The Reincarnationist

Chapter 48

It was two o’clock in the morning. The window was open, and the breeze offered a soothing embrace. One lamp shone down on the desk, but the rest of the room was shrouded in darkness. He’d had the idea that he would try to block himself off from his reality and create a separate physical existence for this experiment.

The six stones were laid out on a deep blue velvet cloth that covered the blotter. The emeralds, sapphires and ruby glowed.

It had been written that these jewels would open up a doorway from the present to the past, but all the ancient texts alluded to the magic process in elusive terms. He felt as if he were adrift on the sea in a boat that kept him afloat, but that he did not know how to steer.

Every religious ceremony has specific steps. Just as a Mass was not an arbitrary group of prayers and actions, there was a set of steps attached to these stones, as well. A process. Instructions. But what were they?

Professor Chase’s papers hadn’t revealed anything. Neither the notes that had been taken from her apartment in Rome, nor those that had been stolen from her office in New Haven. There was no indication that she had any idea what the markings on the surface of the stones were. He needed her to translate them.

If she could.

Chase was renowned for her knowledge of ancient languages. Of course she could-or she’d know who could. She was his key to how to harness the stones’ power: a dangerous, awesome power.

Weren’t the highest echelons of the Church worried about the magic of the stones? And for good reason. If man discovered that Nirvana was within his reach-if it was in his own hands, not in the hands of God-what authority would the Church hold over him?

He had waited a long time, but the wait was almost over. From the first step of the plan, years ago when he got the diary excerpts to Gabriella Chase and Aldo Rudolfo, he’d patiently waited, and now those seedlings were mature trees that would soon bear fruit.

There was a lot to do now in a very short period of time. He sighed. It was a long and deep expression of desire and fear and trepidation. He hated involving other people. Risking the safety of innocents was an affront to his morals, but he was out of choices.

Three men had died so far, and he’d have to live with that forever. Blood stained his soul. Would probably stain it deeper before this quest was over. But didn’t all great efforts require sacrifice?

He’d give the gods one last chance to reward him before he moved on to the inevitable and heinous next step.

Separating the six stones into two groups, he held the emeralds in his left hand and the sapphires and the single ruby in his right. Shutting his eyes, he focused on the feeling of them, the sensation of their edges biting into his flesh. There were so many historians, so many collectors, so many religious men who would pay him all of their fortunes for what he was holding, but no amount of lucre could entice him to give up this treasure.

Concentrate, he told himself.

Concentrate on the stones.

He knew how to pray. He knew how to meditate. He knew the power of emptying your mind of minutiae and letting nothingness come to the forefront. That kind of meditation was not a miracle. Not holy. But it had always had a mystical and magical effect on him. It took him away, it settled his ghosts.

The Father. The Son. And the Holy Ghost.

He almost laughed at the perfection of the phrase in this context, but instead concentrated on wiping his mind clean.

First the cleansing.

Then the emptiness.

Stay with the void.

Experience the hollowness.

Now let the colors swim.

Blood-red slipping into ruby, turning scarlet, soaking up darkness and developing into a royal purple. Then reversing it. Seeing the purple, adding light to it so it transformed to lavender, then rose, then blanching the color so it tinged to pink, pushing in light so it was the merest pale, blushing white. Now reversing the process, pushing some color back in, graduating the roseate tone to vermilion, dissolving it to dark wine-red, burning it into inferno red, sliding the embers into sunset’s glow and then a glowing torch’s orange.

He was deep into the meditation.

See yourself. See who you were. Know who you were.

He repeated it.

See yourself. See who you were. Know who you were.

There was a blue-blackness now like a cold night sky. He swept through it. It was the sky over every country, every age. The answers were there, deep inside the galaxy, he knew that, now to just reach for them.

What was the secret of the stones?

Nothing came to him. No words, no sensations, no knowledge.

What was the secret of the stones?

Again, nothing.

His eyes opened, then his hands, and the stones spilled out onto the velvet cloth. The colors flashed at him, teasing him, promising him more than he might ever know unless he took action.

He’d tried it every other way; now he had no choice.

He turned his eyes to the computer screen and with weary fingers typed in a name, sure that at some point the young woman had been online and left her footprints in cyberspace. It only took seconds for the invisible vaults of information to open and give him what he needed.

Yes. Perfect. He had his key. She’d take him inside, where he’d find a very different treasure. One he could use to trade with: a life in exchange for information.

For mere words.

For sounds that meant nothing out of context.

It wouldn’t be hard for a mother to make that choice.

Would it?