The Atlantis Scrolls (Order of the Black Sun Book 7)

by P. W. Child

  “Hello, Nina. Rachel Clarke. Lovely to meet you ladies. Now, shall we go to my office?” the cheery graphologist smiled.

  They left the dark, cozy section of the house to enter a small room, brightly lit by daylight that seeped through the sliding doors that led out to the small swimming pool. Nina looked at the pretty circles that pulsed from the plunge of rain drops on the pool’s surface and admired the ferns and foliage planted around the pool so as to dip into the water. It was aesthetically stunning, sharp green in the gray of the wet weather.

  “You like that, Nina?” Rachel asked as Agatha handed her the papers.

  “Aye, quite striking how it looks so wild and natural,” Nina answered politely.

  “My hubby is a landscaper. The bug bit him while he made a living digging through all kinds of jungles and woodlands and he started gardening to alleviate that bad old case of the nerves. You know, stress is a horrid thing that nobody seems to notice these days, as if we are supposed to have the jitters from stressing too much, eh?” Rachel rambled as she opened the document under her magnifying lamp.

  “Indeed,” Nina agreed. “Stress kills more people than anyone leads on.”

  “Aye, that is why hubby took up prettifying people’s gardens instead. More like hobby-type work. Much like my job. Right, Miss Purdue, let’s have a look at this scribble of yours,” Rachel said, putting on her work face.

  Nina was skeptical as to the whole idea, but she did enjoy getting out of the house, away from Purdue and Sam. She sat down on the small couch by the sliding door, looking at the bright ornaments among the leaves and branches. Rachel was silent, for once. Agatha watched her intently and it became so quiet that Nina and Agatha exchanged a series of expressions, both very curious why Rachel took so long to scrutinize one page.

  Finally Rachel looked up, “Where did you get this, dear?” Her tone was serious and a little unsettled.

  “Oh, mum had some old stuff from her great gran and she shoved it all on me,” Agatha lied expertly. “Found this among some rubbish bills and thought it was interesting.”

  Nina perked up, “Why? Can you see what it says?”

  “Ladies, I’m no ex . . . well, I am an expert,” she chuckled dryly, taking off her glasses, “but if I am not mistaken, by this photograph . . .”

  “Yes?” both Nina and Agatha exclaimed.

  “It looks like this was written on . . .” she looked up, thoroughly bewildered, “papyrus?”

  Agatha put on her most ignorant expression while Nina just gasped.

  “Is that good?” Nina asked, playing dumb for the benefit of information.

  “Why yes, my dear. It means this paper is very valuable. Miss Purdue, do you have the original per chance?” Rachel asked. She placed her hand on Agatha’s with an elated inquisitiveness.

  “I’m afraid I don’t, no. But I was just curious about the photo. Now we know it must have been an interesting book, then, that it came from. I suppose I knew that all along,” Agatha acted naïvely, “because that is why I was so hell bent to figure out what it said. You could perhaps help us make out what it says?”

  “I can try. I mean, I see a lot of handwriting samples and I must boast to having somewhat of a trained eye for it,” Rachel smiled.

  Agatha shot her eyes to Nina, as if to say “I told you so” and Nina had to smile as she turned her head to look out at the garden and pool where the rain had now started to splash.

  “Give me a few minutes, let me see if . . . I . . . can . . .” Rachel’s words drifted off as she adjusted the magnifying lamp to see better. “Whoever photographed this made his own little note, I see. The ink on this section is fresher and the hand of the writer is considerably different. Hang on.”

  It felt like an eternity, waiting for Rachel to write word for word as she deciphered the writing bit by bit, here and there leaving a dotted line where she could not discern. Agatha looked around the room. Everywhere she could see samples of pictures, posters of different slants and pressure, indicating psychological predispositions and character traits. It was a fascinating vocation, in her opinion. Perhaps, as a librarian, the love for words and meanings behind structure and such appealed to Agatha.

  “It looks like a poem of sorts,” Rachel mumbled, “that is divided by two hands. I wager two different people wrote this poem—one the first part and the other the last bit. First lines are in French, the rest in German, if my knowledge serves me. Oh, and here at the bottom it is signed by what looks like . . . this first part of the signature is difficult, but the last part clearly looks like ‘Wenen’ or ‘Wener.’ You know anyone in your family by that name, Miss Purdue?”

  “No, unfortunately not,” Agatha replied with an inkling of regret, playing her role so well that Nina smiled and shook her head furtively.

  “Agatha, you must follow up with this, my dear. I will even venture to say the material, the papyrus this is written on, is downright . . . ancient,” Rachel frowned.

  “Like 1800s ancient?” Nina asked.

  “No, my sweetheart. Like a thousand odd years before the 1800s—ancient,” Rachel revealed, her eyes wide with wonder and sincerity. “This is the kind of papyrus you’d find in world history museums, like the Cairo Museum!”

  Uncomfortable with Rachel’s interest in the document, Agatha diverted her attention.

  “And the poem on it is equally old?” she asked.

  “No, not at all. The ink is not half as faded as it would have been had it been written that long ago. Someone went and wrote on paper they had no idea of the value of, my dear. Where they got it is a mystery, because these types of papyrus would be boxed up in museums

  or . . .” she laughed at the absurdity of what she was about to say, “it would be preserved somewhere since the days of the Library of Alexandria.” Holding back her urge to laugh out loud at the ludicrous statement, Rachel just shrugged.

  “What words did you get from it?” Nina asked.

  “It’s in French, I think. Now, I don’t speak French . . .”

  “That’s all right, I do,” Agatha said quickly. She looked at her watch. “My goodness, look at the time. Nina, we’re going to be late for the luncheon at Aunt Milly’s housewarming!”

  Nina had no idea what Agatha was on about, but she construed it as bullshit she had to play along with to get out of the growing tension of the discussion. She assumed correctly.

  “Oh, shit, you’re right! And we still have to get the cake! Rachel, know any good confectionary placed around here?” Nina asked.

  “That was a close call,” Agatha said as they drove down the main road back to Thurso.

  “No shit! I have to admit I was wrong. Getting a graphologist was a very good idea,” Nina said. “You’ll be able to translate what she wrote from the wording?”

  “Yep,” Agatha said. “You don’t speak French?”

  “Very little. Was always more of a Germanic language lover,” the historian sniggered. “Liked the men better.”

  “Oh, really? You prefer German men? And you bother with the Scottish ones?” Agatha remarked. Nina could not tell if there was a little bit of menace in Agatha’s statement, but then with her it could be anything.

  “Sam is a very likable specimen,” she jested.

  “I know. I wouldn’t mind getting a review from him, I dare say. But what the hell do you see in David? It’s the money, right? Got to be the money,” Agatha asked.

  “No, not the money as much as the confidence. And his passion for life, I suppose,” Nina said. She did not like being coerced into exploring her attraction to Purdue so finely. In fact, she would rather forget what she found appealing about him in the first place. She was far from safe when it came to writing off her affection for him, much as she vehemently denied it.

  And Sam was no different. He did not let her know if he wanted to be with her or not. Finding his notes on Trish and his life with her confirmed that, and at the risk of getting her heart ripped out if she confronted him about it, she kept i
t to herself. But deep inside Nina could not deny that she was in love with Sam, the elusive lover she could never have for longer than a few minutes at a time.

  Her heart ached every time she thought about those memoirs of his life with Trish, how much he loved her, her little idiosyncrasies, and how close they were—how much he missed her. Why would he write so much about their life together if he had moved on? Why did he lie to her about how precious she was to him if he was secretly writing odes to her predecessor? Knowing that she would never live up to Trish was a stab she could not process.

  Chapter 17

  Purdue stoked the fire, while Sam cooked lunch under the stern supervision of Miss Maisy. In actual fact he was only assisting, but she made him believe that he was the chef. Purdue sauntered into the kitchen with a boyish grin, beholding the chaos Sam brought to the preparation of what would have been a feast.

  “Giving you a hard time, is he?” Purdue asked Maisy.

  “No more than me husband, sir,” she winked, and cleaned up where Sam had spilled the flour, trying to make dumplings.

  “Sam,” Purdue said, and motioned with his head for Sam to join him in by the fire.

  “Miss Maisy, I’m afraid I have to excuse myself from kitchen duty,” Sam announced.

  “No worries, Mr. Cleave,” she smiled. “Thank God,” they heard her utter as he exited the kitchen.

  “Have you had word yet about the document?” Purdue asked.

  “Nothing. I imagine they all think I’m daft for pursuing a story about a myth, but on the one hand that is a good thing. The fewer people who know about this, the better. Just in case the journal is still intact somewhere,” Sam reported.

  “Yes, I am very curious as to what this treasure is supposed to be,” Purdue said, as he poured them some Scotch.

  “Of course you are,” Sam replied, half amused.

  “It’s not about the money, Sam. God knows I have enough of that. I don’t have to chase after intrinsic relics for money,” Purdue told him. “I am truly invested in the past, what the world is holding in hidden places that people are too ignorant to care about. I mean, we live on soil that has seen the most amazing things, lived through the most fantastical eras. It is really special to find remnants of the Old World and to touch on things that know what we never will.”

  “That’s way too deep for this time of day, man,” Sam confessed. He drank half a glass of his Scotch in one go.

  “Easy there,” Purdue urged. “You want to be awake and aware when the two ladies return.”

  “Not so sure about that, actually,” Sam admitted. Purdue only chuckled, because he felt much the same. Still, the two men decided not to discuss Nina or whatever she had with either of them. Oddly enough there was never any bad blood between Purdue and Sam, the two rivals for Nina’s heart, since both had had her body.

  The front door opened with the two half-soaked women rushing in. It was not the rain that propelled them forward, but the news. After a quick lowdown of what happened at the graphologist’s office, they resisted the unbridled drive to analyze the poem and flattered Miss Maisy by first partaking in her delicious spread of excellent cooking. It would be unwise to discuss the new details in front of her, or anyone else for that matter, just as a matter of security.

  After lunch all four of them sat around the table to assist on figuring out if there was anything of importance to the writings.

  “David, this word? My high French is lacking, I suspect,” Agatha said impatiently.

  He had a look at Rachel’s hideous handwriting, where she copied from the French part of the poem. “Oh, uh, that means ‘pagan’ and that one . . .”

  “Don’t be daft, I know that one,” she sneered and pulled the page away from him. Nina snickered at Purdue’s chastisement. He smiled at her in a slightly sheepish way.

  It appeared that Agatha was a hundred times more edgy while working than Nina and Sam ever would have guessed.

  “Well, call me for the German section, if you need help, Agatha. I’m getting some tea,” Nina said casually, hoping that the eccentric librarian would not see it as a snide remark. But Agatha paid no attention to anyone while she completed her translation of the French section. Patiently the others waited, engaging in small talk while they all were bursting with curiosity. Suddenly Agatha cleared her throat, “All right,” she declared, “so this one says, ‘From pagan ports to the changing of crosses, came old scribes to keep the secret from God’s serpents. Serapis watched its entrails drag to the desert and hieroglyphs sank beneath Ahmed’s foot.’

  She stopped. They waited. Agatha looked at them in disbelief, “So?”

  “Is that it?” Sam asked, risking a grudge from the scary genius.

  “Yes, Sam, that is it,” she snapped, as expected. “Why? Did you hope for an opera?”

  “No, it was just . . . you know . . . I expected something longer, since you took so

  long . . .” he started, but Purdue turned his back on his sister to secretly discourage Sam from continuing that sentence.

  “Do you speak French, Mr. Cleave?” she bitched. Purdue pinched his eyes shut, and Sam knew she took offense.

  “No. No, I don’t. It would have taken me forever to figure out anything there,” Sam attempted a recovery.

  “What the fuck is ‘Serapis’?” Nina came to his rescue. Her frown denoted a serious inquiry, not just an empty question to save Sam’s proverbial balls from the vice grip.

  They all shook their heads.

  “Look it up online,” Sam suggested and before his words were cold Nina had her laptop open.

  “Got it,” she said, scanning the information to present a concise lecture. “Serapis was a pagan god, worshipped predominantly in Egypt.”

  “Of course. We have papyrus, so we would naturally have Egypt somewhere,” Purdue joked.

  “Anyway,” Nina continued, “in short . . . during somewhere in fourth-century Alexandria, Bishop Theophilus banned all observing of pagan deities and under an abandoned temple of Dionysus they apparently desecrated the contents of catacomb vault spaces . . . probably pagan relics,” she guessed, “and this pissed off the pagans in Alexandria something awful.”

  “So they killed the bastard?” Sam rapped, amusing all but Nina, who delivered a steely glare, which sent him back to his corner.

  “No, they did not kill the bastard, Sam,” she sighed, “but they did incite riots to retaliate in the streets. However, the Christians fought back and forced the pagan worshippers to take refuge in the Serapeum, the temple of Serapis, apparently an imposing structure. So they barricaded themselves in there, taking some Christians hostage for good measure.”

  “Okay, so that explains the pagan ports. Alexandria was a very important port in the ancient world. Pagan ports turned Christian, right?” Purdue confirmed.

  “That is correct, according to this,” Nina answered. “But the old scribes keeping the secret . . .”

  “Old scribes,” Agatha observed, “must be the priests who kept records in Alexandria. The Library of Alexandria!”

  “But the Library of Alexandria had already been burned down in Bumfuck, B.C., wasn’t it?” Sam asked. Purdue had to laugh at the journalist’s choice of words.

  “It was reportedly burned down by Caesar when he set fire to his fleet of ships, as far as I know,” Purdue agreed.

  “Okay, but even so, this document was apparently written on papyrus that the graphologist told us was ancient. Maybe not everything was destroyed. Maybe that is what it means that they kept it from God’s serpents—the Christian authorities!” Nina exclaimed.

  “That’s all fair and well, Nina, but what does that have to do with a legionnaire from the 1800s? How does he fit in here?” Agatha wondered. “He wrote this, to what end?”

  “The legend is that an old soldier told of the day when he saw invaluable treasures from the Old World with his own eyes, correct?” Sam interrupted. “We’re thinking gold and silver when we should be thinking books, information, an
d the hieroglyphs in the poem. The entrails of Serapis must be the innards of the temple, right?”

  “Sam, you are a fucking genius!” Nina shrieked. “That’s it! Naturally, watching his entrails dragged across the desert and sank . . . buried . . . under Ahmed’s foot. The old soldier spoke of the farm owned by an Egyptian where he saw the treasure. This shit was buried under the Egyptian’s feet in Algeria!”

  “Excellent! So the old French soldier told us what it was and where he saw it. It doesn’t tell us where his journal is,” Purdue reminded everyone. They had gotten so caught up in the riddle that they lost track of the actual document they were after.

  “No worries. That is Nina’s part. The German written by the younger soldier he gave the journal to,” Agatha said, renewing their hope. “We needed to know what it was, this treasure—records from the Library of Alexandria. Now, we need to know how to find them, after we locate the journal for my client, of course.”

  Nina took her time with the longer section of the French-German poem.

  “This one is very tricky. Lots of code words. I suspect it will be more trouble to un-fuck than the first one,” she remarked as she underlined some words. “There are a lot of words missing here.”

  “Yes, I saw that. Looks like this photograph got wet or damaged in the passing years, because a lot of the surface is grated away. Hopefully the original page has not suffered the same amount of injury. But just give us the words that are still there, dear,” Agatha prompted.

  “Now just remember, this one was written long after the previous,” Nina said to herself to remind her of the context in which she was to translate it. “Roundabout the first years of the century, so . . . roundabout nineteen something. We need to call up those names of enlisted men, Agatha.”

  When she finally had the German words translated, she sat back with a deep scowl haunting her brow.

  “Let’s hear it,” Purdue said.

  Nina read slowly, “It is very confusing. He clearly did not want anyone to find this during his lifetime. By the early 1900s the younger legionnaire must have been past his middle age, methinks. I have just dotted the parts where the words are missing.”