Элисон Ноэль - Blue Moon

I swallow hard, looking at Romy and wondering if she'll step in and apologize for her sister, but she just leads us down another well-populated street, into an empty alleyway, and onto a quiet boulevard where she stops before a magnificent building.

"Tell me what you see," she says, as both she and her sister peer closely at me.

I gawk at the glorious building before me, my eyes wide as my mouth drops in awe, taking in its beautiful elaborate carvings, its grand sloping roof, its imposing columns, its impressive front doors —all of its vast and varied parts rapidly changing and shifting, conjuring images of the Parthenon, the Taj Mahal, the great pyramids of Giza, the Lotus Temple, my mind reeling with imagery as the building reshapes and reforms, until all of the world's greatest temples and wonders are clearly represented in its ever-changing facade.

I see — I see everything! I think, unable to utter the words. The awesome beauty before me has rendered me speechless.

I turn to Romy, wondering if she sees what I see, and watching as she pops Rayne hard on the arm when she says, "I told you!"

"The temple is constructed from the energy, love, and knowledge of all good things. " She smiles. "Those who can see that are permitted to enter."

The second I hear that, I sprint up the grand marble steps, eager to get past this glorious facade and see what's inside. But just as I reach the huge double doors, I turn back to say, "Are you coming?"

Rayne just stares, her eyes narrowed, suspicious, wishing they'd never bothered with me. While Romy shakes her head and says, "Your answers lie inside.

You're no longer in need of us now."

"But where do I start?"

Romy peers at her sister, a private exchange passing between them. Then she turns to me and says, "You must seek the akashic records. They are a permanent record of everything that has ever been said, thought, or done —or ever will be said, thought, or done. But you will only find them if you are meant to. If not —''

She shrugs, wishing to leave it right there, but the look of sheer panic in my eyes drives her to continue. "If you are not meant to know, then you will not know.

It's as simple as that."

I stand there, thinking how that wasn't the least bit reassuring, and feeling almost relieved when they both turn to leave.

"And now we must go, Miss Ever Bloom," she says, using my full name even though I'm sure I never revealed it. "Though I'm sure we'll meet again."

I watch as they move away, remembering one last question when I call, "But how do I get back? You know, once I'm done here?"

Watching as Rayne's back stiffens and Romy turns, a patient smile spread across her face as she says, "The same way you arrived. Through the portal, of course."

CHAPTER 26

The moment I turn toward the door it opens before me. And since it's not one of those automatic doors like the kind they have in supermarkets, I'm guessing it means I'm worthy of entering. I step into a large spacious entry filled with the most brilliant warm light —a luminous showering radiance that, like the rest of Summerland, permeates every nook and cranny, every corner, every space, allowing no shadows or dark spots, and doesn't seem to emanate from any one place. Then I move along a hall flanked on either side by a row of white marble columns carved in the style of ancient Greece, where robe-wearing monks sit at long carved wooden tables, alongside priests, rabbis, shamans, and all manner of seekers. All of them peering at large crystal globes and levitating tablets—each of them studying the images that unfold. I pause, wondering if it would be rude to interrupt and ask if they can point me in the direction of the akashic records. But the room is so quiet and they're all so engrossed, I'm reluctant to disturb them, so I keep going instead. Passing a series of magnificent statues carved from the purest white marble, until entering a large ornate room that reminds me of the great cathedrals of Italy (or at least the pictures I've seen). Bearing the same sort of domed ceilings, stained-glass windows, and elaborate frescoes containing the kind of glorious images that would make Michelangelo weep.

I stand in the center, my head thrown back in awe as I struggle to take it all in. Twirling around and around until I grow tired and dizzy, realizing it's impossible to glimpse it all in one sitting. And knowing I've wasted enough time already, I shut my eyes tightly and follow Romy's advice —that I must first desire something in order for it to be. And just after asking to be led to the answers I seek, I open my eyes and a long hallway appears.

Its light is dimmer than what I've grown used to seeing —it's sort of glowy, incandescent. And even though I've no idea where it leads, I start walking. Following the beautiful Persian runner that seems to go on forever, running my hands along a wall covered in hieroglyphs, my fingertips grazing the images as their likeness appears in my head —the entire story unfolding merely by touch, like some sort of telepathic Braille.

Then suddenly, with no sign or warning, I'm standing at the entrance to yet another elaborate room. Only this one is elaborate in a different way —not by carvings or murals—but by its pure unadulterated simplicity.

Its circular walls are shiny and slick, and even though they first appear to be merely white, on closer inspection I realize there's nothing mere about it. It's a true white, a white in the purest sense. One that can only result from the blending of all colors —an entire spectrum of pigments all merging together to create the ultimate color of light—just like I learned in art class. And other than the massive cluster of prisms hanging from the ceiling, containing what must amount to thousands of fine-cut crystals, all of them shimmering and reflecting and resulting in a kaleidoscope of color that now swirls around the room, the only other object in this space is a lone marble bench that's strangely warm and comfortable, especially for a substance known to be anything but. And after taking a seat and folding my hands in my lap, I watch as the walls seamlessly seal up behind me as though the hallway that led me here never existed. But I'm not afraid. Even though there's no visible exit and it appears that I'm trapped in this strange circular room, I feel safe, peaceful, cared for. As though the room is cocooning me, comforting me, its round walls like big strong arms in a welcoming hug. I take a deep breath, wishing for answers to all of my questions, and watching as a large crystal sheet appears right before me, hovering in what was once empty space, waiting for me to make the next move. But now that I'm so close to the answer, my question has suddenly changed.

So instead of concentrating on: What's happened to Damen and how do I fix it? I think: Show me everything I need to know about Damen .

Thinking this may be my only chance to learn everything I can about the elusive past he refuses to discuss. Convincing myself that I'm not at all prying, that I'm looking for solutions and that any information I can get will only help my cause. Besides, if I'm truly not worthy of knowing, then nothing will be revealed. So what harm is there in asking? And no sooner is the thought complete, than the crystal starts buzzing. Vibrating with energy as a flood of images fills up its face, the picture so clear it's like HDTV. There's a small cluttered workshop, its windows covered by a swath of heavy dark cotton, its walls lit up by a profusion of candles. And Damen is there, no older than three, wearing a plain brown tunic that hangs well past his knees, and sitting at a table littered with small bubbling flasks, a pile of rocks, tins filled with colorful powders, mortars and pestles, mounds of herbs, and vials of dye. Watching as his father dips his quill into a small pot of ink and records the day's work in a series of complicated symbols, pausing every so often to read from a book titled: Ficino's Corpus Hermeticism, as Damen copies him, scribbling onto his own scrap of paper.