For time being, Leslie was right. There was not much she could do until we arrived at the base.
Still, something was not right here. If Point Nemo was Terra Nova Research Base, why put both names on the advertisement instead of just picking one? However, if this was just a pit-stop, where in the name of all the demons of hell is the base?
On our sixth day, a thick fog covered the ship. What had been sunny days and clear nights were a perpetual grey blur in which I didn’t knew if we were even moving at all. Being outside was impossible, due to the thickness of the fog, you never knew if suddenly a turn could make you trip and fall overboard. The train became the place to be, for everything. Eating? Train. Sleeping? Train. Smoking? Train. Being in one of the most expensive ships didn’t mean jack if you can’t see it. We were, as far as I can tell, three more days, until we reached Point Nemo.
There is one thing that itched the back of my brain while the ship approached the shore. One thing is two or three people disappearing in sites like this, and other completely different and more complex, is having about two hundred of the world’s key researchers, academics, Olympians, explorers, and whatnot. It came to my mind suddenly, and though I don’t consider myself anyone important, people like Mugsy or Ursula certainly qualify. The latter was about to become another Dorothy Arnold if we were to disappear for longer than we already have. I mean, if we added the shipping and training, we were going close to the six-month limit.
We were advised by the voice in the sky, Mr. Athenida, to leave the ship in an orderly fashion. In a matter of minutes, the entire personnel were on a stone dock, waiting for something to happen. The fog was still impossible to see through.
—Welcome everybody to the Fortress of the Star— the voice of Mx. Bonheur resonated in our ears, even when we couldn’t see them—. This place was originally built in 1532 by Juan Ponce de Leon.
There was a huge gust of wind that made me close my eyes, afraid something might fly into them. I reopened them and found myself surrounded by everyone else, and looking to where we were. It was a castle, a full-fleshed medieval castle with its walls, and towers, and tiles, and flags and everything one sees in paintings of castles. Though medieval should not be the proper period, being built in the middle of the 16th century, but there was no other way to describe it. The place had an older feeling to it, as it had existed as an idea long before it was actually built.
—Follow me please, we need to go to the tunnel— they said—. Originally all of these was rebuilt close to the Portal by the Council of Wizards on the eve of the Schism, back in 1692. Due to being an unstable zone, this became one of the ghost islands when set adrift.
We had to trot so we could follow Mx. Bonheur through the courtyard and the large double doors into an empty hall. Once this must’ve been a place where great parties and the decisions of the Old World were taken. Hold on. I just realised something. If this is the Fortress of the Star, this is the place where the Treaty of Arcadia was ratified after the signing in the mythic island. I’m being facetious or ignoring the obvious. The Schism began on this hall. Sorry, I got side-tracked.
Through the hall into a large corridor, to another room, and everything was empty. The last room we entered was large and filled with paintings. It reminded me of one of the places on the National Gallery, back in London. Painted in red, with white mouldings, the landscapes were a timeline of different places, from the desert to the forest. And in the middle of each painting, a huge white tower with a glass ceiling. The building, which I assume was the graphical representation of the Ivory Tower, seemed more and more derelict from picture to picture.
—We needed to have a place that was secure enough to work as a link between the Terra Nova Base and the rest of the world. That’s the reason of Point Nemo. This is going to be the way in and out of the Base until the new system is installed.
Mx. Bonheur pulled a torch and the floor crumbled and opened at the end, revealing a large stair going down. I don’t know how it happened, one minute we were walking down in a dimly lit staircase in the bowels of the castle, and the next we were in the middle of a train station. I don’t mean a dark train station, much like the London Underground, but a glass-ceiling, electric lighting, vaulted and well illuminated one. The place was spotless and new, and that included the new train, which was bright white.
—This place, however, is brand new. It was designed by Arthur John Barry in 1916 and finished construction three years ago.
Barry, the name rang any bell every British knew, pun non-intended. The Barry Family were famed architects and designers, and everyone who had visited London at least once had to see their most known construction: Westminster Palace.
—Alright— they said, stopping just as we got next to the train—. The Directors will have a meeting and will be on the next train to the Base, you, however, go ahead and I’ll see you in a couple of days. Oh, and before I forget, please refrain yourselves from doing magic there. Well explain when we see you. Good luck everybody!
They snapped their fingers and disappeared in a cloud of smoke that left the place with a vague scent of incense. The train was larger this time, so my team was grouped in two cars closer to the engine and the coal car. When everyone was inside the train, it began moving.
We were in a crystal-clear tunnel, lighted by electrical fixtures connected together by one large cord. The thing extended further away my eyes could see, even when I opened a window and took my head out of it. Something that I could see, and felt like a cold drop of water in my back: through the glass I could see the dark blue of the ocean. It wasn’t a trick of the light, since I could also see fish swimming through the dense waters, and the occasional glimmer of light at the distance; creatures, unknown to man. Between crossing half-way through the world and now twenty thousand leagues under the sea, Mr. Jules Verne would be very proud of this corporation.
I found Iggy, about an hour later, in a fainting couch reading a copy of “Poisonous plants of the New World”. Mystic, Dr Tang’s copper-haired Pekingese, was curled at her feet, feigning sleep. I say ‘feigned’ due to him growling as soon as I sat in an armchair with today’s newspaper, but seemed to be tired enough to not do much besides that. Iggy, on the other hand, was so focused on reading the book, that didn’t realise I was there until I greeted her.
—Sorry, I need to finish this chapter— she said—, give me a couple of minutes.
So, I sat there in silence for a few minutes, while she muttered while reading the pages with obsessive interest. How can a book about poisonous plants be that interesting is something I’ll never know? Nonetheless, when she was over with the chapter, closed quickly the book and left it next to her in the couch. Mystic, upset at the imminently lack of peace and quiet, stood up and walked away to the other end of the car, in a way that reminded me of the way Sir Murad used to walk, like an old man suffering from backaches.
—What’s on your mind? —asked, sitting straight and crossing her fingers on the table— Go ahead, I have nothing to hide.
I began saying there was nothing, but then it came to my mind the ace under my sleeve my father’s family had, and I wondered if would ever work for me. The truth hexes. Now, this is not a thing I’d ever done, but my family was particularly good at it, that was how a couple of my distant cousins had made a life as detectives or journalists.
—You sure? — I began, bracing myself for the potential backlash of a badly performed hex—, I may have something, but I need that you don’t lie to me.
An almost imperceptible gloss came on her eyes. I had seen the effect of the hex in other people, so I knew it had worked. She couldn’t tell a lie, at least without the deactivator being pronounced, and mine was specific enough so it wouldn’t be blurted out by accident. Still, at the same time this has happened, my headache was back, and began pounding on my ears with more intensity as every second went on.
—Good. Who are you?
—Ignatia Eklund, nothing else. Are you alright?
—Fine, thanks— I said, realising later my nose was beginning to bleed—. Were you in the sinking of a ship called “El Baltazar” in 1768?
—Yes, I told you that, I couldn’t remember the date though. I ended up floating for almost a week before being rescued by a French ship, the “Louis” or something like that.
My interrogatory was interrupted by the sound of a door opening; I had to make myself scarce.
—Alright, I will get something to drink, thank you for your cooperation.
—Don’t mention it—she said, blinking heavily as the hex was lifted—. Can you get me a soda or something with bubbles?
—Sure.
—Wait— Ursula said, entering the rest area—, I’ll go with you.
We went to the other end of the train, looking for a dining car, but we couldn’t find any. We went back, but since our cars were the only ones right before the coal car, we realised there was no food at all. This was a train with about two dozen cars, each with eight single rooms and one double room at one end, while a small sitting area on the other. The people we encountered in our way were in the same confusion as us. The last meal most of us had was the early brunch on the ship, and that was hours ago. An empty stomach and a headache, just a lovely feeling to have everywhere.
—Wait— Ursula stopped sharp at her feet, sniffing the air—. There’s food here, can you smell it?
I tried, but nothing. She, on the other hand, was not done, and continued to follow the inexistent trail through the corridors, cars and to the end of our own. Iggy was still there, still ditzy. Ursula didn’t pay much attention to her; instead, her eyes were fixated on the door which lead to the tender. She opened the door and immediately I knew something was not right.
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