C. Omololu: Transcendence

As he speaks and gestures to the stairs, it suddenly feels like I’m watching from far away; his words grow tinny and faint. I blink to try to pull everything back, but an image pushes itself forward until the guard and the crowd fade away.

Shouts echo against stone and water laps against wood as the narrow boat maneuvers through the gate. Hands reach out to escort us up the slippery stairs, made more dangerous by the darkness that is broken only by torches flickering on the walls. I can smell the fear and panic in the air as we are hurried up the steps and through the tall, stone walls of the Tower .

“The water,” I say without thinking.

Kat glares, while the guard turns his attention to me. “I’m sorry, miss?”

My heart is still racing and my palms are wet as I look around at the eager faces of the tour group. I so didn’t mean to say that out loud. “Um, I was just saying that there was water here. People came through this gate in a boat.”

“Give the young lady a prize for knowing her history,” the guard says as he leans back and points to me. “I was about to say that this was originally called the Water Gate, as the moat that once surrounded the Tower provided for boats to enter the grounds at this very spot. Most of your prisoners did indeed arrive by boat.”

“Guess your book came in handy for something,” Kat whispers to me as the guard moves on to another building and we follow. “Way to impress the tour guide.”

I nod quickly and then glance down at the book. I’ve been through the section on the Tower of London enough times to know that it never talks about the Water Gate.

“You okay?” Kat asks, her eyes intent on my face. “You look funny.”

I run my hand over my forehead and squeeze my eyes closed. “Yeah. I’m fine,” I say quickly. I feel panicky and a little sick to my stomach, but I don’t want to go back to the hotel. I have to prove to myself that this is nothing. That the fact that what I saw in the vision is actually the truth doesn’t mean that I’m seeing ghosts—although a more rational explanation is escaping me at the moment. “Come on, they’re leaving us behind.”

We stand in front of the White Tower as the guard talks about the kings and queens who lived there over the years. As we listen, it’s easy to imagine people from hundreds of years ago crossing this same courtyard and peering out these same windows, a fact that I’m a little less enthusiastic about than I was just a few minutes ago. I want to get through the rest of this tour seeing old men wearing black socks and sandals with big, bulky cameras hanging around their necks, not anyone dressed in velvet hats and flowing gowns.

Perched on his little cement post, the guard is really revving up now, gesturing at each building as he describes its purpose, and I try hard to concentrate on what he’s saying. “Now that you’ve seen where some of England’s kings and queens lived, follow me and I’ll show you where some of them actually died.”

We follow him to a grassy area with a low iron fence. He stands on a small platform and waits for us to quiet down. “Let me draw your attention to that circular memorial,” he says, pointing to what looks like a mirrored coffee table with a glass pillow on top. “That memorial is placed where the scaffold for the executions of noblemen and women was constructed. Only ten men and women were executed within the walls of the Tower itself. Who they were and why they died I’ll explain to you once we’re inside the Chapel Royal.”

Kat nudges me as everyone else follows the guide inside the entrance to the Chapel. “I’m bored. You ready to be done yet?”

I watch the rest of the tour group file into the stone church. Swallowing hard, I nod my head, feeling a little too fragile to hear gruesome stories of the beheadings that took place on this very spot. I have to get a grip on myself, or the rest of this vacation is going to be ruined.

We slip away from the back of the crowd as Kat checks the map we’d been handed along with our tickets. “On to the Jewels,” she says. I follow her past the glass memorial that looks weirdly modern and out of place among the old buildings and green lawns. People actually died right on the spot where I’m standing, and if there are wayward spirits anywhere in the Tower, they should be here. I don’t feel any of the things I felt outside the tube station—no unexplained emotions, no overwhelming feelings of fear, no graphic images replaying in my head. As an experiment, I put my hand out to touch the metal railing surrounding the memorial, close my eyes, and feel … nothing. I open them again and look around, relieved.

“The line for the Crown Jewels still looks pretty long,” I say, pointing to the snaking rows of people waiting to get into the stone building. I check the time on my phone. “It’s going to be lunchtime soon—maybe we can sneak in when everyone else takes their kids to the café.”

Kat eyes the line and reluctantly agrees with me. “Let’s figure out which is the least boring building.” She reads from the map and points to the big castle in the middle. “That’s the White Tower. It’s where the weapons and armor and stuff is.” She rolls her eyes, and I can tell that we won’t be spending a lot of time there.

I tap the map on the spot where we’re standing. “Let’s start with Beauchamp Tower. It’s right here, and there’s supposed to be some graffiti written on the walls by the prisoners as they were waiting to be executed.”

Centuries-old tagging seems to appeal to her, so we walk up the stairs and into a large stone room with arched doorways and tiny windows set into the thick walls. I stop by one of the window ledges and peek out through the narrow opening to the paths and grass below, feeling my heart pound like it always does whenever I’m more than a few feet off the ground. I step back from the window and imagine sitting in this very spot, watching life pass by below, knowing that my time left on earth is almost over. It smells musty in the low-ceilinged room, as if centuries of desperation have worked their way into the walls.

Kat peers at the designs that are etched into almost every stone surface. “I wonder what they used to carve them? You think the king was stupid enough to give them knives and let them go at it?”

“I doubt it. See if it says on the display board over there.” I walk slowly around the edges of the room, gazing at the carvings that were done by doomed men so long ago. Some are really elaborate, with images of lions and pleas to God for mercy. Others are just names and dates chiseled roughly into the walls. I end up standing in front of one carving, a simple square filled with words I don’t recognize. I place my hand over the clear Plexiglas that protects all of the carvings and feel a subtle energy flowing from the solid stone. There are feelings of fear and loneliness, but overriding it all is a sense of peace. There’s a tug of connection, and I long to put my skin on the bare stone, to touch the lines that have been carved by another hand centuries before: For eternity. 1538 .

Kat leans over my shoulder, and I jerk my hand away. I feel guilty, but I have no idea why. “What’s that one?” She looks closer. “ Ad vitam aeternam ? What is that, Latin? At least I can read the date—1538. But it doesn’t say who did it or anything.”

“Um, I don’t know,” I say, my voice shaky. Ad vitam aeternam—For eternity . I’ve only seen Latin in a few musical scores, but I know, deep in my heart, that this is what the carving says, as plainly as if it had been written in English. For eternity . The words echo through my whole body.

“There sure are a lot of carvings in here,” Kat says, looking back at the map. “It says that there’s a carving done by Lady Jane Grey’s husband just before they were both beheaded. That is so romantic. Let’s find that one.”