How long they had kept this position, with only barely perceptible synchronized movements, as if they thought with one mind and moved with one connected will, Caleb had no idea. But at some point, the green of her eyes had leaked out into the darkness and swirled into the shadows, twisting like serpents. And then the floor had given way and his spirit was tugged, gently at first, then ripped free and thrust into a kaleidoscopic world of sensation.
The images came fast, full of vivid clarity. Caleb never knew exactly how remote viewing worked. Specialists in the field of parapsychology theorized it was some variation on Jung’s collective unconscious theory — that all the memories of everyone who had ever lived or ever would live out there, and anyone could dip into that collective pool and perceive anything in the mixture — people, places, events — anywhere in time and space. In such visions one used all their senses, fully experiencing their environment.
Caleb’s own belief was that it had something to do with the fundamental nature of reality. Intriguing experiments had revealed that quantum particles shared some sort of telepathic bond; one particle instantaneously changed its characteristics when another, no matter how distant, was altered. Another theory held that the observer’s consciousness acted on these particles, implicitly changing them because, in a sense, the particles were not truly independent or distinct from the greater reality of Mind. What this and other properties of quantum behavior implied about the universe was astounding. The early alchemists — and further back, the disciples of the Egyptian Mystery Schools — adhered to the belief that everything from the smallest particle to the most massive planet was all related, one seamless tapestry. “As above, so below” was their sacred creed. They re-created the heavens structurally on the earth, and they read into the stars the nature of things terrestrial. The spiritual was a direct extension of the physical, and it could be accessed if one knew the proper codes and ways of belief.
Maybe it was true. On some level, everything was connected. And that’s why, when Nina and Caleb entered the last trance before their descent, they shared the same visions. Unconsciously they tapped into something that revealed, in a succession of chronological scenes, what they needed to see. It started with a sense of impending disaster, and then the earth…
… begins to tremble. Three men sit atop the lighthouse. They are dressed in heavy cloaks and turbans, warming themselves by the great fire. It is Naseer’s turn to make the descent and haul up more fuel, but he is too afraid to move. So he waits with the others for the quake to stop, praying.
Outside, beyond the four renovated pillars surrounding the roofless circular platform, the stars burn fiercely, trying to compete with the smoke churning from the pyre. The bitter winds rise, snatching at their clothes and scattering the smoke, but the sea lies peacefully slumbering under the blanket of a hundred ships, the entire Muslim fleet, preparing to launch at dawn.
Naseer and his two friends have been manning this lookout post and tending the fire for three years. They meet each other’s bloodshot eyes, and whisper their personal prayers to Allah. “It is happening again.”
“No, Farikh, it is too soon. The earth shook only twenty years ago. My father was at this post, and he said the quake only succeeded in knocking free part of the lower balcony and a few stones from the east side.”
“That only means the lighthouse has been weakened. A hundred years ago the highest section fell off, and we have been building these fires on the ruined top of the second level ever since.”
“God willing,” Alim-Asr says, “it will hold again this time.”
“Perhaps we should make our way down,” Naseer whispers.
But it’s too late.
The tower rumbles and sways. One of the pillars cracks down the middle. Naseer springs to his feet and races to the west edge. Balancing on the shifting floor, he risks a look down. A dozen stones tumble free from the midsection, consumed by the darkness. He spins, fighting his vertigo, before his knees buckle with the floor beneath him. He reaches for his friends—
— but they are gone. Naseer is left alone, holding fast to the one remaining pillar on a jagged section of the floor while an open space yawns before him and a stairway ends in the night air.
The fire is gone. Only darkness and smoke have taken its place. He perceives movement, an immense shadow sliding down and away. Screams rise from the precipice, but are cut off by a rumbling of masonry and the baleful whimpering of an old giant casting off its dead skin.
He blinked, and…
… it is now daylight. He is somewhere else. Someone else. Dazzling sunshine spreads over the metallic azure sky. The ships are gone, the harbor quiet but for a lone sail. The city’s beachfront looks different, with new domes and mosques, pillars and minarets dotting hills as far as he can see.
He sits astride his horse, a beautiful Arabian with a bejeweled purple saddle and harness. It paws at the ground and shakes its mane in the shadows cast by giant slabs of stone. To the east, the cracked monoliths and the enormous piles of granite and limestone lead a twisting trail to the ruined heap of the once-proud tower.
It still ascends nearly one hundred feet, and its foundation seems strong and defensible, buttressed on all sides by a low barrier, broken in places but repairable. Its lower levels breathe with potential. Many rooms are still intact despite the crushing weight of the collapsed superstructure. He hangs his head and can only imagine the way it once was. Forty years have passed since the last great quake finally brought down its magnificence. Forty years since a flame has burned at its top and led mariners to safety.
He listens to the wind and the crashing of the sea over the ancient blocks, and he imagines the wondrous fragments lying just ahead in the pounding surf — the great stones, blocks and statues that had so long enjoyed the breezes and the awed stares of countless visitors. He turns as a man approaches.
“Lord Qaitbey.” His lieutenant slows his horse and bows. “The men are ready. We have two hundred horses, enough rope and pulleys and carts. And stonecutting tools.”
Qaitbey nods, satisfied as he looks over the ruined structure. He notes the placement of the fallen stones, the edges worn by rain and wind. “Do what you can to build it up,” he orders. “We must defend Alexandria.”
“As you wish.”
Qaitbey turns again to the haunting, desolate ruins, and he gazes into the few remaining windows and a half-collapsed doorway. A chill runs down his spine as he prepares the next question. “What of the descending staircase and the chamber below?”
His man coughs. “We know no more, My Lord. It ends at that wall, the one with the devilish carvings. That snake and the staff… Your men, Lord, they…”
“They are afraid?”
“Yes. They know the legends. They fear what awaits below to defend the treasure. The hundred horsemen who were slaughtered.”
Qaitbey nods, lost in thought. Legends are of no concern. His purpose is to protect this city from the Turks and to avenge past evils not to trespass into vaults locked away for good reason. Without turning, he instructs his lieutenant, “Cover the stairway entrance with a false wall, a slab of granite controlled by a secret lever on the eastern wall of the second floor.”