The Letterbox

by Layton Green

  Lou paused, and Jake’s question was almost a grovel. “And?”

  “The problem with this one,” Lou said, “is that I have no idea, nor does my professor who specializes in ancient writing systems, what the word means. It could be a name or a location or a piece of chocolate cake, for all we know.”

  “I don’t get it,” Jake said. “You know the Akkadian alphabet, right? Can’t you figure it out?”

  “It’s a problem of context,” Lou said. “Imagine if you were studying English and you saw a name for the first time, like Pennsylvania. You might be able to figure out that the letters form a word, but unless you had a sentence to put it with, or had seen it before, you wouldn’t know what it means. It could be any number of things that hasn’t appeared in known Akkadian writings. Especially since stylistic liberties were taken.”

  “I need something I can work with.”

  “You’re welcome,” Lou said.

  Jake turned to the speakerphone. “You got anythin’ more concrete for me, Lucius?”

  “After we realized the lid originated elsewhere, I widened the search to non-Celtic cultures. One of the people to whom I sent an inquiry was a colleague who specializes in Middle Eastern and Near-Asian pre-Christian religion and culture, Dr. Philip Clifton of the British Museum.” I heard him shuffling papers. “From his initial response, it appears we’ve been searching for answers in the wrong place.”

  Despite what I had learned about Mr. Sofistere, I again found myself on the edge of my seat, craving knowledge of the letterbox like an addict growing closer and closer to the source of his ruination.

  Jake flexed his fingers, as if he were going to reach into the phone and grab the papers. “So what does he have to say?”

  “He hasn’t found mention of this particular piece,” Mr. Sofistere said, “but he’s uncovered more information concerning the locations on the map. By the way, he’s offered us access to the British Museum to continue our research. But before you decide whether to accept, let me relate his findings. How much do you know about pagan temples?”

  “Apparently not enough,” Jake said.

  “Pagans—and I am using the term simply to designate pre-Christian peoples not associated with modern religious traditions—built their temples in very specific places, as randomly as they might appear on the ancient landscape. This occurred not just in Europe, but around the world.”

  Jake and Lou nodded along, as if this were no surprise.

  “From Europe to Northern Africa to the Americas,” Mr. Sofistere said, “thousands of dolmens, great and small, dotted the landscape. As you probably know, Stonehenge, Avon Tor, and other megalithic sites have proven to be highly accurate astronomical calculators. But that’s just the surface effect. The building sites had a much greater importance. The Neolithic pagans who chose the locations were concerned with tellurian, or earthly, energy currents, and their relationship to cosmic forces. They believed that a collection of metaphysical energy lines dissected the planet in a discernible pattern, forming the boundary between the physical and spiritual worlds. Most ancient points of interest in Britain, for example, seem to be connected along straight lines on the map.”

  “They’re called ley lines,” Jake said. “A number of early religious structures were reputed to have been built on them.”

  “Good. Yes. It was quite a common belief—I daresay almost universal. The aborigines of Australia, for example, believed in similar lines of energy and thought they were ‘activated’ by walking along the pathways and singing tribal songs. There are rock paintings depicting what can only be viewed as ley lines.”

  Mr. Sofistere paused to let us digest his words. “It was also believed that these lines of energy crossed at certain places. And at these points of intersection, special religious structures were built—special because the ancients believed the spirit world drew much closer to the physical world at these sites, perhaps even touching.”

  “Like a temple version of Samhain,” Jake said.

  “Exactly. A place, rather than a time, where the two worlds draw together. The problem is, we can only speculate where the ancients built these structures. But my hypothesis is that each location on the letterbox map represents an intersection point of ley lines.”

  My eyes met Jake’s. He opened his mouth to speak, swallowed, and then nodded at me. I told the others who we had seen near the ring of dolmens in the cemetery.

  Lou blanched, and Asha gasped loud enough for us to hear. Because of the sensitive nature of the topic, no one knew what to say, and there was a long spell of silence.

  Jake’s mouth was set. It was clear he didn’t want to field any questions.

  “So where do the Druids and their map fit in?” Lou said finally.

  “We know the Druids studied telluric currents and ley lines,” Mr. Sofistere said. “Perhaps, fearing their days were numbered, they wanted to record the location of some of the more powerful intersections. Or perhaps, as we’ve surmised, the letterbox map leads to a hidden repository of knowledge. Or maybe it’s a map of the places the Druids ended up settling after they were persecuted, a code for where followers could gather. I’m obviously speculating, and I’ve no idea why Akkadian is involved. Jake, what do you make of this information?”

  Jake folded his arms. “What I make of it is that we’re catching the next train to London.”

  -63-

  Before we rang off, I said, “Lucius, do you have a minute?”

  Jake disappeared with Lou, deep in conversation about the letterbox. I took the phone off speaker and asked Lucius to do the same.

  “I’m hearing a strange tone to your voice,” he said. “Does this have to do with Jake seeing his wife?”

  “It has to do with Jurgen Krassnig.”

  Silence.

  “I see,” he said finally. “As an attorney, you should know that very few things in life are black and white.”

  “I’d say Nazi loot qualifies,” I said.

  His voice sounded like it had aged twenty years in the last thirty seconds. “Are you familiar with the Jewish concept of atonement?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not Jewish or even religious, but I do believe that if one wrongs a certain people or culture, then the wrong should be addressed according to the corresponding custom.”

  I sensed him running a hand through his coiffed hair.

  “The Jewish theory underlying atonement is restoration—righting wrongs, as well as returning man to his original state in the eyes of God. Free from sin and restored.” He paused. “For some wrongs, perhaps restoration is unattainable. But it is possible to try.”

  “Let me get this straight,” I said. “You’re atoning for your father’s sins by stealing artifacts using tomb robbers and mercenaries, and then giving a portion of the profits to charity?”

  His voice became heated. “I don’t consort with mercenaries or procurers—I buy from them. I take what they’ve stolen and give it back.”

  “What about the shop?”

  “Most of the pieces are not for sale. I restore them and find the proper home. I gave up my life, everything I know, for this cause.”

  I was shocked he had admitted that much, though I supposed that even if the statute of limitations had not expired, any actual war crimes had been committed by his father. And I doubted there was any evidence.

  Or maybe I was wrong, and the obsession I’d seen in his eyes hadn’t involved the spiritual world or even money, but atonement for his father’s sins. His family’s conscience eating him from within.

  I was betting on a combination of all three.

  “You seem like a reasonable man, Aidan. What is the better choice, to return a fortune to squandering politicians, or to devote one’s life to helping restore the cultural integrity of a people my father wronged, as well as others?”

  I was no theologian, and it was his conscience, not mine. What mattered was how his decisions affected my friends and the search.

  I let him s
tew, my eyes twin daggers pointed at the phone.

  “Expose my identity if you will,” he said wearily, recognizing the ace I’d been keeping, “but I’m not a monster.”

  “To be honest, I don’t care about that. But if I find out you’ve lied to me or put any of us in danger, then get ready to see your true name plastered on a billboard on Canal Street.”

  “I’ve never lied to you, Aidan. And the last thing I would do is put any of you in danger.”

  “What about the letterbox?” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “It was entrusted to me by the owner, a private collector who discovered it during a dig and hired me to classify it.”

  “What aren’t you telling us?”

  His voice turned quizzical. “I’m just as in the dark as you, I assure you of that.”

  I asked a few more questions, but try as I might, I found no evidence of deception.

  And so I packed my bags for London. Despite my mistrust of Lucius Sofistere, né Jurgen Krassnig, it appeared he was just as baffled as everyone else concerning the origin of the letterbox. I decided not to tell the others what I had found, including Asha. As long as it didn’t affect our safety, I felt that was Lucius’s decision.

  A sane man in my position, I knew, would turn around and go home. There were too many unanswered questions and threats of danger hovering around us.

  Yet I had seen, with my own two eyes, Jake’s beloved disappear into thin air. My belief in the possibilities of the quest, once shattered, had been resurrected.

  In spite of Vivian’s warning, in spite of our disturbing experiences with the unknown and the Druid faction hunting the letterbox, I knew I would travel to the ends of the earth for the chance to discover what had made the first caveman gaze upon the night sky and tremble, inscribing his fear and wonder on the lonely cave wall.

  LONDON

  -64-

  Though the half-day trip to London passed without incident, Lou and I stuck to Jake like a clump of wet grass, shrinking into our seats whenever a new passenger entered our compartment. The Druids were averse to crowds, but I knew this was the endgame, and our adversaries were desperate.

  We stayed at a hotel near Russell Square, a short walk from the British Museum. Jake and Lou poured all of their energy into studying the Akkadian inscription and the map. I helped as best I could, providing research skills and logic, yet for the most part left the scholarly work to the scholars.

  During breaks from the research, I paced the storied halls of the British Museum, trying to separate Asha herself from the emotions her memory evoked. Those feelings had nothing to do with her now. They were mine alone to remember, an electric current of life that would always stay with me.

  Yet at times, in the still, secret parts of the day and in the dreamlike whispers of the night, the memory of her would return. I feared a shadow might always remain in a corner of my heart, but perhaps this shadow served a purpose: balancing a too-hopeful spirit, grounding starry-eyed infatuation with the wisdom of the past.

  Two days passed. Still no progress on the letterbox, and still no sign of our pursuers.

  After lunch I checked my email on my phone. No news from my P.I., but near the top of my inbox was a brief note from Prentice.

  Aidy, I have news. Call me.

  I glanced at the time: eight a.m. in the States. I decided to splurge on an international roaming call, and stepped into the hallway to ring Prentice.

  “Aidy! A London number? I’m glad you’ve decided to slink back into the first world.”

  I wasn’t in the mood for frivolous conversation. “What’s up?”

  “Testy these days, aren’t we? I miss the times when I’d come into your office and you were forced to listen to me.” He gave a tragic sigh. “Do you remember I told you I’d obtained the records for that French corporation, Donn Enterprises, from a contact in Paris?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well,” he said smugly, “a sordid affaire de couer is budding. Aiming to impress my Gallic Romeo, I decided to pursue the matter a little further. I didn’t get far. Donn Enterprises’ corporate purpose is so vague it’s laughable. I do approve of whatever law afforded them such secrecy; shareholders don’t need to be privy to the inner workings of corporations. This country is going down the tubes with its pseudo-democratic ideals.”

  I rolled my eyes. “What do you have, Prentice?”

  I heard him gulping down coffee. “Donn isn’t the end of the line. I discovered a parent company.”

  I gripped the phone. “Who owns it?”

  “The web was tangled, but long story short: Donn was bought out earlier this year by a holding company named S.T., Inc.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Me, either. There’s no record of activity of any sort, anywhere in the world, except for the fact that S.T., Inc. was incorporated in March of this year and its sole corporate act was to purchase Donn Enterprises. Oh, and I found the name of its principal, which is the only other thing it’s required by law to disclose.”

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “M.A. Chenisdeaux.”

  I ended the conversation and stared at the names I had written down on a piece of paper, certain I’d never heard of either the corporation or its principal. After a few moments of pacing, I again dialed a New Orleans number and had a curt but necessary conversation with Mr. Sofistere.

  When the call ended, I rushed back to the British Museum, completely unnerved by what he’d told me.

  -65-

  I skirted the imposing pillars heralding the entrance to the world’s largest repository of pilfered goods, bypassing the marble entrance hall for a side door unavailable to the public. Mr. Sofistere’s contact, Dr. Clifton, had arranged access to a private section of the British Museum reserved for staff, scientists, and scholars.

  I traversed a narrow hallway, swept past labs and archives, and finally reached a reading room deep within the bowels of the museum. The room was a classic British medley of dark wood and leather furniture.

  I found Lou and Jake sprawled in overstuffed chairs, surrounded by stacks of gilt-edged tomes. Paper coffee cups littered a coffee table. Both men looked frustrated and edgy.

  “I just learned a couple of interesting things,” I said, slumping into another of the large chairs. “Interesting and . . . disturbing.”

  Jake sat up, and I rehashed the conversation with Prentice.

  “Corporations have parents all the time,” Lou said.

  “I’m not going to kill you with suspense. After I talked to Prentice, I called Mr. Sofistere to run the information by him. He’d never heard of S.T., Inc. But it turns out the individual who hired Mr. Sofistere to research the letterbox is none other than M.A. Chenisdeaux, the principal of S.T., Inc. and the new owner of Donn Enterprises.”

  Jake whistled. “So what’s the story?”

  “That’s the thing,” I said. “Mr. Sofistere was even more surprised than I was. He said he’s never even met him. A few months back he got a call from Chenisdeaux, who sounded like a savvy collector. He told Lucius about a promising dig in Dartmoor, and said he’d already purchased the land and acquired the rights. He was eager to begin researching, and wanted someone to retrieve and study whatever was brought to the surface. Lucius was intrigued and agreed. You know the rest. Lucius tried to call a few times, but he hasn’t heard from Chenisdeaux since before the letterbox was dug up. By the time he got suspicious, things had gotten out of hand.”

  “Why didn’t he tell us?” Lou said.

  “He didn’t think it mattered, but it’s also bad form. Given the course of events, he no longer cares about breaking confidence.” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped. “Mr. Sofistere retrieved the letterbox in May. However, the dig began in March, the day after the geologists’ sensors revealed something buried beneath Cranmere Pool. They started digging on March seventh, to be exact. Guess what else happened on M
arch seventh?”

  They looked at me with raised eyebrows.

  “S.T., Inc. became a corporate entity.”

  “Weird,” Lou said.

  Jake frowned. “I don’t get it. Why chase after their own damn box?”

  I rose to pour a cup of coffee. “I think Chenisdeaux needed someone to find this treasure the Druids believe the letterbox once contained. What better place to send the letterbox than to Mr. Sofistere, who specializes in such things?”

  “Okay,” Lou said. “But why not just tell us?”

  “The only thing I can think of is that he knows something about the things that have happened. Maybe something that would make anyone in his right mind turn around and forget he’d ever heard of the letterbox.”

  “But if Chenisdeaux owns Chateau Donn,” Lou said, “that implies he’s in league with the Druids—why not just give them the box instead of Lucius?”

  “That I don’t know,” I said slowly. “All we do know is that Chenisdeaux is wealthy, secretive, and powerful—and that he’s probably using us. Maybe he’s discovering everything as we are. Maybe he’s watching us. The bottom line is, we have no idea what we’ve gotten ourselves into.”

  Lou leaned forward. “You think Sofistere could be in league with Chenisdeaux?”

  “I think he’s been straight with us about the letterbox,” I said, after a pause.

  “I’d be surprised,” Jake said. “I’ve known Lucius for years. I’d be very surprised.”

  Oh, I thought, you’d be surprised about a few things.

  Jake flicked a wrist. “Besides, why tell us about Chenisdeaux if he’s in league with him? He could’ve just kept it secret.”

  “Good point,” Lou said.

  Jake folded his arms. “You said Lucius told you two things. What’s the other?”

  I blew out a breath. “He’s been researching the ancient temples that used to exist at the map locations. Nothing new on Castello di Selva or the British sites, but when he turned his attention to Kostel Utes . . . you remember Father Novak? The nice old priest who helped us out?”