Instead of trying to control his feelings, his mother channeled them.
On his eleventh birthday, Jack had received a sword; perhaps a strange gift for a child with anger issues and yet from that day on, he fenced two to three times a week and never had an outburst again.
Now, the person with the important-sounding tapping shoes knocked lightly on Jack’s door; it was almost a secretive sound as if whoever it was hoped that Jack wouldn’t be in.
Jack slid off his desk chair, crept to the door and took up the saber. It settled his nerves. “Yes?” he asked.
“How splendid that you’re in,” the man said in a light British accent. “Open up, it’s Robert.”
Jack relaxed immediately. He put the saber away, turned the three locks that he had placed on the door and greeted his cousin with a strained smile. As the only son of an only son of an only son, Jack had never known he had a cousin. In fact the entire cousin thing: first, second, third, once removed, five times removed and all that was very much lost on Jack. He understood the terms as they were defined but they had never seemed to apply to him.
Then one day out of the blue, two years after his mother had died, Robert Montgomery had shown up with a sickly grin—what passed for a smile—on his pale, cadaverous face. He was very much surprised that Jack was clueless as to his past. “Yes, we share the same relative,” he had said. “Your great, great grandfather, is my great grandfather.”
As impressive as that sounded, Robert was somewhat distasteful; pushing a relationship that Jack wasn’t keen on having. Despite his pedigree and his fancy accent, Robert had the feel of a used car salesman about him. Jack was polite, which Robert took as friendly, and over the next three years, Robert had come to visit him every six months or so and he always came without warning and always he came with questions; though he masked his intent with a good deal of flowery rhetoric.
Jack didn’t think he was up to entertaining just then, especially when Robert started as he always did: “Wild Jack, old sport, you look fantastic.”
Jack had never once shown Robert a “wild” side and he knew for sure that he didn’t look fantastic or even very good. He hadn’t seen the sun in weeks and he was sure he looked pale and unwell.
“Thanks,” Jack replied, trying his best to put on a good show. “And how are you? You look splendid. Are you going somewhere special?”
Perhaps for the first time since Jack had known him, Robert looked almost chipper, as though he was just about to jump out of his patent leather shoes. In fact, he wore a manic grin, but it went almost unnoticed as Jack took in the finely tailored tuxedo that Robert wore.
“What kind of question is that?” Robert replied with mock incredulity. “The right question is why aren’t you dressed? The party started half an hour ago. You did receive Rebecca’s invitation, didn’t you?”
Jack grimaced. “Yes. But I don’t know her, and I don’t own a tux, and sure, the party sounds nice, but I have a ton of work to do, and…”
Robert held up a prissy hand. He was slim with a hooked nose and dark eyes that were almost buried in deep pouches. “Enough with your excuses, Wild Jack. Rebecca is not just my cousin, she’s yours as well and I worked hard to get you an invitation.”
“She’s my second cousin or something, and a half-second cousin at that,” Jack shot back. “And I don’t want to go to a party that someone has to work hard to get me in to. I’d feel very much like a beggar at their door; a pity-case. No, thank you.”
“That’s all a bunch of bull spittle as you Americans say,” Robert answered. “You’re just feeling sorry for yourself because it’s Christmas and you don’t have anyone, but you have me and you have Rebecca. She’s very sweet and you two have so much in common.”
“Hardly. She’s a linguist, not an archeologist.”
Robert acted as though this admission was tantamount to Jack agreeing to go to the Christmas party. “She’s a linguist who specializes in ancient languages, with an emphasis in ancient Egyptian. You two are peas in a pod.”
Jack shook his head. “And a Christmas party really isn’t the time or the place to be talking about a subject so archaic and dull. I’m sorry, but I’m not going. Of course, knowing you, you’re not here for that anyway.”
“Oh, don’t be like that,” Robert snapped. He opened his mouth but at Jack’s look, he shrugged and smiled again. “Ok, so I need a favor. I need some minor work translated.” He reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers. On each were enlarged hieroglyphs. The first one was a partial glyph; Jack could see the edges of the ones on either side that had been cut off by the printer.
Jack gave it a glance. “That might say st depending on what went before it or after. If you want an actual translation I would need the entire text to see if what I’m looking at is part of a ligature, a stand-alone phonetic glyph, a logograph or a...”
“Ok, I don’t need you to prove your credentials, old chum, I just need a translation.” Somewhat reluctantly, Robert handed over a sheet of paper that was scrawled with writing.
“What the hell?” Jack demanded, his eyes flicking over the parchment. “Where did you get this?” The sample was a strange mixture of Sumerian Cuneiform and protodynastic hieroglyphs. It was ancient, even compared to most of the early Egyptian texts, and it was so rare that only one version was thought to exist. It began: Hrr vahl Evi, ah hurrumm fd... which translated as Come Mother of Demons, Queen of Souls.
“I have my sources and I can’t divulge them,” Robert answered, without really answering. “My father mentioned that you might be able to help with the translation.”
“Your father?” Jack had no idea who Robert’s father was. “How would he know anything about me?”
Robert rolled his eyes as if he was in the presence of an imbecile. “Because we are kin as you Americans say. He has always looked out for you, whether you know it or not. Speaking of which, I can pay you for your work. Would a thousand dollars be sufficient?”
Suddenly, Jack forgot his anger and the seam of anxiety that had zipped through his gut at the sight of the paper. There had been some insurance money when his father died, really a lot, half a million dollars; however, that had been thirteen years ago and his mother had spent a good chunk on a small house and bills, Uncle Sam had taken an even larger chunk and NYU was getting the rest. Jack had enough money to graduate in two years, but not enough to graduate and also eat.
And yet there were some scary implications seeing Robert with that text. It was a hard choice, but hunger won out. “I guess I can do it for a thousand,” he said, and then, almost instantly regretted it. Robert practically jumped with excitement. His eagerness, bordering on stark greed was as unnerving as the idea that he had a copy of the text. Jack suddenly wanted to take back his words, but it was too late, the die had been cast.
Wanting to slow things down and give himself time to think, Jack added: “I’ll need at least a day, maybe two.”
This reined in Robert’s eagerness and he gave Jack a look of suspicion as if he fully expected Jack to be able to snap out a translation of a five-thousand year old text in ten minutes. In truth, Jack could have. He knew its contents by heart, just as he knew there was no way that Robert should have a copy of it.
“Sure,” Robert replied, a not-so-happy smile back on his thin lips, barely covering his disappointment. “I’ll be back tomorrow evening. In the mean time, mum’s the word.”
He turned on his heel and his new shoes beat out a snappy rhythm as he went to the door. “Say hello to Rebecca for me,” Jack said when Robert was half way out the front door to his apartment. Robert gave him a puzzled look before he remembered their cousin and the party he was supposedly attending.
“Of course I will,” Robert said. “Good night.”
The moment he was in the hall, Jack locked all three of his locks and then went to the window overlooking Union Square and waited for Robert to leave. When he did, Jack threw on a coat and rushed out as well, the copy
of his ‘one of a kind’ text stuffed in his coat pocket.
Chapter 2
Greenwich Village, New York
Jack went out the back entrance of the residence hall and although it was after eight in the evening, and it was full on dark with the wind starting to rush down the streets in great gusts, there were plenty of people to get lost in. This was one of the best things about New York City: the anonymity.
Eight million individuals made up the city and yet you couldn’t tell one from another on a cold, windy night like that. Still Jack tried. As he hurried down the street, he stared with bright eyes at every single person he passed and he had his head bent around back the way he had come nearly as much as he had it forward. He thought it very likely that he was being followed or spied upon.
He was a nothing of an orphan and a nobody of a student, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have his secrets. And Robert knowing about the ancient text made it feel like someone had safe-cracked his skull.
It was probably his family history stoking the embers of his paranoia, but Robert should not have had that piece of paper. He shouldn’t have even known that it existed. It was impossible. Jack knew that Robert was very rich and very well-connected, but not that rich or connected.
With his fears in full bloom, he hurried to the nearest subway station and jumped on the ‘R’ train heading north. He had a particular destination in mind; however, the R wouldn’t get him there; the subway was simply a distraction, a way to lose his pursuers—he figured there had to be a team of spies after him, like in the movies.
But why?
The why wasn’t something he felt he couldn’t fathom just then. What Robert wanted, as far as Jack knew, was worthless. The five-thousand year old papyrus, which no one should have known about, was stored in a safe deposit box in a bank in lower downtown that only he and some unknown bank flunky had ever been to. It was likely worth somewhere around ten thousand dollars—not a kingly sum to anyone, but worth far more than a translation which had a value of about twenty dollars, if that much.
The papyrus was part of an Egyptian funeral text and there were many, many funeral texts running around, each as full of blather and nonsense as the next. You could pull fifty of them off the internet in a blink.
So why pay a thousand dollars for a translation of this one? And why ask the very person you had stolen it from to translate it for you? It made no sense and so he concentrated on something that did: Robert had somehow gotten into his safe deposit box without a key. That meant he had shelled out big money—perhaps even huge money to get at the papyrus and that meant...what?
Jack had no idea; he just knew that he couldn’t trust Robert. After all, what did he really know of his cousin? Not much. In fact, were they even cousins at all? There had never been a DNA test taken, and Jack didn’t have relatives around to attest that, yes, this was his great, great grandfather’s...
He was suddenly shaken out of his reverie: across the platform a down-bound R train had just pulled up. With a last glance around, and feeling very foolish, he leapt up and slipped through the doors just as they were closing. A few people idling on the platform gave him curious looks, but none followed him onto the down-bound R.
Sweating with relief, he rode it all of one stop, left the train slowly so that he was the last one off and then followed a dozen or so ordinary looking people out into the cold night. He knew his paranoia was unfounded and yet his chest wouldn’t stop shaking and his nerves ached. Something was wrong in all of this.
“The Waldorf,” he said to the cabdriver who pulled up within a second of Jack lifting his hand.
“Sure thing,” the cabby said, with a barely raised eyebrow. Jack did not look like Waldorf material. His boots had been his father’s and were still a dusty brown as if he had just walked out of the desert; his jeans were faded relics from high school, and his coat was a Vietnam era army jacket that he had picked up for twelve dollars at a military surplus shop.
To top it all off, his wavy blonde hair was a mess and he had who knew how many days’ worth of scruff on his chin.
The front desk manager at the Waldorf was of the same mind as the cabbie and gave him a look that suggested that, no, vagabonds weren’t wanted in his hotel. Even the invitation to the Christmas party didn’t seem to help much and was viewed with equal suspicion until Jack lied: “I’m a musician,” as if that was all the explanation that was needed.
It helped, a little. The manager’s lip curled to an even greater extent, but he nodded and escorted Jack to a second floor ballroom that was bright and posh and practically exploding with Christmas cheer. The people in attendance were dressed to the nines in their tuxes and their formal gowns. They were ruddy from alcohol and dancing.
“Mr. Jonathan Dreyden,” the manager said to the headwaiter, who at least had the decency to keep his face frozen in a neutral setting.
“It’s Jack, actually.” He felt stupid for saying it, but he was feeling jinxed enough without people calling him Jonathan all night, not that he planned on staying.
The waiter didn’t care one way or the other. “As you wish. May I show you to your table?”
“A table?” Jack glanced down at his outfit. “No thanks. I’m uh, not really dressed for the occasion. I was actually hoping to talk to someone privately out here in the hall. My cousin, Rebecca Childs?”
“And she is?” The waiter lifted a hand to indicate the entire swarm of people. Although there were placards in front of every seat, the tables were mostly empty, the guests either dancing or mingling. Jack could only shrug.
The waiter looked uncomfortable. “She is your cousin, sir.”
“Right, but I don’t know her exactly; she’s a very distant cousin. Uh, maybe her?” He pointed at a woman: tall, statuesque, blonde but with some grey mixed in.
“That’s Mrs. Singer; she is the hostess of tonight’s event. It might move things along if I ask her.” He left before Jack could thank him.
The waiter engaged Mrs. Singer in a short conversation and even with forty yards of crowded ballroom between them, Jack could feel the disappointment coming off the lady at his attire. He stepped back into the hall to shield himself from her glare.
Not a minute later, he could hear the soft step of a woman’s shoe and was surprised when a remarkably young lady strode from the ballroom. She was maybe all of twenty and quite stunning with a sharp chin, a thin nose, a spill of blonde hair as thick as a fox’s tail that enveloped one shoulder, and the most curious smile; it was mostly a “knowing smirk” but there was also a hint of the devil in it.
“Ms. Childs?” Jack asked, uncertainly.
She had eyes of blue crystal that narrowed as she took in his head-to-toe scruffiness. “Yes?”
“Uh, Rebecca Childs, the linguist? You...you have a doctorate?”
“No,” she answered stiffly in a lilting British accent. “I’m Cynthia Childs. Rebecca is my mother. And you are?”
“Jack Dreyden. I think you’re my cousin.”
Cynthia’s eyes widened. “So you’re ‘Wild Jack?’ Robert sure got the wild part correct.” Jack couldn’t help it and tried to pat his hair down. He had to stop when she stuck her hand out to him. It was a rather dainty hand and, she being so British, Jack didn’t know if he was expected to kiss it. Thankfully, she initiated a handshake.
“Robert is the reason I’m here,” he confessed. “Is he really my cousin? Do you know? I’m not really up on my pedigree or whatever you call it.”
Her smile went a touch sour. “If you are really Jonathan Dreyden then, sad to say, Robert really is your cousin and mine as well. It’s something that isn’t easy to get used to, believe me. He would be our...” Her eyes went a little out of focus as she counted back the generations. “He’s our second cousin once removed. And I am your third cousin.”
“Oh.” Jack didn’t know where that left him exactly. Cousin or not, Robert shouldn’t have had a copy of the papyrus. It was wrong on more than one level. The papyrus was
singularly unique; perhaps one of the most unique items in the world and it was pretty much the only thing of value that had been left to him by his parents. What’s more it came with an obligation.
Two weeks after the death of his mother, he had discovered a key and a letter written in his father’s hand: Deborah—Where we first met. Keep it safe. Do not sell it or give it away. Keep it secret. This was followed by a series of glyphs, the same strange glyphs that Jack found on an ancient scroll tucked in a glass case in a locker of a bus station in Allentown, Pennsylvania, where his parents had met eighteen years before.
The papyrus had taken four years to decipher. He had to understand the bizarre nature of hieroglyphs as well as Sumerian cuneiform before he was able to even begin.
Although the final translation was somewhat disappointing, Jack had followed his father’s wishes and had moved the papyrus to a bank, a much safer location...but obviously not safe enough.
“That was my reaction, too,” Cynthia said, seeing his look. “It’s not easy knowing that your only blood relation, distant as he is, is a bit of a creep. But now I have you and you are...well you’re American, so you have an excuse.”
Again Jack’s hand went to his hair. “I don’t usually look like this. Well, I guess maybe I do, but not for parties.”
“I’m sure. Well, it is a new and splendid thing for me to meet an actual blood relation, and I do hope that you are planning on staying. Will you keep me company?” She spoke so rapidly that before he could answer, she was on again: “As you can see, all of these people are the very essence of stuffy, and they’re so old! My mother insisted that I come since I’m going into the family business. Just like you, I hear. Robert considers you some sort of savage, but he insists that you are a brilliant savage.”
The Edge of Hell: Gods of the Undead A Post-Apocalyptic Epic Page 3
