He turned in the direction of the sound and the sight turned his guts to water. His father’s car sat crushed against the bole of an old oak tree. Steam poured from under the hood and climbed upward in whirling columns of mist to join the fog that rolled in off the Potomac.
Stone dashed full-speed toward the site of the accident. He could see two figures slumped forward inside the vehicle— his mother and father! He wanted to call to them, but something held his chest and throat in a vise grip.
He reached the car and tried to pull the door open, but the impact had crumpled the front end and the crushing effect sealed the door firmly shut. He ran to the passenger side but found that door similarly wedged closed.
Inside, his mother raised her head and looked at him through glassy eyes. “Brock?” she mouthed.
“I’m going to break the window!” Stone shouted. “Put your head down.”
His mother shook her head. “You’re too late. You should have been here sooner.”
“Mother, put your head down!” Stone drew his fist back to punch the glass, but the car began to change. He stepped back and looked on in amazement as the vehicle, like his grandfather’s body, cracked and began to fall apart.
Faintly, he heard his mother say, “You didn’t come home. Now we’re dead, and Trinity has been taken. Where were you?”
The car crumbled into dust, but the last three words hung in the air.
“Where were you?”
Where had he been? And what was that about Trinity being taken? Yes, she had been taken. But that couldn’t be right. He had just gotten home, so how would he know? But somehow, the knowledge was there, inside his head.
He ran toward the house, determined to hop on his motorcycle and head off in search of her, but where would he start? It didn’t matter. He would go looking for her and trust that the knowledge, which he was now certain lay buried deep in his memory, would return. He had to find her. He had been gone too long, and now his family was dead. So few of the people he loved remained. He wouldn’t fail again. He couldn’t. Guilt and remorse swelled up inside him, so powerful it threatened to overcome him.
As he flew past the window to his grandfather’s study, he stole a glance inside. Something told him that, as foolish as it seemed, the answer lay inside. Had his grandfather known who took Trinity? He ran to the window. He’d only take a moment. He could spare that much. But as he looked around, a dark cloud of despair descended over him. His selfishness had caused all of this and now there was nothing he could do to fix it. His parents and grandfather were dead, and nothing could bring them back from that, and Trinity, vanished without a clue. It was useless. He was useless. He should give up and die.
His knees buckled and he hit the ground, lacking the strength to rise. His body felt cold and numb, as if he stood on the edge of hypothermia. It didn’t matter anymore. He didn’t matter. He would do the world a great service and lie here until he turned to dust like the people he cared about. He was less than useless.
The fog rolled in thicker now, turning the world white. Perhaps he was already dead. Somewhere in the distance, he heard faint cries. The voices were familiar. Alex? Moses? Maybe they knew where Trinity was. Perhaps hope remained. With a greater effort than he had ever made in his life, he climbed to his feet and sagged against the windowsill. He’d catch his breath and then go in search of his friends.
His tired eyes drifted to the study. He scanned the desk, the rows of books, the walls; nothing lay there that told him where he could find Trinity. Not the old maps of the world that hung on the far wall. Not the huge painting of Everest that dominated the space behind his grandfather’s desk.
Something clicked in his mind. Everest. Tibet.
Now he remembered where he’d been. Memories flooded into him as the dam inside his head burst.
He’d run miles through the snow in his bare feet, scaled dizzying heights without rope or gear, swum frozen rivers, carried burdens that would have crushed another man, fought hand-to-hand against men who could leap and somersault with superhuman ability, men whose hands, feet, knees, elbows, even their fingers were deadly weapons. He’d learned to live, even thrive, in the frigid climate and rarified air of the highest peaks.
But the most difficult thing he’d learned to do was control his mind. He’d learned to sharpen his focus to a needle point, setting aside all the horrors of war he’d witnessed, all the guilt and remorse he felt for the things he’d done in service to his country. He’d spent hours contemplating a single dust mote, a flake of snow, a whisper of wind. He had become more than he had ever been before.
Suddenly, he knew exactly where he was and what he had to do. He was not in Virginia. He was in the Arena of Souls, where the greatest peril lay not in threats to his body, but to his mind. He sat down on the imagined grass if his grandfather’s lawn and focused his mind.
It was not easy. He felt the icy chill of the mist all around him, heard his friends’ voices, and fought the doubt that threatened to pull him back to unreality. Slowly, surely, he shut it all out, drawing his focus on the only thing that mattered: completing the task at hand. He gathered his strength and his will, and as he did, he pushed back against the oppressive cold.
Warmth returned to his body and clarity to his mind. With a forceful swipe of his hand, he hurled back the veil of deception and stood once again in the Arena of Souls.
Before him, Alex struggled to lift the heavier Moses off the ground and break the connection as Stone had done for him.
His full strength now coursing through him, Stone swept Moses up, breaking the grip of the mist.
“My pappy,” Moses gasped, “I left him alone. He died all alone without me there.”
“I know,” Stone said. “The mist plays with your mind. It takes your guilt and insecurities and cripples you with them.”
“What do we do?” Alex asked.
“I can’t teach you in a few minutes what it took me years to learn, but perhaps I can help you. Think about the very best thing about you— the thing that matters the most to those who care about you. Focus on it. Fill your mind with it and don’t let go. And while you’re at it, do your best to stay away from the mist and help one another if you get caught up. Keep following the path. If you don’t catch up with me, I’ll come back for you. Just hold on. Don’t let it win.”
“Where are you going?” Alex asked.
“I’m headed for the center of the arena, but I’m going to take a shortcut.”
29- The Altar
Stone stepped off the path and headed for the center of the arena. All around, columns of mist converged on him, but he moved too fast for most of them to reach him before he flew on by. Occasionally, one would reach out with a foggy tendril, seeking to grab hold of him, but he leapt through them. Their touch chilled him to the bone, but he scarcely felt it, so concentrated was his will and so focused was he on his goal. Nothing could deter him, and he would not let the sinister magic of this place make him doubt himself again.
Up ahead, the mist began to clear, and he found himself standing before a ring of stone triptychs. For a brief instant, he wondered if he’d been transported to Stonehenge, but he quickly noticed that, unlike its European counterpart, this place was fully intact. Each stone was pristine, set firmly in its place, and cut with a precision worthy of the great pyramids of Egypt.