The Daykeeper's Grimoire (22 page)

“It’s not dungeon crazy. It’s more, I don’t know, new-age crazy? I’ll take you there sometime when this is all over. But let me get to the important part …” I pause for a moment while I try to figure out how to put this without sounding totally insane. I decide to bring some adults into the picture first so he doesn’t think I’ve made this all up in my head.

“Tenzo and Uncle Li have been helping me figure all this out. It’s very complicated and involves this weird code and stuff. But the bottom line is that this whole castle was built to protect a prophecy.” I look in his eyes to make sure he’s following me, and then I say, “A prophecy that I’m supposed to carry out.”

Alex looks totally confused. “What kind of prophecy? And how do you know you are involved?” He asks this in just the right way, not with a tone of disbelief, but in a way that tells me he is genuinely curious.

“Seriously, I know how crazy this seems. But we found this book, this poem that Fergus Mac Fireland wrote way back in the 1700s, and it mentions my name and my birth date. And the year 2012. Remember the heavy conversation at dinner about the Mayan calendar and stuff? Well, it all has to do with that, too.”

Alex crosses his arms and rubs his biceps with his hands like he’s warming himself. “You’re giving me goose bumps, Caity.”

“Believe me; no one is more freaked out by this than me. But here’s the deal, and I know this is way too much to ask, but I have to give it a shot.” I look him in the eyes again, trying to get a read on how receptive he’ll be.

“Go on …” he says, “I’ll help in any way I can.”

“Would you ever consider going away for a few days? We’d have to fib about some things, but in the end everyone would understand why we did it. It’s for the good of the world, although I know that sounds like something a schizophrenic would say.”

“Where exactly?”

“Have you heard of Easter Island?”

“Are you
mad
?” he says, looking at me like I just told him I eat live babies for breakfast.

I’m crushed. I don’t know what to say. “I’ve wondered that myself,” I mumble.

We stand there silently for so long that it becomes uncomfortable. He is just staring at me, examining me like I’m some prehistoric creature that’s just been unearthed.

“I reckon we need to back up even further,” he says. “Let’s start at the very beginning; tell me how you even came to the Isle of Huracan in the first place.”

I’m not sure how this is going to help him, but I start at the beginning, in the spring, when my dad first got the news. “It really came out of the blue,” I tell him. “Mom and Dad came into my room while I was studying one night, and I remember thinking something was up because Dad sat in my desk chair, which he only does when he needs to ‘come down to my level.’ I don’t know about here, but that’s classic behavior that adults use on kids and dogs in the states.”

Alex nods like he knows exactly what I mean.

“So anyway, Dad sits down and tells me that his Uncle Hamish had just passed away and had left us some property in Scotland. Then he said they were planning on selling it, but then that very day they got a
sign
.”

“A sign?”

I nod. “This is so embarrassing to admit. The ‘sign’ thing should have been my first clue that it was all going to get weird, because my parents are
not
the kind of people who talk about getting signs. They’re the kind of people who make fun of people who talk about getting signs.”

“So what was the sign?” Alex asks.

“Oh, God, it was this obscure thing about some guys at UCLA discovering a double helix nebula near the center of the Milky Way.”

“You mean a double helix like in DNA?” he asks.

I nod. “Yep. Seriously, my parents are the only people in the world who would see a DNA-shaped cloud of gas and dust as a sign to keep property.”

Alex looks confused. “What was the connection? How did this become a sign?” he asks.

“They thought that the universe was telling them to keep the property—Hamish’s fascination with the Milky Way and then the big DNA cloud next to it told them to keep Breidablik in the bloodline.” When I say this all out loud, it sounds as crazy as finding an image of the baby Jesus on a grilled cheese sandwich.

But Alex looks like he gets it. “Aye, when you put it that way I can see their point.”

“Hard to believe this all came down to space dust,” I say, wondering what would have happened had Mom
not
read that very article on that very day.

“And what’s the Mayan connection? It’s odd enough that there’s a Chinese element.”

“Back in the 1500s before the Maya were invaded by the Spanish, they took their secret knowledge of space and calendars and cycles of time and hid it all over the world. Some went to China, some came right here. They built something on this island that Fergus and Xu Bao Cheng concealed with the tower.”

“So why is this all coming out now? And why you?”

How did I think he was just going to say,
Yeah! Right on! Get me a plane ticket and let’s roll!
I give him an out. “Look, I get that you don’t want to go. Let’s just forget it.”

He looks pissed. “Have I said no?” he asks. “Can you blame a bloke for wanting some background before hopping a plane to Chile?”

I am so in love with him for knowing that Easter Island is part of Chile.

“Sorry,” I say as I cross my arms across my chest. “You have no idea how weird this all is for me.”

“Then imagine how weird it is for me, hearing it all in a five-minute conversation.”

“I know. Sorry. So anyway, I’m supposed to unite kids by getting them to use this
Tzolk’in
calendar and having this worldwide kickoff of it. That’s where Easter Island comes in.”

“It sounds bloody interesting and I’d love to help, but I couldn’t possibly get that kind of cash anytime soon,” he says, looking down and rolling a rock around with his foot.

“Oh, no no no, it won’t cost you a cent. Honest, I’ve got this huge wad of cash that Bolon gave me. All I need is for you to go with me. I’m a little scared to do this on my own.”

“Now who is Bolon?” he asks.

“He’s the Mayan guy, the Elder, who’s helping me with this prophecy thing.”

“Geez Caity, this sounds serious.” He bites the inside of his lip. “But your parents don’t know anything about it?” he asks. “Your father has been so good to me, I really hate to—”

I put my hands up. “I’ve got it covered. I’ve set it up so they think I’m going to visit my friend Justine, so all you have to do is tell your mom and your grandma that you’re going camping or fishing or something. They won’t even know we’re together.”

We’re together.
I say it again in my head.

“Well, you’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you?” He looks down and pulls at his chin as he thinks. “Alright then. I’m sure I could come up with some reason to be gone.”

“Really?” I ask. “You’re really saying yes?”

“Against my better judgment,” he says as he closes his eyes and shakes his head, “aye.”

I spontaneously hug him and then quickly pull away.

“So may I see some of this stuff you’ve discovered?” he asks.

“Right now?”

“I have to go help Gran finish with dinner cleanup, then I’ll come up. Unless, of course, you don’t trust me in your room all alone,” he says with a smile.

“Very funny,” I say as I hit his shoulder with my fist. I’m embarrassed that I make such a fifth-grade move.

When he turns and jogs back to the kitchen door, I step over and press my back up against where he was leaning. The wall is still warm from his body. I look up at the stars winking in the twilight and tell myself I can’t move until I see one falling through the sky. After a few minutes one streaks by and I think about how it’s possible that Alex and I had, at one time in the past few billion years, been atoms in the same star soaring through space.

Anyone see you come up?” I ask as I close and bolt the door behind Alex, who has Mr. Papers balanced on his shoulder.

“Nae, they’re all getting snookered in the parlor,” he replies.

“Thank God for Scotland and all that whisky.” I lead him over to my desk, open the file from Bolon, and then give up my seat to Alex. “Have at it.”

I fake being cold so I can light a fire, which both gives me busy work and adds to the romance of having Alex in my room again.

As he scrolls through the pages, he quietly says things like
hmm
and
interesting
and
I see
, as if talking to someone on the phone. Once the fire is lit, and I can’t give him space anymore, I stand behind him to read over his shoulder. He’s looking at the grid representation of the
Tzolk’in
.

“You read it top to bottom, starting in the upper left corner,” I tell him. “These little pictures on the far left are the twenty daylords and the numbers of their weeks of thirteen days are made up of dots for ones and bars for five.”

“Caity, this is amazing.”

“Amazing how?” I ask, not wanting to shape how he interprets this thing. Maybe he sees something I hadn’t. I mean it
is
really cool looking, this grid, which is why I’d printed it out and taped it into my sketchbook.

“Between this and the Long Count calendar that ends in 2012, there’s some really interesting math here,” Alex says.

“Oh yeah? There is such a thing?”

“What?”

“There’s such a thing as really interesting math?”

“Aye, all math is interesting to me. Got a problem with that?” he asks with a grin. “Because if you do, I s’pose I couldn’t possibly go with you to Easter Island and bore you with all my math talk.”

“Nope, no problem at all. Love math, always have. Don’t make me get out my ‘I heart Math’ T-shirt …”

“Now you’re just torturing me!” he says with a laugh. “We can go ahead and get engaged this minute if your homepage is set to www.mathworld.com.”

Oh how I wish that I could stop time right now to reset both my homepage and my blushing face.

Alex turns back to the screen. “Now what exactly are you supposed to be doing with this information?”

“Getting it out to kids. Getting them to use the Mayan calendar—or ‘resonate’ with it was how Bolon put it. But I really don’t get how a calen—”

Alex interrupts. “Resonate? Seriously?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Because the whole time I was looking at this stuff, I was thinking that the underlying math looked harmonic.”

“Like music?”

“Maybe notes, or maybe just a tone …”

Mr. Papers waves his hands at us and jumps, but we’re too engrossed in the calendar to pay attention to him.

“So you’re saying take Bolon’s suggestion literally—
literally
resonate
—
with some kind of sound?” I ask.

Mr. Papers suddenly jumps in between the computer screen and Alex, then taps Alex on the nose like a reprimanding teacher.

“What?” Alex asks, seeming irritated.

Mr. Papers grabs a hair band from my desk and three newly sharpened pencils from my pen cup, binding the pencils together about an inch down from their points. Then he fans them out into a tripod and sets this contraption, eraser-side down, on my desk so that it looks like an upside-down teepee. Finally, he sets a sheet of origami paper on top of the pencil tripod.

“What on earth are you doing?” I ask.

He raises one finger to me as if to say, “Just a moment,” and then hops over to an old tea tray by my bed. He takes a spoonful of sugar from the sugar bowl and with expert balance he walks back to the desk and hops up without spilling a grain. Very carefully he shakes some sugar on the piece of paper.

“C’mon Papers, what’s this about?” Alex asks.

Mr. Papers takes a deep breath, bends down so that one side of the paper is touching his chin, and then bursts out with a weird sound, like someone singing the note “ti.”

The grains of sugar hop around on the paper from the vibration of his voice.

“Bloody hell, Caity! Look at what the sugar is doing!”

He doesn’t have to tell me to look; I can’t even talk for fear of missing a second of what’s happening before me. The sugar is forming a pattern on the paper, a beautiful image somewhere between a zinnia flower and a stylized sun.

When Mr. Papers is out of breath, he sits back and looks at the paper, then smiles at us.

Quickly Alex Googles “shapes from sound” and some articles pop up, which Alex reads out loud.

“The study of the wave phenomena of physical patterns produced through the interaction of sound waves in a medium such as sand is called cymatics. Sand activated by sound can form itself into standing wave patterns from simple concentric circles to traditional mandala designs.”

“But how does Mr. Papers know this?” I ask.

“Haven’t a clue,” he replies, lost in an article on cymatics. “Oh, Caity, listen to this. A Russian research team of geneticists and linguists is using the theory behind cymatics to
modify DNA
.”

“No way … the right sound can change DNA?” I’m stunned. “So I guess Mr. Papers is saying that you’re right, that this must have something to do with turning the
Tzolk’in
into sound.”

We both jump back when Mr. Papers lets out a deafening screech, again placing his chin on the paper.

“Damn it Mr. Papers,” Alex says, covering his ears. “Ought not do that to a pal!”

“But look what it did to the sugar!” The crystals have morphed from the pretty, symmetrical arrangement into what looks like broken glass.

“Freaky!” we both say at the same time.

I add, “Jinx, you owe me a Coke,” but Alex looks at me like I’m speaking Martian, so I let it drop. Must be an American thing.

“I reckon he’s telling us that there are good tones and bad tones,” Alex says, still looking at the sugar on the paper.

“Or damaging tones and healing tones,” I add.

He shrugs. “I s’pose, if you want to get all new agey.”

“Brace yourself, Alex, this thing may get very new agey.”

He gets up from the chair and puts a hand on my shoulder. “As long as I have my math to hang on to, I think I’ll be fine.”

I could kiss him. Really. We are in position—one of his hands is touching my shoulder and I can feel the heat of his palm though my T-shirt. All I have to do is lean in.

I am a wuss.

“So what next?” I ask instead.

Alex picks up the
Tzolk’in
disc. “I’ll look more deeply at this and try to find some way to make it resonate.”

I lean over my desk and jot down the website URL. “Here’s the website I put up. Definitely not my best web work, but—”

“My, you work quickly!” he says, pocketing the paper. “Should we check on some air and train schedules while we’re here?”

I love how he pronounces
schedule
like shed-u-all.

“Oh, good idea,” I say, as eager to have him stay as I am to get everything lined up. I take the driver’s seat and pull up my favorite travel site.

I’m glad I have a big wad of cash from Bolon because travel prices have gone up even more. Pretty soon only the elite with private jets will be able to travel, which is probably exactly what the
Fraternitas
wants: keep the people down on the ground, broke and pathetic.

We book our flights and then I print out all the plane ticket information and give him enough of Bolon’s money for the ferry, train, airfare, and other stuff that might come up.

“Okay, you just get yourself to San Francisco and then we’re off to Easter Island for this … gathering,” I say.

Alex smiles. “You know this is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me, don’t you?”

I want to ask if
I’m
the most exciting thing or if
the situation
is the most exciting thing, but I’m afraid of the answer so I just say, “Me too.”

“Do you need me to bring anything special? Herbs, potions, eye of newt?”

I laugh. “No, got it covered. I just need to sneak Dad’s satellite phone …”

“Ah, you going to do one of those fancy teleconference things where everyone calls a number on their phone and you talk to them?”

“Genius! I hadn’t even thought of that! I was thinking I’d webcast, but I hadn’t figured out how they were going to get Internet access at all these funky places.”

“And there’s cell service pretty much everywhere.”

“Have you done this before? How do you know about it?” I ask.

“I’ve called in to some football teleconferences; they have famous footballers talking about their strategies and such, and you just listen in.”

“Very cool. I’ll check it out.”

After Alex takes the CD and goes home, I check the fake email account I set up for Mom. There’s a reply from Justine’s mom: She bit! We’re on!

I immediately reserve a plane ticket for Justine to Peru, one that flies to Los Angeles first so that her parents won’t see her board a plane to South America. I pay for it from Bolon’s Banco de Maya account and then I email Justine’s mom with all the information.

Justine has to be in the know, so I forward all the emails to her so she can see what I’m doing. She responds:

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Chantrea’s email

Dude, you nailed the email momspeak. I just called the Pho shop, Chantrea is in Cambodia all summer with her grandparents like I thought. Her email address is [email protected]. I can’t believe I’m going to peru. If you get to take jcrew can I invite David to come with me? You wouldn’t have to pay, he could probably buy a plane ticket with his weekly allowance, you know how loaded the von Kellermans are …

For a moment I hesitate about the David von Kellerman thing, but then I think about how much I am asking of her. I mean, making your friend go alone to South America is a lot to ask. Plus I’ll feel better about her safety if someone else is with her.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Chantrea’s email

THANKS for getting me Chantrea’s email address so quickly. As for David, why not? You think he’d want to? I arrive around noon on the 18th, then leave again the next day right around the time you do. I’ll get a hotel room in SF when I get there. Then we can spend the day together before we both have to go do this …

All this scheming has me completely exhausted. I really want to go to bed, but I figure I better set up this phone thing and try to get in touch with Chantrea and Amisi. With the time-zone weirdness, the hours that I’m asleep could be crucial in this whole plan.

The teleconference setup is pretty easy. I get assigned an 800 number and book a block of time for my call. As long as it’s listen-only and no one but me is going to be actually talking, it looks like there is no maximum number of callers. Now I have to email the girls.