Gotta Dance with the One Who Brung Ya - sex, scandals and sweethearts

by Jon McDonald

  Michael took a deep breath and stepped back from the bench. He was definitely overwhelmed with all that had happened in the past hour. He needed to proceed carefully, not rashly. He gathered together the manuscripts, the book, and the box and orb, and went back upstairs away from the darkness and damp of the basement.

  It was already way past eleven-thirty, but he was far too excited to even think about sleep. He turned on the light over the dining table, spread out the manuscripts and sat, looking at them in wonder. He closed his eyes for a moment. His attention was drawn away by the foghorn echoing from the harbor, which must still be socked in. He rose to look out the window and that is when he saw the shadow of a figure through the frosted glass of the front door. His heart leapt. He froze for a moment, but then went to the door to investigate. He opened the door, but there was no one there. He stepped out on the porch and looked about. The fog was thick and he could barely make out the streetlights from the road below. He concluded it must have been the shadow of a night bird or a tree. He walked back inside.

  That was when it occurred to him that his great-great-grandfather’s ship’s logs might have clues as to where this mysterious box might have come from. He dashed up the stairs to the attic. He carefully examined the contents of the trunk one more time to see if he had missed anything, but finding nothing more of interest, other than the logs, he took them, closed up the attic and returned to the dining room.

  He had no idea why he had come into possession of these materials, but he could not help but suspect that it was not altogether by accident. Of course they came to him through his family, but why now, and after all these years? It seems his grandmother knew nothing about them, for she had never spoken about any of this. Certainly he had never heard anything either from his father. And here he was, so perfectly placed to decipher these manuscripts - his education and his employment at the museum gave him access to what he would need to make sense of this - though he doubted he would ever understand the mystery of the box itself.

  Michael finally fell asleep around three o’clock. He awoke, slumped over the captain’s logs spread around him on the table. It was after nine in the morning and he had a ten o’clock appointment with his grandmother’s attorney. He dashed off a quick shower and appeared just a few minutes late at the attorney’s office.

  It was after one o’clock before Michael returned. Everything had been successfully settled regarding his grandmother’s estate. As sole surviving relative he had inherited everything. The attorney, as instructed by Michael, would put the house up for sale and dispose of the contents. There was a small legacy from a bank account but no stocks or other assets. Michael would realize a little income from the sale of the house but that was still some time off, as real estate was not selling well just now. All that was remaining for Michael to do was go through the house one last time to see if there was anything else he wanted to take with him besides the box and the logs.

  Having satisfied himself that he was done in Maine, he hurriedly left with little regret, casting a brief look back at the house he would never see again before he drove off.

  ◘ ◘ ◘

  Michael was uncertain how much of his discoveries he wanted to reveal to his family. The girls could care less, but his wife would certainly be curious about what had transpired up in Maine – more about any inheritance than any books or knick knacks he might have recovered from the house. He decided that the less said about the mysterious box and manuscripts the better. His wife would be satisfied with the contents of the bank account, and the prospects for the sale of the house later on down the road. And as for the museum where he worked, he really wanted to use the resources available to him there to the maximum, but he would need to be cautious as to what he might show to any of his colleagues. He had trusted friends there, but also knew that he would have to keep many aspects of this mystery to himself. He finally decided not to tell anyone anything.

  He planned to begin with the examination of the logbooks. There were about twenty, so he organized them by date and began the tedious perusal of cargo lists, ports entered and exited, crew discipline, on shore expenditures, and details of navigation. Michael had just about given up hope of finding anything pertaining to the box when in the fifteenth log he came upon an entry of some interest.

  It read: Cape Town, Thirteenth January, 1850 - Usual cargo of wool, tobacco, ivory and sugar. Two days in port. Midshipman Jenkins quarreled with Bos’n and jumped ship, signing on with that rascal Townsend of the Quarry. Had occasion to visit an old comrade on the layover. Charles Radcliff, late of the Victory, has settled just north of C Town. His own land stretches as far as one can see. Invited for evening supper. During conversation after, without the ladies present, he said he had something he wanted to show me. But before, he spun me a yarn about a group of blackies on his land that claimed to be jews – never heard of such nonsense. He then brought out a small chest and opened it in front of me, taking out a plain metal box. Curious. Said he had confiscated it from the natives when he bought the farm. They put up quite a fuss when he tried to take it from them, but he prevailed. Didn’t look like much to me. Some sort of a metal box. Didn’t seem to have a lid. More like a metal brick, but not very heavy. Charles said he’d seen a tall figure outside his house at night ever since he got the damn thing. When he went outside to confront it, it always disappeared. Didn’t want the damn box anymore and asked me if I would take it with me to the U.S. and try and sell it for him. Might bring a sum as a curio to some collector he figured. He gave me the box and a small gold ball, which he said the natives told him was a key, but he could never figure out how to use it. I said I would try to sell it for him in New York City when we docked there in March. Struck anchor and left harbor, the fifteenth, bound for Porto Alegre.

  That was all Michael could find in the Captain’s journals. There were no further mentions of the box, or how it got buried in the basement, or how the gold ball got into the secret compartment of the trunk, or why it never got sold for Charles Radcliff.

  Michael figured there was some important information there about the black Jews. He remembered reading something about one of the lost tribes of Israel ending up in Africa. He would look into that. That might provide a clue as to the origins of the box.

  Michael was working on a museum project for an upcoming exhibit on Caledonia – the Latin name for Scotland. And while it was an interesting project he anxiously awaited his lunch hour and the time after work when he could delve into his own research.

  He had identified the tribe in South Africa mentioned in the Captain’s log as the Lembaa. They were said to have come down from what is now Syria after the time of Abraham. They claimed to be one of the twelve tribes of Israel - each tribe the descendant of one of Abraham’s sons. They had spent many years in Egypt before traveling deeper into Africa after repeated persecutions. This seemed to confirm the Captain’s account of the history of the box. And Michael had been able to identify the language of the book as identical to that of the Ugaritic tablets of Syria. He felt that he was now on track to discover the origin of the mystery box. But he still he needed to decipher the mystery of the contents of the box.

  Michael had spent many evenings late at work this past week. It was now almost nine o’clock before he exited the Museum. The employee entrance was behind the museum and led directly into Central Park. The museum entrance was well lit, but once one entered the park it was quite dark, until one turned the corner of the museum and approached Fifth Avenue. However, Michael lived on the other side of the park - on the West Side. And while few New Yorkers would venture into the park after dark, Michael always walked home, as he had been sitting at his computer all day and felt he needed the exercise.

  There was a nippy breeze this evening and Michael pulled up the collar of his coat against the cold. As he hurried along the park path he had the distinct feeling he was being followed. He gave a quick glance behind him and saw a very tall figure not far behind. He hastened his s
tep, and calculated the distance from where he was now to Central Park West, where he would be once again in the light, surrounded by people and traffic. He looked behind again, and the figure seemed even closer. Michael was certain now he was being followed. He broke into a jog and before long reached the street. The green light was with him and he sprinted across Central Park West just before the light changed. He stopped and looked back. He could see the tall figure almost hidden by a group of trees, watching.

  Michael was very grateful when he finally got back to the safety of his apartment and family once again. But his comfort was not long lasting.

  “I don’t know why you’ve been so late every night this week.” Susan griped as she slammed the microwave door after throwing in Michael’s cold dinner.

  “I’ve told you many times I’m working on an exhibit.” Michael answered, nursing a red wine.

  “Well, you’ve never been this late before when you worked on other exhibits.”

  Michael didn’t respond.

  “Are you having an affair?”

  Michael shook his head in disbelief and walked away from the kitchen counter, plopped on the couch, and turned on the TV.

  “Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you,” Susan screeched.

  “Can we have this tirade another time?” Michael pleaded. “I’m exhausted.”

  “You can get your own damn dinner then,” Susan snarled, as she drove to the bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

  Michael leaned his head against the back of the sofa and stared up at the ceiling. He wished he was having an affair.

  He had lost his appetite and turned off the TV. He would sleep on the sofa once again tonight he figured. He walked to the window overlooking 79th Street to close the curtains. He looked down at the street and in the alley across the street, between two adjacent apartment buildings, he saw the tall figure looking up at his window. Michael quickly drew the curtains closed.

  ◘ ◘ ◘

  Michael suspected there might be a connection between the tall stranger and the box, but he was not certain, and at this point he had no evidence to connect the two, except for the reference in the ship’s log to a tall figure outside the landowner’s house. But he would not let that idea deter him from continuing his research on the contents of the box. So he pushed forward with his investigations. Through his research Michael had learned that a small group of Lembaa had settled in Queens, and he had arranged for a meeting with a Rabbi Toombeki - a leader in the Lembaa community. It was Michael’s hope that the Rabbi might be able to shed some light on the box and the documents.

  Michael arrived on time at a small two story building on Elliot Avenue, with four apartments above two shops below. The Rabbi’s apartment was above a Polish deli. The Rabbi let Michael in. He was short and dressed in African garb. The apartment was sparely furnished with a low round metal table surrounded by pillows on the floor near the windows in the living room. The Rabbi bid Michael sit, while he had his wife prepare them coffee.

  “I’m very grateful you could see me. I appreciate you taking the time.”

  The Rabbi nodded but did not answer. He seemed to be sizing up Michael with his penetrating eyes.

  Michael took the box and the gold ball out of a bag, he placed the box on the ball and the box lid opened as it had done for him in Maine. He didn’t speak, but let the event speak for itself. He lifted off the lid when it opened and took out the manuscripts and the book, laying them on the table before Rabbi Toombeki.

  “I see,” the Rabbi finally spoke.

  “I have reason to believe this came from your people in South Africa. My Great-great-grandfather was a sea captain and this came into his possession many years ago. My Grandmother recently passed away and I discovered these when I was arranging her affairs. I was hoping you could shed some light on them for me.”

  The Rabbi carefully unfolded the manuscripts and inspected the book. He looked at them a long time without speaking. His wife brought the coffee but the Rabbi didn’t even look up at her or respond.

  Michael finally added, “The book I believe I’ll be able to translate – it appears to be in Ugaritic - but the manuscripts are a complete mystery. I can’t determine what they’re made of, and I can’t find any clues as to what the language might be. Do you have any knowledge of these at all?”

  Rabbi Toombeki put his hand on the book. “This book,” he began, “I know of it. It has been in our tribe for many centuries. It contains the following story so you will not need to translate it. Many, many millennia ago when mankind was very primitive – not much above our simian brethren – a group of star beings arrived on our planet to help us. They established a colony on a peninsula that stretched out into the Mediterranean from what is now Syria. They chose this location because it could be well defended with only a small neck of land connecting it to the mainland.

  “There they brought knowledge and even their genetic material to help uplift the struggling humans. They taught gardening, primitive industry, sanitation, and introduced tools and plant materials.

  “At the center of their community was a fruit bearing tree which they called the Tree of Life - this they had brought with them from their planet. It is what fed them, and the humans were not allowed to eat the fruit of that tree, as it was to be used only by the ‘A’dams’ - as their race was called. They flourished for many centuries and greatly uplifted the surrounding tribes. They called their garden colony E’don - after the capital city of their home planet.

  But after many centuries it was becoming clear that the peninsula was sinking. There had been much seismic activity in the area and it was feared that the colony would perish in a sudden cataclysm. The leader of the colony was named A’bram. It was his task to lead all the local humans away from the garden and close it to further habitation. After clearing the colony, a ship from his home planet came to remove the Tree of Life and take away the A’dams - but as they felt their work had not been completed, they promised to return again one day. But for now it was time for the humans to take the lessons and tools they had been given and spread the knowledge they had learned throughout the world. A’bram was the last to remain. He guarded the entrance of the garden till the cataclysms overcame the colony and then he too left.”

  The Rabbi finished his narration and pointed to the book. “E’don was completely submerged and all traces of the colony were destroyed - except for the narration of this book which we were able to preserve. We believe that one day A’bram will return and will bring with him the Tree of Life again. It is believed that he will found a new garden of E’don and the A’dams will once again bring enlightenment and peace to our lost and troubled world - finishing the task they began, but were unable to complete.”

  Michael was overwhelmed with the enormity of what he had just heard and couldn’t immediately speak.

  “And I believe that you are the key,” the Rabbi finally said quite softly.

  “What?” Michael responded.

  “Why do you think this material came to you now?” the Rabbi asked.

  “Circumstance. My Grandmother died and I found it. Being a researcher and a scholar I naturally wanted to find out what I could about it.”

  The Rabbi shook his head. “No, no. I know you don’t believe that. There is much more to it. Now I have to ask you. You have knowledge, but do you also have wisdom? Are you intuitive? You must look inside and see why this has come to you. Even though this box and these writings may come from my people, it is for you that they were intended. And it is for you to pursue this mystery to its final conclusion.”

  The Rabbi picked up a pen and wrote on a piece of paper - E’don - followed by a series of Egyptian hieroglyphs. He handed the paper to Michael.

  “This will help you in your research.”

  Michael examined the paper. “Are these Egyptian hieroglyphs?”

  “They are,” the Rabbi answered. “Our people were long in Egypt before they migrated further south.” He paused
, folded the manuscripts, and packed them and the book back into the box, handing it to Michael when he was finished.

  “That is all I can help you with today. I am greatly honored to meet you and I thank you for allowing me to see these great artifacts.”

  “Are these not something you want returned to your people? I’ll gladly return them when I’ve finished my research.”

  The Rabbi shook his head. “No, we were only the caretakers. They are in the right hands now.” He rose from his seated position and took Michael’s hand to help him rise from the pillows.

  “It will not be an easy journey.” He bowed his head. “Blessings on you.”

  When Michael left the Rabbi’s apartment it was already dark. He hurried to the subway and glancing back was certain he was once again being followed.

  ◘ ◘ ◘

  Michael’s troubles continued at home. He was sleeping every night on the sofa now. Susan was barely speaking to him. Their problems went long and deep - going back several years. Susan worked as a pro bono attorney and seemed unable to separate herself from the tribulations of her clients. Michael felt bad for her and on several occasions tried to talk to her about his perception that she brought her work home with her and into their lives. In turn she blamed him for his obsession with his work, his late nights and his apparent lack of concern for her and their daughters. He rarely took the girls to the park, to the movies, or appeared at their school events. It was clear they had grown apart and harbored resentments towards each other that could no longer be bridged.

  This gave Michael every excuse to delve even further into his research. Michael had taken the Rabbi’s hieroglyphs and run an initial search to decipher them, but had not come up with anything yet.

  It was another one of his late nights. He had a high security clearance and was free to roam the museum unattended, even at night. He was passing by the Egyptian Temple of Dendur on his way back to his desk after getting some tea. The room where the temple was housed was faced by a wall of glass that looked out at the back of the museum facing Central Park. There were no lights on in the temple room and Michael could see clearly through the window into the park. When he was about half way through the room, he glanced outside and again saw the tall figure. The figure was standing very close to the window and pointing. Michael froze. A laser-like light was coming from the figure’s hand and Michael followed this light to where it was focused, lighting up a stele at the back of the room. Michael walked over and examined the illuminated hieroglyphs. They were the exact same hieroglyphs that the Rabbi had given him and were part of a longer text. Michael looked quickly back to the figure, but it was already gone. Michael ran to the window and looked around to see if he might see the figure retreating, but could not see it anywhere.