“The Pole!” replied Aunt Rosaline, without the slightest hesitation. “We’re going to return to be with Berenilde, aren’t we?”
Ophelia bit her lip. It would have been easy to say yes to Aunt Rosaline’s request, or to Archibald’s. She could have chosen to stay close to what was familiar to her, but that would have just deepened the void inside her. She was then seized by conflicting emotions, like those that churn the stomach when one gets on a train not knowing where it will take one, or whether one can turn back.
Ophelia gazed fondly at the stone table, engraved with the map of the Compass Roses and their destination arks.
ANIMA, the ark of Artemis, mistress of objects.
THE POLE, the ark of Farouk, master of spirits.
TOTEM, the ark of Venus, mistress of animals.
CYCLOPE, the ark of Ouranos, master of magnetism.
FLORA, the ark of Belisama, mistress of vegetation.
LEADGOLD, the ark of Midas, master of transmutation.
PHAROS, the ark of Horus, master of charm.
THE SERENISSIMA, the ark of Fama, mistress of divination.
HELIOPOLIS, the ark of Lucifer, master of lightning.
BABEL, the ark of twins Pollux and Helen, master and mistress of the senses.
THE DESERT, the ark of Djinn, master of hydropathy.
THE TARTAR, the ark of Gaia, mistress of tellurism.
ZEPHYR, the ark of Olympus, master of the winds.
TITAN, the ark of Yin, mistress of mass.
CORPOLIS, the ark of Zeus, master of metamorphosis.
SIDH, the ark of Persephone, mistress of temperature.
SELENE, the ark of Morpheus, master of dreams.
VESPERAL, the ark of Viracocha, master of phantomization.
AL-ANDALOOSE, the ark of Ra, master of empathy.
THE STAR, the neutral ark, seat of interfamilial institutions.
And, of course, the destination that didn’t appear on the list: LandmArk, the ark of Janus, master of space.
Ophelia had studied them, these twenty-one major arks, in the confines of her room. She’d studied them, yes, but she felt as if she’d learnt nothing.
She pulled her great-uncle’s postcard from her pocket. The photograph had suffered during the episode in the bathroom, but on it one could still see clearly the majestic building of the XXIInd Interfamilial Exhibition.
“This is my destination,” she finally declared, to everyone’s surprise. “I must go to Babel. And I must go there alone.”
THE SEPARATION
Ophelia hugged the scarf tight as she contemplated the door before her. Archibald had barely closed it, with a final wink, when the light glinting through all the cracks had gone out. Ophelia turned the knob and cautiously pushed the door: plunged in darkness, a store cupboard had replaced the great rotunda of the Compass Rose. The path was closed, well and truly closed.
“I’m alone,” Ophelia suddenly realized, staring wide-eyed into the dark recess. Alone in unknown territory, thousands of miles from home, with only a sixty-year-old postcard for reference. She’d dreamt of this moment for two years, and, now that she’d got to it, the thought made her dizzy.
Ophelia closed the store-cupboard door with resolve. She was afraid, yes, but she had no regrets.
She studied the location in which the Compass Rose had deposited her. A wan light filtered through the murky glass of an entrance door, defining the outlines of shovels, rakes, spades, and pots. Seemingly, a garden shed. Ophelia didn’t know whose it was, but it would be best not to encounter its owner. Even on her own ark, Anima, where everything was shared, it wasn’t the done thing to turn up at other people’s homes unannounced.
Slipping through the shed’s door as discreetly as possible, she stopped short on the threshold: there was nothing outside. Nothing but whiteness, an unlikely and unyielding condensed whiteness. It was as if a giant eraser had made the outside world disappear, leaving nothing to be seen but a blank sheet of paper.
Ophelia looked around in all directions, feeling increasingly anxious. The shed, not adjoined to any building, was stuck in the middle of the void like a deserted little house. The air was so hot and humid that Ophelia felt stifled in her coat, and her glasses were already misting up. What if Gail and Fox had made a mistake in their calculations? What if Archibald, overconfident in his newfound power, had got it wrong?
“Where have you brought me?” muttered Ophelia.
“POLLUX’S BOTANICAL GARDENS.”
Ophelia turned with a start. The voice—a disembodied voice unlike any she’d heard before—had risen up behind her, from inside the actual shed.
“Excuse me,” Ophelia stammered, searching for whoever was speaking to her. “I lost my way, I didn’t . . . ”
“IT IS RECOMMENDED THAT VISITORS COME TO THE GARDENS DURING LOW TIDE,” the voice interrupted. “EVERY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING.”
Ophelia finally discovered where it was coming from. An articulated mannequin was standing against a wall, so stiff, so slender, and so still that it merged in with the silhouettes of shovels and rakes. The voice was coming, more precisely, from its stomach, which was punctured with little holes; its head had neither mouth nor nose nor eyes. The only item of clothing it wore was a cap like that of a stationmaster, with the words “guided visit” embroidered on it. She had only encountered a similar automaton once before: the mechanical butler of Lazarus, the famous explorer.
“Low tide?” she queried.
The mannequin didn’t respond. Ophelia looked again at the whiteness beyond and realized that what she was seeing was an extraordinarily dense fog. She felt relieved. If she was in Pollux’s botanical gardens, then she was in the right place. Pollux and Helen were the twin family spirits who ruled over Babel.
“When will it be low tide?” she asked, rephrasing her question.
“POLLUX’S BOTANICAL GARDENS ARE OPEN DAILY IN SUMMER FROM SUNRISE TO SUNSET,” the mannequin replied, still standing to attention against its wall. “GOOD THINGS COME TO THOSE WHO WAIT.”
It was still summer on Babel? Ophelia reflected that she should have studied her geographical guides more closely. She took out the postcard her great-uncle had given her and presented it to the mannequin, unsure how to proceed as it had nothing resembling eyes.
“Let’s forget the tide. I have to get to the place where the XXIInd Interfamilial Exhibition was held. The photograph is a bit dated, but I believe the building still exists. Could you indicate to me where I—”
“POLLUX’S BOTANICAL GARDENS,” the mannequin instantly replied.
Ophelia sat down on a stone pot. This mechanical guide did remind her of Lazarus’s butler, encountered in the past: it only responded to basic instructions. She’d have to wait for the fog to lift; she’d have at least liked to know the time—she’d left Anima late afternoon, but there must be a time difference with Babel. The sweltering heat here was starting to make her thirsty.