CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

HERMAN AND BURT WENDERS

“IT’S OBSIDIAN,” CASS said, staring at a jagged rock he held up to the light through the dusty windows of the Wenders Collection room.

Marco shrugged. “Seems well-behaved to me.”

“Obsidian, not obstinate, you ape,” Aly said.

“Oo! Oo! Oo!” Marco grunted.

I felt as if I were floating somehow. The Wenders Collection was alive to me in ways that I couldn’t understand. Down the center of the room ran a solid oak table with neatly organized glass boxes full of artifacts. The dark wood walls were lined with cabinets, stuffed to bursting. Wherever I looked, I saw bones and potsherds, scraps of clothing, artwork. Each seemed to be calling to me somehow, crowding my brain. Each was its own déjà vu.

I felt stronger today. Bhegad insisted it was because of the treatment. The others assumed the same thing. But a part of me couldn’t believe it. Yes, Aly had passed out, and I’d had some kind of spell. Yes, we were both whisked away behind closed doors. But maybe we would have recovered anyway. Maybe the “treatments” were nothing more than keeping us out of sight until we were well.

The better to make their story seem true.

I took the rock Cass was holding. It was palm sized, an odd, geometric shape that looked like it had been carved.

“That’s sad,” Aly said.

“That’s gross,” Marco remarked.

“This was found on Herman Wenders when he died,” Bhegad said. “He had gone missing for days, mentally unraveling over the death of his son, Burt. When Wenders reappeared, he seemed haunted, babbling to himself. Claimed to have seen the center of Atlantis. The Scholars tried to take him seriously. They attempted to nurse him back to health, all the while gently coaxing him for details. But he would lapse into a confused silence and stare hopelessly at this rock.”

I looked up above Professor Bhegad’s head to a portrait of Herman and Burt Wenders. The father was grim and scowling, with a trim, gray beard and a waxed handlebar mustache. He sat ramrod straight in a neat, dark jacket. His son looked energetic and full of mischief, like he was dying to tell the photographer a joke.

Like he was dying to tell me something.

What?

It was amazing how a good photographer could make a person come to life. I had to glance away. “Did anyone find the place Wenders was talking about?” Marco asked.

Bhegad shook his head. “No, alas. We believe it exists, or it did. Our transcription told of a deep fissure at the center of a valley. The source of the continent’s extraordinary power. A connection to the spirit of the earth. Before the creation of the Loculi, for generations the Atlantean king and queen made pilgrimages there, to find peace, wisdom, discernment.”

“I had a new version of the dream—our dream,” I said. “I was there at the destruction of Atlantis again. But I had a brother. He was calling to me. Did any of you guys have that one?”

Cass, Aly, and Marco shook their heads.

“Was it Karai or Massarym?” Bhegad asked, his eyes intent behind his glasses. “Which one were you?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t remember.”

“You must start writing these things down.” Bhegad took a deep breath, his brow deeply creased. “As for the source of the great fissure, there are none on this island that we know of. We do know that there was a severe geological cataclysm when the island sank, which might well have changed the landscape considerably. We worry that the fissure is underwater. Some scholars thought Wenders’s mysterious rock might be some sort of key. But it is likely the delusional ranting of an aggrieved father.”

With a sigh, I put the rock down on the oak table.

As soon as I let go, I nearly jumped. That strange feeling jacked up a notch. Like a mild electric shock.

Look closer.

I swallowed. I wasn’t sure where the suggestion had come from.

“Um, Professor Bhegad?” I said, placing my hand back on the rock. “Can I take this back to the dorm to examine?”

He looked at me curiously. “Of course. You’re not going anywhere out of my purview for a long, long time.”

I shuddered at that comment.

As I slipped the rock into my pocket, it was warm to the touch.

“I hate the way he talks about Wenders,” I said, holding the rock up to the great Medusa chandelier in the dining room.

“I hate the way he talks about everything,” Marco said. “What’s a purview?”

We were sitting at dinner now, in a table by a corner. According to Aly, the chandelier mikes couldn’t pick up our voices here. The great banquet table for my welcome dinner had actually been lots of square tables pushed together. Now the tables were dispersed throughout the great hall, and people were huddled together over papers, laptops, tablets, and all kinds of handheld devices, chattering busily.

“‘Delusional ranting of an aggrieved father,’” Cass said, imitating Professor Bhegad’s voice. “What does he know about losing someone?”

Aly shrugged. “He might. He’s old enough to have lost parents, or at least grandparents.”

“He’s a cold fish!” Marco shouted. “And I don’t care if he heard that.”

I was staring at the poem, noticing the shape of the lines. “Guys,” I said. “Do you think this thing is some kind of code?”

Aly looked at it closely. “It’s worded funny. But it could just be old-school Victorian poetry. You know, like he couldn’t stand to see the light of day. The dawn brings life and light, but it also burns—very Romeo and Juliet. The best version being Zeffirelli’s, IMHO, but that’s another discussion. Anyway, the brightness reminds him of his son’s life and makes him feel bad. Also, you know, there’s a similarity in the words son and sun? Another thing—he says ‘I burden west.’ The sun sets in the west. So maybe he’s, like, wishing for his own sunset. His own death.”

We all stared at her. “Did you just think of that?” Marco asked.

“Gnizama,” Cass said. “I’m sitting next to you in English class.”

Aly’s face turned red.

“But notice the shape,” I said. “The three lines of the poem are arranged funny. Like they’re in two columns—one column under Burt, the other under Wenders.”

Cass leaned closer. “He kind of had to write it that way. The rock is bent.”

They began changing the subject, talking about Marco’s martial arts exploits and Aly’s improvements to the Karai security system and Cass’s ability to re-create a topographical map of the sea floor around the island by memory. They were all psyched about going back to their training tomorrow.

The geek movie buff, Mr. Memory, and Athlete of the Century.

No one was taking my idea seriously.

I felt like Herman Wenders. Burnt. And not looking forward to dawn at all.