Romy nods. "And so the moment you desired to find your way to the temples, we showed up to help you. While Ava faded away."
"So I made her disappear?" I ask, beginning to grasp the truth of all this.
Romy laughs, while Rayne shakes her head and rolls her eyes, looking at me like I'm the densest person she's ever met. "Hardly."
"So all of these people —" I motion toward the crowd. "Are all of them—dead?" I direct my question at Romy, having given up on Rayne. Watching as she leans in and whispers into her sister's ear, causing Romy to pull away and say, "My sister says you ask too many questions." Rayne scowls, popping her hard on the arm with her fist, but Romy just laughs.
And as I gaze at the two of them, taking in Rayne's steady glare and Romy's insistence on speaking in riddles, I realize that as entertaining as it's been, they're starting to get on my nerves. I've got things to do, temples to find, and engaging in this kind of confusing banter is turning into a big waste of time. Remembering too late that they both can read my thoughts when Romy nods and says, "As you wish. We'll show you the way."
CHAPTER 25
They lead me down a series of streets, the two of them marching side by side, their stride so measured and quick I struggle to follow. We pass vendors peddling all types of wares —everything from hand-dipped candles to small wooden toys—their patrons lining up for those carefully wrapped goods and offering only a kind word or smile in exchange. We walk alongside fruit stands, candy stores, and a few trendy boutiques, before pausing on a corner as a horse-drawn carriage crosses our path followed by a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce.
And just as I'm about to ask how all of these things can exist in one place, how seemingly ancient buildings can sit beside the sleekest, most modern designs, Romy looks at me and says, "I already told you. Summerland contains the possibility of all things. And since different people desire different things, most everything you can think of has been brought into existence."
"So all of this was manifested ?" I say, gazing around in awe, as Romy nods and Rayne storms straight ahead. "But who's manifesting these things? Are they day-trippers like me? Are they living or dead?" I glance between Romy and Rayne, knowing my question applies to them too, because even though they appear to be normal on the outside, there's something very strange about them, something almost —eerie—and timeless as well.
And just as my gaze settles on Romy, Rayne decides to address me for the first time today, saying, "You desired to find the temples and so we are helping you.
But make no mistake, we are under no obligation to answer your questions. Some things in Summerland are just none of your business."
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.
And he looks so adorable, so round-cheeked and cherubic, with the way his brown hair flops over those unmistakable dark eyes and curls down the nape of his soft baby neck, I can't help but reach toward him. It all looks so real, so accessible, and so close, I'm fully convinced that if I can only make contact, I can experience his world right beside him. But just as my finger draws near, the crystal heats up to an unbearable degree and I yank my hand back, watching my skin briefly bubble and burn before healing again. Knowing the boundaries are now set, that I'm allowed to observe but not interfere. The image fast-forwards to Damen's tenth birthday, a day deemed so special it's marked by treats and sweets and a late-afternoon visit to his father's workshop. The two of them sharing more than wavy dark hair, smooth olive skin, and a nicely squared jaw, but also a passion for perfecting the alchemical brew that promises not only to turn lead into gold but also to prolong life for an indefinite time —the perfect philosopher's stone.
They settle into their work, their established routine, with Damen grinding individual herbs with the mortar and pestle, before carefully measuring the salts, oils, colored liquids, and ores, which his father then adds to the bubbling flasks. Pausing before each step to announce what he's doing, and lecturing his son on their task:
"Transmutation is what we are after. Changing from sickness to health, from old age to youth, from lead to gold, and quite possibly, immortality too. Everything is born of one fundamental element, and if we can reduce it to its core, then we can create anything from there!"
Damen listens, rapt, hanging on to his father's every word even though he's heard the exact same speech many times before. And though they speak in Italian, a language I've never studied, somehow I understand every word.
He names each ingredient before adding it in, then deciding, just for today, to withhold the last one. Convinced that this final component, this odd-looking herb, will create even more magic if added to an elixir that's sat for three days.
After pouring the opalescent red brew into a smaller glass flask, Damen covers it carefully, then places it into a well-hidden cupboard. And they've just finished cleaning the last of their mess, when his mother —a creamy-skinned beauty in a plain watered-silk dress, her golden hair crimped at the sides and confined by a small cap at the back—stops by to call them to lunch. And her love is so apparent, so tremendously clear, illustrated in the smile she reserves for her husband, and the look she gives Damen, their dark soulful eyes a perfect mirror of each other.
And just as they're preparing to head home for lunch, three swarthy men storm through the door. Overpowering Damen's father and demanding the elixir, as his mother thrusts her son into the cupboard where it's stored —warning him to stay put, to not make a sound, until it's safe to come out. He cowers in that dark, dank space, peering through a small knot in the wood. Watching as his father's workshop—his life's work—is destroyed by the men in their search. But even though his father turns over his notes, it's not enough to save them. And Damen trembles, watching helplessly, as both of his parents are murdered.
I sit on the white marble bench, my mind reeling, my stomach churning, feeling everything Damen feels, his swirling emotions, his deepest despair —my vision blurred by his tears, my breath hot, jagged, indistinguishable from his. We are one now. The two of us joined in unimaginable grief.
Both of us knowing the same kind of loss.
Both of us believing we were somehow at fault.
He washes their wounds and cares for their bodies, convinced that when three days have passed, he can add the final ingredient, that odd-looking herb, and bring them both back. Only to be awakened on that third and final day by a group of neighbors alerted by the smell, finding him curled up beside the bodies, the bottle of elixir clutched in his hand.
He struggles against them, retrieving the herb and desperately shoving it in. Determined to get it to his parents, to make them both drink, but overpowered by his neighbors long before he can.
Because they're convinced that he's practicing some sort of sorcery, he's declared a ward of the church, where devastated by loss and pulled from everything he knows and loves, he's abused by priests determined to rid him of the devil inside.