by Cailyn Lloyd
“Goya was fascinated by witches and witchcraft,” Shepherd said. “But he wasn’t superstitious. His art was mostly a protest against the Inquisition and religious tribunals.”
“Fascinating,” Lucas said, somewhat insincerely.
“Quite.” Shepherd stared momentarily with piercing green eyes, idly stroking his clipped grey moustache. “May I see your book?”
Lucas handed the book to Shepherd, who spent a moment looking at the cover, the brass edging, and the binding, raising his eyebrows twice. He opened it and lingered on the first page. He seemed to be mumbling the text silently. He turned a few pages, then a few more, slowly working through the book without a word. His expressions were almost comical: frowns, raised eyebrows, a few smirks. After nearly ten minutes of this silent perusal, Shepherd closed the book and carefully set it on his desk.
“Where did you find this?”
“I found the book in an abandoned room of my house,” Lucas said.
“Really. Most interesting.” Shepherd seemed lost in thought. “And why was this room abandoned?”
“I don’t know.”
“I see. So, do you have any idea who placed it there?”
“No, none at all. I was hoping the book would tell us something. Does it?”
“Not really. Please, tell me about the house and the room where you found this. I’m curious.”
Lucas briefly described the house, the room, and the circumstances that led to its discovery. Rather than appeasing Shepherd’s curiosity, his description brought a flurry of questions about the house, the layout of the rooms, and the location and condition of the room. He even had Lucas draw a diagram.
Lucas put his hand up. “Hold it. What does the book say?”
Shepherd waved off the question impatiently. “We’ll get to that. It’s all about context.” He pointed to the crude diagram. “Why do you call this room the Great Hall?”
“Because that name is carved into the beam at the entrance of the room. Actually, the word ‘great’ is inscribed with an ‘e’ at the end.”
“Fascinating, absolutely fascinating. I must see this house. You’ve described an English country manor from the Tudor period around the sixteenth century perfectly, a house that might have been owned by a baron or a lord. Remarkable that such a house should be found in the Wisconsin countryside.”
“It’s a remarkable reproduction. I’ve been to England so I’m familiar with Tudor construction.”
“I see. And how long have you lived there, at this house?”
“A few months. Anyway…the book?”
“Yes, the book. It’s written in Old English, the language of the Anglo-Saxon peoples of England from roughly the sixth century to the eleventh century. Modern English evolved from this old and venerable language which itself evolved from the Germanic languages of the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes who settled Britain in the fifth century. This book doesn’t belong to that early period, however. It was written somewhat later I think.”
“So how old is it?”
“I’m not certain, but I would guess about five or six hundred years old.”
“Five hundred years?”
Shepherd looked thoughtfully into space for a moment. “It’s certainly possible.”
“How can that be?”
“I don’t know. This book is an anomaly and will almost certainly require a full translation to reveal that secret.”
“Why would something like that be in my house?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Shepherd was thoughtful for a moment, then said, “I think Occam’s razor applies here.”
“What?” Lucas found Shepherd’s manner of speech arcane.
“The simplest explanation is often the correct explanation. This book must’ve been handed down over the years through many generations of your family. There is no other reasonable answer at this point.”
“So, what does it say?”
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “It’s handwritten, of course, not always legibly. It’s an odd dialect, so it could take weeks to translate enough to ascertain that. From what I can tell, it’s a hodgepodge of things. Part diary, part medical text. A list of cures with a few spells thrown in for good measure.”
“Spells?”
“Oh, harmless stuff. In that era, medicine and spells were often the same thing, along with leeches and bloodletting.” He smiled, the first Lucas had seen. “So, there it is.”
“You’ll need to keep the book?”
“I would, yes. Are you comfortable with that? This book is certainly valuable. Written texts from that era are rare. This book may be a significant find. Are you comfortable leaving it with us?”
“I think so. Will it be safe here?”
“Absolutely. We adhere to a strict set of guidelines for borrowed materials regarding security, environment, fire protection, handling guidelines. It will also be insured. We’ll draft an agreement covering all these details that will also be your receipt and acknowledgment of the arrangement. The book will be kept under lock and key in a controlled environment.”
It took another two hours to draft the necessary paperwork and find the university president to sign it and take possession of the book.
* * *
Lucas arrived home as night fell to a frightening scene, one that sent a deep chill through him. Red and blue lights flashed everywhere, the drive filled with fire trucks, squad cars, and an ambulance. The road was littered with the curious, summoned no doubt by police scanners and Facebook posts. As he tried to turn into the drive, a cop stepped forward and blocked his path.
“What’s your business here, sir?”
“I live here. What’s going on?” His tone was curt, a mask for his rising fear. Where were Laura and Leah? Nate and Ashley? What the hell was going on?
“Do you have any identification?”
Lucas thrust his driver’s license at the cop.
“Seems to be in order, Lucas.” His tone softened. “There’s been an accident. I believe your brother may have been involved.”
“Nate?” Lucas became frantic, gaze darting in every direction. EMTs pushed a stretcher carrying a prone form to an ambulance. Lucas started to open the door. The cop, as if reading his mind, put an arm out to stop him.
“That’s not him. A fireman was injured in a fall. Your brother was taken to Auburn Memorial an hour ago. They had him stable at that time.”
Lucas needed to hear no more. He gunned the engine, threw the shift into reverse, and flew backwards, narrowly missing some looky-loos on the road. He grabbed his phone to call Laura, then saw she had called five times and left as many messages. Damn! He’d turned the ringer off at the university. He called her, but it went to voicemail. Her voicemails were incoherent. Something about an explosion, the furnace, and Nate. None of it made sense.
He sped to Auburn in a reckless, emotional panic, imagining the worst.
Laura, Ashley, and Leah were seated in the emergency room when he ran in. Ashley was crying silently, and Laura was doing her best to manage Leah, her face a study in anxiety and fear.
“What’s going on? Where’s Nate?”
Laura said, “Thank God you’re here. He’s in surgery...” She tried to hug him but he pushed her away.
“What happened? How is he?”
Laura's eyes were damp and red; she’d been crying. “It’s bad, Lucas, very bad. They haven’t told us anything, but I know it’s bad. They said the furnace exploded.”
“What? That’s not possible.”
An older man dressed in surgical garb, a mask hanging loosely around his neck, walked up to them, his manner formal and grave.
“Mrs. MacKenzie?”
Laura and Ashley nodded in unison.
“Are you all family?”
Lucas said, “Yes. How is my brother?”
“Would you please come with me?”
The doctor led them to a small room off the main lobby labeled Consultation. There was a small conference t
able surrounded by chairs and a couple of nondescript prints on the wall. The room was otherwise bare. Soulless. A place where bad news was dispensed.
He motioned for everyone to sit down. His face remained fixed and dour. His bedside manner wasn’t the least bit comforting. Lucas felt his insides twist into knots. He repeated hollowly, “How is my brother?”
“He’s still in surgery, but we have him stabilized. All considered, his burns are minor. His left arm has multiple fractures and four ribs are fractured. As far as we can determine, he was standing in the doorway when the furnace exploded and was thrown backwards through the basement window onto the lawn.” He paused as if looking for words. “He also has a head injury. We believe his head struck the foundation as he was ejected through the window. He has a subdural hematoma—bleeding around the brain at the injury site. The surgeon is working to relieve the pressure now. Assuming that procedure goes well, it will still be a few days before we know if there are any other neurological issues. Most importantly, we’ll need to see if he regains consciousness.
“Why wouldn’t he?” Lucas asked, fearing the answer.
“The injury is that severe. I want you to be prepared for any and all possibilities.”
Thirty
Laura watched Ashley pack the Tahoe from an upstairs window on a dismal grey afternoon. Nate’s surgery successfully relieved the pressure on his brain, but he remained in a coma. After three days, his doctors recommended he be moved to a facility that specialized in head and brain injuries, and Ashley agreed. She opted for a transfer by ambulance to a specialty clinic in Illinois near their old home. They hadn’t sold the house; had kept it until after the renovation and the HGTV special had run, and they were certain they wanted to stay in Wisconsin.
Laura walked downstairs to say goodbye. Ashley had scarcely spoken to her since the accident and, as she approached the Tahoe, Ashley spun around on Laura, her face a mask of hurt and anger.
“I don’t know how you knew Nate was hurt that day, but you did. Why didn’t you warn him?”
Laura took a step back, stunned by the attack. “I didn’t know—”
“Laura, you knew!”
Palms up in supplication, Laura said, “Ashley, please—”
“There’s something wrong with you Laura.” Ashley jabbed her finger at Laura like a spear. “I don’t know how you knew—a premonition or something—but you knew! You did nothing until it was too late!”
In tears, Ashley jumped into the Tahoe, slammed the door, and spun her tires pulling away. The words were like a physical slap, and Laura stepped back, too stunned to speak. Watching the vehicle disappear, Laura began to cry and wished bitterly that she had never come here. So much had gone wrong. She went into the house, grabbed Leah from her crib, and hugged her as though she were the last person on earth.
Lucas had barely spoken since the accident. He had withdrawn and remained aloof and unreachable. Cold. She tried to comfort him, but he pushed her away. He refused to discuss any of it. She feared their relationship was in mortal danger. A traumatic event like this could ruin a marriage. So far, they had survived Jacob’s death, but Lucas had handled it differently. They had drawn together and fought the urge to be alone, to wallow in silence. They had talked a lot. Now, Lucas refused to discuss Nate, refused to seek counseling, and Laura realized she could only do so much. Beyond that, there was only one cure for his near catatonic state—time.
She tried to be patient, mindful, but she missed his companionship. She was wracked with shame and guilt and hurting from the sting of Ashley’s anger. Couldn’t stop thinking about Nate or accept that his grievous injury and coma might be permanent. Couldn’t handle the sense of loss she felt. Besides, the accident was her fault. Within her guilty logic, she decided the warning signs had been there, the danger clear. She had failed to act, and now Nate was in a coma. Had she heeded her premonitions, she could’ve prevented the accident. How? She didn’t know. It was immaterial. It was her fault. Ashley blamed her. Lucas blamed her too.
Unable to rely on Lucas for even simple tasks, Laura hired a contractor to repair the damage to the house and replace the furnace. The fire marshal determined that lightning had traveled down an old corroded copper rod bolted to the chimney. A small amount of that charge, several thousand volts perhaps, detoured along a cold air return where the conductor touched the vent. It raced through the furnace, damaging the control board, and exited along the flex-steel propane supply line, the heat melting holes in the thin metal pipe which had been improperly grounded.
Propane had leaked into the room and the hallway. Heavier than air, it pooled near the floor, so Nate probably didn’t smell it. A spark from the light switch ignited the gas. Directed by thick stone walls and foot-thick timbers above, the blast followed the path of least resistance, the doorway Nate was standing in. He was thrown backwards through the window fifteen feet out onto the lawn.
The gas line was a known issue and attorney letters followed, filled with dollar signs, urging them to sue the contractor. Offended by the crass nature of the letters, Laura shredded them all, knowing Lucas would go postal if he saw them. Ashley could decide later if she wanted to pursue that course. There had been no fire and only minor structural damage, a testament to the sturdy construction of the house. Nate was just in the wrong place at the worst moment.
Oddly, the house was quiet. The bar and fireplace screen remained in place even after she removed the wire Lucas used to secure it. The doors stopped slamming randomly and the knives sat motionless on the counter. She finally put them back on the magnetic bar where they stayed, mocking her. She scarcely noticed, mired in a melancholy so thick and brooding, it might have spilled into a full-blown depression were it not for Leah.
Leah was her refuge from this overwhelming wave of sadness. The sight of those big blue eyes and crooked grin made her smile and laugh and eased the pain. They played together, read stories, watched movies, and spent most of their waking moments together. Learning to talk, a distinct personality was evolving, and Laura found the process fascinating. So different than raising her children. She was much more relaxed and patient.
Still, it wasn’t enough. She missed Lucas. She missed Nate and feared she might never see him again. Most of all, she missed Jacob with a keening ache. This move, this house, where she had hoped the healing would begin, had only compounded her pain and left her longing for her old life in Illinois.
Thirty-One
Shepherd typed the next line of Old English into a Word document:
Ic hine cuðe cnihtwesende. Wæs his ealdfæder Hæreðes haten.
Considered the words for a moment and entered his best translation into a second Word document:
I used to know him when he was a young boy. His father before him was called Haereth.
Shepherd sat in his second-floor study, translating the pages of Lucas MacKenzie’s book. He didn’t have the actual book. That was under lock and key at the university. Instead, he worked from high-res images on a thirty-two-inch monitor. The process was painstaking; reading the faded and often scrawled handwriting, typing the original Old English into one document, then translating the text into a second. Old English was structurally different from modern English so the translation required a degree of creative interpretation. Establishing specific meanings and exact colorings was nigh impossible and preserving the nuance of the text was an inexact science, even for an expert who spoke fluent Mercian as he did.
His initial assessment had been correct. The first part of the book was a diary, mundane and personal, written by a young and affluent woman. That itself was surprising. In sixteenth century England, reading and writing were almost solely the province of men. Women who could do either were rare.
The middle segment was medical, not a text so much as a series of remedies interlaced into the diary narrative. This section read more like the work of cunning folk, practitioners of spells and medical remedies who were prevalent in the Middle Ages. They were often semi-lit
erate, but most would have been unable to read or write a text of this complexity, especially in Old English. If this was the work of cunning folk, the book was a true oddity. He’d never seen anything quite like it.
At first, he thought it was stolen, then he considered forgery. Having seen the book, held it in his hands, he knew it was legitimate. Somehow, the book had traveled from medieval England to the Wisconsin countryside untouched and unscathed. Was it a carefully protected family heirloom? Or something darker?
From an antiquities point of view, it was a remarkable find and would create a buzz when word of it was circulated. He wasn’t sure he wanted involvement in that aspect. He preferred a discreet profile in the academic world lest it invite scrutiny into his past.
The real question? Why was it written in Old English? It was clear from the cultural and social references the book had been written in the late fifteenth century. Old English had evolved through Anglo-Norman to Middle English by then. Who would still be writing in the ancient tongue? It was a rhetorical question. He knew the answer with grim apprehension. It was the language of witches and sorcerers, and somewhere within was the reason he was here. He was certain of it.
Unfortunately, he had no idea what he was looking for. Might be a chapter, a page, a paragraph, a single sentence. His translation would need to be thorough and methodical. It could take weeks and weeks of work to produce an answer, and even that timetable might be optimistic.
There was something vaguely familiar about it—giving him an inexplicable feeling when he held it. He felt a brief shock, had the vague sense of a subliminal image. Had he seen or read something like this in the past? He couldn’t remember. Not where and not when, his brain cluttered with the accumulated memories of a millennium. These days, they were harder to find. Nothing useful surfaced.
In the full equation, he had the elusive location of the house and the mystery woman. He needed to visit, view the setting, complete that piece of the puzzle. Which was more important? The house or the book? Why had the book been hidden there? What role did the blonde woman play?
