The Source

by Michael Cordy

  'What was your mission in accompanying them?'

  'To save the souls of the conquered and to claim a share of the gold for the Holy Mother Church.'

  'But there was no City of Gold? You found something else instead?'

  'Yes, Your Excellency.'

  'Tell me again what you found, so we may record it here . . .'

  Torino's excitement mounted as he read again the description of Falcon's discovery of a magical garden, the creatures he had encountered there. When he reached the finale in which the remaining conquistadors had met savage deaths, leaving only the scholar priest alive to tell the tale, he could barely contain himself. The story was virtually identical to Lauren Ross's synopsis of the Voynich. The only significant difference was that Falcon's Inquisition testimony contained an additional reference to something he called radix, which in Latin meant 'root' or 'source'. Although vague about it, Falcon had regarded it as potentially more powerful even than the miraculous garden. Torino wondered if it featured in Lauren Kelly's verbatim translation of the Voynich, or the yet-to-be-translated section.

  He flicked through to the end of the file.

  . . . After Father Orlando had recounted the full nature of his discovery, it was asked him, 'Why do you persist in this heresy? A miraculous Eden such as this cannot exist in the New World among heathens and savages. You must be mistaken, lying or possessed.'

  Father Orlando replied, 'I am telling the truth. I want only to claim it for the Holy Mother Church.'

  'You are a respected priest, a favourite of the founder of your order, the Blessed Ignatius Loyola. You must realize that your heresy threatens the Church.'

  'How can the truth threaten the Holy Mother Church?'

  'If you persist I can only express my regret and sadness that Satan should have claimed so fine a priest. I vow, however, to do everything in my power to reclaim your soul.' His Excellency instructed the clerks to present the heretic with a written confession, and said, 'Recant, Father Orlando. Renounce your claims. Sign the confession.'

  The heretic refused and was taken to the cells where his feet were burnt over hot coals. He did not recant. The heretic was given into the care of a nun who was instructed to soothe his wounds and encourage him to choose again the path of righteousness. The next morning the nun reported that the heretic's feet had miraculously healed.

  His Excellency asked the heretic, 'How do you explain this sorcery?'

  He answered, 'It proves my claims are true.'

  His Excellency replied, 'This proves only that Satan has taken possession of your body and soul.' Father Orlando was returned to the cells where wooden boot vices were placed round his feet and tightened until the bones broke. He still did not recant.

  The next morning, the nun reported that the heretic's feet had not healed and that Father Orlando's bones remained broken. There was no more sorcery. After examining the priest, His Excellency concluded that the Devil had been driven from him. The heretic was again handed the document and again His Excellency asked him, 'Now, Father Orlando, will you sign the confession and recant your heresy?'

  He again refused and was imprisoned for many months. After this time a manuscript was found in Father Orlando's cell, written in the Devil's language, bearing images of a perverted Eden. The heretic was condemned to death. Even at the end, moments before his execution, he still refused to recant. His book of the Devil was ordered burnt . . .

  Torino read the last lines again: . . . a manuscript was found in Father Orlando's cell, written in the Devil's language, bearing images of a perverted Eden. The current Church authorities had long since forgotten Falcon's forbidden volume, but less than a hundred years ago the Curia had recorded its suspicions that it might be the document the world now knew as the Voynich Cipher Manuscript. Yesterday, in New York, he had stolen away to the Beinecke Library to see the original and hear Lauren Kelly's talk. The pre-publicity, including the sub-title of her presentation, 'A Doomed Quest For Eldorado?' had been enough to pique his interest and, having listened to her, he was now convinced that Falcon's Devil's book was indeed the Voynich.

  He reached for his notes and felt again the bitter frustration he had experienced when Dr Kelly had refused to collaborate with him on completing her research. Apparently she would take a three-week vacation, then finish the translation. He powered up his laptop. The Internet was infested with individuals and communities obsessed with unravelling the manuscript's secrets. Any Google search of 'Voynich' threw up thousands of websites, forums and chat rooms dedicated to the document. Most were hosted by crackpots, amateur sleuths, writers and researchers selling their own particular theory about it. When the Beinecke homepage appeared on screen he clicked on Voynich Synopsis, laid the Inquisition Archives document next to the screen and again compared the story in both sources. The parallels were uncanny.

  Despite the still-enciphered astrological section, the translation was a towering achievement. There had been some journalists at the Beinecke, but he was surprised and relieved that she had chosen to reveal her findings in an obscure open lecture on linguistics rather than a full-blown press conference. Then he reminded himself that Dr Lauren Kelly hadn't yet proved what she had accomplished. In academic terms, until she completed the translation and published her findings in full, her work would be classed only as a theory – one in a long line. There was no doubt in Torino's mind, however, that her translation was accurate.

  Understandably, she assumed that the fantastical story was an allegorical fantasy, but the Church's hierarchy had once viewed it as a blasphemous attempt to rewrite Genesis and a threat to everything they stood for. Their ruthless response proved nothing, but it raised a question. Why had Father Orlando Falcon not only created the incredibly complex Voynich but endured torture and a hideous death rather than recant his story if it was fiction?

  Might his miraculous garden exist?

  Torino stood, stretched his tired muscles and limped to the open window. As a child at the orphanage, he had been small, conscientious and clever, the priests' favourite but an easy target for the other boys. One particularly vicious beating had crushed his sciatic nerve, permanently disabling him.

  As he breathed in the evening air, the mighty dome of St Peter's before him, he was convinced that God had entrusted him with unravelling the enigma of Falcon's garden. He thought again of Dr Lauren Kelly and frowned. By refusing to collaborate on the final section she had shown she was no friend of the Church. A sudden notion chilled him. What if she had already deciphered the final section and it not only explained Falcon's mysterious radix but was also a map? What if she planned to publish the complete translation and prove the existence of Falcon's garden by revealing its location?

  The implications for the Holy Mother Church – to which he owed everything – were unthinkable. Forget Galileo. Forget Darwin. If the garden existed, it could bestow supreme power on his beloved church. Or destroy it in an instant.

  He considered sharing his fears with the Holy Father, or the Cardinal Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, but both were unimaginative old men. They would laugh at his theory or not understand it – either way they would do nothing. Apart from their plans to found a second Vatican state in the southern hemisphere, they were taking no radical new steps to promote and protect the Church's waning influence in the world. He would need more evidence before he involved them. He had to find out what Lauren Kelly knew and her intentions.

  As he limped back to his desk his eyes focused on the photograph of himself as a child. He checked his watch. The time difference was in his favour. He rummaged through his papers until he found an anonymous card with a phone number on it. He hesitated for a moment, knowing he was about to cross a line, then reminded himself that these were desperate times and, to serve and protect God's Church, he must use whatever resources presented themselves. Indeed, the Lord Himself might have engineered this unorthodox opportunity. He picked up the phone beside his bed and dialled.

&nbs
p; A voice answered on the third ring. 'Yes?'

  He stared at the larger boy in the photograph. 'Marco,' he said.

  'Leo, thank God. I've been waiting—'

  Torino's eyes moved to the file on the bed. 'Is your treatment over?'

  'Yes.'

  'Do you still want absolution?'

  A sharp intake of breath. 'Yes.'

  'You're prepared to do any penance for the Church?'

  'Anything.'

  'Good.' Torino told himself again that this was the right course of action. 'I think it's time the left hand of the Devil became the right hand of God.'

  8

  Six days later

  It was almost midnight when Ross turned the Mercedes into the driveway of their Darien home. The long weekend in Vermont had been Lauren's idea, consolation for postponing their holiday and celebration of her pregnancy and the Voynich. He had been looking forward more than he'd realized to getting away from everything so the long weekend now seemed a poor substitute for the planned three weeks in the Far East.

  As the car slowed, Lauren leant across to kiss his cheek. 'Thanks, Ross, I had a lovely time.'

  'So did I. It could have been longer, though.' He flashed a lopsided smile. 'Say, about three weeks.'

  She laughed. 'Stop trying to make me feel guilty. I know you're disappointed, but the insurance covered the cost. We haven't lost any money.'

  'You know it's not about the money,' he said. 'This was planned months ago, and we haven't had a real holiday together for years.'

  She raised an eyebrow. 'That's because you were always too busy with your work.'

  'Touché.' It was ironic that when he had time on his hands Lauren had a deadline to meet. 'But you've been working on the manuscript for more than seven years. What difference will three weeks make?'

  'All the difference between being the first to complete it and letting someone else get there ahead of me. I'm so close, but the last section isn't like the rest. It's more difficult.' As he parked she put her hand on his. 'I'll make a deal with you. I'll still be able to fly in two months and we'll take our holiday then, whether I've cracked the manuscript or not.'

  He smiled at her, thinking how much he loved her. 'Sure. But by then I'll probably be up to my eyeballs in a new job.'

  'Fine by me.' She placed his hand on her belly. 'Pretty soon we're going to have another mouth to feed.'

  Ross got out of the car and pulled their bags from the back seat. He opened the front door, turned on the lights and followed Lauren into the hallway. 'I'm sorry for giving you a hard time. I guess I'm feeling—'

  But she wasn't listening to him. She was looking up at the darkened landing. 'You heard that?' she whispered.

  'What?' He put the bags down on the polished cedar floor and moved to the foot of the stairs. 'Where?'

  'In my office. I thought I heard something.'

  He hadn't. He walked quietly up the stairs.

  She followed him to the top, put a hand on his arm. 'Why don't we just call nine one one?'

  'Because it's probably nothing. Wait here. I'll check it out.'

  He walked across the landing to the door on the left: the smallest bedroom of five, which Lauren used for her work. He had the study. He stood by the closed door and listened, but heard nothing. He relaxed, turned back to his wife and shook his head.

  'Be careful,' she mouthed.

  He smiled at her and she smiled back.

  He turned the knob, opened the door and sensed that something was wrong. He heard Lauren hiss: 'Don't go in, Ross. I always lock the door. Someone must be in there.'

  Then his world exploded.

  A force slammed the door back on him, smashing into his face, throwing him backwards on to the landing, his head striking the balustrade. Blood clouded his vision and through it he saw a masked figure towering over him. A weaker man would have been knocked out, but Ross dragged himself up, turned to his wife, standing frozen at the head of the stairs, and yelled, 'Run, Lauren! Run!' The intruder lashed out with his heel, catching Ross hard in the temple.

  Lauren ran, but as Ross lapsed towards unconsciousness, he saw that she wasn't running away but towards him. 'Leave him alone!' she shouted.

  The figure stepped over Ross and made for the stairs, Lauren in his path. Vision blurred, Ross reached up and grabbed the intruder's trouser leg, exposing a thick scar above the right ankle. The man barrelled past him, shoving Lauren against the balustrade with such force that the rail broke and she plummeted to the floor of the hall below. There was a thud and a sickening crack. Then she was silent. The last sound Ross heard before darkness claimed him was the click of the front door closing.

  9

  Uganda, Africa

  Thousands of miles away, in a small town near Lake Victoria, the Jambo Internet café represented an outpost of extraordinary technology, its air-conditioned interior a refuge from the sweltering heat. Amid its young clientele of locals and tanned backpackers, drinking coffee and tapping at computer terminals, one pale elderly face stood out. Sipping a sweet latte, Sister Chantal studied her screen.

  Every month she took her walking-stick and strolled into town from the Aids hospice on the hill, ordered a latte and a pastry, then sat at one of the terminals. Every month her frail fingers entered the same keyword in the major search engines and scoured the Internet, and every month she found nothing new. When she had finished her pastry and the latte, she would return to the hospice and tell herself that next month things would be different. Next month her burden would be lifted.

  She had lived at the hospice for the last twelve years and she enjoyed her work there, but she knew it would soon be time to leave. It wasn't just that the mother superior and the Church authorities would eventually start asking questions – as they had done in every other hospital and hospice where she had worked. Her precious supplies were running low and to continue her lonely vigil she had to replenish them. It was hard to believe she was running out of time. A stab of self-pity pierced her serene self-discipline. She pushed it away and concentrated on the computer screen.

  First, she scanned the BBC and CNN. As usual, the news wasn't good. A story about Alascon Oil's new pipeline project was particularly worrying. When she had read enough she went to Google and entered her search word. She scrolled down the first four pages, dismissing each hit.

  Then something caught her eye.

  She paused, coffee in hand, but remained calm: she had found encouraging items before, all of which had come to nothing. She clicked on the entry and studied the website. Then she placed her untouched coffee on the desk. As she read, her heart beat faster and her palms moistened. She reached up and loosened her wimple, suddenly short of breath. Struggling to control her rising excitement, she visited two more websites, gaining more background information, then sent the relevant pages to the printer. Next she accessed the Banque Genève secure site, then entered her password and account number. She barely glanced at the large balance. The money was a means to an end. Nothing more. She paid for a plane ticket and transferred funds to the nearest bank, in Jinja. Finally she stood up, settled her bill and rushed out, leaving her coffee on the desk.

  When she returned to the hospice it was quiet. Most of the nuns were in the chapel or tending the abundant crops in the small garden of fertile red earth. She went straight to her spartan room and packed everything she owned into a small suitcase. Before closing it she retrieved an old wooden box and undid the padlock. She took out a smaller, ornately carved box, opened it and examined the contents. The leather drawstring pouch was almost empty. A rush of relief and elation flooded her. It had once been full to bursting but it no longer mattered that her supply was almost exhausted. Her wait would soon be over.

  A hesitant knock made her spin round and slam the box shut. Two small, painfully thin boys stood in the doorway. 'What are you doing, Sister?'