her cheeks, blonde hair parted down the middle and in curls around her face. He was struck with the sudden question whether Gabriel found her attractive and maybe some kind of workplace romance was going on. Maybe it was the way she stole sideways glances at him, as if she was sizing up her love interest’s father, unsure of what to say at this moment.

Suddenly, the elevator trip was taking too long. He couldn’t look away, still awed by the view—this time out the windows, over the rolling hills and swaying sycamores, up and across the veiled shadows in the mountains’ peaks and valleys under a broad sky of cobalt serenity.

“Beautiful,” he said belatedly.

“Thank you.” Annabelle blushed as if taking the compliment directly.

“Tell me,” Mason asked gazing up now, seeing they were about halfway up the tower, heading toward a thin platform. “How many people work here?”

“At this location? Nearly two hundred.”

“Really? Where?”

“Below, mostly. There are six sub-levels, plus two research labs. What you see here is really just our common area, a place of reflection, meditation and relaxation. We eat here, we have informal discussions, we talk before and after our shifts.”

“And your boss … he’s up there the whole time? What, like God, looking down on you all?”

Annabelle smiled. “You misunderstand. We’re not going to his office, he doesn’t have one. He walks among us, immerses himself in our work, talks with each of us, every day. No, we’re going to the rooftop glen, the Summit Grove. You’ll see when we get there. There’s no better place from which to view the world and to see clearly what needs to be done. It’s where all the important decisions are made.”

“I must say,” Mason argued, “this is one unusual company. Both in its architecture, and its people.”

“Thank you.” Annabelle said again. “And I must say, Mr. Grier, that you are one unusual man. Your children are special, talented. And you, well we hear great things about you.”

“You do? Like what? I’m just a weatherman.”

“You’re special. We need more people like you to continue our mission.”

“Not sure I’ll help with that, or that I can say I agree with your mission, but …”

“But you’ll listen.”

Mason nodded as they slowed, came to a stop. “Yes.”

O O O

Annabelle left him on the platform as she operated the lift to descend. “I’ll be back when you’re finished. Good luck.”

Mason stepped off, gingerly, onto the metal platform, expecting it to wobble, creak or something to jar him back into the elevator, but then with a swish of closing doors, there was nothing behind him anymore, the lift descending rapidly. And in front of him—an inviting stairway, made of polished wood, light brown like oak but Mason couldn’t quite place its type.

He ascended into a wood-lined hallway that darkened first, then filled with a transient sprinkling of light. He found himself counting the stairs until finally reaching twenty-one, and emerging into a clearing, expecting a surge of exposed brightness but finding another pleasant surprise: just as advertised, a rooftop glen, complete with eight standing stones, dolmens polished white, in a circle around the stairwell. Beyond the circle, under a hanging canopy of vines and flowering violets, were set two oak chairs, carved exquisitely to resemble a twisting of roots and swollen tree limbs, extending out over the shoulders, all expertly entwined to provide comfortable support.

Rising from the eastern chair, from where he had been sitting in thoughtful repose, glancing out through the vines toward the rising sun, Avery Solomon stood. He took large strides, yet seemed to be moving in slow motion, his smile widening, his red hair waving in the gentle wind. He passed between two of the great stones, bowing his head slightly as he entered the circle. “Mason Grier, it’s my pleasure.”

Extending his hand, Mason clasped that of his host and gave it an assured squeeze, matching the intensity that was offered. But he spoke coolly. “I recognize the voice, but I don’t know your name.”

“Forgive me. I am Avery Solomon.” His eyes twinkled and a pair of dragonflies suddenly appeared, hovering over his right shoulder, fluttering closer as if inspecting Mason and gauging his threat level. He gripped Mason’s hand tight and intently scrutinized him, as if looking for a spark of familiarity or recognition in Mason’s eyes, as if they’d met once, ages ago or in another lifetime.

“Mr. Solomon,” Mason pulled his hand back, and his throat tightened in a sudden feeling of vulnerability, like he realized, standing in the middle of these stones, that he might be intended as a sacrifice in some pagan ritual. “I am told I have you to thank for my daughter’s miraculous cure?”

“You have the earth to thank for that, Mason.” At the chairs he motioned for his guest to sit first. “Our world is full of secrets. We just need to know where to look, and how to look.”

“And how is that?” Mason asked, following Solomon out of the circle, where the air somehow felt clearer and his head too was lighter, freed from a low buzzing he had at first imagined to be from the dragonflies.

Solomon smiled as he surveyed the mountains rising as if birthed from the treetops. “Carefully.” He took a seat, settling into the carved oak chair. “Reverently.”

“So let’s get to it. Why am I here?” Mason shifted, feeling a little in awe, like standing before a great king, saint or wizard. “Why the attention, the drama, the cloak and dagger? The nearly giving my wife and I dual heart attacks, and me a concussion, only to come back and grant us the best gift of our lives?”

Ignoring the question, Solomon blinked and raised his head to the rising sun. “Let me ask you something, Mason. Looking out at the sky right now, watching the trees, feeling the wind, what would you, in your meteorological capacity, predict to be the forecast for the day?”

“What?”

“Just humor me.”

“I’m off the clock.”

“Just give it your best shot. Out here, without your computers and satellite links, without the weather maps and almanacs, what would you predict for the next few hours?”

Mason sighed heavily. “Okay, it’s going to be mostly sunny, seventy-six to seventy-nine by mid-day, with a clear starlit night, temps dropping into the low sixties.”

“Chance of rain?”

“None.”

“Really?”

“Yes, zero chance.”

Solomon turned slightly, and his eyes sparkled when they met Mason’s. “There’s an umbrella behind your chair. I suggest you get it ready.”

“For what?” Mason started to ask, when he saw Solomon get up and walk back into the circle. Once inside, ringed by the great eroded stones, he turned and spread his arms wide, with his palms up. His suit coat rippled and his ponytail whipped in a sudden easterly wind.

“I prefer to
feel
the weather first-hand Mason. Can I call you Mace?”

Mason was about to object. How did he even think of that nickname? Pamela was the only one.…

Solomon continued. “To become one with the weather, experiencing all its power and ferocity, tenderness and mercy …”

Mason again looked to the sky, but now with less confidence. The wind had indeed risen, gusting suddenly; ten miles per hour, now twenty. The pressure plummeted. He turned, and over the mountains, as if on cue, came a spreading darkness, a wave of clouds unrolling like a massive black carpet.

“Impossible.”

Solomon was laughing like a young boy. Now he was unbuttoning his shirt. He peeled off his jacket and then spun in circles, eyes closed against the wind. Suddenly the rooftop was enclosed in shade, the tumbling clouds massing directly overhead, plunging the valleys and the mountains and the forests into a gloom as dark as a winter’s twilight.

“I don’t believe this.” Mason said, only to have his words eradicated by a deafening peal of thunder as an ensuing flash of light heralded the release of the sky’s floodgates.

And the rain poured down.

It fell in sheets, instantly soaking Mason, drenching him from head to toe, nearly blinding him in the violence shrieking from the sky. Solomon shouted in joy, his arms high, still spinning, mouth open, catching the rain as it blasted down upon him. Lightning crackled above and behind him, but from Mason’s angle it looked as if spider web flashes arced from Solomon’s very fingertips and erupted from his mouth and his eyes.

Then his head whipped around and his gaze locked on Mason’s.

Time seemed to grind to a halt and the rain fell in slow-motion, each drop pounding onto Solomon’s bare chest and shoulders, splattering into earthen craters at his feet, the droplets exploding into the rising puddles.

Finally, after what seemed like ages had passed and the land was swept clean, the rain slowed, the lightning fizzled and the world caught up and time accelerated in a hurry.

The clouds rolled on their way, rumbling morosely, exhausted but still irate and grumbling as they dissipated out over the mountains, heading toward the ocean.

“Impossible,” Mason whispered again. He wiped at his face, wringed out his shirt. He blinked and shook his head, then looked to Solomon.

Head down, stringy, dripping red hair over his face, Solomon’s eyes blazed.

“You knew,” Mason said. “Somehow you knew, arranged for this … this dramatic demonstration. Arranged for me to be up here at just the right time.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, you had to. Don’t know how, or why, but you did.”

“Of course I did,” Solomon said, just above a whisper. “What other alternative could there be?”

Mason shrugged. “No other possible alternative, except …”

“What? What were you going to say?” Solomon stepped closer, still dripping, his eyes blinking away the drops. “That I somehow … created the storm?”

Mason shook his head. “No. You knew, somehow you could predict it. But to do that with such accuracy …”

“Would be miraculous in its own right, would it not?” Solomon clasped his hands together.

“So it’s like Mark Twain!” Mason said.

“Sorry?”

“Just like … like what was it, the
Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court
? The time traveler knew about the pending eclipse, the precise day and time it was going to happen, so he was able to amaze the King, convince him he was a sorcerer.”

Solomon laughed as he shook his head like a freshly bathed mongrel, then reached for his wet shirt. “So you think I’m a time traveler? Back from the future with precise knowledge of a freak weather anomaly?”

“No, of course not. But by the same token, knowledge of the future, if one could truly predict it, is a powerful tool, especially in a showman’s hands.”

“If I’m a showman Mr. Grier, what’s the punchline? What do I want out of all this showmanship?”

“That’s obvious. You want to impress me.” Mason smoothed back his hair, licked his lips, never taking his eye off of Solomon. “I just don’t know why. Why you’d be interested in little old me, my recent Meteorologist of the Year award notwithstanding? But right now I’m more concerned with the how than the why. How you were able to know this storm would hit? I desperately want to look at the time-lapsed radar for this area, check the barometric pressure leading up to the event, analyze the front patterns and …”

Solomon held up a hand. “What’s really going to blow your mind, Mr. Grier, isn’t how I knew this storm was coming, but
when
I knew it. What if I were to tell you I knew about it, down to its duration, area of coverage and wind speed, over four weeks ago?”

Mason blinked. “I’d say you were insane. The most sophisticated weather forecasting tools can only predict out a few days, maybe six to ten, with any degree of accuracy, and it’s always less and less clear the farther out you go. We rely on almanacs, trailing weather patterns from across the country and out to sea. Global and regional satellite data. There are so many variables, so many factors that even the most sophisticated software and weather analytical tools can only make educated guesses.”

“Chaos Theory,” suggested Solomon. “A butterfly flapping its wings in Madagascar might contribute to a hurricane in Cuba the next week. Am I right?”

“An overly-dramatic Hollywood simplification, but basically you’ve got it.”

“Well, Mace, then how did I do it?”

“I’m dying to know.”

Solomon grinned. “Agree to work for me, and I’ll show you.”

“I don’t know.…”

“I’ll do that one better, Mason. Come work for me and you’ll be the one to show me, to demonstrate how to complete what we’ve started, to perfect the tools we’ve already created.”

“So you’ve got some sort of model? A complex software forecasting tool? And it’s good enough to predict the two-minute storm we just had, down to the exact time, weeks in advance?”

“Imagine,” Solomon said, “the practical uses. Hurricane warnings can come a month ahead, rather than just days or hours, allowing for all the necessary preparations, evacuations or fortifying that needs to happen. Imagine if we’d had something like this before Katrina.”

Mason blinked, thinking, considering the potential—if it worked.

“Imagine,” Solomon continued, “selling this service to agricultural companies, state and world governments, helping them plan their harvests. Wineries can protect their vines from early frosts, farmers can know far in advance which crops will thrive best in the season’s expected weather. The possibilities are endless. Think of the good this could do the world over if we can eliminate some of the chaos. If we can peer through the randomness, the sudden and sweeping changes Mother Nature hurls our way—the devastating natural disasters, the floods, the tornadoes, the ice storms and blizzards.