left? What does a left-curling spiral indicate?”
“A retrograde interval,” answered Douglas.
Bacon nodded. “And the four small points along its length?”
“Those represent physical way markers to be used for calibrating time.”
“Just so,” said Bacon. He raised a cautionary finger. “ When such marks as these are above the line, or on the outer side of a curve, they represent way markers, as you say.”
“Yes?”
“But the meaning changes when such marks are to be found below the line or on the inner side of the curve.” The priest smiled. “What have we here?” He tapped the symbol in question with a long finger.
“Three dots on the inner curve,” replied Douglas.
“And what does this configuration represent?”
Douglas stared at the tiny symbol and wracked his brain to remember. “Intersections?”
“Portals would be more precise, I believe-conjunctions of several pathways-a nexus, if you will.”
“Portals,” sighed Douglas in agreement. “Of course.”
“As for the rest, the orientation and location alignments-these are all rendered correctly.” He re-rolled the scroll and passed it back through the barrier. “Of course, I would need access to my papers in my tower study before I could offer a definitive judgement on your work. But for purposes of discussion, I think we can conclude that you have translated the cypher with admirable success. It is a most subtle and demanding art, but you have plumbed the depths of the mystery set before you. I salute you, brother. My congratulations.”
“Your praise means more to me than I can say, master.”
“I hope I do not have to remind you that the knowledge you have gained is to remain the province of your own keeping. It is not to be shared by a wider public.” He regarded Douglas with solemn urgency. “As you can see”-he indicated his own predicament with a wave of his hand-“the authorities do not treat kindly truths that confound their own more limited understandings. The stake awaits anyone who ventures too far into realms deemed unacceptable for investigation.” He paused, nodding for emphasis. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Completely,” Douglas assured him. “I hasten to assure you that no one shall hear of our inquiry from me. I intend to guard the secret most jealously. Indeed, I have already destroyed all my notes and jottings regarding the phenomenon and its delineation in theory.”
Roger Bacon offered a sad smile. “That is for the best-though one could well wish otherwise. One day, perhaps, the world will be a place where knowledge such as this can be lauded-not hidden.”
There was a noise in the stairwell below, and a moment later Snipe’s pale moon face rose in the shadows. He placed the chamber pot on the landing and made a hurry-up gesture before disappearing again.
“Someone is coming,” said Douglas. He picked up the crock and passed it to the master. “I will leave you now.”
“Yes, you should go,” urged Bacon. “My keepers are bringing me bread and water. It would be best for both of us if they did not find you here.”
“Unfortunately, I must return to the abbey tonight. But is there anything I can get you before I depart- anything at all?”
The master shook his head. “My needs are simple, and as such are supplied. Still,” he added as the thought occurred to him, “one could wish for a little more parchment.”
“Say no more,” replied Douglas, moving away from the barred door. “I will see that it is in your hands before I leave.”
“And a horn of ink?”
“You shall have it-and candles too.”
“Thank you, dear friend. You are a very saint.”
“Not at all,” Douglas answered from the staircase. “It is I who should be thanking you. Farewell, Doctor Bacon-until we meet again.”
“Go with God, my friend,” called Bacon, closing the door once more.
On the landing below, Douglas met a robed church official ascending the stairs and, behind him, a squat fellow carrying a pail in one hand and a pike in the other. He could not avoid being seen, so he smiled, bowed, and wished them both a good day-all the while moving towards the door. He collected Snipe, who was hovering about the entrance like a sullen cloud, and hurried off across the market square. He lingered in town long enough to visit the chandlers and purchase a dozen large candles, then went on to procure some parchment and a flask of ink, some uncut quills, and a new pen knife. He arranged for all these things to be taken to Master Bacon’s lodgings when the church bells tolled prime.
“Come, Snipe,” he said. “We had best make ourselves scarce for a while.” He struck off down the street in search of an inn where they could wait for the Oxford Ley to become active and the assault on the Skin Map to begin in earnest.
CHAPTER 30
Incredible as Kit’s unprecedented appearance seemed to everyone concerned, the tale he unfolded for them was more incredible still. Sitting in the tiny kitchen of the mountaintop observatory, Kit held his listeners rapt. Over big bowls of Brother Lazarus’ spaghetti puttanesca, Wilhelmina’s floury bread, and numerous glasses of the abbey’s hefty red wine, he described life in the Stone Age as he knew it: River City Clan and its organisation; the order and rhythm of daily existence; the flora and fauna; the various individuals and their orientation to the clan and to their world; their unstinting care, support, and respect for one another; and their extraordinary means of communication.
Wilhelmina, leaning on her elbows with chin in hand, her dark eyes wide, kept up a steady, murmuring stream of translation for the priest, who shook his head in continual amazement. Shorn of his matted, shaggy locks and shaved clean, Kit no longer looked like the Wild Man in a circus sideshow. In his clean black cassock he might have passed for one of the abbey’s resident monastics-except the things he was describing were things no monk had ever put into words. Story after story, each more astounding than the last, poured out in a flood of verbal astonishments. Every now and then Brother Lazarus would jot down a note for later reference, or a question. But neither he nor Mina wanted to interrupt for fear of missing something amazing.
They talked long into the night and the next morning. After broaching the subject of mounting a return expedition to explore the cave and retrieve the painted symbols from the walls, Brother Lazarus beetled off to consult his superiors. Meanwhile, Kit and Wilhelmina sat outside the observatory tower on a wooden bench, taking in the bright morning sun.
“I found that plaque in the church at Sant’Antimo in Italy and followed the trail,” Mina explained, “and it led me here to Brother Lazarus. His real name is Giambattista Beccaria, and he is a traveller- like us.” Her voice took on a no-nonsense tone. “That is a secret you will take to the grave-for his good as well as for ours, no one must know about any of us.” She lightened again. “You can trust him, Kit. He is one of us. Actually, he’s the one who’s responsible for finding you the first time.”
“I’ve always wondered how you managed to pull that off.”
“It’s complicated.”
“I figured.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he stretched his feet out in front of him, leaned his head against the back of the bench, closed his eyes, and tilted his face to the sun, enjoying the warmth. “Have a go.”
“Okay,” she agreed, turning her eyes to the valley, lost in a blue haze of morning mist. “I don’t know about you, but my life has ceased to have linear chronology. I seem to be here, there, and everywhere. Time gets a little fuzzy.”
“You got that right,” affirmed Kit, his voice hoarse from talking more in the last twelve hours than he had in the previous twelve months combined. “Go on.”
“I’ve been coming to Montserrat for a few years now. On one early visit I actually arrived and realised that I had returned before the last time I was here! From Brother Lazarus’ point of view, we had not yet had the previous
