The Call of Distant Shores (26 page)

There is no answer. Two choices have presented themselves to me. The first is this. I should go to the door, cast it open, and gaze into the cool, calming depths of the night-darkened sky. Then I should go to Eric and drag him from the insanity he'd enmeshed himself so deeply in that I'd been dragged behind, beyond the strength of reason and rational thought.

I have chosen the second. I have called the emergency room at the hospital, they are on their way now. If my theory is correct, my memories should hold the world together as long as no further disruptive data reaches them. The two pencils are sharp. I only pray that my eyes are the key. At least I shall never again look into a mirror. I will be safe.

"Welcome," the woman said, bright luminous eyes glittering in the dim, yellowish light of the huge hallway. Behind him, Alex could feel the heavy dampness of the storm. His hair was matted to his forehead, and he reached up self-consciously to brush stray drops of rainwater from his eyes.

He did not speak immediately. She was beautiful, despite being almost ten years his senior, and he was soaking wet; he'd hardly prepared himself for such an ignominious first meeting.

"I'm Alex Beauchard," he said at last, stepping inside and letting the huge door close behind him. "I've come to study the professor's papers."

"I've expected you, Mr. Beauchard," she said with a warm smile. "It's good to see that my late husband's work is still interesting to someone. My name is Madeline. Let me show you to your room at once so you can get dried out. Then, would you like to join me for tea?"

"That would be nice," he answered. Her eyes were intense, dark and compelling, and Alex realized he was staring. Thankfully, she did not seem offended, nor did she make an effort to avert her own eyes. Turning away and breaking the contact with an almost audible snap of energy, Alex reached for his bags.

"This way," she said, motioning to the gloomy interior, an odd little smile forming on her lips. "For convenience's sake, I've put you in the room next to Robert's study."

Feeling a hit dazed, and still dripping from the deluge outside, Alex followed her up a lushly-carpeted stair to the building's upper floor. The walls were hung with tapestries and ancient portraits, only dimly illuminated by small, flickering bulbs mounted on ornate, mirrored sconces. For a long, strange moment, he felt like he was climbing into another world.

If the hallway below seemed large, the upper hall was immense. To the right, he looked out over an intricately-carved railing and down at the spacious dining room, while above, a giant, glittering chandelier hung from the peak of the sharply-angled ceiling. The aura of opulent, decadent wealth overpowered him. Paying more attention to his surroundings than to where he was going, Alex nearly tripped and fell over Madeline, who had stopped in front of one of the many heavy oak doors lining the hall and opened it.

Stepping inside, he was greeted by the strong aroma of sandalwood. A small desk lamp with a green-tinted globe provided the only light, which he quickly noted set the style for the entire room. Out-of-control spider plants cascaded down the sides of hanging baskets that flanked the windows. The drapes were deep, forest-green velvet over ruffled white linen. The bed was of oak, as was the roll-top desk that held the lamp and the one chair, which was padded in black leather. The carpet was also green.

"Robert called this his 'jungle room.'" Madeline smiled at him again. "There used to be many more plants here, and there were these horrid animal heads all over the walls. It's one of the few rooms I've changed since his death."

"But it's extraordinary," Alex said, genuinely impressed. He set his suitcase by the door of the closet and placed his briefcase on the bed. "I'll just change out of these wet things and join you...?"

"In the sitting room," she finished. "Downstairs. Just off the main hall to the left, before you reach the dining room."

She turned to leave, then glanced over her shoulder with another of those curious little smiles before disappearing into the hallway. Alex felt a prickle of – something ––
 
which he managed to dismiss as a product of his fatigued and disoriented state of mind. He turned his attention to getting out of his wet clothes. Grabbing his suitcase, he dropped it on the bed and flipped it open, grabbing the first set of clothes he found, then headed for the small attached bathroom.

This room, he found, was equipped with a round, sunken tub, already filled with water! More of the encroaching plants hung in the corners and spilled over every ledge. In the ceiling above the tub, a shaft topped by a green skylight had been cut straight through the attic to the roof above. Occasional flashes of lightning sent shimmering beams of emerald light down this shaft, giving the gently rippling water a primeval, fathomless quality.

He stared, and stared.

Lush green foliage stretching out in every direction, blotting the sky above.
 
Warm, loamy air – moist – tasting of forests and rivers.
 
Smelling of vast, endless trees and ropy, hanging vines.

The cries of birds – deafening – padding footsteps crackling through the brush to the left and right.
 
Sunlight filtering through leafy boughs that sway to the grasp of a cool breeze to trace intricate shadow designs on the ground at his feet.

A deafening crack of thunder split the night, startling Alex back to his senses. He found himself gazing dumbly down at the bathtub. Turning, he quickly flicked on the lights and bathed the room in bright, man-made light. He was shivering, and everything around him seemed somehow detached from reality. He went to the sink, splashing water on his face and staring at himself in the mirror.

Why in hell
, he thought,
is that tub already full, anyway? And what's wrong with me?
His reflection didn't answer, and he managed to finally shrug it off. It had been such a long, tiring drive.

Stripping out of his wet clothes and hanging them across the rack beside the sink, he washed up quickly, slipping on clean slacks and a pullover shirt, then running a comb quickly through his rain-matted hair.

He grinned at his still-disheveled countenance, and it grinned back.
 
His good spirits were returning.
 
He returned to his room and slipped on his shoes, appreciating the comfort of the leather chair, and the strange daydream faded quickly. He had a lot of questions about the late Professor Robert Auburn Devonshire, the answers to which lay in the study just next door. Although he knew there was plenty of time to get to it later, he had to suppress a strong urge to open the door to that room and explore before meeting Madeline downstairs. He had gone through a lot to be here.

Robert Auburn Devonshire: parapsychologist, archaeologist, linguist, mystic, and
 
Alex's mentor, had been one of the most controversial figures in several academic fields for decades. His death was as mysterious as had been his life, perhaps more so. One day he'd been teaching at the university, smoking his pipe and smiling that curious, all-knowing smile that Alex remembered only too well; the next day, he was gone. Dead. His heart had stopped, an occurrence that medical science had never been able to adequately explain.
 
It just stopped. It had been seven days since Robert's death.
 
Reluctantly, with the memories burning brilliantly in his mind, Alex turned away from the study door and descended to the lower floor of the huge house.

He found the sitting room with no trouble. Madeline sat in one of two antique Queen Anne chairs pulled close to a small table of the same design. Like all the other rooms, this one spoke eloquently of wealth and comfort. Glass-fronted cases lined the walls, filled with artifacts from the late professor's many archaeological journeys: grotesque, oddly asymmetrical pre-Colombian figurines from Mexico and South America, frightening tribal masks from ancient Africa, polished jade sculptures from the Far East, depicting inhuman, mythological creatures that somehow, in these surroundings, exuded an aura of disconcerting, eldritch awareness.

"Feeling better, Alex?" Madeline asked as he drew near.

"Almost human," he said as he sat beside her, again, barely able to keep from staring. This second meeting only affirmed his initial impression of her. She was beautiful. Her long, auburn hair hung loosely over her shoulders and halfway down her back. She was–his mind sought the proper word–willowy. She was tall for a woman, and so slender as to appear almost fake. As before, it was her eyes that held his attention. They seemed reached out to him, speaking a language all their own in a sort of tandem, sensual echo to her words.

"Robert mentioned you many times when you were his student," she told him, handing him one of the delicate china cups of steaming tea. "You may not know it, but you were something of a favorite with him. That's why I agreed to let you come here. That, and the fact that the most important thing in Robert's life was his work. If it does some good, through you, and perhaps myself, his death will have more meaning. Did you know that before Robert and I were married, I was his student, too?"

"No," Alex answered. "He never mentioned it. As for giving his work meaning, I hope I can live up to that. Your husband was mostly responsible for my direction in life. I guess you could say I consider him something of a mentor. I was never much of a student before I met him."

"But you're close to your doctorate now?" She smiled again, and he almost blushed at the combined emotions the praise and her smile elicited.

"Just my dissertation to go. That's why I 'm here. But what I meant was, Dr. Devonshire gave me a new outlook on academics. I was struggling when I first walked into his class. I wanted to take on the world of archaeology single-handedly, and discover secret places and ancient magic. But I was much better at dreaming than handling reality – much better.

"Then I met your husband.
 
He was like no professor I'd ever met. He would really challenge the class. He'd pull out the most ordinary stone from some ancient battlefield or castle, and he would recreate more from that stone than I could from an entire building.

"I remember his words, 'Everything you learn on this planet, every morsel of knowledge you gain, no matter how mundane it may seem in the learning, has a purpose to serve. Never look at learning as work, but as something as natural as breathing. When you can take the stone knife of a man who lived a thousand years before your own conception, and you can draw him forth from the depths of your mind, clothe him and give him thought with your imagination and your knowledge, then you will understand. No lesson learned is ever wasted.'"

"And what lessons have you learned, Alex?" Madeline asked, still smiling. "Have you opened any windows of your own? I recognize my husband's words on your tongue. Have you learned enough, do you think, to bring him back in your words? To clothe him and return his thought? Are you ready?"

The questions caught him completely off guard. They were the sort of questions he'd been asking himself for a thousand-plus miles. Setting his cup down, he felt a kind of release inside – some subtle pressure removing itself from his mind. He found himself suddenly telling this strange woman things he'd told no other as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

"That is what I want to find out," he said. "I want the things he stood for to have meaning. Nobody else in the entire academic community wants to believe that he was close to the answers he sought. They are all afraid, and jealous. If I don't do him justice in this thesis – if I fail to prove his value and genius, then I have learned nothing, and they have won."

She drew a deep breath and her smile seemed to leak into the depths of her eyes. "Somehow I knew you would be the one, Alex. I wonder if you're aware that you were not the only applicant for this work? That others have tried to gain access to his papers before you?"

Alex started slightly. He'd been under the impression that he was utterly alone in his interest. "Who?" he blurted, realizing his outburst might sound rude, flavored as it was with a sudden, inexplicable outrage.

"Other students, one of his old colleagues – even the university tried to obtain custody. They offered to buy his notes."

"But why? They never believed in him. All they ever did was question his work, even his sanity. Why would they want his notes?"

"Don't you see? They wanted to finish him off. He died trying to prove his theories with virtually no support. If they could get control of his papers, they could pass them off as whatever they wanted, seal them away in some vault in their library, and that would be the end to it. That was why I waited. I am very glad that you have come here, Alex. Very glad.

"But do not forget," she added, "that the dissertation is not the end in itself. The knowledge – the seeing – are what he would have had you seek. Robert had very little concern for the likes of his 'peers.' But his students, his true students...."

She leaned toward him, and her eyes grew larger, filling his vision. For just an instant he felt a tinge of vertigo, and he wondered – almost hopefully – if she meant to kiss him. She stopped just short, and said softly, "Robert would have been proud to know that you came."

She drew back, and the spell of the moment parted like the gossamer thread of a spider's web. For those few seconds, it was as though the professor had never died. His spirit seemed to inhabit every corner, every shadow and flicker of light, surrounding them with that aura of mystery and promise of power just beyond the ordinary senses that made every thought, every motion sensual and vibrant, alive with purpose and meaning. Alex knew that she must feel it too – that it was a shared emotion.