The Map To Heaven

November 15, this year
Venice, Italy
10:10 pm CEST

Tears flood Howard’s eyes. “What? How can that be?”

The sequence of happenings ticks through Astrid’s mind. “You have heard that Wyn Avuqua has been found?”

“I have. Albion told me.”

“There is an archeologist. Tall. Thin. His name is Graham—”

“Graham Cremo,” Howard says. “Yes, he is here, too.”

“Is he alright? He was shot—”

“By that bastard Rearden…” Howard says. “I don’t know Mr. Cremo’s condition, Astrid. I’m sorry. But I do know he is under the care of Dr. Catena.”

Her own rush of tears begins. She shakes it off.

“I have read of Dr. Catena,” she says.

“Yes.” His voice drops to a near whisper. “A talent beyond talents, if you ask me. He has developed a path to cure illness. All illness. I don’t know enough—but I understand that in his laboratory he has taken an ancient root or plant and has cultivated it into—well—the Tree of Life. They are calling it The Melgia Gene.”

Astrid’s jaw slowly drops.

Howard continues, “A truly remarkable thing, if you ask me. With more research, Albion and Catena will be able to give the gift that was once reserved only for the gods. The gift of immortality.”

“Thus,” Astrid says, “Albion’s Heaven on Earth.”

“So it would seem,” Howard says. “Somehow I don’t think it will be that simple. But with immortals, they tend to find solutions where mortals leave problems for their children—and on and on…”

Astrid lines up what she knows and tries to order it into understanding. She does the arithmetic. She feels her eyebrows scrunch together.

“Have you heard the Prophecy has been found?”

“Yes.”

“Have you seen it, yet?”

Howard shakes his head. “No.”

“Do you know that Queen Yafarra is here in Albion’s House?”

“I have heard that, yes. But I don’t understand how—” Howard stops speaking as he watches Astrid try to weave a lifeline to throw out to him.

“I was there when Yafarra was discovered—inside the sarcophagus. There is no record of how or why she was put there…”

“No record, yet…” Howard says. His tone is dark.

“Yes,” Astrid says, reluctant to fully agree. “But within the tomb, just as we were expecting, was the Prophecy.”

“And…” Howard says glancing at his watch.

“The preserved book is a red spiral notebook like one a middle school student would use—the Red Notebook, it’s called.”

Howard gapes.

“Aethur is Loche Newirth. He was there—or he is still there. And his son was the innocent—the Red Notebook must speak of these things…”

“And to fill in a blank or two: Albion and the others will not allow anyone to read—”

“That’s correct,” Astrid finishes. “There is a fear it will again twist the story further.”

“As if we need more of that,” the old man says to himself. “Professor Finnley, our conversation must come to a close. Time is short—and I’m sure it is already known throughout the house that we are together.” Concern rises in Astrid’s expression—Howard eases it with a kind touch to her upper arm. “Ah, don’t worry. When you live in a house with immortals it takes a little time to learn that their fears and senses of urgency are quite different than ours. They do not see change as we do. They are more apt to allow you to do what you want so they might slowly craft a future to house it. It is said that the only way they change is because we do. We cause the waves, they command the tides.”

“And who rules the oceans, I wonder?”

Howard grins. “Loche Newirth, it would seem.”

He twists in his chair and digs into his document bag again. “But being under this roof doesn’t mean you should not be careful. Simply be as true as you can. Truth outlasts everything—or so they say. Before I go, take these.” He hands her a rolled piece of parchment and a light rectangular object swathed in a black velvet bag. “Inside the bag—you can guess. It is one of Basil’s paintings. There is rumor that something is changing within his art. The Centers are closing. Of course there are a great many paintings—and many are still devastatingly powerful. This one’s window is fully open.” He touches her arm again. “You will not lose your mind looking upon it,” he smiles. “This one Basil made for me years ago. It will take you there and return you—but what you’ll see, I cannot say for sure.” He points to the scroll. “And this—this is a map of Albion’s House. I believe he himself drew it. You can find your way around—”

“I get the feeling Albion would not want me wandering his halls,” she says setting both of the items down on the table between them.

“You’re probably right. But as I said, what you do he will watch and react to—and he’s likely already planning what you’ll do before you’ve even thought of it. The fellow is over one-thousand-years-old. He has a knack for forethought. And he’s not afraid of anything.” Howard shrugs, “Not afraid of anything that I’m aware of anyway.”

“Why are you giving these to me?” Astrid asks.

A light glints in the old man’s eyes. “So you can continue your search—so you can continue searching for what has haunted you your entire life.”

Howard turns his chair abruptly to the door and rolls toward it. She follows him.

“Will I see you again tomorrow? I have more questions…”

He looks up at her. “You’ll see everything tomorrow—and nothing. Tomorrow is the Masque. Tomorrow the wheels will be set in motion for a new world, or what Albion calls his New Earth. All will don masks.” He frowns looking at the door. Astrid opens it and he wheels out into the hall. His chair spins and he faces her. “Good night, Professor. May your search continue. What will you find, I wonder?”

Astrid closes the door.

She returns to her chair and stares at the black velvet bag containing the answer to every question she has ever had; beside it, an aged piece of rolled parchment—a map—a map of Albion’s House.

She grasps the rolled paper and unknots the leather tie. Dropping to her knees she spreads the map out on the wood floor. She scans the staircases, the connecting corridors, the lobbies and chambers both secret and open. There are rooms hidden within rooms, parlors deep below the Sun Room and tunnels leading out of the House beneath the canals to the West and East. When her eyes find Dr. Catena’s laboratories, her index finger begins to draw a path back to her room. She plots her course to Graham Cremo. She stands, grabs her bag and steps out into the dark hallway. Looking back she notices the black bag with all the answers inside of it still sitting on the table. The door latch clicks shut as she turns toward the first staircase—toward Graham—toward what has haunted her her entire life.