Cryptic Spaces

by Deen Ferrell

  H.S. frowned. “No-one here wants to ‘hide’ in a basement, Sydney. I do take your point that we may well be getting close to something. I also agree that we need to find out what that ‘something’ is.”

  Dr. O’Grady had taken his glasses off and began to polish them. “Is it a wee handful of men or a much larger organization we’re up against? You make it sound a bit like a monster.”

  H.S. widened his eyes. “Monster may be a very apt word, Dr. O’Grady. This brings us back to Willoughby’s question about the sign. Some of you already know the information I’m about to share. For some of you, this will be new. In the early eighteen-hundreds, our organization came across what they believe to be evidence of something unfriendly in the time corridors. The evidence was never conclusive. Generations passed without direct threat or incident, so the suspicions were eventually filed away and the issue closed. About ten years ago, however, further evidence came to light. We re-opened the files. What began as academic curiosity around Nostradamus and medieval France has spiraled into a trail of danger and intrigue. Before I ask a final decision of the group, I will share with you what we know.”

  H.S. took a thin pointer out and, without leaving his chair, began to draw in the air. He completed the image of a pyramid with a line and curl.

  “Antonio mentioned a sign. We have found that breaking the sign down into individual components is instructive. Dr. O’Grady, would you be so kind? I know you’ve taught summer lectures on the history of alchemy. Can you identify this recognizable alchemical symbol?”

  Willoughby could see bright flicks of firelight reflected on the surface of Dr. O’Grady’s glasses. The man shifted in his chair. “It is the alchemical symbol for air,” he responded.

  H.S. nodded. “Correct. Now,” He drew a curved line over the curl, creating the semblance of an eye. “Does this suggest anything to you?”

  James Arthur squinted; “The All-Seeing Eye?”

  “Go on,” H.S. encouraged.

  Dr. J blinked. “It, uh, it looks like the Buddhist symbol for the All-Seeing Eye. I’m not sure what tying it to a symbol of air means.”

  H.S. shrugged. “Perhaps it refers to a personage of power who could appear, or materialize, from thin air. Both the pyramid and the all-seeing eye appear on the back of the American dollar bill, but they are not physically connected there.”

  H.S. began to draw again. Dr. J bent sideways and whispered to Willoughby. “The unfinished nature of the pyramid on the back of US currency is said to mean that the United States will always grow, improve and build, and the “All-Seeing Eye” located above it is said to suggest the importance of divine guidance in favor of the American cause.”

  H.S. completed the image he was working on. It floated in the air just below the lines of the pyramid. He turned back around. “Does this symbol mean anything to any of you?”

  “Aye,” Dr. O’Grady wheezed. “It’s the alchemical symbol for ammonia.”

  “True,” H.S. nodded. “What else?” After a silent pause, he reached back up to the floating hologram and drew a thick line from the center of the triangle through the center of the symbol below.

  “How about now?” he asked.

  Willoughby jerked his head backwards. “313,” he whispered, “with the last ‘3’ backward.”

  H.S. nodded gravely. “This is the completed symbol, first noted by our organization over 200 years ago.” He leaned back in his chair, peering out at the team with wide, penetrating eyes. “The team who infiltrated our St. Petersburg facility had this symbol tattooed on their necks, just below the left ear. We uncovered this fact when we carefully scrutinized the footage of our security camera feeds, going frame by frame. We can clearly see the tattoo on two of the three infiltrators.” H.S. clicked his pointer. A grainy image of the symbol tattooed on the back of a broad neck appeared. “As you can see, there’s no mistake. It is the very same mark.”

  H.S. slowly stood and began to pace.

  “We were originally introduced to this mark by a Buddhist monk who sought our people out. He worked out of an obscure monastery where he showed our people a rare bit of parchment. The parchment included monastic writings about a mysterious outsider who called himself the ‘Fifth Friend.’ He was said to have visited the monasteries in southeast France repeatedly over a 30-year period before seeming to vanish for good. One monk described him as ‘the right hand of God, knowing things that have been and will be—God’s answer to Beelzebub and his Cult of the Mark.’” The parchment included a crude rendition of this very same mark.

  “The monks believed that this Friend was key to defeating the Cult of the Mark, a cult that was hiding within the folds of time, waiting to begin that final battle referred to in holy-script as Armageddon. The monks believed this hero could command more than just the four elements—water, fire, wind, and earth—that he wielded a fifth power, one capable of purging time.”

  Willoughby stared, spellbound, as H.S. continued.

  “Observations, Inc. made a number of efforts to discover the whereabouts of this Friend and to probe the origin of the mark. Stories from various cultures tell of a final battle, and many mention a dark mark, but no direct reference to the Friend could be found. There was only this Buddhist parchment. The scroll ends with a chilling account of the climactic battle, which begins at a mythical location known as the Library of Souls, a place outside of time where all lives are known and catalogued in great, magical books.

  “It is important to note that, according to this scroll, the Friend is joined in his battle by a group of like-minded heroes called the ‘Seekers of the Obvious.’ Together, they defeat Beelzebub.

  “Nostradamus refers to the mark in a communication to his son. He, too, refers to “seekers of the obvious,” claiming that they will hold power in the Library of Souls. Below his scrawled words “demons of the mark,” the seer hastily drew a rendition of this same symbol. Beneath the symbol, he underlined five words; Mathe’maticien, Prenez garde, voici Beelzebub. Interpreted, it reads: ‘Mathematician, beware of the Beelzebub.’ The words are followed by a string of numbers—the month, day, and year of the St. Petersburg break-in.”

  Willoughby felt his face go hot as questioning eyes turned to him.

  Was he this mathematician?

  How could anyone in ancient France have known he would solve the Riemann Hypothesis? How could they have known he would stumble upon Antonio and Observations Inc.? The whole thing stretched believability. Was this a set-up? Was he supposed to break out laughing and say, “Good one!” He signed up for this trip because of a thirst for knowledge, a sense of fun and adventure—a chance to uncover lost mysteries. He hadn’t signed up to be part of some save-the-world crusade to be fought in an obscure library of time! He didn’t even know how the time corridors worked. Why was H.S. looking at him?

  H.S. continued, his eyes carefully watching Willoughby.

  “I don’t mean to frighten you, Willoughby. I also consider myself a mathematician, as does Dr. O’Grady. But you asked me to talk to you straight, as an equal in the group, and so I am. No other mathematician in this room has exhibited such talent so young.” He looked up. “We have carefully analyzed the Nostradamus letter. The paper and ink carbon-date to only a few months before the seer’s supposed death. We have determined it to be genuine. Hence, our growing interest in the seer. Nostradamus has shown an uncanny ability to accurately predict future events. Could he be a time traveler, like us? Could he be our link to this ‘Fifth Friend,’ or, perhaps, even be the elusive Friend? It certainly seems that he sent us an invitation.”

  H.S. looked up, his eyes keen. “So, what do you make of it?” he said to the group.

  “You mention that you found no other reference to this friend, but have you found anything else about this cult?” Dr. O’Grady said, rather uneasily.

  H.S. raised an eyebrow and drew in a quick breath. “We believ
e it could be related to the snake cults of the Ophites, an obscure Egyptian people who used to lay loaves of bread on the table, then lure cobras out of their baskets to slither around the bread. Only then, kissing the snake’s head, would they eat. I tell you this so you have some idea of what we are up against. The cult was considered deadly even then. They boasted links to dark gods with powers over life and death, time and matter.

  “Three of the most interesting references to the cult’s supposed mark will be downloaded into your individual research dossiers. A tribe of nomadic herdsmen in central Africa spoke of frequent visits from one who they called the Lonely One, a healer and prophet who taught them to beware of the mark. They carved close facsimiles to it on their story stones, and used them to mark ‘places of devils.’ The mark was also found carved into the ebony throwing knives of Vlad III, Prince of Wallachia, also known as Vlad the Impaler. Some believe that this man is responsible for the myth of the blood-sucking vampire. Finally, the mark seemed to have interested the Third Reich. Though it was never proved, some claim to have seen it tattooed on the left hand of elite SS officers to signify a dark fraternity that operated within the larger SS structure.

  “Questions? Comments?”

  “Beelzebub was some kind of Philistine god, wasn’t he?” Dr. J asked.

  H.S. nodded. “The Jews referred to Beelzebub as the ‘Chief among Demons.’ Other cultures referred to him as ‘Lord of the Flies.’ We may be dealing with a very nasty customer. But I remind you, a pack of hungry plesiosaurs was no walk in the park either.” He looked around the room. “What do you say? Do you agree with the security folks? Should we scrap the mission?”

  The group considered the questions. Willoughby felt a growing sense of panic. Snatches of the conversation he had overheard from the tattooed man and the taller figure he called “Mr. B.” rang in his ears. The tattooed man had made reference to the taller man’s “fly-boys.” Willoughby thought of the breach in space that had seemed to just materialize outside of Antonio’s shop. He thought of the creepy cab driver and 6,6,6 on the cab meter. His face went pale. He looked up. Antonio was watching him. Should he say something? Should he warn them? Antonio gave a quick jerk of his head as if reading his thoughts. Did Antonio know?

  “What would happen if we did scrap the mission?” Antonio asked. “We are already on the Absconditus.”

  “We would turn around, go back to Boston Harbor, and think of some excuse for cancellation of the voyage.” H.S. frowned. “Of course, that may or may not make a difference. We don’t know what this cult wants. We don’t know how much they know about us, our families, and our lives. It may actually be safer for us to continue without alerting the hunters that we are on to them.”

  Willoughby agreed. He was a part of this now—whatever this was—and going back home would only involve more people. He didn’t want this ‘cult’ having access to his parents or little sisters. His conversation with H.S. at the observation facility jumped to mind. Referring to Gustav, he had told H.S. that he would never run away from those he loved. H.S. cautioned him that sometimes there was little choice. He glanced around. Everyone seemed to be fidgeting, waiting for someone else to speak. He cleared his throat.

  “I guess it’s like the inventor, Henry Ford, said; ‘Obstacles are what you see when you’re looking behind you.’ I say the best path is forward.”

  H.S. smiled, seeing the others give nods of assent. “Well said, young Willoughby. Are there other thoughts? …Good. Each of you, of course, has unique talents to draw upon—I suspect you know that by now. You will need to know each other’s abilities much better, however, if you hope to become a cohesive team.” His demeanor became suddenly very business-like.

  “Willoughby, you are key to this mission. A mathematician is required to understand the complex formulas that control the grid and guide the team. We will not have tethered holes in the places we must go. The skill you showed in solving the Riemann Hypothesis proves that you’re more than up to the task. You are the team navigator.”

  Dr. J coughed, looking down the row at Willoughby. “Riemann Hypothesis?”

  Willoughby kept his attention focused on H.S. The man’s voice continued, “I want you to look at Michel de Nostradame’s book of predictions—his quatrains. See if you can find any discernible patterns in the nature of their construction. Do they hide mathematical formulas? I would not be surprised if the real beauty of the text becomes known only when we determine why the quatrains are structured as they are.”

  “What am I looking for?” Willoughby asked, a puzzled look on his face.

  “All I can tell you is that you will know when you find it,” H.S. assured him.

  He turned to Dr. O’Grady.

  “Dr. O’Grady, you are our insurance. Should it become necessary to return by some other time hole than the one used to take you to ancient France, your extensive knowledge of astronomy and astrophysics gives you a keen insight into when and where holes may form. I’ve stocked your shelves with star charts that mark every time-hole we currently know of. Anticipate variances for earlier centuries, and memorize as many of the holes as you can, especially in areas that Nostradamus was known to frequent.”

  Dr. O’Grady nodded silently, somewhat uneasily.

  “Sydney, your knowledge of languages will be essential to our ability to function in ancient France, and your musical abilities will give credence to our cover. The advance team will consist of Willoughby, Sydney, Dr. J, and Dr. O’Grady. The four of you will pose as a troupe of traveling court musicians.”

  Willoughby felt a pang of panic. Court musicians?

  H.S. seemed to sense his concern. “Don’t worry. You will be equipped with electronic replicas of instruments from the period. The instruments are designed to play a variety of regional tunes. You will be taught to mimic the movements, speech, and mannerisms of the musicians of the period. Sydney’s considerable ability to ad-lib and perform requests should make the illusion complete and credible.”

  H.S. looked to James Arthur. “James, you’re a rather unconventional medic. With your medical background, you will be a valued resource. You have also done ground-breaking work on how to read a person by studying their aura. You help them use their own internal energy to heal. In a time when medical facilities may be sparse or non-existent, this should prove an invaluable skill. This same ability to read people will help us assess Nostradamus once we locate him.

  “We will provide you with detailed records that will help you learn more about the typical conditions your troupe may run into. Take what you feel you may need and may be able to successfully conceal.

  “I want all of you to brush up on period manners and styles. All of you speak at least passable French, but let Sydney do most of the conversing as she has been studying dialects and slang from the time period. James Arthur, you need to work on speaking French with a bit of a Middle East accent as the black men of that age typically did. You will be responsible for the group, a traveling troupe under the protection of Lord Francois Degallanie, a French Lord with connection to East African trade. Your troupe is traveling to Paris to perform for the royal court.”

  “Antonio, you will organize and direct the team from this side of the hole. As chief technical advisor on the project, you are responsible to not only monitor the hole at all times, but to ensure that the timetables are understood and adhered to. You will also handle all logistics, including the timetables of the Absconditus, which will dock in France.”

  H.S. paused. “That’s all I have for you tonight.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Now, my friends, you are on one of the most beautiful ships ever to have roamed the seven seas. Let’s take advantage of it, though, in your case, Dr. J, I would ask for a little more prudence. Your antics in Boston Harbor have cost me a very fine bottle of sherry, and the Captain still isn’t convinced that allowing you to remain with the Absconditus i
s a wise choice.” He gave his head a shake. “Whoever led you to believe you could pull off a believable Errol Flynn? I may give you Zorro, or a modernist interpretation of The Count of Monte Cristo, but Flynn?” He chuckled as he rose to his feet. “Sydney, I believe you are scheduled to provide an evening concert for tomorrow night. I would like all to attend. My yacht will rendezvous with you the following night. That gives you two full days, and I expect you to make good use of them. Oh, yes, and the food does improve, James. To begin the festivities, I offer my own contribution—a vanishing act. Goodnight.”

  H.S. vanished. After a long moment of silence, the bolts on the door to the hall released and clicked open. Lights in the overhead wood panels brightened, highlighting the shelves that contained books and other materials relevant to the team’s assignments. The group sat there for a long moment, slightly stunned. There was little conversation as, one by one, they stood, stretched, and browsed the shelves. Willoughby looked closely at a long row of books against one wall. There were at least two dozen or more titles dedicated to Nostradamus and his book of quatrains. He grabbed a few, vowing to come back in the morning for a more thorough inventory.

  “So, how did he know I complained about the food?” James Arthur asked as they moved into the hall. “You think the ship is bugged?”

  Willoughby was only half listening. He looked over his shoulder, hoping to corner Antonio, but when there was no sight of the man, he turned back to Dr. J and shrugged. “He probably saw the misery on your face. You pretty much telegraph your feelings, and, of course, you are on his list of infamy.”

  “Yeah,” Dr. J grinned back. “I live on that list.”

  Ahead of them, Sydney and Dr. O’Grady were deep in conversation. “Languages have been somewhat of a hobby,” Sydney explained. “I speak eleven fluently, six of them considered dead or endangered languages, and I have a passable understanding of several others. I’m fluent in French, Japanese (which I learned from my father), Spanish, Quechua (an indigenous Peruvian language), Mandarin, Khitan, an ancient Chinese language, and ancient Egyptian. I can read Hieroglyphics, and am at least conversant in Oielo Hawai’i, or native Hawaiian, which I learned from my mother, Mycenaean Greek, Minoan (which H.S. is oddly conversant in), Old Persian, and Phoenician. I have a rudimentary understanding of several Native American dialects, German, Portuguese, and Russian. Of course, my favorite language is music. Music has been the center of communication for many cultures. It is a language that can transcend all barriers, even time.”