Wyatt, Richard

by Fathers of Myth

  “Never mind, now that I’m already here. I’ve carried it all this far, I guess I can go the rest of the way without your help.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking, as usual. You know me; I’ve got a one-track mind, which is hardly ever on the right track to begin with.”

  I rush back inside beginning my search. Bypassing all the artifact bobbles and trinkets, I concentrate on the photographs on display only.

  I take a quick look back at Kelly and notice she is looking at me scornfully and shaking her head. Oh well, let her think of me as an ill-mannered savage for the time being. It’s better for her to think of me as a savage than a certified lunatic.

  I must be a lunatic, searching for a man that seems to have a passage to the past and present simultaneously, to be searching for someone I co-exist with and yet who is also a member of history. I must be mad, because this alternative reality is beyond belief. Not until I find out for myself what is true and what is false, can I reveal to Kelly anything of the reality I am left with?

  I enter a room that displays thousands of World War II photos. I am the only one in this room. Photos of war are not the most cheerful or optimistic photos to behold. Mostly they are of death and destruction; photos that prove the guilt of man’s inhumanity to his fellow man.

  Speaking of inhumanity, there must be a hundred photos of Adolf Hitler here on display. Most of these are of his own officers taking advantage of photo opportunities, to be seen with the Fuhrer. Also there are a few of Hitler with his mistress and even with his dog.

  Several newspaper clippings of Hitler are also displayed, from newspapers from around the world. Some of the newspapers on display are of those announcing the beginning of the Nazi party and of the instituting of the Nazi symbol, the swastika. Here Hitler is taking his place in history.

  It is amazing to me that people would place trust in such a man as Hitler. I guess since he helped put the economy on the upswing, they were more than willing to reward him with their allegiance. It is amazing how much people are willing to give or pay, just for a good economy, I think to myself.

  I think again of the intruder that turned off the lights to steal my photos. He might be still interested in observing me for some bizarre reason. I lift up my head and make a panoramic survey of the entire room. I see nothing but have the feeling of being watched. Maybe I am just being paranoid, but he must have been following and watching me. I will keep vigil and be constantly aware of my surroundings from now on. Carefully and cleverly of course, I promise myself.

  As I look at all the different Hitler newspaper clippings, I come upon a curious photo from an issue of the London Times dated in 1933. The headlines read, ‘Symbol of the Nazi Party.’ At the bottom of the article the caption headlines for the photo is found. ‘Hitler pays tribute to the designer of the symbol of the Nazi Party.’

  Looking at the photo, I quickly realize who the rewarded designer of the swastika is. Standing there smiling that sinister smile of his, as he shakes Hitler’s hand is none other than the juggernaut stranger I search for.

  No matter what point in time I find him, he appears ageless. No matter the time or place in history each photo has captured his image; it always seems to be an image that expresses a threat. He emerges as someone possessing the identity of being the aborigine master of some unknown condemnation.

  The man honored for giving Hitler his swastika, is none other than my tormenting intruder of the past. Once again, I have found him among one of the milestones of history. Like some great spectator of time, in attendance at all of history’s main events.

  I stare into the eyes of the impostor in the photo for a moment longer. Finally, I break away from his cold piercing eyes and read some of the copy underneath the caption.

  ‘The symbol of the swastika was taken from the cross of Thor and is an ancient sign of good luck, prosperity, and long life. Adolf Hitler shakes Hermann Whilhem Goering’s hand for creating and contributing his gift, the swastika. Hitler declares the swastika as the accepted symbol of the Third Reich and of the Nazi party. Ceremonies were concluded with the march of Nazi party members through the main streets of Berlin.’

  I ponder for a moment over the news article, and then snort out a smile. To think, only a few days ago at the Portland airport, I knocked down the man that created the most infamous symbol of all history for Hitler himself.

  I look around me to see if I am still the only one in the room. I find that I am solitarily isolated inside this room of aged photographs. I quickly reach over the glass railing and snatch the yellowed newspaper clipping from its display. I bend over and slip off my shoe; concealing the old and frail newspaper clipping underneath my foot, inside my shoe.

  I’ve used up too much time asking the questions of why or how. I must now use everything at my disposal, in establishing reasonable answers to these questions. I hate to resort to robbery, but I feel like I must do what it takes to solve this riddle. Even with this additional proof, I know it will still be difficult to solve this riddle, as difficult as explaining snow to a pigmy that lives in the middle of the Congo jungle.

  One thing I have found. These photos record pieces of history. The more I search these photos of history, the more I come across this strange man that appears to task time. If I can find more photos of this man, it may solve at least part of the puzzle.

  I abruptly turn around and head for the exit door. I find Kelly sitting near the exit on one of the wooden benches, fiddling around with one of her cameras. I step up towards where she is sitting, and watch her tinker with her camera for a moment in silence.

  Kelly looks up in response to my shadow, bringing her activity to an instant freezing halt.

  “What? Don’t tell me you’re ready to leave already!” She has a stunned look upon her sweet face.

  “I’m afraid so. I’m ready for the next exhibit room, next door.”

  “If you want to call it quits, we can go. I’ve got more than enough pictures of this thing to write ten stories. Besides, you know as well as I do, tomorrow it will all be old news anyway. If you want to call it a day, I’m with you, pal.”

  “No, don’t be silly. I want to see everything that the exhibit has to offer. I know it may look as if I am rushing through out of boredom, but I’m not. I’m just making sure that I see everything here before it closes.”

  “I don’t care what you say, Matt, you are acting strange. I mean, more strange than usual.”

  “There is nothing strange about it, my dear. Now, let me carry something for you.”

  Kelly eyes narrow at me suspiciously.

  “I know it doesn’t sound like me, but allow me to step out of character for a moment and be a gentleman.” She begins to hand me some of her equipment.

  “With pleasure; a girl can always use a gentleman. Right now, even a temporary imitation gentleman is better than breaking my back.”

  As we enter the World War I exhibit, my anticipation begins to surge. Would I find the stranger’s presence among any of the World War I photos? It is late in the afternoon and many of the exhibit’s visitors have gone home. There are only three other people in the World War I exhibit besides Kelly and myself.

  Much of the exhibit is dedicated to showing how World War I was the first war of its kind. Besides being a war that embraced and involved the entire world, many new weapons capable of killing mass amounts of humans at one time debuted; the machine gun, the airplane, the tank, nerve gas, as well as others.

  ‘How it started,’ is the title of this part of the exhibit. A colorful display of pictures and newspaper articles telling the story of how the war started.

  June 28, 1914, a Serbian nationalist assassinated Archduke Francis Ferdinand and his wife, heir apparent to the Austria-Hungarian throne, in Sarajevo. One month later Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia.

  There before me was a small video screen. Just push a button and watch the actual footage of the Archduke being assassinated. I push the button and watch it in ho
rror. What possesses a person to shoot another, I ask myself. Even when a man hates another, shooting him seems to be such an animalistic way to deal with hate.

  But wait! My thoughts of the abhorrence of killing another human being are brought to an abrupt end.

  There is something in the video, but I’m not sure. I push the button once again. There! It couldn’t be. I push the video button another time. There, there he is again. Just before the Archduke is shot, the camera sweeps across the crowd. There in the crowd, I spot my strange masquerader once again, a participating member of the cheering crowd. Now he seems to be talking and giving something to a man, the same man that in just a few seconds will kill the Archduke. I push the button one more time. Yes it is him, for sure.

  The thought of this man, implicated in the assassination of the Archduke, gives me a helpless feeling. It reminds me of what my father told me of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. It now seems apparent; he was present at both assassinations and possibly responsible for both.

  I look around the room to see if I am still being observed or followed by this insidious fellow. What kind of character does he play in this unfolding conspiracy he is maneuvering? Is he an assassin, a time-traveling assassin? Any interest I’ve had in this bizarre riddle has now turned into fear; mind-boggling fear.

  A feminine voice of authority erupts over the network of loud speakers and announces that the exhibit will be closing in fifteen minutes. I find it hard to break away from the video. I finally force myself to push away and begin to look for Kelly. It takes me only a few seconds to find her waiting at the exit, sitting patiently in a chair.

  My mind now is like a rusty mechanism in motion. Every part of my mind wobbles with a piercing irritating sound, lacking the grease of comprehension for it to operate smoothly. All of this is so hard to comprehend and hard to allow it to be a part of my reality.

  Kelly is reading a movie magazine as I approach where she is waiting.

  “I didn’t know you liked movie magazines, Kelly. I pegged you as more of the Architectural Digest sort of gal.”

  “I’m not reading it, smarty pants, I’m checking out their photographic style and presentation. Besides, there is not much else to do while I sit here and wait for you,” she adds sarcastically.

  “Thank you very much for waiting. I’ll tell you what, for being such a good guy today, how ‘bout I take you out to a nice dinner?”

  “You mean you’ll take me out to a nice dinner using The Herald’s Discover card?” Kelly is pleased with herself.

  “You sure know how to take the debonair out of a guy don’t you?” I feel a little belittled.

  “Okay, you’re right. Let’s you and me and the paper’s Discover card go out on the town.”

  “I don’t care who pays for dinner, as long as we have dinner.”

  “Great, let’s go. Oh by the way, talking about the Discover card, don’t let me forget to stop by the photo shop. I need to pick up those posters I ordered.”

  “Matt, you are going to be in so much trouble. You should have waited until we got back to Portland to have them made. The paper could have made them for a lot cheaper.”

  “I know, I know.”

  §

  EIGHTEEN

  It is 5:30 when Kelly and I enter the photo shop. The old mild-mannered gentleman shopkeeper is leaning at the counter reading the evening newspaper.

  “Good afternoon!”

  “Are you finding any good news in today’s newspaper?” I ask.

  The poised elderly gentleman slowly looks up, takes one puff on his pipe before he responds.

  “Good afternoon to you young man and young lady. How can I be of assistance to you?”

  Taken a little off guard that he does not recognize me, I am left speechless momentarily.

  “Yes sir. I was in earlier today and left you some photos to have enlarged into posters. I was to come by this evening to pick them up.”

  I begin to feel a bit uneasy about the possibilities of getting any posters tonight. I watch as the silver-headed gentleman riffles through several slips of paper.

  “Posters? Let me see now. Oh yes, yes indeed. For Mr. Brooks, right?

  “Yes sir, that’s correct. I’m Matthew Brooks.”

  “Well I have them in the back. If you would excuse me, it will only take me a minute.”

  “Yes of course.” He shuffles hunched over, toward the back of the shop, smoke trailing from his pipe like a wood-burning locomotive.

  While I wait I can’t help but wonder. Were there really that many other poster orders today, that he couldn’t remember me or my order? In fact, by the looks of things, I think I may have been his only customer today.

  I’m beginning to question the ability of this dapperly dressed, but forgetful gentleman, to produce the kind of quality posters I’m looking for. Actually, I feel a fragment of cruelty inside of me for thinking this way. I’d better save judgment until after I see the posters.

  After a good five minutes, the shopkeeper returns with four large cardboard tube containers, and sets them on the counter.

  “Let’s see now, thirty frames before the shuttle explodes and then thirty frames after, plus the sixty frames in between. These two tubes here contain the sixty frames of the explosion. These two contain before and after. I marked each one of them for you so you’ll know which one is which. Now, how else could I be of help?”

  The enormity of my purchase has slapped me in the face. I can feel my eyes popping out beyond my brow, as I goggle at the myriads of giant photographs on the counter I have just become indebted for. The shock of the scene paralyzes my tongue for a split second. What have I done? I feel like someone has opened the door and caught me standing there naked. The shopkeeper politely interrupts my silence.

  “Mr. Brooks, will there be anything else?”

  “Oh I’m sorry. No, that’s all,” I regain use of my tongue and begin to breathe in and out.

  “I guess I didn’t realize how many posters I was ordering. It looks like a lot of posters.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Brooks. Did I make a mistake on the order?”

  “No absolutely not. Don’t pay attention to me. I get bewildered very easily.” I try to hide some of my lingering panic.

  “Very good Mr. Brooks. I selected four of the posters as examples to show you. Each poster represents a different frame of the video you gave me.”

  I slowly examine the four poster photos, given for approval. They exceed my expectations.

  “These are great!” I announce in a way that reveals my pleasant surprise.

  “This is very high quality work …. What is your name, sir?”

  “Montgomery Thomas, but my friends call me Monty,” he informs me, raising his hand toward mine to shake.

  “This is very good work, Monty. Thank you for doing such a good job.”

  “I’m very pleased you find the photos satisfactory, Mr. Brooks”

  “These are more than satisfactory. How much do I owe you?” I ask him, cringing on the inside awaiting his reply.

  “Yes of course, here is the invoice. The grand total is $3750. I tried to keep it close to what I estimated earlier.”

  “Oh I’m sure that is fair. I am going to pay for it with my company’s credit card, if that is okay?” I explain. Kelly is shaking her head at me, trying hard to show her disapproval. Although she scoffs at my motive for making such an expensive purchase, she scoffs in silence.

  It now comes to my mind how fetching Kelly looks when she scoffs; it’s like a little bit of silent fireworks. A few tiny sparks fly off creating a moment of visual delight. I smile back at her, which seems to surprise her a little.

  I wonder how bad the sparks will fly when I tell Kelly I’ve decided to take off to the island of Maui. Within Charles Lindbergh’s ransom note for his son, contained the same threatening message that we were given. Charles Lindbergh may hold the key to understanding this strange man’s identity, and why he has made these threats
.

  Charles Lindbergh was buried close to his winter home on the island of Maui, close to the secluded village of Hana. It’s possible that the Lindbergh family still owns the home, and some of his family may still go there from time to time. Maybe I can talk to someone that knows what really happened to his son, and why he received threats.

  I think this is where I leave the wagon train and go out into the wilderness on my own. I doubt if Kelly will understand or agree with me, no matter how good I can explain. And Lloyd, well Lloyd will probably do what Lloyd does best. Most likely he will react relentlessly inhuman.

  Although I must admit, if someone attempted to tell me my story and explained to me why I needed to go to Maui, I wouldn’t believe me either. If it turns out that I am unemployed when I return, so be it. This is something I must see through to the end, whatever the cost.

  We head back to our hotel room to freshen up before dinner. I hold the four huge cardboard tubes containing the posters on my lap. I don’t think that now is a good time to open them up. I think I’m going to wait till I am thirty thousand feet in the air, on my way to Maui, before I investigate their contents. At least I will be by myself, when I find out that I paid $3750 for nothing.

  Our cab gets bogged down in the traffic of downtown Seattle. We both are silent until Kelly can no longer hold her tongue.

  “I’m sorry Matt, but you’re my close friend. I’ve got to say what’s on my mind.” A torrent of emotion is on its way.

  “Go ahead sweetheart; everything is out in the open between you and me. What’s on your mind?”

  “Are you trying to get fired?” She vehemently expresses.

  “What do you mean?” I try to say as if I am ignorantly innocent.

  “You know exactly what I mean, Matt. You know how Lloyd is going to react to that credit card charge of almost four thousand dollars. He is going to explode. After he explodes, he is going to fire your stupid behind. Just what were you thinking?” She passionately enunciates, her eyes permeating with wet unspent tears.

  “Don’t be so upset. I know Lloyd is unreasonable, but I think I have found something pretty earth-shaking. I think it is going to be a story that even Lloyd would pay four thousand dollars for and then some. I just need to have time to study the posters to be sure.”