The Supernatural Enhancements

by Edgar Cantero

  No use. We couldn’t hear each other. There was a hidden room between.

  —Let me get an axe & tear the whole thing down.

  —Whoa, you’re violent today. What about being worthy of the mystery?

  —Fuck the mystery—I almost lost you to it!

  In the end Niamh settled for emptying the bookcases.

  Strabo’s Geography offered some resistance.

  Niamh felt behind the volume; she found a latch. She pulled it. Some locking mechanism clacked awake behind the shelf. The bookcases are separated by pilasters holding lamps; the pilaster to our left had opened a crack. We pulled it; this allowed for the bookshelf to swing open. I wondered who built this secret entrance: Axton, or maybe the Wells? If it was Axton, then yet another reason for the Wells to buy this house; if it was the Wells … Well, what a cool family we are.

  The secret room is narrow and long, fitting between the library and the nursery. A scroll cabinet rots on one side, a desolated workbench on the other. Even by Axton House standards they looked old.

  Even before we found the light switch, we sensed the treasure. Perhaps it was a reflection in the dark, like that on a crystal object, for it was a crystal object. Perhaps it was this feeling I got, like when you’re outdoors and the air stops flowing, and you look up and find the perfect thundercloud overhead. For it seemed a thundercloud trapped in a crystal ball.

  Curiosity beat caution, and I touched it.

  I recalled how Dr. Belknap scornfully referred to conductive telepathy as a “debunked science.” She said that Dänemarr and his predecessors were “still trying” to record dreams. I wanted to grab that crystal ball and drive all the way to Midburg just to prove her wrong. For they had done it: a device to record thoughts. And every dream creature that has haunted me since my first night in Axton House, every face, every letter, every sharp thing and weatherpiece, lay waiting in that crystal ball to coup-de-grâce me, and as soon as the fore-atom of my fingertip collided with its empty surface they crossed over and sprang at me: the hobo who knocked down the policemen, the kid who threw the grenade, the Chinese student at the piano and the deejay in Ibiza, the cook in his noodle stall, the dying reader and the chirping fountain, the bank robber with her baby and flies stupidly crossing the shells’ due trajectory, the twins in the grove, the tomboy on the roof, the ghost in the tropic, the surfer in the tempest, the torture victim retaliating, the poppy kisser, the Greek Scrabble player, the handshaker before the explosion, the pitchfork murderer, the intubated patient, the skeleton, the meteor woman and her Puma shoes hitting the roof of the bunker on an island in an ocean of nowhere, and after Niamh had jerked me away and flung me across the room, many milliseconds later, as she knelt down and mouthed, What’s wrong, I still saw lingering on her concerned face the cherished smile of the goddess in lingerie at the wheel, looking at the Rubik’s cube in my hand, proud of me, because finally, all by myself, I had figured it out.

  —So now what?

  —I don’t know.

  —I say we bury it.

  —That might be a little too drastic.

  —NEVER too drastic.

  —The most important thing is to keep it isolated. Take photographs for Aunt Liza; then put it back in the box. Then put that box in a box, and that box in a box …

  —& down in the cellar.

  —And keep your gloves on while you handle it.

  A few other objects of interest were found (Polaroids attached). The most conspicuous of them is a heavy iron bar resembling a large hex key or a screwdriver of unknown purpose. Among the scrolls there were blueprints of Axton House, ranging from Axton times to the 1960s. The secret room is a contribution from Horace in 1901. (I understand that the blueprints were kept here only because keeping them anywhere else would disclose this room.)

  The crystal ball, by the way, was found on the corner of the bench. It had rolled out of a cardboard box of foam peanuts fallen off a tumbled shelf, all the way to the north wall, where it made contact with the copper pipe climbing along the naked brick. The rest is speculation.

  —What else?

  —Well, that large hex key is a new thread. That’s two keys already, and no locks. We should find them. What about the cipher?

  —I mapped the maze & tried to apply the pattern on the cipher & failed. I don’t think it’s a grille.

  —I thought so.

  —You never said that!

  —I was busy jumping out windows.

  —You should look into it.

  —We will. Together. Tomorrow morning we’ll find some cryptography manuals in the library and get it done.

  —Afternoon.

  —Why?

  —SUNDAY.

  —Oh, again? C’mon! I just nearly killed myself!

  —The more reason!

  So. We’re back to not missing you. But thank you. A lot.

  Love you,

  A. & N.

  P.S.: We kissed!

  DECEMBER 3

  NIAMH’S NOTEPAD

  * * *

  (In church.)

  —Is it just me or are these readings getting longer every Sunday?

  —Shut up & listen. This concerns you.

  —No, it doesn’t. I’m not a Thessalonian.

  —Don’t giggle. We don’t giggle in church.

  A.’S DIARY

  * * *

  Last night it snowed.

  This morning we woke to the bluest sky in weeks. Niamh dug out her Canadian Dharma Bum Barbie outfit, including earflap hat to cover her as-of-last-night trim-cut temples, and we followed Help to the woods. The trees stand like colossal skeletons, their branches clutching the air, basking under a most inefficient sun. And yet now, in their winter austerity, they look more alive than ever. Just like the lichen and moss on the ridges and canyons in their bark, these gigantic birches stand like microscopic organisms on the crust of a rock in space, reaching toward the light.

  Axton House remains gray and detached and gloomy. We call it home, though. Whether it likes it or not.

  VIDEO RECORDING

  * * *

  KITCHEN SUN DEC-3-1995 13:39:22

  THE ROAR OF AN ENGINE outside fills the sound track. THE DOG’S BARKING meritoriously manages to be overheard, though.

  [A. goes to the phone on the wall, dials a number on the earpiece keypad as he wanders toward the counter.]

  [Enter a MAN through the open back door: bulky coat, heavy-duty boots.]

  MAN: Hey, could you tell me where I can wash my hands?

  A.: [Checks the man’s palms.] Uh … Well, a tank of sulfuric acid comes to mind, but try the sink.

  [On the phone:]

  Oh, hi, Mrs. Brodie? […] Yeah, it’s me.

  [The man starts washing his hands in the sink. His eyes quickly fall on the camera in the southeast corner. He smiles a wide, dumb, scar-split smile.]

  [Covering his other ear.] Yeah, I know, there’s a lot of noise—I have a snowplow clearing the driveway. […] I don’t know, some guys who work on Sundays. Would you like me to send them your way later?

  [The man dries his hands on his coat and leaves with a nod to A. In the doorway, he bumps into NIAMH, pulling HELP by his collar. Help keeps barking in the man’s direction; Niamh frowns at him as she walks past him.]

  Okay. So, I was calling to confirm that appointment with your husband. […] Sure, I’ll wait.

  [Niamh lets Help go; the dog scampers out through the south door. She toes off her snow boots and heads for the cereal cupboard. A. is now observing her. Both sides and the back of her head are shaved, while a big snarl of curly hair brims over the top. She pours herself a mouthful of Lucky Charms straight from the box.]

  Hey. What’s wrong?

  [Niamh shrugs, her cereal-stuffed face clearly showing something is wrong.]

  What? What is it?

  [The ENGINE is fading off as the snowplow rolls away from the house. Niamh writes on her notepad; shows.]

  [Reads; then, confused.] He’s “checking
you out”? Who? The little one with the scar?

  NIAMH: [Mimes: “big gorilla-framed one with a mustache.”]

  A.: Oh. Right. [Awkward.] Uh … should I go and beat him up or something?

  NIAMH: [Scoffs. Then she waves the whole thing away.]

  A.: Okay. Sorry. Wish I could do something. Must be the snags of being hot.

  [Niamh stops halfway to the south door, turns on her feet. A. is now distracted by some papers.]

  [She quietly approaches the counter again, staring. A. notices.]

  Uh … I mean, hot in a punk-haired, flat-chested, manga-heroine kind of way.

  [He tries to read her as that sinks in, but she just stands unfazed, a germinal nive on her lips.]

  [She writes something; he tries to look away, acting impatient, holding on to the earpiece, until she shows. He reads.]

  What—no, I’m not, Niamh; I’m being objective; you are, uh … worth checking out. I just try not to act too Nabokov about it. [On the phone.] Oh, yeah, Mr. Brodie?

  [Niamh drops her shoulders in defeat. Then starts writing again.]

  Yes, I just talked to Glew; he said it’s no problem to come by today. So he’ll be bringing the deeds at four. Is that all right with you?

  [She stops writing, shows him the page challengingly.]

  [As he reads, on the phone.] Yeah. Okay. [Then, comprehending.] Uh … Wait a minute. [Puts a hand over the mouthpiece.] No, Niamh, “we” did nothing—you did! I had been unconscious the second before!

  [She glares at him for a very long time that the video time stamp clearly misreads as only three seconds.]

  [Then she turns around and strides out, leaving him alone. The ENGINE is inaudible now.]

  [A. looks away in contempt, then speaks on the phone again.]

  Yeah, Mr. Brodie? Sorry about that. […] Okay, four o’clock it is. Thank you. See you.

  [He hangs up and exits, chasing her.]

  MUSIC ROOM SUN DEC-3-1995 13:41:01

  [NIAMH walks in from the foyer, under the camera.]

  A.: [Off.] Niamh!

  [She stops and turns around by the piano, facing the camera, hurt. A. comes up to her, stops a few feet away.]

  Look, I’m … [Leaves that unfinished. Sighs.] Niamh, do you want to talk?

  NIAMH: [Turns her head away a little, swallowing a lump in her throat. Shows her empty hands like a piece of blatant evidence as she lips a silent scream: “YES!”]

  [She leaves through the west double doors.]

  [A. doesn’t follow this time.]

  [The yellowish halo of the wall lamp flickers shyly behind its stained glass shades. A. notices, looks up.]

  A.: [Scornful, at the ceiling.] Oh, sorry; did I make you upset too?

  [A brief chance for an answer: nothing else happens. The lights remain silent.]

  [A. exits, grumbling.]

  Damn; these women are gonna kill me.

  A.’S DIARY

  * * *

  [Cont’d.]

  I don’t know. Maybe she’s got too much time for herself. Last week was pretty quiet now that I’ve cut down on window jumping. Which was positive, I guess—I could use the time to restore my health, and she deserved the vacation.

  But it’s been seven days now. The most action she’s got this past week was when we went to the movies in Clayboro to see Jumanji and she ate her weight in popcorn. She needs to be busy again. After all, she’s here to protect me—so said Aunt Liza. So I’d better return to putting my life in danger soon.

  I could also allow her to buy a computer—she’s been collecting pamphlets for some time. Much to Ambrose Wells’ chagrin, Axton House may end up joining the digital era after all. I fear that with Niamh’s technology frenzy and her recent hobby of running across the first floor crashing through doors like a rhino while I cry, “Stampede!” our demesne is going to be hard to recognize by winter solstice.

  But hey, even Ambrose’s Society seems to be catching up with the twentieth century. I mean, that fax from Los Angeles we received when Niamh plugged the thing in the other day? Who would’ve told that old telegraph user Ambrose had a fax machine? Wake up and smell the nineties.

  (By the way, according to General Leonidas’ Little Red Notebook, where the contact details of his friends are listed, this “Tyche” must be Ken Matsuo, who apparently is also the “ma” in Namacorp.)

  VIDEO RECORDING

  * * *

  MUSIC ROOM SUN DEC-3-1995 16:23:27

  MR. BRODIE is overlooking the papers that GLEW is leafing through on the table. By the piano, A. is pouring three glasses of bourbon.

  MR. BRODIE: Anyway, if you could get that paperwork ready, that would be great.

  GLEW: I don’t see any problem. [Handing Brodie his pen.] Now, if you would please sign here …

  [Mr. Brodie signs both copies.]

  [Takes one copy, hands Glew the other one.] Mr. Brodie, as of now you are the rightful owner of Axton Creek.

  A.: [Coming over with the glasses.] Hey, old Axton would be happy to hear that.

  MR. BRODIE: [Chortles.] Well, hopefully I won’t keep it for too long. If we manage to sell it before Christmas, I’d like to take the missus on holidays for a change—see some of the country.

  A.: Well, cheers to that.

  GLEW: Hear, hear.

  [They drink.]

  [To A.] What about you? Do you and Miss Connell have any plans for Christmas?

  A.: Well, not much. I figured we’d stay home. [Checking Brodie, complicitly.] I hear it’s when the action begins around here anyway.

  MR. BRODIE: [Chuckles.]

  A.: No, seriously, I haven’t given it much thought. We’ve been pretty busy these days.

  GLEW: Busy? [Amused.] Busy doing what?

  A.: Well, you know … being an eccentric millionaire and all that. Do you think that having a pool installed in winter just happens? You have to come up with that kind of stuff; it isn’t easy!

  [And they all laughed.]

  EXCERPT FROM SAMUEL MANDALAY’S ARS CRYPTOGRAPHICA

  * * *

  Despite bearing the name of its main advocate, the Scottish polymath Lyon Playfair (1818–1898), the Playfair cipher was devised by prolific inventor Charles Wheatstone (1802–1875) in 1854. It is the most famous and widely used digraph substitution code, and for a brief period in the Victorian era it became the standard of encryption. The second Anglo-Boer war (1899–1902) saw its first application in the military, and it was still resorted to as late as World War II. Its popularity is due to its almost optimal use/crack ratio for a manual code (§ 2.7.1): the Playfair cipher is easy to learn, and the encrypting and decrypting processes are very quick, whereas an attack may well verge on the limits of human patience.

  In the computer age, as with any fast manual encryption method, the use of Playfair is heavily discouraged to conceal strategic information, since new algorithms can easily crack it by brute force, the patience issue being nonexistent. Nevertheless, handicraft fans, cryptography purists, or people lacking sophisticated resources continue to choose Playfair for everyday purposes, delighting in its elegance and almost guaranteed safety against any human adversary, no matter how brute.

  To use a Playfair cipher, sender and receiver must have agreed on a key word and a few specific details regarding variants. We will stick to British Playfair, the one employed by the Empire in World War I. Nothing but paper and pencil is needed.

  The keyword is used to fill the first squares of a 5×5 grid, which is then completed with the remaining letters of the alphabet. In order to fit the 26 letters in 25 squares, i and j are treated as one. (A variant omits q instead, but the ij solution is better.) To encrypt a message, dismiss any punctuation or spaces, and break the plain text into blocks of two letters, using some nonsense monograph (usually x) to split any pair of the same letter. Find these digraphs in the square and replace them with the two letters at the opposite corners of the diagonals they form.

  Let us see an example. Again we used our favorite key word,
Mozambique, which fills the first squares of a 5×5 grid. (Of course, we omitted the second m: One instance is enough.) We now fill up the rest of the grid in alphabetical order. Notice we skip j, for i is already represented.

  Now, for our message, a sample of Legrand’s famous encrypted treasure map in “The Gold-Bug”:

  A good glass in the bishop’s hostel in the devil’s seat.

  Remove all punctuation and proceed to break the text into pairs of letters. The second pair would be the oo from the word “good,” but we want to avoid pairs of the same letter, so break this one by adding a dummy (x), and continue normally. This is the result:

  AG OX OD GL AS SI NT HE BI SH OP SH OS TE LI NT HE DE

  VI LS SE AT

  Had we obtained an odd letter in the end, another x would have been added.

  Now for the encryption: Take the first digraph, ag, and check their position in the grid. Imagine them as the diagonally opposite corners of a rectangle. Take the opposite corners of this rectangle: z and h. That’s our first digraph encrypted: ag = zh.

  Next comes the digraph ox. The opposite corners of this rectangle are av. Always respect the order: the first encrypted letter is the one on the same row (not column) as the first clear letter. (Remember: in the West, we read in rows, not columns.) So ox = av.