Journey Through the Mirrors (18 page)

I had a wonderful time at the Freedom Day celebration last night. People came from all over the country. I was even surprised to see some of my clan from the forest; they decided that coming back to civilization would not be so bad after all. Camden and I had changed out of our wedding clothes. Camden decided to wear the peace T-shirt, and I wore the one with the symbol of Joy. Robert and Cynthia came to the rally together. I think the two of them would be perfect for each other, but I think Robert is more tempted by someone he can’t have.

As usual, Fendral and Andrea were reserved during the celebration. I’ve known them for almost a year and a half, and they haven’t shared much about their personal lives. I remember Andrea and her fashion empire before the Great Disruption, but I know nothing about Fendral, except that he comes from one of the wealthiest families in Switzerland. His son Simon seems so lonely. I wonder why his mother isn’t here to care for him. The only person I noticed Fendral speaking to was a handsomely dressed man in a wheelchair. I’ve never seen him before. He must be a friend of Fendral’s from out of town.

Camden and I went for a walk and eventually found a bench where we sat, holding hands and looking at the stars in the clear night sky. People wearing their new Satraya T-shirts would meander by from time to time, congratulating us on our marriage. One man stopped by for an extended conversation. He introduced himself as Sumsari Baltik—I just love that name. Maybe we’ll name our first child Sumsari.

Logan and Mr. Perrot could hear Cassandra giggling. “Good thing she didn’t carry out that threat,” Logan said, also laughing.

He is a charming, cultured, middle-aged gentleman who has traveled all over the world. He said that he recently arrived from someplace in England called the Isle of Man. I’ve never heard of it, but Camden has. Sumsari is short and stocky, with long brown hair and the sweetest of smiles. He has a tattoo on his arm. Camden recognized it as the emblem of the old Navy SEALs. But what I found most exciting about him was that he is a music teacher! Just what I’ve been looking for. Robert came by, asking Camden to help him with something, so after they went off, I told Sumsari about my days in the forest with the Forgotten Ones and how Hank, a fiddler, brought a great deal of cheer to us in those trying times. I told him that I wanted to learn to play the violin and what a difficult time I was having trying to find one in good condition. Sumsari said that I could use one of his and that he would be happy to teach me how to play. I’m so excited! I’m going to have my first lesson in a few days.

Oh, I have to leave now. I promised Mrs. Wonderful that I would meet her for lunch. I want to hear what she thought of the wedding and the first Freedom Day celebration.

The recording clicked off. “I don’t remember my mother playing the violin very often while I was growing up,” Logan said to Mr. Perrot. “Maybe once every few months.”

“After we fled from Washington, the frequency of her playing diminished. But prior to that, she played every day. She even serenaded you when you couldn’t fall asleep. You were just too young to remember.
We were all amazed by how quickly she picked up the instrument. And we said her teacher, Sumsari, must truly work wonders.”

“Why the curious face?” Logan asked.

Mr. Perrot looked at Logan. “She didn’t just become
good
over the four years of training; she became
great
. I see that same thing in your daughter, Jamie, when she plays. I wonder if your mother passed along some of Sumsari’s training.”

Logan nodded. “It didn’t take Jamie long at all to learn. When she was only four, my mother started to give her lessons. Jamie used to love standing in front of a mirror and pretending she was performing a concert in front of a packed house.” Logan paused for a moment allowing his thoughts to linger before selecting the next voice entry on the recorder. “This next one is from 8:40
P.M.
, July 22, 2033. Same day as the one we just heard.”

I love Deya. She is so sweet and sincere. We went for lunch at the new Indian restaurant that just opened a few blocks north of the council offices on Eighteenth Street. I think it will be her and Babu’s favorite place for a while. They miss Indian food. We were seated at a table by the window, and we saw Fendral, Simon, and that man in the wheelchair. Simon was sitting on a sidewalk bench eating an ice cream cone while his father talked to the other man. We didn’t see Andrea anywhere. I told Deya that Camden and I had seen the man in the wheelchair at the Freedom Day celebration. I asked her if she knew who he was; she said no but expressed concern about Simon, who looked so unhappy even while he was eating his ice cream. She doesn’t like the way Fendral treats his son, either.

Babu and Deya’s sister Joyti joined us for a short time, and then we all headed back to the Council offices.

It’s getting dark, I’m going to light some candles . . .

Logan and Mr. Perrot could hear movement in the background, then the striking of a match. “Seems like my mother had a soft spot for Simon,” Logan said. “If she only knew what a monster he would become.”

“Your mother had a great deal of compassion for everyone,” Mr. Perrot said. “Perhaps if someone like her had taken more interest in Simon, he would have turned out differently.”

As we walked back to Council headquarters, Babu and Joyti engaged in a spirited debate about the reconstruction effort. Deya and I trailed behind them, and I confided to her that something has been bothering me. I told her that I wasn’t having as much success with the Satraya flame technique described in the
Chronicles
as Camden was. Deya reminded me of what the books suggested, that no one technique would resonate with every individual. That’s why many were offered. Each person had to choose his own path and forge his own way. Deya told me that she, too, struggles with the candle. Her favorite technique is Reflecting. She told me that once she put the flame aside and started to practice Reflecting, she found some success. As she progressed in her Reflecting work, her focus on the flame suddenly improved. She told me, “Mind is mind, it doesn’t matter what you choose. Mind is mind.”

I’m going to her house tomorrow, and she’s going to show me what she has learned.

The recording ended. “There’s one more on this chip,” Logan said. “It’s dated 9:10
P.M.
, July 23, 2033.”

We went into the basement of Deya’s house, where there is no natural light. Deya showed me the spot in a corner where she meditates. Babu and Joyti have their own corners. In Deya’s spot, a large mirror was leaning against a wall. A small cushion and a box of candles lay on the floor in front of it. Her copy of the
Chronicles
was also there. I found it strange that one of the books was opened to a blank page. I wanted to ask her about it, but I didn’t.

Logan pressed the Pause button on the recorder. “Deya must have known about the hidden symbols.”

Mr. Perrot nodded. “I wonder how far she was able to progress. I also wonder if she and Camden ever discussed them.”

“Mr. Quinn said that the first hidden symbol in Deya’s set of the books was called the A-Tee-Na,” Logan said.

“Is that the symbol that you saw when you first looked at the pages? Have you been able to see it more clearly?”

“I have. I’ve even been able to see portions of the next symbol on the second blank page. Mr. Quinn explained to me that it was a progression. He told me that first I would see the symbols and then I would experience them. Not really knowing what the symbols mean, I can’t say if I’ve experienced their power or not.”

“What about the third page?” Mr. Perrot asked. “Have you been able to see what your father and Mr. Quinn said was the most powerful symbol of all?”

Logan shook his head. Then he pressed play again.

Deya walked over to Babu’s area, picked up his pillow, and set it down a few feet from hers. She asked me to sit down and slid her mirror in front of me. She adjusted it so that I could see the reflection of my face and upper body. Then Deya lit a few oil lamps and turned off the overhead lights. The reflection of my face in the mirror looked shadowed, ghostly. Deya took a seat on her cushion beside me.

Deya told me that the technique of Reflecting described in the
Chronicles
was very similar to the ancient practice of scrying. People once used crystal balls, reflecting pools, bowls of liquid, almost anything that could reflect an image. She said that over the ages, dogma set in, and people forgot the true purpose of scrying, and it ended up becoming a technique associated with witches, magicians, and warlocks. She told me that the
Chronicles
present the technique in a fresh way, which, if done correctly, will yield interesting results to the devoted practitioner. Deya then recited a familiar nursery rhyme:

Looking glass, Looking glass, on the wall,

Who in this land is the fairest of all?

Thou art fairer than all who are here, Lady Queen,

But more beautiful still is Snow White, as I ween.

I told her I’d heard it before. It was from the story of Snow White. She said many people were familiar with that more modern version of the tale but that it had actually been adapted from a much older folk tale the Brothers Grimm had set down in writing. The mirror in the tale conveys an essential point about scrying, one that the
Chronicles
also teaches. The mirror never lies. It does not judge good or bad, right or wrong. It has no heart and does not care about how one feels. It is only a tool.

First, Deya instructed me to close my eyes and slow down my breathing. Slower, she told me, slow and relaxed. Then she told me to open my eyes and look directly at my reflection in the mirror. In particular, at my forehead. She placed a red bindi on the middle of my forehead. She joked that now that I was married, I needed to start wearing it as she does. Deya told me not to lose sight of that particular spot—it was the key to mastering the technique of Reflecting. She told me to pretend I was looking through that spot to the other side, as if looking through the dirty window of a house to see inside.

I did as she instructed. After what seemed to be a half hour, nothing happened. I felt frustrated, just as I had with the Satraya flame. My body language must have conveyed my feelings, because Deya encouraged me not to give up. She suggested I close my eyes again and take a few more deep, slow, relaxing breaths. When I opened my eyes and looked at my reflection, it was different. My eyes were more relaxed, and I appeared to be smiling, even though I knew I wasn’t actually smiling. Deya told me to keep focusing on the bindi on my forehead. I did. She told me that if I started to feel frustrated, I should close my eyes and breathe deeply until my frustration dissipated. Deya was very patient with me.

I don’t know how long I sat there, but there was a moment after I opened my eyes when my straight hair looked curly. I blinked a few times until it looked normal again. Deya told me not to be so anxious to readjust my gaze. She told me to allow my reflection to morph without my conscious mind’s interference. It was as if Deya knew what I was seeing. Over and over, I repeated the processes of closing my eyes and reopening them.

Then the moment came when I was suddenly looking at something I didn’t expect to see. My heart raced as I gazed into the mirror. My face had been replaced with my mother’s. I was looking at her curly brown hair, her magical smile. Her blue eyes were looking back at me. I couldn’t help but try to figure out what was taking place, and the moment I did, her image vanished, and I saw my own reflection once again. Deya could tell that something had occurred. She told me to close my eyes. I expected her to tell me again to take four deep breaths, but instead, she told me to focus on what I had seen—not to analyze it but simply and gently to ponder it until the answer came. I wasn’t even sure that I had asked a question, but I did as she instructed.

There was an extended pause in the recording. Logan and Mr. Perrot could hear something being poured into a glass.

What happened to me next I can’t talk about right now. All I can say is that it was so real that I was inconsolable. Deya was hugging me. She told me that my first journey through the mirror had taken place. The answer to a question that I have been asking for five years was given to me: Flight 1849.

The recording stopped. “That was the last recording on this chip,” Logan said. “What is Flight 1849?”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Perrot said. “But perhaps the answer lies somewhere in the mosaic.” He and Logan looked at the Golden Acorn mosaic; it was time to dislodge more of Cassandra’s memory chips.

18

Making a choice from the past is impossible. All choices are made from the present. So you have no excuse not to make a different choice.

—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

BIJAURA, UTTAR PRADESH, INDIA, 10:18 A.M. LOCAL TIME, MARCH 22, 2070

The waters of the river flowed by as they had for a thousand years. The Ganesh Ashram, which was located in the forest along the Ganges River, had been constructed twelve years after the Great Disruption. Known for its ayurvedic healing methodologies, the ashram never turned away anyone in need. It was funded by the government and also relied on donations from its former patients and devotees. The river provided the only access to the ashram, and just a few meters downstream of the southernmost hut, a group of people were being led through their daily yoga practices. The sun had risen many hours earlier, and the river was bustling with activity. Boats filled with fruits and vegetables were making their way to the marketplaces near the holy ghats a few miles to the north.