The Message In The Stars

November 14, this year
Venice, Italy
5:42 pm CEST

“Tell me what you see,” Albion asks. He opens the door and allows her to enter.

Stepping through, Professor Finnley gapes. The walls, the floor and the ceiling are splattered with a spectrum of paint like a psychedelic sky of stars. Tacked upon the starry fields are hundreds of images, ranging from quick pencil sketches to torn out magazine pages and photos, to famous portraits done by master painters. There are canvases upon easels with incomplete images, scattered scribbled notes in a twig-like hand, an unmade bed, two long shelves of LP records and a turn table. Near the center of the room is a round dining table. Upon it is a half full bottle of The Macallan and three empty glasses.

Astrid feels her breathing quicken. She glances at Fausto and Marcel. Both are awestruck and fascinated. “This is Basil’s studio,” she says to herself. “Loche Newirth wrote of it in the Journal.”

“It is as he left it,” Albion says. “We have analyzed his process. We have studied his half-finished work. We have tried to understand why he chose to surround himself with certain photos, images and, if you will, inspirations. In truth, we have come away more confused.”

“What are you looking for?” Astrid asks.

“I think you know already. Do you not?” Albion smiles. “Loche Newirth.”

Astrid feels her face frown, “You and the rest of the world, it seems.”

“We know that Loche, Julia Iris and his son Edwin crossed over the Menkaure omvide.” Albion crosses to a section of wall and points. “What do you make of these?” Below a flurry of paint spatters are three images. One is a sketch of a woman carrying flowers. Underneath is a magazine photo of the pyramids of Giza. A line of paint points to Menkaure pyramid. Finally, there is an image of a woman carrying a pitcher.

Astrid looks at Albion. “Elpis, Menkaure and Hebe. You should know that.”

“Of course. Though, I must admit, we somehow missed its meaning.”

She looks again and tries to understand. Elpis, the Greek goddess of hope. Hebe the Greek goddess of youth. Menkaure pyramid. “I don’t get it,” she says.

“Nor did we. But now, I believe we do—cryptic though it is. It is a message to Julia Iris.” He waits. He watches Astrid puzzle. He says, “Hebe goddess of youth. Julia… Julia in Latin means youth. And Elpis goddess of hope—”

Astrid smiles and fills in the blank, “Julia was from Hope. Hope, Idaho.”

“Yes,” Albion says.

“So, Basil wanted Julia, and presumedly Loche, to go to Menkaure.”

“That’s what we believe.”

A knot clusters tight in her head. She says, “Why?”

Albion shakes his head.

“So, let me see if I’m following you. You believe that Basil left a message for Julia so that she would take Loche with her across the most mysterious omvide known—an omvide in which no one has ever reportedly returned from?”

“That’s what we believe.”

Astrid watches the immortal’s face. She notes the carved jawline, the peppery eyebrows and the unshakeable focus. Within the countenance, however subtle, is a crease of doubt—a worry. For a moment she thinks she is simply imagining a weakness. But her gut could not be more sure.

“You want to kill Loche Newirth. That is why you are searching for him.”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Albion replies. “I have vacillated over eliminating him, yes. Though, now, I must admit, I simply want to speak with him again.”

Astrid looks at Marcel and Fausto for a burst of courage. Then to Albion she says, “Talk, huh? You want to make sure he won’t write you out of existence.”

Albion looks into his wine. “That would be a preferable course for all involved, my dear. You included.”

Astrid wonders a moment. The addition of you included rattles in her mind.

“Well, if he’s crossed Menkaure, good luck with that.”

“Yes,” Albion agrees. “It is troubling. Have you thoughts on Menkaure?”

She shakes her head, “Not much. But there’s someone here that does.” Albion waits. “Graham Cremo is the expert.”

“Yes,” Albion says. “Certainly part of the reason he is here.”

“There is one thing that strikes me,”Astrid says after a beat. “From what I know of Basil Fenn, from the Journal, at least, he doesn’t seem the ancient history type.”

“You would have been delightfully surprised at Basil’s knowledge,” Albion offers.

“I’m sure,” Astrid agrees. “But if I’m not mistaken and my math is all wrong, wasn’t Basil dead before a single omvide formed in history? If I’m able to put together this labyrinth of Loche Newirth’s reweaving of time, Basil, before his death, had no knowledge of the power of pyramidal travel. I mean, just like Wyn Avuqua materialized between the time of Rearden’s capture and now.”

Albion nods slowly. “I see. And?”

“Well, wouldn’t that mean that someone else left that message?”