by Phil Wheeler
Situated in the back yard, as a testament to the original owner, was a windmill. Long before green was popular a 50 foot tower with a wind turbine at the top had been erected, and thick power cables lead to a large corrugated metal shed serving as a storage area for the batteries and converters. The Electricity created by the whirling of the blades flowed down those cables, into the batteries and through the converters, and into the home to provide power to warm its rooms and run its appliances. The windmill still made it's slicing, spinning trip round and round the top of the tower, the blades going where the prevailing winds drove them, but the batteries, cables, and other equipment were gone now, buried in some landfill, and the shed was a drying area for fresh cut planks of different kinds of wood.
As good as the windmill was for a conversation piece, though, it wasn't even the best one present on the property. Located about 30 yards behind the house and next to one of the out-buildings was an honest to goodness, Dr. Strangelove, bomb shelter. On a tour of his new digs Robert had opened the top, and Dylan was allowed to gaze down into it at the shelves of canned food, water tanks, and a shopping cart overturned on the floor. The food was, in many instances, black with mold, the seals broken, and the water was long evaporated. Dylan was not sure at all what purpose the shopping cart served in case of nuclear attack, but Robert had assured him of its importance should the world come to an end. Dylan had commented that it would be much better to just drop the rusting metal lid inside and break out the concrete rim, then back-fill the whole thing with dirt. Robert was steadfast, however, “How many people do you know with their own bomb-shelter?” That concrete-sided hole in the ground pretty much summed up Robert. In addition to all his other skills and interests, he was a survivalist and gun nut. He had more weapons than the Ohio National Guard, was a concealed carry advocate and card carrying member of the NRA. The only thing missing was a bumper sticker on his pickup truck that proclaimed 'You can have my weapon when you pry it from my cold, dead hand.'. Attempts to enlighten him to the fact that should someone want his weapons that would most assuredly be what happened failed to sway him from his beliefs. Robert was steadfast in the belief that when the revolution came he would be holding off crazed crowds with his weapons of mass destruction. Dylan believed that, should the revolution come, someone would shoot Robert, take his guns, and dump his body in the bomb shelter.
Dylan opened the gate with the sign proclaiming Beware of Dog, and pulled his vehicle into the yard. He chuckled to himself, the sign reminded him to close the gate, not beware the dog, for the canine guarding this compound was a fat little white and brown beagle named Rosie. The only danger he felt was the possibility of stepping in one of the multiple landmines Rosie deposited at random throughout the yard. He looked around, but did not see the little hairball. She must be in the house, he said to himself.
He closed the gate, got back into his vehicle, and then drove the short distance to the first of three outbuildings on the property. It was actually two long, low-slung cinder-block buildings cobbled together to form one continuous building. The first half was dedicated to Robert's shop and as he entered through the unlocked door he marveled, once again, at the product of his and Roberts' many misspent Saturday evenings at various auctions buying large cardboard boxes of buried treasure for a buck a box. Said treasure box would be taken to their modern-day pirate hideout and the ill-gotten booty plundered for any gems, with the rest deposited in the nearest dumpster. The inside of the shop was covered with the finds of these excursions in the form of various wrenches, augers, and other assorted pieces of rusting metal collected. Wood cutting tools, ancient and worn, hung from every conceivable spot on the wall; names like Winchester and Stanley prominently displayed as proof of their worth.
As he entered the shop he heard the sharp percussive sound of a large caliber firearm being discharged. He froze where he stood, and quickly looked around. He did not see Robert, and the shot had come from the back section of the building. Moving slowly forward, he cautiously edged to the door and looked down the hall of the connecting area. “Robert, it's me – Dylan.”. Another shot rang out, and he ducked back to the safely of the first room. Again, he shouted, “Robert, it's me – Dylan.”.
Finally, the response came, “com'on back.”, and he proceeded down the hall and into a second section of the building were his friend stood wearing shooting glasses, ear protection, and holding a rather large caliber handgun. “Just got it, it's a 1917 model 1911 in mint condition. The real deal. I even have a box of the original military issue ammo – 230 grams, rounded lead heads.”, said his grinning friend.
Dylan looked around at the combination metal shop and gun range. A large cast iron tank over 10 feet across and 2 inches thick sat against the back wall. It had taken a small bobcat to move it there, and it supplied the trap area for this particular gun range. Covering the front of the tank were strips of heavy clear plastic like the ones separating a cold room storage area from the main part of a grocery store, and mounted on the bullet hole – riddled strips were various targets. It was only 30 feet, wall to wall, but provided a testing site indoors for Robert's various new weapons.
“It sounds like a cannon. Aren't you afraid one of your neighbors is going to say something? It's highly illegal to discharge a gun in a residential area, you know.”
Robert grinned at him, “I have a couple of inches of steel plate against the wall, a bullet trap, and another thirty feet of cinder-block, wood and tools. I don't think that there is any danger. Besides, you don't seem to have a problem using it yourself once and a while.”
He was right, Dylan had owned a few different firearms, but that was in the day before he'd realized that he preferred the much more peaceful pleasures of fishing, camping and gardening to blowing up various objects with gunpowder.
“What did that set you back?”
Robert looked at his friend. “$3,500 - You OK?”
“Ya, why do you ask?”
“No reason. It's just that last time we talked you were acting kind of spooked about that whole Torsion bar -power thing, and I wasn't sure if you were OK. You OK?”
“It's Torsion field, you idiot, and I'm fine. It was a little weird coincidence, that's all.”
“Talked to your girl lately?”
“She is not my girl but, yes I have.” In fact, Dylan was fine. Since the last time he and Robert had spoken he'd talked with Tomiko about the trip to Japan, and he'd immediately felt better.
He looked at his friend, finally asking the inevitable question du jour, “So, where are we going for lunch?”
“Chinese?”
Later, as they sat drinking hot green tea from tiny little cups with handles too small for their fingers, Dylan asked his friend, “I haven't heard from you all week, how's it going with your manuscript?”
Robert set his cup down and picked up the last Chinese chicken wing on his plate, “I'm about a quarter of the way through with the translation.”
“So, why don't you call me?”
“Sorry, man, I was going to call you.”, Robert was nonplussed, “I've just been so involved I forgot. This thing is much more than a simple herb book. I believe that it could be some sort of short history, like.... you remember Cliffs Notes from college? Like that, only it seems to be about an ancient people I never heard of before. I haven't completely translated it, yet, but what I have so far is beyond anything I've ever heard of.”
“Like what?”, Dylan was a little disappointed that his friend had not called him with the great news, but was still curious enough to ask.
“Like that torsion field stuff I asked you about. It looks like it was used for some kind of engine in a space ship. I hope to have more by the end of next week, but right now it is all so incredible. There is stuff in here about people living for centuries, like Methuselah in the Bible, and all sorts of medical stuff that I don't pretend to understand.”
“I thought you sa
id that this was from the 15th century, from Italy? Now, you're talking about people living for centuries? How come there isn't mention of this in any other writings from the time?”, asked Dylan.
“That's just it.”, exclaimed Robert. “I don't believe that this book is talking about the 15th century. I'm starting to believe that it's a copy from some time much farther in the past. Maybe as much as 30,000 years farther back.”
Dylan looked at his friend. Neither of them were an archeologist by profession, but both understood how crazy this all sounded. “That's impossible. Writing wasn’t around until societies moved from a hunter-gatherer culture to more permanent farming communities. The first evidence for writing was some kind of incised counting tokens that didn't appear until only about 9,000 years ago.”
“I was taught the same thing, Dylan”, said Robert, “But I can't come up with any other explanation.”
“There has to be – maybe the manuscript is a fake?”
“If it is, then it's the most clever fake I've ever heard of or seen. One section speaks of lands to the Far East, and describes the people as having eyes like almonds. If I'm translating it correctly, it says that their land sunk beneath the waves more than 20,000 years ago.”
“Another Atlantis?”, asked Dylan.
“Yes, but this time in the far east, not the Mediterranean or Atlantic. And, there's more.”
“More?”, Dylan said, truly puzzled.
“Remember our discussion about the Rosetta stone, do you remember where I said that it was found?” Robert was speaking almost in a whisper.
Dylan sat back in the folding chair, and thought for a moment. His friend obviously remembered a part of the conversation that he didn't. What was it Robert had said? Finally, it came to him in a moment of almost other-world clarity, “Yonaguni.”
“That's right – Yonaguni, in Japan. Everything seems to lead back to Japan.”
That weird feeling was back in the pit of Dylan's stomach. They closed up the shop and walked the short distance to Robert’s house in a somber mood. There had been no more discussion about Atlantis, or a ship with torsion drives, just silent reflection. They grabbed a couple of folding chairs, something to drink, and sat down by the fire ring in the backyard. There was a nice pile of brush and logs already there, so Robert lit it and they silently watched as the fire burned into the evening.
Finally, Dylan took a sip from his drink, and asked, “What do you think that this means?”
Robert picked up another log, and added it to the already roaring fire. He didn't speak right away, and when he did it was almost as if he were far away. “I don't know. Like I said, this manuscript is almost a Reader's Digest version of a people's history. It doesn't give many details, and certainly is not over abundant in hard facts, but I believe that it is an outline of a much larger work, and that this larger work is a history of an ancient race that we know nothing about. Call it Atlantis, call it what you will, but I also believe that this race is alien to our world.”
Dylan reflected on the facts. The Voynich Manuscript existed and since its discovery nobody had been able to decode it until Robert, with the help of a Rosetta Stone of his own, had come along and done it. Now, it spoke of an Atlantis near Japan with writing in a script that was of unknown origin. If it was a hoax it was incredibility complex and convoluted. Why would anyone contrive to pull such a stunt?
Finally, he said, “Who do you believe wrote this?”
Robert looked at his friend. “I don't know. What I do know is that if I am right and this is some kind of outline of a much larger text or texts than there might be a chance of the other text still existing. Hopefully, this Manuscript will reveal more about the writers, or even information on the location of a full text.” Robert looked out the window to nowhere, “I need to finish this translation.”
“I almost wish that I wasn't leaving for Japan next week.”, said Dylan.
“It's interesting you said that. You know that the Yonaguni monument is located just off shore of the same island that you are going to?”
“Yes.”
“Well”, said Robert, “now I'm the one with a weird feeling about this. Maybe you could pay the place a visit for me? ”
Dylan looked at his friend and spoke with a level voice, carefully modulating his answer, “No thanks, I'm not going anywhere near Yonaguni. The Gods, themselves, could not get me in the water.”
Chapter 12
His cellphone was setting on the desk in the study, recharging overnight, so Dylan had to run from the front room, down the hall, and into his study before it stopped ringing. He made it, but just barely.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Dylan. It's Don Mason. Can you talk? You sound like you're out of breath.”
“Actually”, said Dylan, “I am out of breath. I just had to do a 50-yard dash to my phone. I think I need more cardio.”
“Well, catch your breath while I talk. I was speaking with Robert yesterday, and your name came up. We haven’t got together for a while, and I was wondering if you had any lunch plans this afternoon?”
Dylan was breathing normal, again, and said, “You hit me at a good time. I'm just packing for my trip, but I can break away. I'd love to. Where do you want to meet?”
“How about my office?”, said Don, “I'll have something catered – you still like corn beef, don't you?”
“Max's & Erma's? I want Cole slaw, and don't forget the pickles this time. My mouth's watering, already.”
“Great, I'll see you at noon.”
Chapter 13
It was 5 minutes before noon when Dylan walked into the Terminal Tower complex. He loved coming here. Completed in 1930, the Tower was a landmark skyscraper located on Cleveland's Public Square. It was originally built to serve as a major hub for passenger rail service to the Midwest, but by the 50's the railroads had given way to planes and cars as more efficient means of travel, so now it was private business space. In more recent years, the city of Cleveland had renovated the lower floor of the tower, turning the original terminal into a shopping center. The inside was lovingly restored to its original grandeur, a style called beaux-arts. A brochure detailing the restoration went to great lengths detailing beaux-art architecture with its dependence on sculptural decoration along conservative modern lines, employing French and Italian Baroque; combined with Rocco formulas and an impressionistic finish and realism. He had no clue what any of that meant but, as Gelett Burgess, the late poet, critic, and humorist had once said, I don't know anything about art, but I know what I like., and Dylan liked this old place. Entering the elevator, he hit the shinning metal 30 on the panel, and watched as the floors ticked by. Finally, the white plastic button designating the appropriate floor began to glow, and the elevator came to a jarring stop, signaling his arrival at the offices of SETLE. Exiting, he proceeded to the reception desk in the hallway, announcing to the girl seated there, “Hi, I'm Dylan Teague. I have an appointment with Mr. Mason.”
“Of course, sir. It will be just a moment.”, came the response, and the receptionist quickly made a phone call. Looking around, his eye caught the only difference he detected from his last visit, a guard standing discretely in the background, with a black handled large caliber automatic weapon snuggled safely in a holster at his belt. An armed guard? Dylan wasn't given to paranoid, nor did he think that his friend was, but this gave lunch a whole new feel. Donald Mason didn't brush his hair without a good reason.
An attractive young women in her mid-twenties, with short blond hair and conservative outfit, walked up to the desk. She spoke as she arrived. “Sir? I must apologize for your delay. Right this way. Mr. Mason is expecting you.”
He followed the young lady down the carpeted hall to Don's outer office, past the desk of his private secretary, and into the inner office, the sanctum of sanctum. The room appeared to be the same as he remembered it. Large and softly light, with
expensive - everything. The desk was large and probably cost more than Dylan's house. A high-backed, overstuffed chair covered in hand-tooled leather sat empty behind it. The curtains covering the room's only window were floor length and of the very best quality. Everything about the room reflected the occupant. Understated, classic, and expensive without pretense.
His friend was standing at a table covered in bags, cups, and various food containers, but came to meet him with extended hand. “Dylan, glad you could come on such short notice. What's it been, two month's since our last opportunity to visit?”
He grinned at his friend, and took the proffered hand. “I'd come here more often if you would buy more often.”
“Regrettably, the times are hard.”, said his friend, who could probably not have any difficulty raising enough money to meet the purchase price of the building that contained his office. In fact, the whole 30th floor was rented by Mason.
Laughing, they walked back to the table, and Mason said, “Here, have a seat and dig in. Don't be shy.”
Dylan took the proffered seat, and reviewed the menu for today's lunch. As always, there was enough food to feed an army – Cole slaw, potato salad, and macaroni salad all vied for his attention, but the center stage belonged to the sandwiches. Fresh dark Jewish rye bread – with a crust so hard that it took an effort to bite through it, yet soft inside and dotted with caraway seeds that got stuck in your teeth - piled with still steaming mounds of corn beef, and topped with just a hint of stone ground mustard. A Kosher pickle on the side completed each masterpiece. The sandwiches had to be severely compressed to just make it by his teeth, and Dylan's first bite tasted like he imagined heaven would be – definitely Jewish. God had made the Jews His Chosen People for a reason, their corned beef on rye sandwich.