Reminiscence (Statera Saga Book 1)

by Amy Marie

  “Oh, it might’ve been a year or two before you,” she playfully swats at Rafe and turns to face me. Behind her back, Rafe holds up four fingers to contradict her. I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

  “It’s so nice that you’re here, Nora. Rafe’s right, it’s good to have fresh, young blood to help out with things. In fact, here’s a list of documents I need sent over to the Medford branch, if you could help me out? I’ve got to get going. Thanks so much. Rafe, catch a game soon?” She shoves some files at me, gives Rafe a wave, and clicks her way out of the archive room.

  “Wow,” I say after the clicks fade.

  “Yeah…” is all he says.

  “A close, personal friend of yours?” I ask, adding Emily’s files to the bottom of my work pile the very bottom.

  “Not as close as she’d like, I’m sure. But Em’s harmless. I’ve never seen the claws come out like they did for you though!” he pokes his finger in my direction.

  “Oh, those cougar claws weren’t out for me,” I tease.

  “Hey, I can’t help it that women find me irresistible! But trust me, she was jealous of you. Don’t worry though, now that she knows you’ve got Michael Augustine on your side, she’ll back off.”

  “I guess I didn’t realize he was that big of a deal,” I say, sorting files.

  “He’s like the Godfather of Boston’s theological and historical network. I thought you were part of that family, haven’t you ever met him?”

  “Actually, no. He’s related to my adopted family. I meant to go meet him and thank him personally, but it’s slipped my mind these past few days. I was thinking I’d go see him tomorrow after work. My sister Char told me he’s over at the Harvard Divinity School too, right?”

  “Yeah,” he replies. “Hey, I can take you over there. I’ve got a meeting and will be headed that way anyway.”

  “That’d be great! I could really use a guide on campus over there,” I say.

  “To be honest, I’ve been trying to meet with Augustine for months about an introduction to my dissertation for my PhD. His expertise could really help me out, and I’d love to work with him. I’m always turned away when I try to set up appointments with him. Word is he’s almost a hermit these days.”

  “My family has said he’s pretty reclusive,” I nod.

  “Hey! Since he’s practically family and we’re becoming such good friends, do you think there’s any way you could bridge the gap? I’d owe you big time! Please, oh please, help your new best friend out?” He literally gets down on his knees and clasps his hands together.

  I laugh at his exaggerated dramatics. How can I say no? “I don’t see why I can’t introduce you. I hope he’ll be happy to have us visit.”

  The skeptical look on Rafe’s face gives me an impression of how often he thinks Michael Augustine is happy to have visitors.

  That evening, I get a text from Rafe inviting me and Char out for the Red Sox game. He arranges for us to meet him at his friend’s hole-in-the-wall bar not too far from our place.

  “Your first mistake,” Rafe tells us after our food and drinks are served, “is going downtown. Boston is first and foremost a sports town, and you can’t find a better night out, than a night at your local sports bahhh.” He exaggerates his non-existent Boston accent in tribute to the story I told him involving our disastrous night out last weekend. “You two won’t find too many creeps when you go to a place where… everybody knows your names.” He looks at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “Cheers!” I cry, and clink my glass to his as we both laugh.

  At work, Rafe and I started this game based on our mutual retaining of useless knowledge. The goal is to throw out quotes and references from history, movies, television, books, and music to see if the other one can recognize them. I must admit he’s a worthy adversary.

  “You both are a Wikipedia of nerdy information,” Char laughs with a shake of her head.

  “Oh, even you had to have known that one,” Rafe says, nudging her arm playfully.

  “If it’s not currently on social media, People magazine, or reality TV, I don’t think Char is interested,” I explain. “She keeps me connected to the present with technology and media, and I keep her connected to the past with boring history and useless trivia.” Char and I salute each other and laugh.

  “Hmm. Well then, I shall connect you both to your future in Boston by converting you to Soxism, Bruinism, Celticism, and Patriotism. And let’s face it, you’re not American if you’re not a Patriot.”

  “My grandparents were from Boston, I’ve always loved the sox,” Char says, surprising me. I never knew she was a baseball fan.

  As the night progresses, I witness a rare phenomenon. Char’s received attention from men her whole life, but tonight she’s almost shy. There’s usually an easy balance with her personality as she tends to chatter on and on, and I only have to offer the occasional nod, smile, and sarcastic comment to appease her. But tonight, for the first time in our lives, I’m talking more than her.

  The swapping of roles is unsettling. I attempt to determine the source, but can only narrow it down to one thing – Rafe.

  I take a closer look at Rafe. His dark brown hair is just long enough to look charmingly messy with his dark framed glasses completing his ‘grown-up schoolboy’ look. His personality is easy-going and charismatic. He doesn’t try for attention, and he’s sarcastic and funny without being rude. Granted, he is a bit nerdy, but I can’t say anything myself, because I could be his twin sister personality-wise.

  I haven’t taken much interest in Rafe as more than a friend since we work together. I’m not even sure if he’s single after the way Emily acted.

  While Char is paying attention to Rafe, I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s definitely acting different than I’ve ever seen her before. Maybe this is her first adult attraction that goes beyond a crush?

  After the game, Char and I say goodbye to Rafe and walk a few blocks back to our apartment.

  “What did you think of Rafe?” I ask her, doing my best to sound casual.

  “Oh, he was… nice,” says Char.

  “Nice?” I ask, laughing. “I’ve never seen you so shy in my life! You like him?”

  “I just met him!” she says, just a bit too defensive.

  “Well, I like him. He’s a good guy,” I say.

  “You like him, like him?” she asks, twirling a lock of hair between her fingers.

  I hide my smile. “Nah, he’s definitely just a friend. Besides, I work with him.”

  “Oh,” Char says, perking up. “Well, he’s kind of cute. Nerdy, but cute.”

  We laugh and link arms, walking along and chatting about class and our new jobs. We come up on a peaceful park along a scenic river. My steps slow as I take in the scene.

  “Are you ok?” Char asks.

  “This park. Have we been here before?” I ask, peering down toward the river.

  “I don’t think so,” she says, glancing around.

  It’s strange. Something deep down is drawing me to the river. My arms get goose bumps, and I spin around at the sensation of breath on the back of my neck.

  “What is it?” Char frowns.

  “Nothing. Just got a chill. Let’s get out of here,” I say, moving fast to escape my feelings of familiarity.

  Back at the apartment, I crawl into bed and my eyes droop under the weight of exhaustion. It doesn’t take long for me to fall asleep, but not before one last thought pops into my head.

  Go back to the river.

  Chapter 4

  Pounding heart, or gentle footfalls. Which is louder in silence? Both scream in my ear as I move along the path.

  I open a wrought iron gate and follow a garden pathway leading to a beautifully pristine white manor house. The mansion is perfectly symmetrical in its old-world grace, seemingly out of a classic love story.

  I know this place.

  The feeling of familiarity is overwhelming. I can’t help but to stop and
admire the architectural design as my eyes follow along the detail and elegance of the cornices and corbels that give the building a classically regal charm. I glance up at the balcony that overhangs the front entrance framed with a beautiful stone balustrade, and immediately my mind conjures a phantom Juliet looking down to her Romeo hidden in the garden shrubbery.

  The phantoms of my vision vanish when I hear a murmuring sound coming from behind the house. I follow along a trail that leads me around the house, back further into the woods.

  The murmur transforms into a gurgling babble. I stop and listen to the flow of water that I know to be close by. My slow and cautious movements carry me silently through the wooded area. I emerge from the trees to find a scenic bank on the familiar river.

  A group of rocks generate the rhythmic soothing flow as the current glides over the mossy stones. The formation creates a recognizable hopscotch path to the opposite bank.

  Gazing at the opposite bank, a great desire builds up inside me to cross over. I look closer at the slippery surface of mossy stone, not sure of what to do in fear of falling into the small rapids.

  I’ve done this a thousand times.

  The resolute thought concludes my inner battle, though I’m not quite sure where it came from. I slip off my flats and hop out onto the first stone. The chilled water numbs my toes. Hurrying now to escape the prickling cold, I hop from stone to stone at a quicker pace, careful not to take my eyes off the path.

  There’s movement in the trees behind me, and then the sound of heavy boots scraping against stone.

  Someone’s behind me!

  I’m being followed. Instinctual fear kicks in. A new sense of urgency pushes me to reach the other side. Even in my confusion, I somehow know I’m in danger. I’m too afraid to look back at my pursuer as I concentrate on each of my footfalls.

  A quick look up at my destination – I’m over halfway there.

  Just as I focus back down on my feet, my left foot slides across a slick patch of moss before I even feel myself begin to fall. The ice-cold water hits me like a rock and I sink down into the depths.

  Disoriented, I struggle with all my might to find my way back to the surface.

  My heartbeat seems so loud, it could betray me like a sonar pulse, calling out my location in the water.

  My limbs feel slow and weighed down from the cold, but I do my best to focus on the glimmering light above. My arms break through the surface first, and then my head emerges as I gasp for air.

  A deep, masculine voice calls out to me. Breathless, I try to locate the source, but I’m pulled back under the water from behind in a crushing embrace. Turning from side to side in struggle, I fail to see my foe as we sink deeper into the murky waters.

  The grip around me squeezes tighter and tighter. Water fills my mouth, nose, and lungs until it burns like fire.

  The last blip of the sonar sounds.

  Everything fades into the empty void.

  Coming awake with a gasp for air, my arms peel away the phantom embrace of my nightmare. I’m soaked with so much sweat, it’s no wonder I was drowning in my dream. The glow of my bedside clock informs me it’s only 3:30 in the morning.

  I lay back down with a groan, cursing my overactive stages of REM sleep. Tossing and turning, I eventually fall back asleep to obscure dreams of racing along a riverbank, and vivid hazel eyes.

  Chapter 5

  The next day after work, Rafe directs me to Andover Hall in Cambridge. After an early morning phone call, and a lot of persuasion and explanation of the family connection, I finally got an appointment to see Mr. Augustine.

  I park my car and meet Rafe outside of the beautiful stone Gothic-style building.

  “Have you been through this building before?” He holds the door open as we step inside.

  “I haven’t. I was hoping to poke around a little, since we got here early,” I admit.

  A change in atmosphere envelops me as we enter the hall. There’s a sense of displaced comfort, almost like the feeling one would get when returning home after years of estrangement. A peculiar feeling, since I’ve never been here before in my life. Maybe the schoolhouse smell is giving off a sense of nostalgia?

  “Well lucky for you this trip package has included a personalized tour, with the delightful bonus of an attractive guide.” He gives me what can only be described as a devilishly-angelic grin.

  “Ooh, when do we get to meet him?” I smile in amused sarcasm.

  With a laugh and a wink, he guides me on. “Andover Hall is my favorite building on campus. It also happens to house all sorts of hidden secrets, symbols of tribute, and conspiracy theories throughout the building. Ready for some fun?”

  I nod and smile. Rafe’s genuine excitement at the ability to show and tell this treasure is obvious. There’s a definite connection in our passions. It’s exciting to find someone with such rare common interests.

  He begins the tour by pointing out the crossbeams supported by the four heads in the main foyer. It’s a solid mix of figures representing the strongest examples of artists, poets, and musicians. I glance at the faces of Michelangelo, Dante, John Milton, and Johann Sebastian Bach in admiration. The builders chose their representatives wisely.

  We go on through various rooms as he explains their historical significance, elaborating on his opinions of the architecture and symbolism. He talks about the Founders’ tower and the four biblical evangelists of the gospels, whose faces are supposedly depicted below the parapet. I note that there seems to be a recurring theme of four as a foundation, so I ask about it.

  “Why always four?”

  Rafe offers his explanation. “Four is a significant number. It’s been considered a perfect number in some cultures, and has proven to be the most stable. Most buildings, for example, have four outer walls. There’s definite strength in the number. Aside from being a major part of many religions, we use four often in our everyday lives. There are four seasons, four directions on a compass, four phases of the moon, two equinoxes and two solstices equals four, and last but not least, the four elements.”

  “Sounds almost magical,” I say.

  “Definitely a good balance,” he nods. For some reason, a sprinkle of goosebumps dance along my arms and disappear as fast as they came. I shrug it off, old buildings can be pretty drafty.

  We tour the chapel, and other rooms that aren’t occupied with evening studies or meetings. As we pass one lecture hall that’s stuffier than the rest, I notice some unusual markings on the windows and ask, “What are these symbols?”

  Rafe puffs up as if he’s proud to share this particular secret with me. “I was hoping you would notice the windows. Actually, these are antique printers’ marks. Most of them are well-known, but there is one here that holds the secrets of a possible conspiracy.” He points to one window in particular. “Not many people know much about this particular printer’s mark, and there is a lot of speculation. The most common explanation involves the letters R and G, which you can clearly make out in the symbol.”

  I take a closer look at the printer’s mark symbol:

  He continues, “These were the initials of an old printer for King Edward VI in the sixteenth century. This printer’s mark design has slightly varied through an assortment of his projects, but the original design was said to include an inscription that read, ‘Receive the engrafted word.’ Most people assume that this is because R. G. was a printer of a mass production of Bibles when it was finally legal to print them in English, allowing the general literate public the ability to read Scripture.”

  “That makes sense. Why all the speculation?” I wonder.

  “There’s no public record confirming the reason for these marks on the windows. This mark was put here for a reason. I believe that’s because there’s also a lesser-known rumor of another body of work that the King’s printer was said to have produced. Supposedly he created the only single printed copy of this text as a secret project that had nothing to do with the royals.”


  My fascination leads my eyes back to the windows. My mind conjures images of the old print-maker. It’s almost too easy to picture him.

  Rafe continues, “There’s a legend that written versions of this secret text have been passed down, destroyed, and re-written over and over again throughout history. If that’s true, the information would be older than most ancient texts, including the books of the Bible.”

  My eyebrows shoot up with my surprise.

  “After R. G.’s creation of this single print, all evidence was destroyed, and the text disappeared. There are a few people that think this symbol now represents a brotherhood of sorts that hides and protects the lost text.” He sighs. “But, it’s most likely just an urban legend spawned from some sort of fraternity gatherings throughout the years, and this could simply be a printer’s mark.” He waves off the story that he had just built up as if it were nothing but a fairy tale.

  “Well what sort of content did this supposed mystery text contain?” I’m captivated by the story, even if it’s only a conspiracy theory.

  “Theoretically, it was instructions that had been passed down since the beginning of time on how to defeat a threatening evil. It makes me laugh because I can’t really picture that kind of instruction manual. Like the Handbook for the Recently Deceased, or something.”

  “Sounds a little more serious than Beetlejuice,” I catch his joke, and we both laugh.

  “If there was any place that I’d assume a reference about such a guide would be, it would be here at the theological library. But as it is, no one’s been able to uncover any tangible information regarding this long-lost mystery text. I’m planning for my dissertation to focus on questions of lost texts, and how religions have been affected by the written word, so I’m fascinated with the subject. Not many people are familiar with this particular story, so it’s nearly impossible to research.”

  “That’s quite an interesting story. But it seems more likely that the symbol and engrafted word had to do with R. G. printing bibles. Wasn’t there a theological seminary that originally was affiliated with Harvard? I can’t see them including this symbol in the architecture back then if it weren’t for a connection to the Christian Bible. But I have to admit, the mystery is intriguing.” I can feel myself drawn to the conspiracy.