“I don’t like the sound of this.”
“It was my own hubris that led me astray. I was quite sure I could cope with any situation and come away unscathed… I was wrong.”
“Well, what happened?”
“Just as the case was ending, and I was preparing to return home to Amsterdam, I encountered the Man from Cairo.”
“Who?”
“I’ve mentioned him before, surely? He’s an odd little man who has repeatedly appeared in my life for the better part of a millennium. I have never spoken to him and I’ve always presumed he was falling backwards in time. Though I’ve given this some thought, and now believe this was a poor assumption on my part.”
“How so?”
“From my perspective it seemed as if he was falling through time. But from his perspective, I was always rushing towards the future.”
“And that matters?”
“My assumption that these were merely chance encounters is erroneous to say the least.”
“How did you know it was him?”
“He was wearing a red fez with a gold tassel.” Fynn smiled. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Patrick, but even I suspect that such a hat wasn’t in style during the early nineteen nineties.”
I laughed. “You never know…”
“Well, enough to say, I was bested by my own curiosity… In New Hope, I followed him to the river. He got into a small boat and rowed to the other side, New Jersey.”
“What’s so strange about that?”
“Nothing, I suppose, though there is a perfectly good bridge nearby. In turn, I borrowed a kayak and followed him. He traveled north along the river for a time, and then east by land. I thought he might be going to the Library or the temple perhaps.”
“Did he?”
“No. He returned to Sand City.”
“What happened next?”
“I watched him write something in the sand, climb the cliffs at the Quarry and then simply vanish.”
“Wow. What did he write?”
“Modena, fourteen thirty.”
“And that meant something to you?”
“Yes. I recognized it as the place and time where I first encountered the manuscripts.”
“The Voynich manuscripts?”
“As you call them, yes.”
“What happened next?”
“I arrived here as I’ve said, with this terrible result: I was immediately manacled and fettered. I think you know the rest. ”
“What about the note you left me?”
“At the time, I realized I was being lured into some sort of trap. Nonetheless, I decided to follow the Man from Cairo further, to the end if necessary.”
“The end of what?”
“It’s a figure of speech, Patrick. In any event, I took a few steps as a precaution, albeit hasty ones. I purchased the house on the Dunes— the house that Lorraine always wished for… and of course, I wrote you that letter and left it in care of Mr Domino.”
“You mean Mrs Domino.”
“Who?”
“His widow.”
“I didn’t encounter her, though this man didn’t strike me as the marrying sort.
“Why not?”
“He was well into his fifties and not exactly oozing with charm; a most unpleasant sort of man at that.”
“The letter was addressed to me, not Gary Sevens.”
“As you say. I did not know Mr Sevens was out and about in nineteen ninety-two.”
“Why buy the house?”
“Well, I thought you might need a place to stay in that timeline, if you should ever return.”
“That timeline,” I repeated. “You mean Sand City with no coffee.”
“Not exactly… I believe I had an espresso in the morning.”
“How did you know it was a different timeline?”
“I’m not sure that it was. I only knew that it would be if any measure of time passed.”
“You just took a guess?”
“Exactly this. Understand, I was in a terrible hurry. I bought the house under the bank’s name, and left it to them to sort out the details.”
“But why show up last year and then disappear again?”
“Hmm?” Fynn looked at me, a bit confused.
“You investigated Durbin’s murder, sent a message to Jamal warning him, and a package to Lorraine.”
“These are things I do not recall doing.” Fynn grimaced slightly. “Who is this Durbin fellow?”
“A detective from Sand City. Don’t you remember him?”
“Durbin?” Fynn thought aloud. “Yes, now I remember… Durbin, the man who once imprisoned me.”
“Well, you did make a good suspect at the time.”
“Ah, well, I am supposing you are right, Patrick. I must learn to forgive him.”
I thought for a moment. “I guess you haven’t done these things yet.”
“It must be something I am about to do, but from your perspective, I have already done it.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Indeed. Can you tell me anything more?”
“You may have had breakfast with Anika.”
“Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of off hand.” I hedged a bit. “I do feel bad for Lorraine though.”
“Why is that?” Fynn turned to me.
“I met her… ha, a few weeks ago… in that other timeline. She was living in Virginia, but she was missing you terribly.”
“Why was she missing me?”
“You disappeared after the New Hope crime.”
“Ah yes… is she alright?”
“She’s fine.”
“And you, Patrick, you must have some news to tell…”
“Not really.”
“What?” Fynn replied, astonished, until he realized it was my turn to tease him. He smiled and tapped my cheek with affection, then let go a laugh.
It was good to see the old Inspector Fynn returning somewhat. I did have a lot to tell him of course, and detailed some of my experiences; the most important being Drummond’s daughter, my encounters with Mortimer and the apparent deaths of many policemen, especially Detective Durbin.
Fynn seemed less concerned with my impressions of Mr Q and Lothar, Madeline, Pavel and Edmund, instead turning his questions to Anika and Lorraine again and again, despite my assurances that they were both doing well. He slipped into silence for a while.
“So, all this has to do with the Voynich manuscripts?” I asked.
“It’s possible. These sort of manuscripts were quite popular in this era.”
“What sort?”
“Compilations you might call them. Illustrations of exotic flora and fauna, lists of cures, beneficial herbs, potions, that sort of thing… and more often than not, musings on celestial events and astrology.”
“I looked at some of the books at the Modena library,” I said. “Most of them are beautiful and very meticulously done.”
“Our manuscript would not be among them. Though handwritten, it is not a glorious piece of art, not like the copyist monks of centuries ago and their illuminated manuscripts… Such is a dying art, I might suppose.”
“So that’s what this is all about?”
“Seems likely.”
“Well, at least one of the sisters is very interested in them.”
“Chloe?”
“No, Lilly. I also recall that they were written around this time, and originated in northern Italy.”
“Then you remember well.”
“Should we search for them?”
“No… there’s no need to. From what you’ve said, at least two of these books are already safe and sound.”
“Waiting for us in the future, you mean?”
“At the Aldus Trust, yes, assuredly.”
chapter twenty-two
journeymen
A rooster called in the morning light. Fynn was already awake, talking to the mules in their stall, and gathering a few items he deemed essential. I dusted the stra
w off my clothes. The sheep were bleating at full force and hankering to get out to the meadows.
“We must hurry, before the indolent herdsman should appear,” Fynn said and put his helmet back on.
“We’re taking the burros?”
“I’d prefer a fast horse but it’s better than walking for now.”
I placed two gold coins on a silk handkerchief I had with me, then spread it out near the barn’s entrance. “That should be easy to spot,” I explained to Fynn.
“What?” he asked, perched on a saddle-less mule.
“To pay for the donkeys.”
“Hmm, rather an expensive ride, I will say.”
The early morning landscape was breathtakingly beautiful as we rode slowly along a gentle ridge. Below was a lush valley filled with a patchwork of plowed fields, and beyond, endless hills that disappeared into a soft mist. There were fewer trees than I might have imagined, though many of them were tall and elegant, sweeping skywards like green fingers.
Fynn seemed satisfied to follow the path that led north. We jostled along with hardly a word until late morning at least. I was starting to get hungry again. “Where do you suppose that leads?” I asked.
“Hmm?” Fynn was distracted by his own thoughts.
“The stream.” I pointed down to the valley.
“Oh, well, it seems to meander quite a bit. I suppose it flows to the Po River eventually, not that it matters much.”
“Why are we following it then? Are we going somewhere specific?”
Fynn stopped his mule and turned to me. “Such a question, Patrick.” He laughed. “Where we go next is entirely up to what clothes we find.”
“I’m not sure I get that.”
“As soldiers we may go only as far as the border.”
“The border?”
“The next fiefdom, so to speak, and I doubt we would be a welcome sight.” Fynn paused. “If you recall, we crossed a road yesterday. To the south, it’s the torturous way to Firenze.”
“Florence… That’s where we’re heading?”
“The opposite way might be better. I must ask for a bit of patience.”
I stopped by the banks of the stream and splashed my face in the cold water. It was the first time I saw my own reflection and was a bit startled. I looked pretty much the same, but older than I imagined; my hair was longer and my face more drawn.
“I strongly recommend that you do not drink from the ditch.”
“Why?” I splashed my face again. “The water looks clear and pristine.”
“We are downstream from a large herd of sheep. Not to mention some of the mills we’ve passed.”
“Mills?”
“Factories of a sort, doing who knows what: processing wool, flax, or sugar even… perhaps one was a slaughterhouse.”
I spit out the mouthful I had just taken. Fynn handed me the leather flask.
“Wine for breakfast,” I said, and took a swig. It was more like wine flavored water. “Couldn’t we buy clothes?” I asked. “I have money.”
Fynn looked at me doubtfully. “I don’t recall if the ready-to-wear shop in the village is open on Saturdays.”
“You’re teasing.”
“I am, but you say you have money?”
“A sack full,” I said and handed him my purse.
“Enough to buy an entire town, I should think,” Fynn commented while staring into the bag. “Hmm, mostly florins and some ducats… Where did you get this?”
“I found it in my bed chamber. I think Chloe or Lilly must have left them.”
“Nonetheless, I’m afraid we’ll have to steal from someone.” Fynn pointed. “Let’s follow this stream. With a bit of luck we’ll stumble upon someone’s laundry.”
“What’s the alternative?”
“I can think of none.” Fynn smiled. “Linens will be easy to find. Many people do their washing in the stream. But finding clothes for me will be a bit more difficult. A doublet, a cloak, leggings and an appropriate chaperon. These are rarely washed.”
We left our mules by the water. Fynn stripped and bathed slightly upstream, and after about an hour’s walk or so, I spotted white sheets on the opposite bank, spread out on the grass. I pointed. About a half mile further up was a small hill with a tired old villa nestled in cypress trees. Next to it stood a few other buildings, a mill with a water wheel, and a furnace belching black smoke. They were all comprised of monotonous brown brickwork, built rough, built for strength rather than beauty.
“It could be any number of things, perhaps a tannery,” Fynn said. “We are lucky to have this warm day though.”
We sat hidden from view in a copse of trees. From our vantage I could see many women hard at work. Some were beating rugs and such; some were hanging clothes near a smokey fire, others were busy mending, and brushing down large swaths of fabric.
“A spring cleaning it would seem,” Fynn observed and lay back in the grass. “We need only wait till siesta.”
An hour or so later, all activity had ceased. In fact the whole place looked like a ghost town. Fynn had also fallen asleep. I roused him gently and we made our way across the stream, stealthily gathering whatever clothes we could find. I also appropriated a loaf of bread and some cheese. Thinking that someone might get into terrible trouble when all these items were discovered missing, I left a small pile of coins in plain sight.
“You’ve given them riches beyond measure.”
“What?”
“The ducats… that’s more money than they’d ever see in a whole lifetime.” Fynn began sorting through the clothes and found enough to outfit himself handsomely. Nothing was a perfect fit. “Well, not nobility, but we look like wealthy merchants. It should suffice.” He turned to me. “Why are you laughing, Patrick?”
“You look funny in a dress.”
“Tunic is the proper word… and at least mine is modest compared to yours in terms of length.” He smiled. “All that’s left is to find a chaperon.”
“A silly hat, you mean.”
“I must insist. The proper chaperon conveys status, and the higher our status the less questions will be asked.”
***
It was late evening when we came across a lively village. We were able to procure two stylish hats, and Fynn asked about any nearby stables. He also found us a place to stay for the night and a hearty supper.
“What now?” I asked.
“We have many alternatives to consider.”
“Such as?”
“Perhaps we might stay on for a while?”
“You mean here?” I asked nervously. “I’d like to get back home.”
“Ah, but it is a wondrous time… just a few years before a flowering of human culture… We might wait for Leonardo to grow up. He’ll be something of a celebrity, I’ve been told.”
“I bet…”
“Where is your sense of adventure, Patrick? The re-awakening of progress… the voyage of discoveries…”
“Let’s just hope Carlos isn’t waiting on the other side of the Atlantic with his Viking Empire.”
Fynn gave me a solemn glance, then burst into laughter. “Very well, home it is… however the question remains: How to travel there?”
“I thought you’d know.”
“It’s not a simple matter of just skipping ahead five hundred and eleven years.”
“No?”
“It’s too far to jump all at once, all those centuries… I suppose in the end, it depends on how intrepid you’re feeling.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Not very… I’m sort of hoping for quick and easy.”
“I may have to disappoint you.” Fynn grimaced. “Very well then, where do we go?”
“The twenty-first century, I hope.”
“Oh… I was speaking of a compass direction.”
“Funny.”
“I am being serious. Travel can be difficult in this time, and I only mean across land and sea. I’m considering if it’s best to h
ead for our destination geographically and then jump to the future.”
“And by future, you mean?”
“Well, nineteen sixty-four, I should say.”
“Not twenty-fifteen?”
“No… we won’t return to your present first and then jump back to visit Anika. We will go to her directly.”
“Of course, what was I thinking…” I muttered, but considered a bit further. “Wait, isn’t she also in twenty-fifteen?”
“How can she be in both places, Patrick? We can only exist in one present at a time, eh?”
“But…”
“Let’s just say nineteen sixty-four is on the way.”
“I get it,” I said, “You want to prevent Anika from being caught by the police.”
Fynn looked at me oddly. “Ah, breaking into Mortimer’s villa, as you mentioned. It matters little.”
“But she’s your daughter and she was in jail last time I saw her.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“So... then, it’s like a major time travel paradox that worries you?”
“How so?”
“If we go back a day too soon and stop Anika from getting caught, then I might not go on to find Edmund… and… I’d never travel back to rescue you here.”
“Good thinking, Patrick.” A small smile crossed his face and I knew he was up to something. “You believe we shouldn’t tamper with those events just yet.”
“Yes.”
“There is a chain of causality that led you here… And we should not test the links, eh?”
“Exactly.”
“Sadly, you are completely wrong.”
“What?”
“I doubt I can get us back to nineteen sixty-four with any great accuracy; that is, before or after you met with Anika and broke into Mortimer’s villa. Nor does it matter, I think.”
“Doesn’t matter?”
“I am worried less about causality than Anika’s welfare.”
“I’m not getting this… Do you have concurrency in nineteen sixty-four?”
“Patrick, I am astonished by your question.”
“Why?”
“Surely you understand, we will both be jumping to the future. There can be no question, it will be a hard jump.”
“And?”
“It’s quite different than jumping to the past,” Fynn said. “We will necessarily enter a present that is different than what you’ve experienced.”
Low City: Missing Persons (A Tractus Fynn Mystery Book 3) Page 30