Chapter 3 Magellan
Magellan
Garesh once explained the vagus nerve was the longest-running nerve in the body.
It started at the seat, ran through every organ, and ended at the top of the head—and the vagus could turn the anxiety switch in the body off.
“With your vocal cords, by humming,” he pointed out.
“Your voice is a tuning fork, and you can reset the vagus and calm your body whenever you need to.” He began to hum a rich and melodious sound.
“Why do children hum? Monks chant? Or church choirs sing? They are tuning themselves to a higher frequency. So when you feel anxious, get out of your head and back into your heart by humming.”
Magellan found humming did soothe her. Which is why she hummed all the way to the Morgan Library & Museum.
She didn’t technically have enochlophobia, the fear of crowds, or the close cousin agoraphobia, fear of open spaces, but walking the streets of Manhattan did make her nervous.
Was there a specific anxiety for that? Manhattanophobia?
Particularly now that the aurora borealis had arrived.
Everyone was on edge. She could feel it in the air.
She made it to Madison Avenue where the Morgan Library & Museum spanned half a city block, and she was met at the front by the curator in charge of the medieval collection who had called her.
He was somewhere in his sixties and had thick glasses and an earnest air.
He ushered her through an employees-only corridor into his office and brought out the diary from a locked cabinet.
Magellan studied the exquisite leather-bound diary, utterly mystified why he thought it was hers.
“You have no previous knowledge of this diary?” he asked her for the second time.
“No, truly. I’m as surprised as you are.” She leaned down to study the engraving on the cover. The braided circular design had three interlocking spirals.
He nodded to a stack of antique paper that looked closer to fabric. “It came with a translation for you.”
“For me?” The meticulous handwritten translation made her feel even more bewildered. “Whose diary is it?”
“Merlin’s twin sister.” The man sounded serious.
She turned to him with a surprised laugh. “Merlin? As in Merlin the wizard from King Arthur?”
“Yes, though that is a fictionalized version of him.”
“So this is a story too?”
“No, it is a diary.” He seemed to be becoming impatient with her questions.
“The legends for Merlin are based on historical accounts. Though there is some debate who Merlin was, many believe he was a Druid and seer who lived in the 500s, who also had a twin sister.” He nodded to the diary.
“To have anything survive from that time period is astounding for many reasons. But to have this memoir is simply incredible.”
She was trying to keep up. “And the Liron Institute sent it to me why?”
“I was hoping you would know the answer.”
She had no clue and looked at the institute’s letter, wondering how someone in England had gotten her name and phone number. “What is this symbol?” She pointed to the letterhead.
“An ancient Egyptian symbol for Horus.”
“What’s a horus?” The symbol looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t remember where she’d seen it before.
“Not what, who. Horus was the goddess Isis’s son. The last superbeing recorded in myth.”
They both stared at the letter. A strange choice in stationery. Not to mention the letter itself. The fate of the world rests in protecting this book.
Magellan wasn’t sure what to make of it, and she was due at a bridal luncheon in an hour and she still had to get her harp.
This book was definitely not meant for her.
And even if it had been, it wasn’t as if she could slip a rare sixth-century memoir into her purse and hit the subway.
“Could you hold on to this until we can talk to the Liron Institute and straighten out the mix-up? There’s been some mistake. ”
The man looked relieved by her request. “Certainly. Given its precious historical value, the museum would be happy to act as steward.”
“Thank you. I’ll be in touch.” She checked her watch.
She actually had two performances today, a bridal luncheon and an evening wedding.
Her schedule was usually full thanks to her boss, Crystal.
Because of Crystal, Magellan had become the most in-demand wedding harpist in Manhattan.
Crystal had all but accosted her after seeing her play at Carnegie Hall and begged Magellan to come work for her after she graduated.
New York City averaged anywhere from five to seven thousand weddings a month, and Crystal would have planned them all if she could.
The wedding planner was a forty-nine-year-old Latina cupid from the Bronx who had been married and divorced twice.
She had a glamorous windblown look to rival JLo and literally power walked across the city in stilettos.
She was also a hopeless romantic who believed life was better shared, and she was brilliant at her job.
She managed Magellan’s schedule, handled every last detail, and even had a driver shuttle her and her harp all over the city.
The partnership had worked out well, and if it kept Magellan in her own little bubble, then that was fine with her.
She played the harp at countless events.
Then at home she would stay up late at night with her headphones on, plugged into an electric keyboard to sift through melodies, always searching for a song .
. . a symphony, a grand, epic movement of music she could feel inside her that felt unattainable.
Until now.
She had found the opening notes on her birthday.
What a wonderful present it had been. She kept composing more and more of it over the course of the week, as if fueled by the aurora borealis’s arrival.
The vivid lights continued to dominate the sky and grow stronger each day, giving life an otherworldly feel.
Her dreams were becoming just as vivid. Every morning she would wake up inspired and head to the piano to work. She’d slip on her headphones and enjoy the intimacy of the sound in her ears. The music would be her symphony one day.
The first part of the first movement was becoming fully formed.
A soaring opening that brought goose bumps to her arms every time she played it.
Then she hit a wall, unable to compose further.
Each time she tried, the notes faded into nothingness, and she had no compass to find them.
It was entirely frustrating. So she would give up for the day, drink her coffee that had grown cold, and look out the window at the aurora borealis.
Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday she kept the curtain open. By Thursday, she opened the patio door and stepped out, needing to get a clear view without the glass. If she stared hard enough, she swore she could see dark shadows moving behind the palette of colors.
The entire world was basically waiting with bated breath to see when the sky would return to normal.
Every church organization, every temple and religious sect around the world was praying more than usual.
Some groups claimed it was the end of times.
Others thought it was the dawning of a new age.
People had taken to the streets with signs and megaphones to share their opinion.
And financial institutions were simply trying to keep everyone from taking out their life savings and stuffing it in their mattresses.
All week, news outlets continued to make the aurora borealis their top story, cycling panels of experts who argued and debated ad nauseum.
The president in a public address from the Oval Office suggested the country “enjoy the Earth’s dazzling planetarium show while it lasted.
” One guest expert appearing on all the networks explained in big, fancy words that the last auric event of this magnitude was the Carrington Event of 1859, when “a mass coronal ejection by the sun created an enormous burst of solar plasma.”
Magellan had no idea what a coronal ejection was.
Wren didn’t know either. Friday evening when Wren came home from her rehearsal at the Met Opera, where she had scored a coveted role for the season, they popped popcorn and opened a chardonnay.
Then Magellan surprised her by suggesting they sit out on the patio.
“For real?” Wren gaped at her.
Magellan laughed, stepping outside like she was dipping her toe into the water.
Maybe the aurora borealis was helping her in some weird way face her fears.
“Just keep the door open,” she said and settled into a chair to watch the dancing lights.
The sky was even more magnificent at night, steeped in iridescent fluorescence.
“Did you see the news today?” Wren asked.
“About the objects?” How could she have missed it?
Today’s newest aurora borealis headline had been about people finding old relics and prehistoric objects in the middle of open fields around the world.
Objects were popping up out of nowhere with no explanation.
A physicist from CERN had gone on record saying he thought the out-of-place artifacts had to do with the magnetic storm.
“The planet’s electrical currents control the iron in the Earth, and that controls the magnetic fields of space and time.
So this whole magnetic storm could be messing with our atomic clock. ”
The reporter had asked him in disbelief, “You’re saying these objects are time traveling?”
The Swiss physicist nodded. “Or jumping.”
Time-jumping objects had everyone even more on edge.
Magellan had been checking on her parents every day.
They assured her they were fine, but she could hear the worry in their voices.
They wanted her to move back home and bring Wren too.
Magellan said she would think about it and promised to come see them again on Sunday.
Crystal had been adamant the wedding on Saturday was going to happen. She assured the bride the day would be gorgeous and aurora borealises were good luck for newlyweds. “That’s why my second husband and I went to Alaska for our honeymoon.”
Magellan listened to Crystal go on about all the luck an aurora borealis brought without mentioning her marriage had ended in divorce. Crystal had told Magellan more than once about her crush on her podiatrist, who might just become husband number three.
When it came to finding love, Magellan didn’t have Crystal’s optimism.
She’d never been in love, although deep down she hoped one day she’d find her partner.
Her person. But so far she’d only dated a tuba player for a short while but called it quits because he kissed her like she was the horn.
Who knew if she would ever find anyone who could handle all her quirks and anxieties?
Tonight, after Wren said good night, Magellan lingered outside, gazing up at the sky, feeling utterly alone and yet part of something greater than herself.
A feeling of momentum was building inside her, for what she wasn’t sure.
The night lights above her were twisting and swirling, laced with those faint shadows she couldn’t look away from.
It was as if a darkness beyond the aurora borealis was trying to get in.
She told herself it was her anxiety playing tricks on her.
Maybe sitting on the patio hadn’t been such a good idea after all.