Sanskrit Cipher: A Marina Alexander Adventure

by C. M. Gleason

  Warren Ott folded his arms across his middle and settled back in his chair. “All right, Schleuter…you’ve done the pitch. You’ve sold us all on it. And I’m on board—I really am. I think it’s going to work. But now you’re going to tell us this is really just from some natural spring in Montana or somewhere like that, right?”

  Schleuter put down his glass. His entire demeanor changed. “No. Oh, no, not at all, Warren. Everything I’ve told you about this water—its source, its makeup, its benefits—is completely true. Take it back to the lab and have it analyzed. You’ll see.

  “No, I might be motivated by the almighty dollar—as you all are—but I’m not a liar. I’m not selling snake oil here. This is real. And that’s why it’s going to be insane…and that’s why we have to keep a lid on it.”

  One

  Vatican City

  June 10

  In a well-appointed office with heavy oak furniture and well-cushioned chairs sat a distinguished man of fifty-seven.

  Dressed in the unrelieved black of his vocation, the man was clean-shaven, with his silver-black hair worn cropped short and close to his skull. He possessed long, slender fingers with a single ring on the left hand: a signet with a large, square emerald into which was carved a bee. The symbol was hardly noticeable unless one examined the stone closely; however, it served as a constant reminder to its bearer.

  The rug on the polished walnut floor was subdued in color and design, hand-woven in Morocco, and thick and easy on the feet. The long black armoire of polished wood opposite the window was invisible unless he opened one of its six doors with a complicated remote control he kept at his desk. Tucked behind the armoire’s doors were a small refrigerator, an impressively stocked liquor cabinet, a swing-out kitchenette counter with a complicated espresso machine and microwave oven, utilitarian file cabinets, and a large television. Another discreet door led to a private lavatory adjacent to the office.

  Despite being surrounded by this luxury, the man was agitated and ill at ease. It was all he could do to keep from pacing the wide expanse of his personal office space. Instead, he sat at his massive desk and looked down at the crucifix he gripped, hoping for some bolt-of-lightning answer or shock of guidance to come from it.

  He brooded and churned in a space with far more luxury than he should ever have acquired—for the man formerly known as Theodore Villiani had taken vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience more than forty years ago. Over the decades, Cardinal Villiani had kept the last two of his priestly vows…though he’d ridden the line on obedience more than once because the Vatican didn’t always see things the way they (the collective “they”; not including himself) should. So he’d learned over the decades that it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

  After all, wasn’t that one of the tenets of the church? Ask for forgiveness, and it would be granted.

  However, of his three vows, the poverty element had always been beyond his capacity. A man needed his comforts if he was to sacrifice the other pleasures of life in order to serve the masses—as well as serve at Masses.

  After all, when a man spent the majority of his time listening to the worst of vile sins, placating hurt, shocked, or grieving parents, spouses, and children—and generally being required to act like a rock during the most traumatic and painful times of human experience—one needed a sanctuary of one’s own in order to relax.

  Thus: the expensive antique furnishings, the large plate-glass window overlooking the age-old city and offering glimpses of rolling hills and mountains beyond. The liquor cabinet with twenty-year scotch, vintage madeira, and three-figure Euro bottles of Chianti. The private chef, the housekeeping staff including two gardeners, the personal assistant, and the embossed letterhead decorated with the Vatican coat of arms.

  There were also the brass and gold fixtures in his residential lavatory, complete with toilet, bidet, and dual-head shower—not to mention a separate room for the hot tub with large windows overlooking a small ridge of mountains. And an estate-sized bed draped with royal-purple brocade curtains that, true to the one vow he’d never broken, remained a vessel for one, and one only.

  He’d worked hard for this position, for his possessions, and for his comfort.

  He’d grieved with widows and prayed with parents; he’d baptized dying children and fat, squirming, crying ones.

  He’d married men and women who had no business committing to each other for life on Earth, and those who, he felt certain, would make a happy life together.

  He’d visited war-torn countries and devastated landscapes after earthquakes, tsunamis, fires, and other destruction.

  He’d been there in his calm, easy, peaceful capacity, spouting the prayers and placations in which he still believed, still trusted.

  He’d been there as Christ had been: listening, supporting, guiding, healing.

  And he’d risen from among the chattel, made his way up the ladder from such mundane tasks to his current one where, still beloved by many, lauded by his peers, he now was able to cloister himself in wealth and comfort in a more scholarly exploit here at the Vatican Apostolic Archive—where all the secrets of the church were kept in a repository.

  But this…now…

  His throat tightened with fear, and his belly—empty due to his regular Friday fast—churned with bile.

  This news could destroy all of it: all of his life, his work, this beauty and comfort that surrounded him—and the church herself.

  He looked down at the information he’d been given. The Buddhist lama had been very specific.

  Patricia Denke, an American student who’d been studying in Ladakh, India.

  Villiani could hardly believe it. Was it possible the Catholic Church could be destroyed by a woman?

  Villiani looked down at the crucifix, placing a reverent kiss upon the peaceful face inscribed on it, and reached for the telephone. He pressed a single key that would make the connection.

  For not only did Theodore Villiani have at his disposal a personal chef and housekeeping staff…he also had certain other resources at his fingertips.

  This was yet another case where he would ask for forgiveness instead of permission, for the entire church was at stake.

  But he would attend to it himself. There was no need to bother anyone else with the news.

  The call connected and a familiar voice answered almost immediately—a testament to Villiani’s influence.

  “Rastinoff,” Villiani said without preamble. “I need to see you now.”

  Two

  Location unknown

  Far from the well-appointed office of the man who’d taken vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience and prayed while holding a figure-laden cross was another man, communing with the deity to whom he’d dedicated his life.

  Unlike the other, who prayed with fervent despair and was lean and strong, this man was frail, with only the barest wisps of white hair straggling over his scalp. His arms and legs were sinewy with muscles still ropy and tough at his advanced age. His feet, bare so as to feel the heartbeat of Earth beneath them, were long and white and currently folded into a cradle position.

  A drum the size of a large plate sat in the bowl of his lap, still reverberating gently from the last thrum of beat. The image of an elk—one he’d scratched on the stretched skin decades earlier—decorated the drum. The drum’s handle spanned across the open side of the instrument and was fashioned in the shape of a woman with outstretched arms. Her head and feet were attached to the top and bottom of the drum frame, and her arms touched the sides. Her hair was long and wild, carved lovingly from the piece of Siberian elm that formed her figure. Curling within and at the end of each tendril of hair were flowers, animals, insects, leaves—even stones and mountains. Her feet and hands grew into roots and branches that grasped the edges of the frame.

  Despite decades of being held and carried, the figure was still as perfect as it had been the day she was carved. Her details had not been smoothed or obliterated by the
touch of calloused hands and strong fingers.

  The elderly man’s name was Lev. He was well over a century old, having been birthed by Mother Earth, or Gaia—or, at least, somehow protected by Her—during the great and terrifying upheaval in Tunguska, Siberia, in 1908.

  When the fires that raged and scored the earth on June 30, leaving trees blackened and skeletal, settled and died at last, the ground was left bare of all but ash and smoldering coals. Wildlife disappeared. Everything green or living was incinerated for miles around.

  The only sign of life in that devastated world was the wail of an infant—alone, naked, and miraculously untouched by the explosion that had lit northern Siberia and was seen from twenty miles away.

  The infant bore the mark of the Skaladeska people, yet none from the mountain tribe claimed or recognized him. Nonetheless, Lev was taken in and protected. And because of the mystery of his origins, he was raised to be the revered leader of the unknown tribe hidden in the far reaches of Taymyria in Siberia.

  Today, far from the elegant, luxurious man-made office of Theodore Villiani, Lev had settled in his own worship space, the only cathedral he’d ever known: within the embrace of Gaia.

  He sat in the center of a ring of trees so old and large they created a dappled, rippling canopy over him. His hands, palms flat, fingers wide, sank into the lush green grass on either side of his body. The vibrations of his drum still hummed through his limbs, centered in the core of his body. He’d only just opened his eyes, returning from his journey to the Lower World and the spirit animals and teachers who’d spoken to him there. Now he merely sat in the embrace of Earth, contemplating on what he’d learned.

  Here, now, he was one with Gaia, the living, breathing entity the Out-Worlders called Earth. He sensed Her despair and Her pain, and he felt Her determination to survive thrumming through his own body.

  It was that determination, that strength he felt pulsing through the grass and dirt beneath him. He closed his eyes and felt her with every part of his being.

  Gaia is one with us all. He silently recited words from the holy Skaladeska text he’d absorbed and lived by for more than a hundred years. And all living creatures are one with Her. And if there be a species of this Earth that threatens the whole, it shall be expelled.

  A shiver lifted the sparse hair on his arms, and he opened his eyes. And if there be a species of this Earth that threatens the whole, it shall be expelled.

  Humankind was such a species.

  Lev had come to believe and understand that. Gaia’s pain and suffering was due to the atrocities committed by Lev’s fellow man—their carelessness and greed, the rape and pillage, the wanton destruction of the very entity that gave them life and sustenance.

  He was called by Gaia, he and his family—Roman, Mariska, and the others of their clan: Hedron, Varden, even Stegnora, an Out-Worlder—to help their Earth protect Herself and recover.

  Today during his journey to the Lower World, Lev had spoken to elk, his first spirit animal. Elk had shown him a beautiful flowing river coming from snowy mountains that Lev recognized as Siberian. The river glittered with all colors of the rainbow, as if every gemstone of every possible hue had been strewn into the riverbed and now tumbled and tossed with the rush of water.

  It was powerful water, and its spirit churned and sparkled and danced in her cloak of living, celebrating rainbow gems. As water spirit frolicked and swirled, bee approached, flitting and darting from flower to flower.

  Protect.

  Elk’s command settled into Lev’s conscious during the journey.

  Protect. That which is sacred is threatened.

  Bee, ethereal and delicate, danced in front of Lev, her fuzzy body glittering magenta-gold in the strange light of Lower World. Her gossamer wings shone with a hint of pink. A glow of white light surrounded her entire being as she buzzed and spiraled and swooped around him.

  That which is sacred is threatened. Thus you are threatened. Protect that which is sacred. Protect yourself. Protect Gaia.

  Now, back in reality, Lev sat within Gaia’s embrace: the roots and trunk of a tree, moss surrounding him, grass beneath his hands. He felt solid and real, connected to the ground—so different from the weightlessness he often felt while journeying.

  And yet the words from elk reverberated through his thoughts as strongly as if the spirit animal stood there speaking once more.

  That which is sacred is threatened. You are threatened. Protect that which is sacred.

  He understood little of what had been told him, but that was no strange thing. Often he came back to the world and had to live to understand what his guides, teachers, spirit animals meant for him to understand.

  But he did know whatever the threat was, it was not only to Gaia this time, but to him as well.

  Three

  Elmhurst, Illinois

  July 5

  Jill Fetzer sneezed. Again.

  Automatically pushing her glasses back into position, she reached for the box of tissues she’d placed on the long worktable among the stacks of papers and banker’s boxes. Being an historian who had an allergy to dust wasn’t the greatest combination, but between toting her ever-present box of tissues and a daily dose of antihistamine, Jill had learned to come prepared when she was digging around in old boxes.

  Normally, the old boxes she dug around in were in the special collections at places like the Newberry Library, or the Regenstein at the University of Chicago, or even the Library of Congress. But this weekend’s project was something far less esoteric than what she was used to poring over as a well-published and tenured professor at Northwestern.

  As she crumpled the used tissue and tossed it with the others into a small bin, Jill sighed and surveyed the results of what could only be called a pet project. Or a labor of love—one for her beloved maternal grandmother.

  “Well, who else would be better suited for the task than our very own history expert?” Grandma Donovan had asked in a quavery voice.

  The unsteadiness in her voice was belied by the glint in her gray eyes and the firm grip of her cool, wrinkled fingers around Jill’s hand. Grandma Donny was pushing eighty-five, and she had both a will and a spine stronger than steel.

  And that was how Jill got saddled with going through all of her great-grandfather’s old boxes, which had been tucked away in the attic of Grandma Donny’s house for decades. Now that the elderly woman had moved into what she’d termed “adult summer camp”—a senior community that included all levels of assisted living, not to mention every activity under the sun—everything in her home had to be pared and trimmed down, sold or saved, trashed or donated as necessary so the house could be sold.

  Not that Jill minded in the least, truly. After all, she loved history so much she’d made it her life’s work—and what history was more interesting than her own family’s, which had lived in Chicago or its surrounding areas for over a century?

  Who knew what she might find in these old boxes?

  Sure, she, like everyone in her profession, fantasized about being an Antiques Roadshow success—like the man who’d bought an old picture from an antiques shop for the frame and ended up finding an original, signed copy of the U.S. Constitution mounted to the back of it—but that was pure fantasy.

  What would be more likely, her scholarly mind told her—but still firmly in the realm of fantasy—would be if she ran across something like when the Gwen John paintings had unexpectedly been discovered among Arthur Symons’ papers at Princeton. Something like that was possible.

  But mostly, Jill figured she’d find things like old correspondence belonging to her great-great-grandmother Alexina, a Frenchwoman who’d married Grandma Donny’s grandfather, and perhaps some vintage clothing and photographs related to the Chicago Donovans. And yet another reason for her capitulation to the request from her grandmother, she admitted privately, was because of Jill's reclaiming of her surname professionally after her divorce. After years of being Dr. Fetzer-Traft, she was now simply
, and happily, Dr. Fetzer.

  Jill sneezed again, and this time she had to blink rapidly because her eyes had begun to water. That meant it was time to call it a day; her antihistamine and box of tissues could only stand up to the dust mites and musty particles for so long. It was late Saturday night, anyway—the only time she could justify spending on this project—and she probably had something she wanted to watch on Hulu. It would take her forty minutes to get to her townhouse in Libertyville, and she could pick up carry-out on the way.

  She was just closing the box—a tattered, musty banker’s box that looked at least fifty years old—when she noticed a package within.

  It was addressed to Mrs. Alexina Donovan, in care of Rand McNally & Company.

  Rand McNally? Had her great-great-grandmother worked for the publishing company? Considering the fact that Alexina had come from France, it was quite an interesting question.

  Jill forgot her itchy eyes and sneezes and pulled out the package. Rand McNally & Company was of course known for publishing the world atlas, along with railroad guides, maps, Handy-Guides to various cities, and other nonfiction books since the late nineteenth century. It had been a Chicago-based business for nearly a century before moving to the suburb of Skokie—and then back into the city again in the late 1980s.

  Women’s history was always of particular interest to Jill, for obvious reasons, and the idea that her grandmother had been employed in some professional capacity in what had to have been around the turn of the nineteenth century fascinated her. There could be a paper topic here, she thought gleefully, examining the package. Might not be as exciting as an original painting, but it could be something compelling nonetheless.