Based on the notes of Blaire Faraday
Five-month training in a military base in the coast of San Francisco. Sounds far more interesting than it really was. The trainers, an unorthodox group comprised of thirteen people which included Mr. Athenida, began training all of us as we were just learning what magic was. It was a course of everything from theory to technique, from basic spells to more complex hexes, not that it wasn’t interesting, but the woman who was in charge of my team seemed to believe that we were military personnel, and kept treating us in that way. This gave us just far more things to deal with than just the average training.
On that note, well, Ortiz bloody shot me! It was the fourth day of us testing standardised weapons, as we would be required to have at least two by team. When we were trying on shooting blanks, a type of ammunition that doesn’t really cause damage, he left his gun on the table and the thing shot me. He says it was an accident, but we were told time and time again we never should leave our weapons without the locking spell, and much less leave them pointing at people. In theory, blanks have no projectile, but the thing shattered a glass with was sent on my way. Nevertheless, it was a small cut in my forearm and other than a drop of disinfectant and a bandage, not much happened.
Despite that, and another couple of things less worth of mention, by the time we were beginning to feel a heat wave in early August the training was done. I’m afraid I can’t recall much of what really happened on the training grounds due to something Mr. Darbinyan explained after, when we were back on the Avalon.
To keep most of our work safe from possible sightings from the mainland and ferries, the island was under a cloaking spell made with water from the river Lethe. Lethe is one of the mythical rivers of the Greek Underworld, and its waters have the propriety of making everyone forget. Though the abilities we were taught during the time at the island were ingrained within us, the memories themselves were muddy and, in most cases, gone. To my knowledge, the use of Lethe Water is a standard procedure for dealing with breaks of the Treaty of Arcadia, but it was the first time I had experienced it on first hand.
It is…unsettling, to say the least.
The number of people also dropped. We were in the 28 people for the teams that Mx. Bonheur wanted, and we were separated in four groups. We were given names related to magical cities from the past and present: Arcadia, Atlantis, Nihteard and Agrippa. I was part of the Nihteard team, along with Ursula, Mugsy, Dr. Tang, Ortiz (to my dismay), Professor Linde, and the woman from the guard night, Iggy. Mr & Mrs Fletcher, since they didn’t want to be separated, went to the Arcadia team.
We waited for the Avalon to pick everyone up at the San Francisco Bay on the 7th, but the ship itself didn’t arrive until the 11th due to problems crossing the Panama Canal. But after a couple of minor mishaps on the arrival (Ortiz tripped going up the ship and fell on the water, he insists he was pushed; and Ursula had lost a hatbox), we were on our way. I had kept my clipping of The Times from when they recruited us, and since we were leaving San Francisco, the only viable place to go was Point Nemo, wherever that was.
—It’s a nowhere, not a “where” —Leslie said one day, back in the small library of the ship. She’d been living there since the Avalon came back—. I’m making myself even less comprehensible now, right?
—Pretty much. Go back to the idea.
She pulled a large mappemonde from a rack replete with them. It was the “Joshi Map”, of which the original I had the chance to work with, during my time at the museum. The map marked every single one of the Ley Lines that projected on Earth, with the marked intersections and vacuum cones on the poles and Null Island. However, what Leslie pointed up was neither of those things. The golden lines on the map seemed to go everywhere but one place on the planet, a large water mass on the Pacific Ocean between America and Australia.
—That over there is Point Nemo— the Ley Lines almost made the place a perfect circle of hundreds of kilometres—. Is the “less magical place in the world”.
—Whoever said that, clearly hasn’t been in the frontlines during the War— a voice behind us said, we turned and it was Iggy—. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt. I’m looking a couple of books on botany, but I can’t find anything.
—Oh, right, I moved the Good Collection to make way for the books on archaeology—Leslie was turning bright red when she went away—. I’ll bring them back in a minute!
—Don’t worry! I can wait! —Iggy yelled back— Oh, she’s gone…
I was copying the location of Point Nemo in my notebook when she came closer to see. Immediately I closed it and threw it back into my briefcase. Not because I was trying to be rude or anything, but because of the large number of things written in the margins. Perhaps I should buy another one. Iggy, nonetheless, seemed or pretended not to notice.
—Last time I was in Point Nemo was 1903, I think— she said, looking at the mappemonde with nostalgia—. At least, I think it was 1903. Do you remember when the Balthasar sank?
I had heard the name, but not recently to recall when it had happened. I knew of a brigantine called “El Baltazar”, which had been part of the Spanish Navy in the 18th century, but couldn’t be the same. Perhaps there was another ship with a similar name, it wouldn’t be the first time it happened. I told her exactly that, but she only seemed slightly confused.
—Oh, anyway. I was on board and the whole think sank to the bottom of the ocean. I was floating on a piece of the figurehead for almost a week before being rescued by a sans-pareil. I hope it doesn’t happen again; I feel less buoyant than then.
Leslie came hovering a large stack of books, most of them with names of plants on the sides or things related to them. She, however, tripped and the tomes spread through the floor. While we helped her out and then we picked up the books, she was trying to regain composure, but was, pretty much, still glowing red. After she hid behind the bookshelves and Iggy left with the books, I was only accompanied by her voice.
—So…Point Nemo— she said—. Anything else you need to know about it?
—No, not really— I said. Something about Iggy, much like what had happened with Dr. Tang, didn’t feel right—. But can you help me with something else?
—I hope so. Tell me what’s on your mind.
—Three things actually. Anything related to the sinking of “El Baltazar”, it was a Spanish ship a couple centuries ago, what a “sans-pareil” is, and anything about Iggy Eklund.
—I don’t know if we have personnel files here, but I have a French dictionary and a couple of books on maritime disasters, so give me a moment.
For someone who cannot use magic to hide, Leslie was incredibly good in walking through the shelves without being seen. I could only follow where she was due to the glimpse of a hand putting books above the shelves and the sound of rummaging pages. When she came from a stack of newspapers behind me, scaring me in the process, she was holding about a dozen of different books and pamphlets, a few that seemed to be centuries old.
—I found something about everything, but I don’t think it’s right— she said, moving to an empty table and spreading the books on it—.
—Illuminate me.
I was right about El Baltazar. It had been a merchant brigantine during the mid of the 18th century, and had made the route between Philippines and Spain, through Cape Horn on South America. It had sunk on the spring of 1768 in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, with reportedly no survivors. Leslie had tried, but no other ship went by The Balthasar or anything similar. Oh, and by that I don’t mean she searched in one or two books, but the entire maritime collection trying to find something about it.
—Wait, there’s more— she said, pulling out the “Complete Almanac of the French Royal Navy”—. A sans-pareil was a type of ship designed in the 1750s, but only one of them was constructed in 1762, the Royal Louis. That specific ship only did one voyage, on the spring of 1768 from France to the Viceroyalty of Peru, in a peace mission.
—So, it is impossible for Iggy to have been on El Baltazar and rescued by the Royal Louis. If all that happened in 1768, she would be over…—I did the mental calculations, it took me a while to came with the result—… 150 years old. Wow.
—At least 170. If we suppose she wasn’t a toddler when floating at sea. But it’s not all— she handed me two pamphlets— That’s an Ignacia Robles, a gypsy woman accused of sorcery and reading tarot on Granada in 1495.
—I see— the pamphlet on top had the sign of the Spanish Inquisition on it—. And the other one? On, never mind, it’s in English, I can read this.
It was an execution notice from Nassau in New Providence. Apparently, there was going to be an execution, but now was a “Wanted dead” note to recapture a French pirate known as “Bloody Iga”. However, the name was smudgy and I couldn’t read it at once. It took me a couple of seconds to read the real name: Jadwiga Noyer. It was dated 1721.
—Interesting reading, I don’t doubt it. But what does this have to do with Iggy?
—After reading those two, I’m fairly convinced they are the same person. I found this— she dropped a heavy tome, which made the table creak—. “The Large Book Of Names”, oh, and this one, but it is not as useful for this.
She showed another book, slightly larger than the pamphlet, titled “the small book of names”.
—Today’s keyword is “Tree”—she said, but I was as confused as early, if nor more—. I need to explain, right?
—Pretty much, yes please.
—Eklund is a Swedish surname meaning “Oak Grove”, while Robles is Spanish for “Oak”, and lastly, Noyan is an old French word meaning “Chestnut tree”. And the first names are all a variant on the name Ignatius or its diminutive Iga. This could very well be the same person.
—Yes, if it weren’t for the fact that these events take place through three centuries and two before today. Are we really assuming this is the same person who we are sharing a ship?
—For now— she shrugged—, until I can get my hands on the real Archives, this is all we have. Do not fret, it is not verloren hoop, that means lost hope in Dutch, I will be searching if I found anything else.
With that, she went back to disappear between the rows of bookshelves, and I, with a poignant headache went outside to have some fresh air. Even if those theories of her were true, and very much doubt so, there was nothing intrinsically wrong with working of them. Did everyone there have some sort of secret? Perhaps I was overthinking things. After all, we were chosen due to our abilities and proclivity in certain fields; it wouldn’t be so crazy to think that not all the people working here were lambs of God. I certainly am not, and if you were here, well, are you?
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