by Brad Kelln
He found Evelyn near the bottom of the staircase standing in the kitchen with a tall, bronze-skinned man who looked like he was in his mid- to late thirties. Father McCallum had wondered if the Vatican would send an old cardinal from a local diocese. This man looked so ordinary, and wasn’t even wearing a priestly collar. Maybe he wasn’t the Vatican representative.
“Hello,” he said tentatively.
Benicio smiled. “Mr. McCallum? My name is Dr. Benicio Valori.”
“Doctor,” he said, and nodded, still unsure.
“Oh, a doctor,” Evelyn blurted breathlessly. “How wonderful.”
“My training is in clinical psychology. I’m not a medical doctor,” Benicio offered.
“How lovely,” Evelyn shot right back. It was obvious she didn’t realize there was a difference between a medical doctor and a psychologist. “That must be so rewarding.”
Dr. Benicio Valori nodded. “It has its moments.”
Father McCallum felt beads of sweat on his forehead. He didn’t have the strength to endure small talk. “What can I do for you, Dr. Valori?”
Evelyn frowned. He realized his abruptness had surprised her, and he tried to smile.
Benicio smiled, too. “Business, actually. We share some acquaintances, and I’ve come with a number of matters to discuss.”
“Library business, no doubt,” Evelyn said. “Mr. McCallum is an important person at Yale.”
“Si, he is indeed,” Benicio agreed.
“Evelyn,” the priest said. “I shouldn’t want to bore you with our business. Shall I invite Dr. Valori upstairs to my flat?”
“You may do whatever you like,” she answered. “But I’m going to put on some tea and bring out my special gingersnaps.” She turned to the counter and pulled off a colorful cookie jar.
“Please don’t go to any trouble,” Benicio said.
“It’s proper,” she said. “Besides, I need to head out. I’m meeting Henry at the mall after his doctor’s appointment. So I’m going to go. I’ll put the water on but leave Ronnie to get the tea ready.” She filled a kettle from the tap and set it on a burner before turning to Benicio.
Dr. Benicio Valori took her hand and gave it a quick kiss. “It was an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Evelyn giggled and blushed. “Oh, you really are a gentleman. It was quite wonderful to meet you, too.” She turned to Father McCallum. “You must invite Dr. Valori over more often.”
There was a moment of silence after they heard the front door close behind Evelyn, then Benicio put his hand out. “Allow me to reintroduce myself. I’m Father Benicio Valori. I work with the cdf and was sent here by Cardinal Espinosa.”
Father McCallum shook his hand. “Father Ronald McCallum. Pleasure to meet you.” He motioned to the small kitchen table, and both men sat.
“So you’re not a doctor?” McCallum asked.
“I am — I graduated from Columbia with a doctorate in clinical psychology. I joined the church right after graduation.”
“Are you an investigator?” The older priest knew investigators were the Vatican’s religious police and went around the world investigating church-related matters. It was never a pleasant experience to have one show up at a parish.
“Yes, I’ve been assigned in that capacity ever since I was ordained,” Valori said.
“Your accent sounds Italian,” McCallum suggested.
“I was born in Sicily but my family moved to the U.S. when I was a teenager.”
Father McCallum watched the younger man, not sure what to think of him. Benicio’s face was difficult to read. Just then the kettle began to whistle. He stood and moved to the stove.
“So you’ve been stationed at the Yale library for some time?” Benicio asked.
“The Beinecke Rare Books collection. Yes. Quite some time. A good twenty years.” He dropped tea bags into two mugs and filled them with hot water before returning with them to the table.
“Wow, that’s quite a commitment.”
“It is,” the older man agreed. “But I love it. It wasn’t what I expected after entering the priesthood, but I do love it. I could see where scholarship might even have been my vocational path if I hadn’t entered the church.”
“That’s great,” Benicio replied. “And now you’ve finally got something to report on, eh?”
McCallum frowned, noticeably troubled.
“What is it, Father?” Benicio asked gently.
“It’s the reason you’re here. The Voynich manuscript. It was stolen.”
“So it is the Voynich,” Benicio said.
McCallum looked up. “You didn’t know you were coming about the manuscript? They didn’t tell you? They didn’t tell you that I’d found someone who can read it?”
Benicio shook his head. “I wasn’t in a good place for a briefing. The church mentioned you were watching over a manuscript. I thought it was probably the Voynich. I was told you’d fill me in when I got here.”
“I can try.”
“Did you tell the church about the theft yet?”
“I haven’t had a chance.”
“How was it stolen?”
The older priest shook his head in disbelief. “Someone just kind of walked in and took it.”
“Walked in?”
“Yes, the security tapes show a man going to the Voynich display case but then he just sort of drops down, and next thing, the Voynich is gone.”
“And the person?”
“It was a security guard. Someone who worked at the Beinecke.”
“And they can’t find this man?”
Father McCallum sighed. “They found him, all right — his body was left in front of the display case. Sort of decomposed, or something.”
“Non capisco. I’m not following this. Maybe we should back up. I know a little about the physical manuscript, but why don’t you assume I know nothing and walk me through this thing.”
The older priest settled back on the wooden kitchen chair. “An American antiques dealer named Wilfrid Voynich discovered the manuscript in 1912. He found it in Villa Mondragone, near Rome, among a large number of ancient manuscripts owned by the occupant of the villa. The Jesuit College inherited all the papers when they took over the villa.”
“Si,” Benicio said. “I know the Villa Mondragone. It is still used for conferences and special events. I was recently at a retreat there.”
“I’ve heard it’s a magnificent building.”
“Beautiful. But scusi — go on with your story.”
“Wilfrid Voynich discovered the manuscript when he was examining the volumes at the Mondragone. He immediately thought he had something special, something unique, even though the book was written in a language Voynich didn’t recognize. He took it to the United States and made copies, which he distributed widely, hoping someone could identify the language. He sent it to linguistic experts, historical scholars, theologians, everyone he could think of.”
“And no one could read it?” Benicio asked.
McCallum nodded. “No one had a clue. Even then, people said it was a hoax. One scholar said it was a book of meaningless gibberish. But Voynich kept searching. After he died and the book changed hands, people continued to search for the truth of it. But no one has ever decoded a single word.”
Benicio smiled. “An entire book written in a language we can’t figure out, even with all the computers and decryption technology these days.”
“It is a fantastic story. Even more interesting is that linguistic analysis of the manuscript shows it has all the features and characteristics of a real language. In other words, it isn’t gibberish. The words have an order and rhythm that suggest a real language.”
Benicio shook his head. “Wow.”
“Voynich’s wife inherited the manuscript when he died, and before she died she left it to a dear friend, who had once worked for her husband. The new owner sold the manuscript — already known as the Voynich — to H.P. Kraus, a book dealer, for about twent
y-four thousand dollars. Kraus was convinced the book was valuable and he harbored great expectations of its sale but was met with skepticism and disinterest. It seemed the general public had written the manuscript off as a hoax. As a result, Kraus finally gave up and donated the Voynich manuscript to Yale in 1969. Shortly after the donation, the Vatican sent a representative to work in the Beinecke Library.”
“Does anyone else know about the Vatican’s interest?” Benicio asked.
“It seems not, even though it’s no secret that the Vatican once possessed the book.”
“I hadn’t heard this part. The Vatican used to own the Voynich? Not just the monks at Mondragone?”
“The Vatican used to own it. Kraus purchased the manuscript in about 1963, then set about researching it so he could place a value on it. At some point he met a representative of the Vatican library, a Monsignor José Ruysschaert, and discreetly inquired about the Voynich. Ruysschaert fully believed the book was in the possession of the Vatican. Kraus, crafty soul that he was, asked to have a look. Ruysschaert went to the inner vaults but returned empty-handed. This was no surprise to Kraus, who told Ruysschaert he had the manuscript. Apparently, the Vatican had lost track of it in the distant past. Kraus made no secret about the church gaffe, but the Vatican played it down.”
“So what is the Voynich manuscript, exactly?” Benicio asked.
Father McCallum shrugged. “It’s a bound collection of parchment paper leaves, handwritten in a continuous flowing script, language unknown. There are more than two hundred and thirty pages, roughly broken into five sections — the sections are based on the crude drawings that appear throughout the manuscript. The herbal section features a number of drawings of plants, all unknown, of course. The second section is astronomical or cosmological and contains drawings of star systems and representations of what might be the zodiac. Next there is the biological section, with odd drawings of veins or blood vessels and portly, naked women. Then the pharmaceutical section, which has drawings of small containers and samples of medicinal plants and herbs. At the end is the recipe section — mainly lines of text, each starting with a drawing of a star. That’s the literal description of it, but what it is — no one knows.”
There was a long silence in the room. Finally Father McCallum spoke again. “Do you know what the Voynich actually is?”
Benicio shook his head. “No.”
“You don’t?” McCallum asked in surprise. “I assumed they would send an expert.”
Benicio laughed. “I only knew about half of the story you just told.”
“I’m confused,” McCallum said. Why has the Vatican sent this man to take over my life’s work? A man who knows less about the Voynich than I do? Father McCallum composed himself and asked, “What kind of cases do you normally investigate?”
“Events and puzzles related to mythology and biblical lore. When I was a graduate student, I researched the effect of myth on psychological well-being and social practice.”
“Myths,” the older priest said.
“Listen,” Benicio said gently, “obviously this is your project. I don’t plan on taking anything away from you. I want to help investigate whatever’s going on — that’s all. I want to put your mind at ease. I’m here to help you.”
Father McCallum immediately felt better. As much as he wanted to dislike this young priest, he couldn’t. The man was so respectful.
“Now,” Benicio continued, “do you have any idea why the church has been interested in the Voynich for all these years?”
“No,” Father McCallum said, deflated. “I was hoping you were here to tell me.”
“All I know is a rumor I heard once.”
“A rumor?”
Benicio grinned. “It’s a bit of strange one.”
The old priest leaned forward in his chair.
XXII
Benicio took a moment to compose himself before he started. “Do you know anything about the Nephilim?”
Father McCallum thought about it. “It rings a bell. Something Old Testament.”
“Yes,” Benicio said, “an Old Testament myth. The Nephilim are briefly mentioned as the half-breed children born of angels who had relations with women.”
Instantly, the color drained from Father McCallum’s face.
“What is it?” Benicio asked, alarmed.
“The boy,” the old priest said. “The boy who can read the manuscript. One of the things I heard him say was, ‘half man, half angel — God’s secret.’”
Now it was Benicio’s turn to be shocked. “The cardinal told me there was a child who could read the manuscript — but that’s all he told me. Did the boy really say that?”
“Yes.”
“How did you find this boy?”
“There was a school tour at the Beinecke. I found the boy staring at the Voynich display.”
Benicio whistled.
“So, what does it mean? Why can the boy read the book?” Father McCallum asked.
“I don’t know for sure.”
“What about the rumor you mentioned?”
Benicio nodded. “Right. The rumor is that the Voynich was the Nephilim’s story. The story is, God hated the Nephilim, and He hated the angels who disobeyed him by having relations with women. He wanted them all destroyed. That’s why God sent the floods to wipe out the world. But the world wasn’t wiped out. The Nephilim survived — a few of them, anyway. And they managed to memorize their history. It was passed down from one generation of Nephilim to the next until they could record it, in the pages of the Voynich manuscript.”
“Why can’t we decipher it?”
“It’s written in the language of the Nephilim, the half-breeds. A language we cannot read — by God’s command.”
“So God doesn’t want us to read it. It’s His secret.”
“Yeah, that’s part of the story.”
“You know,” Father McCallum said thoughtfully, “the very first thing the boy said was, ‘the language of the forsaken, the tongue of the dead.’”
“The word nephilim means the forsaken or the dead ones,” Benicio said slowly. “In ancient times, anyone thought to be Nephilim was considered dead already.”
“The Voynich is written in the tongue of the dead,” Father McCallum mused. He paused and then added, “That means the boy —”
“— is Nephilim,” Benicio finished.
XXIII
Jake quietly opened his office door. Harold Grower was sitting in the waiting room. He’d been sitting there for the last twenty minutes. Early for his appointment as usual. Jake never started sessions early — boundaries were a big issue. He closed the door silently and went to his desk. He had another minute before the session started.
On top of a pile of mail was a letter from Blue Cross, the health insurance company that would be paying for Harold’s appointments. Jake had sent Blue Cross an invoice for Harold’s first four sessions; this should be the check to cover them. He opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper. After Jake’s name, Harold’s name, and some dates, stamped at the top in bold capital letters was: CLAIM DENIED Beneath that there were strings of numbers and codes that inevitably described why the claim was denied. Jake shook his head and read no further. This happened frequently with insurance companies. A doctor might forget a signature or date on a claim form, and the claim would be denied. Sometimes claims were denied because the coverage in one calendar year had run out. Jake dropped the letter on his desk. He’d deal with it later.
He looked at his watch: eleven-thirty. Harold was his last appointment before lunch. He wished it were quitting time — he wanted to get home and see his family. He wanted to unwind. He wanted to see how Wyatt was doing.
Jake opened the door to his waiting room again, this time more noisily. Harold’s face lit up, and he jumped to his feet.
“Dr. Tunnel!”
“Come on in, Harold.”
The older, slightly overweight man came quickly into the office. His manners and agili
ty suggested a man younger than the graying hair and glasses suggested. Harold immediately settled on the couch as Jake dropped into his leather desk chair.
“What’s on the agenda today, Harold?” he asked casually.
Harold looked concerned. “I’m worried about you, Dr. Tunnel.”
Jake preferred not to be formal in speaking with clients and normally operated under first names. Some of his clients insisted on referring to him as “Dr. Tunnel” anyway — especially the older ones. Harold insisted on the title. “You’re worried about me?”
“I think you’re unhappy. I think you’re missing something.”
Jake shook his head. “You know what, you’re probably right, but I can’t let you use the session to help me. This is your time. It wouldn’t be fair.” Jake used the classic therapy line to get out of talking about himself.
“Oh, I don’t mind. I think it’s important.”
Harold had been referred to Jake by the military base. Jake had a steady stream of patients from cfb Halifax, which housed a large segment of Canada’s naval fleet. The base had its own psychiatrists and psychologists, but management often sent personnel to private doctors for ongoing therapy. Harold’s therapy was definitely ongoing.
Six months ago, Harold Grower, a Navy helicopter pilot, was sent to help locate the crew members of a fishing boat that had capsized during a bad storm. Harold had gone to the back of the chopper to bring a rescue diver and a fisherman up on the winch while the co-pilot flew the chopper. Somehow, Harold fell out of the helicopter and dropped fifty feet into the cold, thrashing waters of the Atlantic in the pitch dark. He was in the water for almost twenty minutes before the co-pilot found him and he was winched onboard. Harold Grower had been off duty for five months, and talked constantly about how God had saved him that night.
“Are you happy?” Harold asked intently. “I mean are you really happy, deep down inside?”
It was a bad time to ask that particular question. Jake was tempted to say he wasn’t the slightest bit happy. He was tempted to say his son was sick, and all Jake wanted was for Wyatt to be better. He knew he couldn’t say any of those things: the psychologist must seem invulnerable. If he showed his flaws, Jake would not be convincing as a healer. Clients need to borrow from the strength and resolve of the therapist. “I’m fine — how have you been feeling?”