Journey Into the Flame (54 page)

Authors: T. R. Williams

“It has been this way for eons,” Sebastian said. “The kings of old held tightly the truth of their worldly dealings, for they believed it was best for the people to concern themselves solely with their daily toils. Today your politicians are no different. They view truth more as a guideline than as a requirement.” Sebastian put his hands together. “Leave the kings and politicians to play their endless, tiring games. Let not their folly overshadow your grace.”

Mr. Rampart’s voice could be heard over the intercom system announcing the start of the evening.

“I take my leave of you now,” Sebastian said, as he bowed to the group. Then he turned to Logan. “Many people will see the wonderful manifestation of your talents. Six months standing in the shoes of
greatness is time well spent.” Sebastian raised his hand and pointed toward the fresco. “This work that Michelangelo bravely brought to the world more than five hundred years ago must not be forgotten. After it fell from the vault of the chapel during one of the earthquakes of the Great Disruption, no one thought it could ever come back to life.” Sebastian turned and looked at the painting for a moment. “Now we know that they were mistaken.”

And with that remark, he left the backstage area, followed by his ever-faithful partner. Logan, Mr. Perrot, and Valerie watched as he walked away.

“Wait!” Logan burst out. He looked at the fresco and then at Valerie and Mr. Perrot, who were as surprised as he was. “Did he just imply that this
is
the original painting that was on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel?”

“I think he did more than just imply that,” Valerie said with an astonished smile. “I’d like to hear the story of how he came into possession of it.”

Mr. Perrot shook his head in amazement. “I wonder if we will ever see him again.”

Logan nodded. “I don’t know for sure,” he said. “But I do know where to find him. He is only a candle flame away.”

“Hey, Dad, what’s that near your feet?” Jordan asked, as he picked up a folded piece of paper lying on the ground. He handed it to his father. Logan unfolded it, and a smile came to his face as he read it.

“It’s the answer to the question I first took into the Manas Mantr candle and left in the study,” he told Mr. Perrot.

“What question was that?” Valerie asked.

“ ‘Will you help us like you helped my father?’ ” Logan replied.

“Well, let’s hear the answer,” Valerie said.

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Perrot prodded. “Let’s hear how he answered, even if we already know of his involvement over the last few weeks.”

The note was written with exquisite penmanship, in regal blue ink. Logan read it aloud.

“Salutations.

“The timeless and never-changing answer to your query is yes.

“No one is so special as to be alone or abandoned; that is impossible in the universe in which we exist. We are all connected in a great tapestry that was woven at the dawn of time. Pluck a string at one end of the tapestry and it will quiver at the other. A willful wave garners the attention of the many who are listening.

“All are loved without condition, and when they are ready, they will seek out truth and wisdom. And if there be only one of you left upon the earth, rest assured that there will also be one of us for you to call upon.

“We are waiting with love for a thread to be tugged, waiting for someone to reach out and ask the great questions. It is inevitable that all will come to see that day. Help is as far away as you perceive it and as close as you allow it to be. But remember that we cannot do it for you. You must be the main actor in the great epic story of your life.

“When men and women are no longer afraid to look into the mirror, they will see beyond their limits and expectations.

“You will never be alone.

“For the moment,

“Baté”

Silently appreciating Sebastian’s answer, the three of them exchanged hopeful glances. The bell rang again, and they started for their seats.

“Wait for me!” Jamie said, as she grabbed Valerie’s hand.

Logan took one last look at the fresco.

• • •

Logan sat between Valerie and Mr. Perrot at a table in front of the stage. The children sat next to Valerie. They were joined by Ms. Crawley, from Mason One Auction House, and her date, along with Mr. Rampart’s wife and daughter. Mr. Rampart stood onstage, delivering a few opening remarks. Logan was only half-listening to him, because
he was thinking about the note that Sebastian had written, particularly the phrase about the mirror.

When men and women are no longer afraid to look into the mirror, they will see beyond their limits and expectations.

Logan hadn’t told anyone what had happened that day at Manikarnika Ghat, when he’d first looked into the mirror they had found in Deya’s Destiny Box. But what he’d seen was a reflection of his mother’s face, as clear as his own. He’d been so startled by it that he hadn’t looked into Deya’s mirror since.

Loud applause pulled Logan out of his contemplation. The curtain had been opened, and the painting that Logan had spent so much time restoring was now on view. He still couldn’t believe he’d restored an original Michelangelo. Mr. Rampart motioned for him to stand so he could be recognized for his contribution to the art world. He obliged but only for a few seconds.

“I have one last announcement regarding this work of art,” Mr. Rampart said. “While I would love to see this Michelangelo reproduction remain here as part of the museum’s permanent collection, it will soon be finding a new home. Mr. Quinn, its owner, has instructed me to deliver the painting to the newly established Camden and Cassandra Ford Studio of Art here in New Chicago. The studio belongs to our very own Logan Ford.”

Valerie leaned over and gave Logan a congratulatory kiss on the cheek. Mr. Perrot squeezed his shoulder. Jamie and Jordan cheered. Mr. Rampart once again asked Logan to stand and be recognized. The crowd applauded with enthusiasm. Logan stood and looked around for Sebastian. But, as usual, he was not anywhere to be seen.

Logan sat back down, and Mr. Rampart continued with the night’s festivities, presenting all of the other recently restored works of art. But Logan’s thoughts were still on Sebastian.
How did he know three weeks ago that I would have an art gallery? He told me that he was donating the painting to an acquaintance of his who owned an art gallery. Did he know that it was going to be
my
gallery?

Logan turned and looked fondly at Mr. Perrot, who appeared enthralled by another painting that was being rolled onstage, then at Valerie, who was helping Jamie butter a piece of bread. He was happy that Valerie was moving back to New Chicago and was going to be a bigger part of his life. He wondered once again about the three missing sets of the
Chronicles
and what could have happened to them. He thought about his parents and how he’d seen his mother’s face in Deya’s mirror. Then his thoughts circled back to the mysterious Sebastian Quinn, whose life’s work seemed to be to contribute to humanity the one thing that it always needed and should never be without: hope.

• • •

Compass Park appeared empty except for a single man walking with a cane. The rhythm of his walk was jagged, inconsistent, with his right leg dragging. His cane supported him as he stepped into the fountain pool and splashed his way to the monument. He stood there looking at the names carved into it. He ran his fingers slowly across the name of Fendral Hitchlords. He whispered something to himself.

The sound of a struck match caused him to turn and look at the man seated on the bench behind him. The same bench where Logan had found his father’s hidden message. The man hadn’t noticed the stranger sitting there before.

“Did you know that Fendral fella?” the stranger asked, before dragging on his lit cigarette.

The man splashed forward, making his way back out of the fountain. He stopped a few meters from the stranger seated on the bench. As he stood, water dripped from the bottoms of his pants legs and puddled on the ground.

“Yes, I knew Fendral. He murdered me once,” the man said in a calm voice, as he adjusted the gold buttons on his coat. “There’s something his son owes me.”

The stranger on the bench began to nod. “The sins of the father are passed down to the son,” he said as he took a puff of his cigarette. “What’s your name, friend?”

“Giovanni,” the man answered, water still dripping to the ground. “Giovanni Rast.”

The stranger threw his cigarette to the ground and put it out by stepping on it. “Well, Giovanni,” he said. “My name’s Randolph Fenquist, and I suspect that you and I have something in common.”