The Scrolls of Velia

by John McWilliams

  “We’re familiar with the group’s obsession with Edgar Allen Poe,” Adella said, “and about how they started searching through history for common foundational principles, but not a lot more.”

  “I see. Do you all have scientific backgrounds?” the professor asked.

  “I don’t,” Mary cut in. “Most of the time I have no idea what these two are talking about—especially when it comes to the math.”

  “Well,” the professor said, “as the great mathematician John Von Neumann once said, ‘In mathematics you don’t understand things. You just get used to them.’ Which happens to be the secret to all learning. You see, understanding isn’t something you can force into happening. It’s a subconscious process. All you can really do is expose your subconscious to a given problem, act like you want to understand it, then step out of the way. Your subconscious will let you know when you’ve got it.” He tapped on his temple. “Giving your subconscious ample time to learn feels like magic. Not giving your subconscious ample time to learn feels like work. Just keep hanging out with these two, Mary. You’ll get used to the math.”

  “I can see you must have been a really cool professor,” Mary said. “And you know what? You still are.”

  “Thank you.” The professor blushed. “So, let me see, the Eureka Group. The Eureka Group began their research based on the premise that all math and sciences are tools for navigating a deeper reality, that science was this sort of work of art that could never be perfected, just improved upon.”

  “This part we know,” Adella said. “It’s the Eureka Group’s history we’re sketchy on. What, for example, can you tell us about the actual journey the Eureka Group took to arrive at their conclusions?”

  “We’re looking for a specific place,” Mary said. “Like the ‘road of the dead.’”

  “Mary, you shouldn’t put ideas in the professor’s head,” I told her.

  She looked at Adella.

  “It’s fine.” Adella waved it off. “We don’t have time to be too coy.”

  “You realize,” the professor said, “just talking about this stuff is quite dangerous. It’s one thing for me—I’m old. But I’m not so sure I should be enabling the three of you like this.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Mary assured him. “We have Henry. He’s our bodyguard.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was sarcasm or not. Well, actually, I knew it was sarcasm, I just wasn’t sure if the professor knew.

  The professor’s eyes met mine. I nodded confidently.

  “All right.” The professor rubbed his chin. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Now let me see. The Eureka Group began their journey by interviewing scholars and investigating the works of Einstein, Wittgenstein, Mach, Hume, and on and on, all the way back to Plato and Parmenides. Their journey—at least as far as their historical research goes—finally came to an end when, on an excursion to Italy, in the dusty basement of the Museo Archeologico di Naples, they discovered a set of scrolls purported to be written by Parmenides around 500 BC. These scrolls, mind you, are considered a myth to the archeological community at large. But to those who believe in them, they’re known as the Scrolls of Velia.”

  “And why are these scrolls important?” Mary asked.

  “Because they, more than anything else, inspired the Eureka Group’s Theory of Everything.”

  “Scrolls written twenty-five hundred years ago?” I said.

  “According to my grandfather’s diaries, the scrolls explained the paradoxical nature of the world as demonstrated by Parmenides’s student, Zeno, in such a way that ‘it all became clear.’ And then there was something about a dream and him venturing into the underworld with Apollo…” The professor thought for a moment. “Anyway, my grandfather claimed this was the last piece of the puzzle.”

  “What else can you tell us about the scrolls?” Adella asked.

  “They were originally discovered in the province of Velia, Italy, around 1605. At which point they were mistakenly identified as Roman legal documents from around AD 300 to 500. That’s about it.”

  “Where do you think they are now?” Mary asked.

  “I don’t know where they are, but I can tell you who has them: Raven Entelechy. They believe they’re the Descendants.”

  “The Descendants?” I asked.

  “According to my grandfather’s diaries, it’s a term mentioned in the scrolls. He didn’t know exactly what was meant by it, but from my encounters with the Ravens, I can tell you, they do. They believe they’re the Descendants—the caretakers of the scrolls and their ancient knowledge.”

  “Remember what Franz said was written on the back of that painting?” Mary looked at Adella. “Something about the ravens waiting for the descendants?”

  “The exact quote,” Adella said, “was, ‘The ravens stand watch over the chamber door until the descendants of Apollo relieve them of their burden.’”

  “Ah, so Franz told you about the back of the painting,” the professor said.

  “But why would the Ravens think they’re the descendants of Apollo?” Mary asked.

  “I doubt they’re familiar with that quote,” the professor replied. “But even if they weren’t, they’d just interpret it to mean something that fit in with their mass delusion. It’d take a lot more than a few words to shake these people’s beliefs.”

  “Okay,” I said. “The bottom line here is that the Ravens have the scrolls.”

  “Not as much have them as protect them,” the professor said. “As I understand it, their mission is to keep the scrolls hidden. But that might just mean somewhere safe where they can keep an eye on them.”

  “Perhaps in the basement of the Museo Archeologico di Naples?” Adella suggested. “Might they have simply put them back where your grandfather found them?”

  “The Museo Archeologico di Naples was destroyed during the war,” the professor said. “There’s a Naples National Archaeological Museum, but it bears no relation.” The professor looked into his empty hands. “All I can tell you is that the scrolls were sealed in an ossuary-like chest with a number of other artifacts. And, I’m pretty certain, that chest is also where you’ll find the Eureka Formula.”

  “You think your grandfather put the formula inside the chest with the scrolls?” Mary asked.

  “Knowing his poetic nature, yes. Of course, I can’t say what the Ravens might have done with it, or anything else inside the chest.”

  “We have a clue that says the Eureka Formula can be found at the end of the road of the dead,” Mary said, “within the mansion of the night. Do you know what that means?”

  “I assume that clue came from my grandfather—it sounds like his kind of mischief. It’s most certainly a reference to Greek mythology. But if the Eureka Formula is at the end of the road of the dead, I suppose one could take that to mean that it now exists only in the underworld. The mansion of the night is no doubt a reference to Tartarus, an abyss of torture and suffering, a kind of dungeon of hell—”

  “Meaning the formula’s no longer with us?” I asked. “It’s been destroyed?”

  “I suppose one could draw that conclusion,” the professor said. “Of course, the road of the dead could also be an actual place. Mythology is often based on fact. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you where to look for this road of the dead, but I can tell you who probably can. There’s a historian I know, a Dr. Spiros Mellios—he runs the History and Archaeology Department at the University of Athens. He’s made a number of trips up here to visit me over the years, and he’s quite knowledgeable about all this. He’s also a believer in the scrolls.”

  The professor interlocked his fingers and studied them for a long moment. “Yes,” he muttered decisively. “The three of you need to meet Dr. Mellios.”

  Chapter 8

  “You realize,” I said, as we drove along Lake Brienz, “if the Ravens have the Eureka Formula—the actual documents Dr. Schmaltz was referring to in his cipher—then this just became a whole lot more difficult.” I glanced at A
della in the rearview mirror, then at Mary beside me. When we had left the professor’s house, Mary had opted for the front seat—which I took as a positive sign.

  “The professor said they were only ‘protecting’ the scrolls.” Mary brushed back her curls and looked out at the sailboats on the lake.

  “What does that mean?” I asked. “They’re in a museum or a bank vault or something?”

  “What it means is that we might have two layers of protection to get through,” Adella said.

  “So, how do you think we should present this to Dr. Mellios?” I glanced back at Adella.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do we mention the Eureka Formula or just tell him we’re looking for the scrolls? I think we should have a plan—hang on!”

  A black Audi roared past, nearly clipping off my side mirror.

  “You two all right?” I stopped the car on the shoulder.

  “Besides nearly ending up in the lake?” Adella looked out at the frigid water.

  “Let’s catch that son-of-a—”

  “Mary,” Adella admonished. “Henry, don’t you dare.”

  Gently, I pulled us back onto the road.

  Forty-five minutes later, coming down a mountain through cloud cover, we spotted a black Audi parked at a scenic overlook.

  “I think that’s the guy who cut us off,” Mary said.

  “Leave it alone,” Adella warned.

  “Fine with me,” I said, seeing the four burly men inside as we passed.

  “At least they don’t look like Ravens,” Mary said.

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “They weren’t wearing suits, and they were pretty ugly.”

  “You think Raven Entelechy hires its thugs based on their looks?”

  “Don’t be such an idiot, Henry.”

  “You’re the one who thinks Ravens are good-looking.”

  “And you’re the one who’s an idiot.”

  “Oh, for the love of God,” Adella said. “Could you two just give it a rest?”

  Mary and I looked at each other, each just daring the other to say something.

  “Thank you,” Adella said.

  Minutes later, at the base of a heavily wooded valley, we came upon a sedan in the road with its hood up. A man in a tweed coat with elbow patches waved for us to stop.

  “Keep going,” Adella instructed.

  “But look at the poor guy.” Mary rolled down her window, and I slowed and stopped. “Can we help?” she asked.

  “I no speak English very well. Help… move car?” The man pointed at his tired brown Saab.

  “Sure.” I nodded and smiled.

  We pulled over in front of him.

  “I don’t like this, Henry,” Adella said.

  “I’ll be quick.” I could just imagine those clowns in that Audi racing down the side of the mountain and slamming right into this poor guy.

  Mary opened her door.

  “Maybe you should both stay here. Just in case,” I said.

  “But I can help,” Mary argued.

  “No, he’s right, Mary,” Adella said. “You and I should stay here just in case we have to make a quick getaway.”

  “Without Henry?” Mary looked over the seatback at Adella.

  “Of course not without Henry,” Adella said. “But if something happens, he can just jump in the car and we can go.”

  Mary considered this. “Whatever…” She closed her door.

  “Thank you,” the tweed-coated man said as I approached.

  “It’s no problem. Why don’t you steer and I’ll push?” I mimed our roles, and he agreed.

  Moments later, we had his car safely off the road.

  “Do you need to call someone?” I pointed at my cell phone.

  “No. Have friend. Is on way. Thank you so much.” He shook my hand.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Henry, let’s go,” Adella called to me, her head half out the window.

  I turned to follow her line of sight. On the road leading into the valley, from the direction we had just come, a car’s headlights pierced the mist. I could hear its engine whine.

  “Henry, we can outrun them!” Mary shouted.

  I took a step, and suddenly a gust of wind hit me in the chest. I paused. That was strange. I turned toward the approaching car and noticed just how steeply the woods climbed up the mountains on either side of the road. This, it occurred to me, was an ambush. I wasn’t sure if it was planned, but suddenly I knew I needed to deal with this situation head on.

  “Henry, let’s go!” Adella hollered.

  The black Audi flew past us, slammed on its brakes, and backed up. The men inside glared at me as they pulled off onto the opposite side of the road.

  I walked over to Adella’s window. “Once things get started,” I said, glancing over at the men exiting their car, “you two get the hell out of here.”

  “Oh, right,” Mary blurted as I walked away.

  I returned to my position by the tweed-coated man’s car.

  “They here to help?” the tweed-coated man asked.

  “I doubt it. You should get out of here.” I illustrated walking with my fingers. “Go. Now.”

  “Police?” He held up his phone.

  “Sure. Just go.” I pushed him along.

  “Hey, rock star,” one of the burly men said. He crossed the road with two others. A fourth man veered off toward the tweed-coated man, tore the phone out of his hand, and smashed it on the road. The tweed-coated man started running, and the burly man rejoined his friends, completing the great wall of ugliness in front of me.

  All four men wore dark, loose-fitting jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers. Not only had they come looking for a fight, they had come dressed for one.

  “You American drivers are such shit.” The group’s leader spat, just missing my boot.

  “What do you want?” Mary hollered from the car.

  “Mary, I’ve got this,” I said.

  “I just want to know what their problem is.”

  “Our problem,” the leader said, “is that your boyfriend is bad driver—far too dangerous to be allowed on road.”

  “Him? You morons nearly drove us into a lake. And now it’s four against one? What kind of cowards are you—”

  “Mary,” Adella cut her off. “You’re making things worse.”

  “Mary, I’ve got this,” I said.

  “Okay, fine. You don’t want my help…”

  I stepped forward. It must have been pretty unnerving for men with these kinds of odds to see no fear in the eyes of their prey.

  “Perhaps if you were to apologize for your terrible driving,” the leader offered.

  “Come on, we all know where this is heading,” I said. “But…” I held up my hands, palms out. “There are four of you. How about I get the first punch?”

  The leader smiled. Now this made sense, I’m sure he was thinking. No wonder I wasn’t scared. I was expecting a fair fight—perhaps even one man at a time.

  He stepped back to consult the others. Honestly, I couldn’t believe they were doing this.

  A moment later, the leader faced me. “One punch. Then I punch you.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Up until this point, I wasn’t sure about their nationality. Now I was thinking Russian.

  “Are you ready?” I asked.

  The leader rubbed his bristly chin and smirked. “Okay, give me your best shot.”

  I hit him so hard he flew into the others, toppling them like bowling pins.

  The other three men recovered quickly and got to their feet. But their fallen leader’s face was covered in blood, he had four or five missing teeth, and, of course, he was out cold.

  “Kill that son-of-a-bitch,” one of the men said.

  In the next instant, I found myself pinned against the tweed-coated man’s car, arms restrained by two of the men while the other punched me repeatedly in the midsection. Calling on my reserves of strength, I pulled my arm
s together, hauling along with them the two men who were trying desperately to keep them apart. I slammed their heads together with an audible clap. Both men hit the ground like wet bags of cement.

  “Look out!” Mary shouted as the last man standing hit me with a roundhouse kick to the shoulder. He then spun around again, directing a heel kick at my head. With one hand, I caught his ankle, abruptly halting his spin midflight—and almost certainly breaking his knee. He collapsed onto the asphalt, reeling in pain.

  All four men were down.

  Mary and Adella got out of the car and stared.

  “Holy crap, Henry,” Mary said. “You massacred them.”

  “That was…” Adella approached the carnage. “Extraordinary.”

  Apparently the tweed-coated man hadn’t gone far, because he now came jogging back. He gave me an exaggerated expression of awe, then helped me drag the men off the pavement. I handled the one who was still conscious.

  “Henry, look.” Mary pointed down the road. About fifty yards behind us was a second black Audi, its engine running, its lights on.

  “How long has that been there?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Mary said.

  Adella shrugged.

  The car advanced and stopped. The driver’s side door opened and a man in a black suit stepped out. He crossed the road, aiming a pistol in our general direction.

  “Is that…?” Mary asked.

  “Yup,” I said.

  It was Pierre Durant from the train.

  Pierre said something in French to the tweed-coated man, who immediately started running—again.

  “Sorry about this.” Pierre gestured with his pistol at the injured men. “But I had to be certain. Mary, Dr. Fortier, my apology extends to the two of you as well.”

  The man with the broken kneecap shouted something in Russian. Pierre, keeping an eye on us, walked over to him. He spoke a few words in Russian, then hit him with the butt end of his pistol. “You’re lucky I don’t shoot you,” Pierre told the unconscious man.

  “That seemed unnecessary,” Mary said.

  “Perhaps, but I prefer no witnesses.”

  “You plan to shoot us?” Adella asked.

  “No, but there are people who will be arriving soon who will insist that I do. Which unfortunately means we have no time to talk.”