John Schettler - Nexus Point

“And my friend?”

“You may have seen the last of him.” Rasil looked him full in the face now. “A hard business.”

“What? You mean to say that you can’t pull him out—you have no retraction scheme?”

“He was not prepared,” Rasil explained. “You know this as well as I do. I’m afraid he is on his own now. It is not within my power to reach him from here. This is a one way journey, and his time will be short. A man who jumps into the Well of Souls does not return—at least not here.”

Nordhausen was flabbergasted. “One way? But how can that be? Paul told me time would hold the door open for him. He doesn’t belong there!” The professor pointed to the depths of the cave.

”Surely not. It was my place to jump, but that was foiled.”

“Then let me go after him, if you will do nothing to save him.”

“Don’t be foolish. Did you not hear? The Well is dissipated. It takes a full month for the reaction to build. It will not open again until the next full moon—in fact, it must never open again.”

“What are you saying?” Nordhausen was desperate for some way out of the dilemma.

“If the well remains—if we remain—after the transformation, then I will order my men to destroy this place. It must not be allowed to come to the attention of the Order, you understand. I could kill you instead, but that is against our code of honor. A walker must not be harmed. The repercussions are too difficult to fathom. So the well will be destroyed, and that will be the end of it.”

Nordhausen slumped with resignation, a deflated look of pain on his face. “Then I’ve doomed him,” he whispered. “I’ve killed my friend.”

“No,” Rasil corrected him. “It is very likely that he will survive the jump. We have caretakers at the other end. They will do what they can for him, if he survives the fall. Then time will decide his fate at the other end. It is our doom you have sealed, not that of your friend.”

“Our doom?”

“None of this was written,” said Rasil. “It was not supposed to happen, this chance meeting in the desert. We did not expect you, so that is why I believe you when you say your coming here was unplanned. Yet you yourself have said it: your friend does not belong there. He is a Free Radical now. Remember—time is jealous; time is vengeful. It may be that the dogs will have our bones before the dawn.”

Thankfully, Jabr’s sanctuary was not far. They moved through the thickness of the night, first winding their way down a twisted gorge, and then climbing again, by a narrow rock-sewn pathway that eventually withered away to nothing. Paul thought it odd that along the route he had not seen any other sign of life—not a road, a house or even so much as a telephone pole. While it made sense that this group would hide away in these remote mountains, the rugged, unfinished nature of the ground seemed strange to him.

“What is this place?” he asked when they finally halted for the night. It was the dark hour before dawn, and the chill lay heavily upon them, in spite of the thick, coarse robes they had donned.

“This is Wadi el Jan. That would be the Valley of Demons in your language. Let us hope the jinn have ceased their restless walking in the night and returned to their haunts, for the new day will be upon us soon. I am sorry to have pressed you to such discomfort this night. You must be very tired. Come, there is a deep cave hidden in the face of yon cliff. It is known to very few—perhaps not even the Sami. We will be safe here for a time, Allah willing.”

They found the entrance, well hidden behind the twisted remains of an old cedar tree, its trunk cloven by lightning and scored by fire, the long limbs barren and charred to black and ashen gray. One of the two guards continued on, leading the horses away as if he were just a weary traveler in the mountains.

“The horses would be too easy to spot from yonder ridge,” Jabr explained. “Poor Hamza still has long hours ahead of him before he takes his rest. Yet, he will be rewarded. Aziz will remain and guard the entrance to our sanctuary. Come, we will prepare a meal. I’m afraid it will not be so sumptuous. We cannot light a fire here just yet, so cold biscuits will have to do. Perhaps it will be safe to brew kahwa when the sun is up.”

Another cave, thought Paul as they slid into a narrow crack in the face of the sheer cliff. He soon found that, once through a constricted tunnel, the interior of the cave opened up to a wide chamber. Jabr disappeared into the shadows for a moment and Paul caught the scrape of flint on stone. A spark flared in the distance and the soft light of an oil lamp suffused the chamber. To his great surprise, he saw that the walls had been shaped and smoothed by artisans, and squared to the semblance of a typical room. There were crude wooden tables, chairs, and recessed shelves hewn into the rocky walls, stacked high with many bound leather volumes and rolled scrolls. He saw doorways leading to other rooms deeper in the heart of the cliff, and caught a glimpse of an ornate arabesque, hung with richly colored tapestries. There were thick carpets in one quarter of the room, dressed out with pillowed bolsters. A few wooden tables were scattered with archaic instruments, quill pens, a pair of calipers and something that appeared to be an astrolabe. Paul saw several sketched documents, which he took to be maps of the stars. They were illustrated by elegant drawings of the heavens, dominated by a large sickle moon.

“A library, of a kind,” said Jabr, seeing how he was drawn to the tables.

Paul was amazed. “These books must be very old,” he said, his finger tracing a path in the ash white dust covering a leather bound book.

“Some,” said Jabr. “Others are very recent, the handiwork of the Kadi’s scribes and mapmakers. This is a secret archive he has set aside from the world. The days are careless, and wisdom is too easily lost in the heat of our quarrels. Such a sanctuary is a place of peace, where Allah may watch kindly over all that is set here for safekeeping.”

Paul could not resist taking up one of the drawings, a great circle with darkened areas painted in the interior to form stark, regular shapes labeled by Arabic writing.

“What is this?” He held the document closer to the lantern, noting the earthy tones in its coloring, ochre, violet and umber.

“Ah, that is a map.” Jabr brought another oil lamp to the table and they spread the document out. “It is the world as we know it now, drawn from accounts of many travelers we have dealings with.”

“A map?” Paul squinted at the document, cocking his head to one side, somewhat perplexed. It was like nothing he had ever seen, and had not the slightest resemblance to the maps he often doted over back home. “I can’t make any sense of it,” he said. “Which way is north?”

“At the bottom, of course,” said Jabr. “Here is the land of the Arabs, and here is Egypt.” He pointed with a slim, brown finger, indicating abstract areas of the map offset by dark shading.

Paul rotated the scroll, turning it 180 degrees about, his eyes widening as Jabr continued his narration, and he labeled the areas mentally, slowly beginning to see familiar shapes in the diagram.

“But now you have it turned the wrong way,” said Jabr. “Mecca, the jewel of the south, is always placed at the top.”

Paul stared at him, as if he was playing out some mischievous prank. “One of your men drew this? Well he certainly could use a geography lesson or two. Where are we?” He slipped the question in nonchalantly, hoping Jabr would not draw that veil of guarded secrecy about their exchange.

“See the sickle there,” he pointed to the Northeast quadrant, the shape Paul took to be Syria. “That is the realm of the Sheikh, where we now hold forth.”