Tales from the Voynich Manuscript and the Island of Jan Mayen

by Alexander Copperwhite

  "Why don't you start torturing him? Maybe the pain will loosen his tongue."

  "Oh, I'll get to that," said Thomas, clenching his teeth, "but I think I'll start by cutting the girl's fingers off first. It's Ana, right?"

  She shuddered violently and started to cry. Father Matthias leaned his head over attempting to console her, but Thomas immediately knocked him down to the floor with a hard punch.

  "Don't give this son of a bitch what he's looking for," the priest said to Carlos, as he spit out some blood.

  Without waiting for a response from the younger man, so scared that he didn't know what to do, Thomas glanced over at the man in the dark glasses.

  "I have a large can of gasoline in the trunk of my car. Bring it to me!" Thomas ordered, growing more anxious by the minute.

  "You seem to forget that I'm the one in charge here."

  "Oh, really?" Thomas answered, pointing the pistol at him. "This account is personal. Now bring me that gasoline."

  A few minutes later, the man in the dark glasses returned, carrying the large can. He saw that Thomas had moved Father Matthias off into a corner, isolated from any kind of flammable material. He wanted to set him on fire without causing a bigger blaze, so he could exact his revenge on the priest and terrorize Carlos at the same time.

  "If you give me what I want, I won't burn him. Saving him from that suffering is in your hands."

  "Don't even think about it!" the dazed Father Matthias grunted.

  The flame from the lighter illuminated the bloody face of the priest.

  "Ready to become a martyr?"

  The priest began to pray.

  "Very well," Thomas said, and put away the light.

  He opened the can of gas, sniffed it and then began to empty it over the priest's head.

  "All right, all right...I'll give it to you."

  Carlos sat down in his easy chair behind the table, bent over until he could reach the underside of the legs and unscrewed the base on the right side. Inside the piece of wood was a small pen drive shaped like a booklet.

  "Here. Now you have what you want," Carlos showed the drive to Thomas and extended his hand to give it to him.

  ¡¡No, noooooooooo!!

  Father Matthias rose and leaped on top of Thomas before he could take the pen drive. The impact caught the killer off guard and he couldn't prevent himself from falling to the floor.

  "Fucking priest, I'll kill you."

  He tried to raise the pistol to shoot him, but Father Matthias rolled over and bit his arm. His teeth sank deeply into his adversary's flesh, forcing Thomas' fingers to tighten and causing him to involuntarily fire several shots from the pistol.

  "You've killed him," shrieked a terrified Ana.

  Life left the body of the man in the dark glasses as his body toppled like a heavy tree trunk on top of Father Mathias.

  "Go! The two of you get out of here! Now!" the priest shouted as he delivered a series of head butts to Thomas.

  Carlos was the first to respond. He grabbed Ana by the arm and helped her to her feet."

  "You're not going anywhere."

  With a quick twist of his hips, Thomas successfully turned the tables and ended up on top of Father Matthias. He pressed down on the priest's neck with his knee while he pointed the gun at the two youths.

  "Leave the drive on the floor," he ordered them.

  Struggling against the pressure on his neck, Father Matthias made a desperate but futile attempt to free himself.

  "What is this?" he wondered when he picked up the lighter that had accidentally fallen out of the killer's pocket.

  Shaking in fear, he clutched it hard and mentally readied himself to light it.

  "Fire, fire!" he screamed like a man possessed and lit the lighter.

  As the flames fed by the gasoline enveloped him, Thomas pushed the priest away in a desperate attempt to stand up and separate himself from Father Matthias.

  "You're not going anywhere," he bellowed.

  Crazed by pain and rage, he raised his flaming body up off the floor and latched on to Thomas' neck like the mussels that attach themselves to the rocks. The cries of the killer echoed throughout the entire museum, bouncing off the walls until they disappeared in the void.

  "Run!" Carlos said to Ana as he untied her.

  "We can't abandon him."

  "If we don't escape, his sacrifice will be in vain."

  "And what will we do without him?" Anna asked, breaking into tears.

  "Share the contents of the pen drive with the world. It's what he wanted."

  "OK, but when will we do that?"

  "Right now."

  She hugged him, relieved, and headed towards a nearby cafeteria. It was late, but there were still customers there drinking the outrageous drinks that were the specialty of the house, and using the Wi-Fi system with unlimited free access.

  "I need your computer," Carlos said to a guy who was on a chat line.

  "Yeah, sure, sure," he stammered, unsettled and more than a little afraid.

  He wasn't about to say no to some wacked-out head case with his hands covered in blood and some crazy girl with totally disheveled hair, covered with bruises and staring vacantly off into space.

  "Thanks a lot, I won't take long," said Carlos, smiling in an attempt to calm him down and keep a low profile.

  He stuck the pen drive into the laptop, started up the "Install on network drive" function and changed a series of codes to disable the firewalls. Once he had finished preparing the computer to share the logarithm with the world, he looked up at Ana.

  "Ready?"

  She gave him the memory and Carlos, never taking his eyes off her, put it in the computer.

  "For Father Matthias," was all he said and she nodded in agreement.

  The sound of the key clicking began a process that could not be stopped. The knowledge stockpiled in the Voynich Manuscript had just finished being shared with the entire world.

  *

  Half an hour later...

  Carlos and Ana watched the firemen who had just finished putting out the fire of unknown origin that ended up claiming three victims, according to the authorities. The three black sacks bearing the remains, lined up in a row on the sidewalk, all looked exactly the same.

  "I'll miss him," said Ana, drying her tears.

  Carlos went up to the sacks and brazenly began to open them one by one.

  "Sir!" a policeman shouted. "You can't do that."

  Without a word, Carlos lowered his head and moved away.

  'What did you do that for?" Ana asked.

  "We should follow the ambulance that takes the sack in the middle."

  "I don't understand what you're talking about."

  "We're going to follow the body of Father Matthias. Then we'll steal it and when we're safe... we'll make it whole again."

  Ana stopped crying. A smile formed on her face and her eyes sparkled as she remembered the power she held in her hands.

  THE END

  THE TEMPLE OF ONE THOUSAND CRYSTALS

  Title: The Temple of One Thousand Crystals

  Original Idea: Alexander Copperwhite

  Cover: Alejandro A. Blanco

  Text and style revision: Corrigenda

  © All Rights Reserved

  CHAPTERS

  TOC

  I – The Disciple of Archimedes

  Throughout history, humankind has built temples where their beliefs would be reflected and they could worship a higher being. Many times, they began from nothing, creating wonders that blended in perfect harmony with the natural world. On other occasions, they demolished or transformed already existing monuments, hiding the secrets those once sacred sites guarded.

  *

  198 B.C. Syracuse, Sicily.

  The scars inflicted by the Romans during the siege were still visible in the city. Now Syracuse formed part of an expanding empire, one drenched in the blood of its subjects. The temples that crowned the plazas where the people of Syracuse met for
countless years to set up their markets, discuss politics and gather together as a society had been reduced to rubble. The great Archimedes, defender of his birthplace with his ingenious machines and all his knowledge, was dead. Over the course of those first years as a conquered city, the people of Syracuse, lacking all ambition and hope, lived their daily lives ashamed at having lost the splendor the city claimed as its own in bygone times.

  Until the wheat changed everything.

  The Roman Empire was growing by leaps and bounds and the recently concluded Second Punic War ended up emptying the public treasury along with the granaries needed to feed the people. Trade flourished and the captured booty changed hands, reactivating the flow of Roman coins, sparking rekindled ambitions to create riches, the desire for other goods —luxurious and extravagant— and hunger among the poor. But the wheat fields surrounding the city were regaining their productive capacity much too slowly. That could be attributed in large part to the fact the men of Syracuse felt defeated and lacked motivation. To counter that pervasive feeling, money was dispatched from Rome, watched over by a special envoy, for building a new temple in the city. The purpose was to bring back some part of the city's old splendor and motivate the people by making them understand that they, too, were now part of the empire that was enlightening the world.

  Flavius Aurelius was appointed to find the perfect person for undertaking the project. After pondering his decision for many days, rejecting countless candidates of great reputation and renown, and understanding that he needed a symbol as much as someone highly qualified, he decided on one of the great teacher Archimedes' followers, Apollonius of Perga.

  "It is a pleasure to have you in my home," said Flavius Aurelius, opening his arms wide to embrace his recently arrived guest.

  "I am grateful for your invitation, it is an honor," Apollonius lied. He was still harboring resentment against the conquerors who killed his teacher.

  Flavius, an astute man very experienced in dealing with senators, generals and other types of practiced liars, immediately sensed that Apollonius felt ill at ease. It was hardly surprising. He knew that one of his chief challenges, perhaps the most difficult one of all, was to seduce the brilliant mathematician with the vision of a promising future for the city of Syracuse. If he succeeded, then Apollonius would also be responsible for conveying those high hopes and vision to his compatriots and neighbors, to inspire them about the work that would come to represent the city.

  "Please call me Flavius. I do not want you to feel uncomfortable, anything but that. I only want to earn your friendship," he said, choosing to be honest in the hope of breaking down any preconceived notions and expectations. "Do not look at me that way. If I was in your place, I would not even have forced a smile. The truth is that if I was to tell you that I understand you, I would be lying but I do know one thing that is true. There have been many occasions when I have sat and observed negotiations between the victors and vanquished. I agree that it is inevitable to acknowledge the sense of superiority shown by the winners in comparison with the feeling of shame mixed with impotence of men who are upset at being forced to pay homage to their enemy. It may be possible to mask your true feelings by acting pleasant, friendly and even servile towards the others, but the truth is they would not hesitate to kill you if they had a sword at hand."

  Flavius took a seat and motioned for Apollonius to follow his lead.

  "I am almost certain that you would do the same," Flavio continued as a slave served them wine in two silver goblets. "Of course, you would not kill me with a lowly dagger or a common knife. I imagine a much more creative revenge, like strangling me between pulleys that are tangled up in the interior of some device full of gears. Ahh, now that is what I would call a suitably 'complex death'.”

  "I am not going to kill anyone," Apollonius assured him.

  "I know," Flavio agreed before standing up.

  Holding the cup in his hand, the manipulative Roman emissary moved away from the table towards a balcony with a view overlooking a large part of the city. Nearly transparent curtains of white linen that looked like peace flags swayed in the breeze, while a stick of incense burned slowly in a nearby corner.

  "Come over here, my dear new friend," said Flavius with a smile. "Because although you do not know it, we are friends. You will understand soon enough."

  "If you say so," Apollonius responded apathetically.

  "That is better. That is the way I like it, that you use the familiar form to talk to me and you are sincere with me."

  A snap of the fingers, and the slave appeared again bearing more wine.

  "Fill up the cups, Moretia, we are celebrating here," he announced, ready to offer a toast. "To new friends."

  "To new friends," Apollonius repeated, growing increasingly confused.

  What he saw from the balcony was not pleasant for him. Many houses still bore witness to the ravages of war. Their walls, tinged with black streaks from the flames, resembled sad paintings lacking any kind of expression or life. That burned smell came along with them. Yes, several years had gone by since the siege but reminders of the war continued to remain open wounds throughout the city. Unfortunately, poverty combined with scarce resources were turning the once glorious city of Syracuse into a human dumping ground, in a place where it would serve as an example for all the other opponents of almighty, all-powerful Rome. But the insatiable hunger of the imperial capital needed it, or more to the point, needed its fertile unplowed fields.

  "My desire is for the city to regain its old splendor," Flavio remarked as he gazed at the sky. "And I want you to be the one who takes the first step. With me. Together."

  "What are you talking about?" asked Apollonius, intrigued now.

  "I am referring to raising the morale, of rejuvenating the spirit of the city," he said, pointing with his finger. "We have the obligation of inviting the gods to come and live among us again. We must build them a temple where we can nourish them with our prayers so that they can bless us with happiness and abundance."

  Apollonius was enthused now, listening with growing excitement as he visualized in his mind what Flavio was proposing to him.

  "Do you know what I see?" the Roman envoy asked.

  "What do you see?"

  "I see a temple worthy of Syracuse. I see a site where you walk in but there are no walls, where you are covered but you can always see outside, where the gods are closer to us than anywhere else."

  The curtains swayed again from the gentle breeze while that vision materialized before the eyes of the young mathematician.

  "Now I see it myself," whispered Apollonius as his mind drifted, lost in his own thoughts

  *

  Thirty thousand laborers worked over 3,640 days from sunrise to sunset and only on days when the sun crowned the sky, never in the dark. The other days were not suitable for taking the necessary measurements. The massive stone blocks, bonded together by a blend of volcanic sulfur brought from Vesuvius and crystal formations extracted from the deepest depths of the Sea of Corsica, formed open columns that curved towards the walls to support the tremendous weight of the cupola without closing the interior space. The picture windows, rising up like spires to prick the heart of the sun and extract its luminous energy, were adorned with azure stained glass windows, pearls from Majorca and different combinations of crystals, placed with a meticulous attention to detail by Apollonius himself. Nothing was left to chance.

  Every detail was measured over two hundred times. Every meter was checked more than fifty times. Every curve, every corner, every single inch of the structure was reviewed by the grand master himself. At the end of each day, just before the sun disappeared on the horizon, he sent the laborers home and examined the secrets of the temple to ensure that not a single oversight would ruin his masterpiece. His legacy. The awakening of Syracuse.

  II – The Church of the Dead

  Over half a century later...

  Christianity had become the official religion of the Rom
an Empire just a short time before. Despite the best efforts of Emperor Theodosius I, the change was not well received by the entire community and it proved impossible to avoid the disturbances that broke out in many districts of the capital city. The repercussions of the change were not welcomed with open arms in many cities that were part of the empire, either.

  In more distant locales like Syracuse, the defenders of the old religion rose up in arms against the decree of the emperor, although in truth it was only a pretext for starting a revolution. The naked struggle for power never bothered to mask its true nature. The greedy always clung tenaciously to any notion that would motivate the masses to defend a cause, even if it involved the craziest idea imaginable.

  Then there were the heartless scoundrels who took advantage of turbulent times to secretly seize and take control of whatever struck their fancy. They were very much like robbers, but better organized and more dangerous. They had reliable information placed at their disposal by the upper echelons of society. They used that information to distract the attention of the curious, blind the eyes of the ambitious, win over those who doubted their good intentions, and silence the voices that were conspiring against them. Because in fact they did not exist, or at least that was what they wanted everyone else to believe.

  The hushed whispers that sounded in dark alleys, witnessed only by the closed windows around them, did not come from the wind or animals who lived on the streets. They came from the voices of men plotting their conspiracies.

  "The time has come," reported one hooded youth.

  "Turn around", muttered a second figure, only a long white beard visible beneath his hood.

  The young man obeyed.

  "Show me your back," the bearded man ordered.

  Once again, the youth complied without a word about what they were asking him.

  "It is true!" a third hooded man remarked, although he gave the impression of not fully believing it at first glance.

  The letters branded on the young man's skin could be read clearly. Not even the redness of his scorched flesh was able to disguise the details revealed in the coded message. On his body appeared the groups poised to move into action, the points each one should occupy, their weapons and the hour set for the operation to begin. Cryptic details about which guards could be trusted and which ones should be put to the sword when they appeared at the decisive moment, if it would come down to that. The normal scenario would be that half of the guards would engage the fanatics in battle for the purpose of suffocating the imminent rebellion. The other half should fortify and defend the governor's palace to protect him and other important figures in the city.