by Brad Kelln
Written in Central Europe [?] at the end of the 15th or during the 16th [?] century; the origin and date of the manuscript are still being debated as vigorously as are its puzzling drawings and undeciphered text. The identification of several of the plants as New World specimens brought back to Europe by Columbus indicates that the manuscript could not have been written before 1493. The codex belonged to Emperor Rudolph II of Germany (Holy Roman Emperor, 1576–1612), who purchased it for 600 gold ducats and believed that it was the work of Roger Bacon. It is very likely that Emperor Rudolph acquired the manuscript from the English astrologer John Dee (1527–1608) whose foliation remains in the upper right corner of each leaf (we thank A.G. Watson for confirming this identification through a comparison of the Arabic numerals in the Voynich manuscript with those of John Dee in Oxford, Bodleian Library Ashmole 1790, f. 9v, and Ashmole 487). Dee apparently owned the manuscript along with a number of other Roger Bacon manuscripts; he was in Prague 1582–86 and was in contact with Emperor Rudolph during this period. In addition, Dee stated that he had 630 ducats in October 1586, and his son Arthur (cited by Sir T. Browne, Works, G. Keynes, ed. [1931] v. 6, p. 325) noted that Dee, while in Bohemia, owned “a booke … containing nothing butt Hieroglyphicks, which booke his father bestowed much time upon: but I could not heare that hee could make it out.” Emperor Rudolph seems to have given the manuscript to Jacobus Horcicky de Tepenecz (d. 1622); inscription on f. 1r “Jacobi de Tepenecz” (erased but visible under ultraviolet light). Johannes Marcus Marci of Cronland presented the book to Athanasius Kircher, S.J. (1601–80) in 1666. Acquired by Wilfred M. Voynich in 1912 from the Jesuit College at Frascati near Rome. Given to the Beinecke Library in 1969 by H.P. Kraus (Cat. 100, pp. 42–44, no. 20) who had purchased it from the estate of Ethel Voynich.
Jake stretched and yawned. He couldn’t imagine why the church would be interested in this particular old book. Despite what Ben had told him, it sounded as if the book wasn’t even religious.
He left the Beinecke website, returned to Google, and noticed a site that offered photographs of each and every page of the book. He took a quick peek at some of the pages. The library’s description had been accurate: the manuscript was littered with odd drawings of plants, obscure star systems, chubby women, and veins and arteries.
He went back to Google and typed “Voynich mystery.” A list of sites popped up, and in one listing Jake noticed the word “Necronomicon.” That sounded familiar.
He clicked on the listing and a site about witchcraft and magic appeared on the computer screen. Jake remembered where he’d heard about the Necronomicon. About five years ago he’d had a teenage client, Ryan, who was interested in demon worship; he dressed in black, dyed his hair black, and walked around moody and dark all the time. He’d been sinking deeper and deeper into the underground occult scene — Satan worship and black witchcraft. His parents were afraid he was getting himself into something unhealthy, and sent him to Jake. He only saw Ryan two or three times, but he remembered the teenager talking about the Necronomicon and how it was supposed to have been written by Satan — or was it about Satan?
Jake skimmed the website and found the reference to the Voynich:
Many scholars suspect that the Voynich is the only authentic Necronomicon left in circulation. There is no doubt that one of the original owners of the manuscript, Emperor Rudolph II of Germany, was incredibly superstitious and searched the world for unusual and bizarre finds. His official court was full of dwarfs, giants, and sorcerers of every description. Additionally, there is evidence that the Emperor sent numerous envoys to the Middle East in search of the Necronomicon (the original version of the book having been allegedly written in ad 700).
In order to maintain the integrity and safety of the Necronomicon, the Voynich version was written in a language that could only be interpreted with the correct cipher. The power of the Necronomicon meant that it could never be allowed into general circulation, and every version, other than the Voynich, was destroyed.
It is unclear whether the drawings represent important aspects of the Necronomicon content or perhaps a distraction for the uninitiated. Additionally, references to Sir Roger Bacon in the construction of the Necronomicon are not entirely without merit in this interpretation. Sir Roger was intimately involved in the translation of many religious documents and is widely credited with the introduction of the English version of the Bible (the exact details of which are not without their own mystery and controversy). In any event, one thing that has not been conclusively determined is whether the Necronomicon is a Satanic book of spells (as many naïve occult groups vocally espouse) or some darker version of the Bible. If the latter were the case it would certainly be plausible that Sir Roger would take care in crafting a version of the Necronomicon that could be concealed from the general public.
Jake whistled. It was beginning to look as if there really was a mystery. He clicked back to Google, typed “Necronomicon,” and hit Enter. No results. He hit Enter again.
Still nothing.
He moved the mouse in a little circle. The cursor didn’t move. “Damn,” he muttered.
He tapped a few keys. No response. “Hell.” He pressed Control + Alt + Delete.
Nothing.
He wondered if he could log onto another computer while he was still logged into this one. Or maybe he could find a reset button. There was a little red circle next to the power button. He pressed it.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Jake turned his head. A man in a red windbreaker and khaki pants stood in the doorway, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“Yes?”
“We’re having some technical difficulties with the system and I need to ask you to leave.”
Jake frowned. That’s oddly worded. “You have to ask me to leave? Why?”
The man shifted again. “It’s going to take a while and, um, we need to have access to —”
Jake said, “You don’t need every computer. What’s going on here?” He was slightly surprised by his abrasive manner but he realized that the stress of all the recent events, including Wyatt, had left him feeling fairly raw.
The man was obviously nervous, as though he’d anticipated resistance. “I really can’t get into it. You’d have to talk to my supervisor. I don’t know what’s going on between you and the university.”
Jake stood abruptly. “What are you talking about?” Me and the university?
The IT guy took a step back even though Jake was still nowhere near him. He held up his hands in acquiescence. “I was told to monitor the Internet for certain search topics, and you went to some of them.”
“What topics? You mean like Voynich?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“Well, um, that necro thing. Necrophiliac, um, and —”
“Forget that. What topics were you watching for that I didn’t get to?”
The guy looked genuinely confused. “What?”
“You were watching for specific search terms. What’s on the list that I didn’t look for?”
“I don’t think —”
In a few strides Jake was right in front of the it guy. “Just tell me, and then I’ll go.”
The IT man was sweating. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “I don’t know. I think we were also scanning for book of the dead and nephi-something. It all sounds like gobbledygook to me.”
Jake figured the technician had told him as much as he could. He pulled his jacket off the back of the chair.
“Okay,” he said, and stormed out of the library.
LIII
Jeremy parked in a lot just off Spring Garden Road. Maury held the satellite phone in his lap.
“What are we going to tell him?” Jeremy finally asked.
“About what?”
“Those dudes,” Jeremy said. “Are we going to say something about the bullet?”
Maury put a hand on his abdomen but didn’t say anything.
“D
o you think Benicio’s right?” Jeremy said. “Maybe we aren’t Nephilim. Maybe the cardinal has been lying to us.”
“So we’re just a couple of lepers?”
“I don’t know.” Jeremy was quiet for a moment. “I mean those guys — the ones that healed you. They said they wanted the boy. They said he was the last of the Nephilim.”
“Those guys were fuckin’ wacko.”
“But they healed you,” Jeremy said. “The dude put his hand on your gut, and you were better.”
Maury couldn’t argue with that. “I’m going to call,” he said finally, and started pushing buttons on the phone.
“What’re you going to say?”
“I don’t know.” He finished dialing and held the phone to his ear.
The familiar ring tone sounded twice before a voice answered.
“What news?”
It was Cardinal Espinosa.
“We’re in Halifax. Benicio is here with the boy.”
“How long?” the cardinal asked sharply.
“Soon, I hope.”
“I want the boy here. Do whatever you have to do, but get him here.”
“There’s another thing,” Maury said tentatively.
“What?”
“There’s other people interested in the boy.”
“Other people?”
Maury hesitated then said, “There were two other guys. Strange guys.”
“How were they strange?”
“Um, they sort of gave the impression they were, uh …”
“Be articulate!” the cardinal barked.
“They said they were angels and they needed to get rid of the boy. They said he’s the last Nephilim.”
There was a very long pause.
“Did they say anything else?” There was a definite change of tone in Espinosa’s voice.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Don’t trust them,” the cardinal ordered. “Don’t talk to them. They are not of God. They are banished from the Kingdom. They will deceive you.”
“Whoa,” Maury said, surprised at the hatred and fear in the cardinal’s voice. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Don’t question me,” Cardinal Espinosa commanded. “Find the boy. Bring him to me. Do not let the angels near him.”
The line went dead.
Jeremy grinned at him. “How’s the old shit doing? Does he send his love?”
Maury turned the phone off and dropped it on the floor behind the front seat. “Let’s go.”
“To where?”
“I’m thirsty. I’m going into that drugstore and getting something to drink and buying a map of Halifax.”
Jeremy shrugged, and they got out of the car.
Cardinal Espinosa was shaking. He hadn’t slept in a few days; he’d been sitting at his desk, waiting for news, waiting for the phone to ring.
He’d never expected to hear that the angels were back. Seventy generations have passed. I won’t let those cursed angels cause any more damage. The Voynich will be mine, as will the boy who can read it. The church will never need to worry about this again. I’ll make sure of it.
LIV
Matthew ate all the pancakes, and Benicio felt better once both of them had food in them. He also felt better with coffee in him. And he felt better because he’d made a decision. He was going to find the police station. He refused to be a fugitive any longer.
The server came to see if they wanted anything else.
“That was great, thank you,” Benicio said. “I wonder if I can ask a question, though?”
She paused with the plates in her arms. “Sure.”
“I think I know, but can you point us in the direction of Dalhousie University? We’re meeting my friend at the library there.”
She nodded enthusiastically. “I go to school there. I’m taking pre-law. Dal is just down Spring Garden. Basically, go right up to the top of the street, get on Spring Garden, and go down to the end …”
“That’s great. Is it too far to walk, though?” He glanced at Matthew.
She shook her head.
“Thanks again,” he said, and left cash and a generous tip on the table, then he and Matthew left the restaurant. They headed out through the lobby, the way they’d arrived, and ended up on Salter Street. Benicio started walking in the direction the server had suggested, and Matthew followed along.
After only a short walk, Benicio saw the sign for Spring Garden Road. He turned onto the street and kept moving, Matthew two steps behind him.
“Father Valori?”
Benicio saw two men approaching, one athletic-looking, the other heavy-set and bearded. The younger man had a large black leather portfolio under his arm. Benicio was about to lead Matthew around them to continue down the street when the younger man held his hand up.
“Father Valori?” the man said again.
“No, I’m sorry,” Benicio said quickly, and tried to walk around them. Were they from the fbi? The Vatican? Either way he didn’t want to talk to them.
“Please wait,” the younger man said, and stood right in front of Benicio.
“You’re blocking our way. Please move,” Benicio said firmly.
“We won’t hurt you,” the bearded man said gently. “The boy is forsaken. It is the boy we want.”
Forsaken? “What are you talking about?”
“Do you know who we are?” the younger man asked.
Benicio looked at the men carefully. “More goons from the Vatican?”
The bearded man laughed.
“Look again,” the younger man said.
Benicio stared at him. Something was not right about the young man. The priest turned to look at the older man’s face. It took a moment, but — there! A faint outline. An aura.
A slight glow surrounded each man’s face.
The younger man waved his hand in front of Benicio’s face. As it moved, the hand left a slight trace of gold in the air. Benicio blinked.
“Father Valori,” the younger man said quietly. “You should not be involved in this. You can’t possibly understand what is happening.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Shemhazai. This is Azazel.”
Benicio knew that was ridiculous. A zillion years ago, Shemhazai and Azazel led the rogue angels who had impregnated women. The two angels were given the harshest of punishments: banishment on Earth. Seventy generations of suffering.
Seventy generations! He remembered something from his dream. One of the women in his dream had said, Maury and Jeremy are not the real enemies. Seventy generations has come to an end, and then there was something about the fathers. Beware the fathers. The fathers of the forsaken.
“You know who we are, don’t you?” Azazel said, reading the recognition on the priest’s face. “That’s good.”
“How is this possible?” Benicio asked. “Non capisco.”
“You don’t need to understand,” Shemhazai said in perfect Italian. “We are here to claim the boy — our descendant. He is the last of our line.”
Benicio had almost forgotten about Matthew. He turned to look behind him but didn’t get that far — the boy was right beside him, and he looked terrified. Seeing his fear snapped Benicio out of his stupor. “You can’t have him.”
“Don’t try to stop us,” Azazel said quietly. “Walk away now.”
Benicio looked up and down the busy sidewalk and noticed two police officers across the road.
He turned to the angels. “No,” he shouted. “No! I don’t want to buy drugs from you! Leave me and my son alone!”
Shemhazai glared at Benicio, then saw the cops.
“Get away from me,” Benicio yelled. “I’m not going to buy any drugs from you!”
“You idiot,” Azazel whispered.
The policemen were halfway across the street, heading right for them.
“You haven’t changed anything,” Shemhazai said quietly.
“What’s going on
?” one of the officers asked, and stopped next to Benicio.
“Officers, I need your help. This boy has been kidnapped and these men are trying to hurt him. Take the boy and me to the police station. I can explain there.”
“Maybe we better see some ids,” the second cop said.
Azazel sighed. “I think we can clear this up.” He moved, his arm, a blur of muscle and speed, and he touched the forehead of the officer closest to him. The officer winced in pain, then froze.
The second officer reached for his gun, but Shemhazai pushed him into the road, right into the path of a fast-moving city bus.
Benicio stared in disbelief as the bus swept the policeman off his feet and tossed him high into the air. It was like a special effect in a movie. A few seconds later the cop slammed into a street sign then collapsed onto the road. Benicio turned back and saw the first cop on the sidewalk; his skin was an unhealthy pale gray. Benicio looked at Matthew. The boy’s mouth was wide open, and he looked like he was screaming. Yet the sound seemed muffled. Everything felt dull and slow, as if the whole world was folding in on itself and crushing the sound out of everything.