by Amy Marie
From this distance, I should be able to see him clearly, but it’s hard to take in every detail in the dusk. He’s wearing dark clothes, which explains why I may not have noticed him right away.
Realizing he must’ve been watching me, I finally register what he said.
Sunshine?
A million emotions run through me as I recognize the term of endearment – but from where? It’s a common nickname these days. My parents used to call me their little shining light, and they’d say my smile could blind them. But there’s no way this man could know that. And something about his accent is off, or his manner of speech. And his voice…
From my dreams.
My thoughts are in a flurry with all of my senses tingling. My mind is trying to grasp for an answer that’s just beyond its reach.
The dark stranger’s handsome features distract me. In my curiosity, I finally make eye contact and the countering charge that runs through my body in response almost brings me to my knees. My mind is in utter chaos as it tries to catch up and make sense of flashing memories, overwhelming senses, and blinding energy that’s shaking me to the core from his hazel eyes.
This unexpected assault in my head takes me running back into the trees as if my life depends on it. After reaching the trail and backtracking through the park, my pace slows only enough to ease the pain in my side as I re-enter a populated area.
Turning around to be sure there’s no sign of being followed, the world around me begins to return to normal. On the way back, I take a couple of extra turns, just in case. Back at my building, I check the street up and down before feeling comfortable enough to go inside without being watched.
Inside, my shaking hands bolt and lock the door. I lean my head against the frame to catch my breath as the utter confusion of whatever just happened drains me.
“Geez, Nora. Are you okay?” Char jumps up from her seat to hug me. In distress, I’m grateful she’s come home.
“I– I don’t know what happened.” I can’t stop shaking, trying to make sense of everything in my head.
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Should I call the police?” Her voice rises in panic as she grabs her phone.
“No… no, I just…” I trail off. How do I explain this? I’m not even sure what happened.
“Here, sit down. I’ll get you some juice, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Char crosses to the kitchen and pours me a glass of orange juice.
A ghost. That’s as good of an explanation as any right now. I certainly feel haunted at the moment. I’ve never necessarily believed in ghosts, but I never have been one to rule out possibilities until I have my own proof. She hands me the juice and forces me to drink as she bombards me with questions.
Waving them all away, I explain, “I went for a jog. Just went down to the park. You know, the one we passed coming home from the bar the other night?”
She nods at my question.
“Well, I saw a little path that led to the river. I know it was getting dark, but something made me want to go check it out.” I pause, unsure of how to explain to her that I’ve been there before. Or how to tell her that I met a man that I recognized from my dreams by his eyes? She may be my best friend, but that might not stop her from having me hospitalized.
“Nora, were you attacked?” she asks, eyes full of worry.
“No. Just startled. There was a man there…” I trail off. The truth was that he didn’t attack me, he didn’t threaten me, and he didn’t even pursue me – so far as I know.
“Was it the man from the other night? The one who was creeping you out at the club?”
“No. He was… that was different.” I haven’t forgotten about that guy. Even though there have been times that I have felt that same unease as if being watched, I haven’t actually seen him since that night.
Thank goodness.
No. This stranger tonight seemed dark and mysterious. He didn’t necessarily scare me. The unknown memories – they scare me.
When he spoke, I remembered his voice. When I looked at him, I remembered his features. When I looked into his eyes, I knew him – even though I’m sure that I’ve never met him before in my life.
How do you explain that to someone without sounding insane?
“I wasn’t expecting anyone to be there. It just caught me off guard. I was scared because I was by myself. I probably overreacted. Just being extra cautious after last weekend.” I attempt to downplay the event, but Char knows I’m brushing her off. She bites her lip, but stays silent.
In an effort to distract her, I tell her about my visit with Uncle Mike. All except for the part about the project he wants me to help him with. I even mention Rafe’s unfortunate circumstance of being named after a Ninja Turtle, and we laugh, putting us both a little more at ease.
We make a late dinner, and I let her sit me down to a round of reality TV to occupy my mind from the thoughts that will consume me all night.
Later in bed, I sit awake in fear of the coming dreams. There’s only one thing I know for sure: There are now two men that have given me the feeling that I’ve met them before. They both seemed… well, I’m not sure yet.
I struggle to think of any specifics about the man by the river, but all that keeps flashing through my mind are his eyes.
Turning on my bedside lamp, I go through my desk for a notebook or something to draw on. Coming up short, I grab my oversized purse and tear a page out of a planner kept inside. I grab a pencil from my desk and begin to sketch.
My love for drawing began at a young age. It was a creative outlet for my feelings when my parents died. I haven’t drawn in years, but the skill is easily rediscovered as I begin to draw a man’s face. As his empty stare is re-created, fear begins to shake my hands. I crumple up the paper, afraid that finishing it might make the blond man appear.
Grabbing another page from the book, I begin drawing a different face, and a lifelike set of eyes that I know to be hazel. The rest of the man’s features spill onto the page from my mind.
In the end, a stark rendition of a dark-haired man with a strong jaw-line gazes back at me. Staring at the picture, despite my greatest efforts, I can’t conjure any specifics about him – just his looks.
I close my eyes and concentrate on his voice. I can almost hear him as if he’s right next to me.
“Eleanor…”
My eyes fly open and I jump from the bed in alarm.
Heart pounding, I scan the room, but don’t see anything. Feeling child-like, I check under the bed and in the closet – I’m alone.
Grabbing the planner and papers, I stuff everything into my purse and hurl it across the room. I need to do whatever I can to occupy my mind until I can figure out what is going on with these strangers.
I put on my headphones and play some classical music to lull me to sleep.
Chapter 8
My nights are full of fitful dreams. I’ve kept myself so distracted that Friday afternoon at work, I barely even hear Rafe as he asks if Char and I are interested in another night of watching baseball.
“Are you okay?” he asks, finally catching my attention. “You’ve been pretty out of it these past few days.”
“Oh yeah,” I say, unable to come up with an excuse for the evening and my meeting with Uncle Mike. “I can’t make it tonight, but I’ll call you tomorrow to make some sort of plans for the weekend. Maybe we can all go to Fenway.”
That satisfies him.
My mind wanders to what will take place in my meeting with Uncle Mike tonight. I wonder for perhaps the thousandth time what he could possibly have in store for me.
Counting down the last few minutes at work, I say goodbye to Rafe, promising to call him later in the weekend. Before I walk out the door, an idea pops into my head.
“Rafe?”
“What’s up?” he asks as he readies to go himself.
“I think Char is free tonight, for the game… you should give her a call.”
There. That should keep Char too occu
pied to wonder why I won’t be home. It can’t hurt, and I think she’ll be pleased. I’ll have to think of something to tell her about my absences if these meetings continue.
That evening, as I lock up the front door of the apartment, another uneasy feeling of being watched takes hold of me. As I prepare to get in my car, my eye catches sight of a figure peering around the corner of my building. Pausing, I double take and whatever it was that caught my attention is gone.
Wasting no time, I get in and lock the doors, pulling away a bit recklessly. I do my best to push agitation aside, shrugging off my nonsense imagination of glimpsing a man’s blond hair and formidable empty stare.
A short time later in Cambridge, I find my way around campus to the almost deserted Andover Hall. You can definitely tell it’s a Friday night, theological students or not.
Finding Uncle Mike’s office after only one wrong turn, I knock on the mahogany door. There’s no turning back now.
Uncle Mike welcomes me into his study, which has been tidied up since my last visit. I search for a hint at what project we might be working on, but find no clues.
He offers me some tea and asks how my week went, wondering if there was anything out of the ordinary.
I pause. How can I even begin to tell an esteemed scholar about the madness going on in my head? Evasion is my only option.
My cheeks warm under his perusal as I tell him that my week was fine. With a quick change of subject, I tell him I’ve been looking forward to finding out what we’ll be working on.
“I must admit I’ve been struggling all week about where to start with this project,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. “It’s somewhat delicate because I can’t exactly go back to the beginning without confusing or overwhelming you, so please bear with me.”
Nodding, I set down my purse and accept the offered cup of tea. I settle into the wingback chair as if I’m a single student in a private lecture, ready for class to begin.
“I may touch on some historical knowledge you will already be aware of, but it’s all part of the puzzle. Not meant to offend you, of course.”
Again, I nod.
“So, you might know Harvard was founded in 1636, but the divinity school here was not established until much later in 1816. A great deal happened in this area in between that time period. What would you say the most significant event that took place during that time would be?” he asks me.
“Well, the American Revolution, I guess,” I say, wondering if I’m being tricked.
“Precisely what most of the general population would say. And they would be correct, as far as they know…” Uncle Mike trails off with flair, showing genuine excitement. I’m struck by how much he reminds me of an older version of Rafe.
“You know from your work that, aside from the nation’s capital, Boston is practically the centralized archive of American history. But the world doesn’t know of a much more significant course of events that took place here during this time that not only ties in with the Revolution, but can be connected to ancient history dating back throughout early human civilization. Perhaps even beyond.”
The United States may be approaching its sester-centennial celebration, but I would hardly associate that with ancient history. I wonder what Uncle Mike could possibly be referring to, but he’s piqued my interest.
Sitting down himself, Uncle Mike settles in for the beginning of his explanation.
“I’ll start with the story of a young boy named Gabriel Grafton. He grew up in this area in the mid 1700’s as the son of a local gunsmith. His father’s land bordered against the estate of a wealthy merchant and his daughter. The families were very close, but when the gunsmith died unexpectedly, Gabriel was sent to live with an uncle. Gabriel’s uncle came from a long line of printers, and gave young Gabriel an apprenticeship to learn the trade. When Gabriel came of age, he was sent back to Cambridge for schooling here at Harvard. Upon graduation, he reclaimed his father’s land to start his business with a friend he had gone to school with.”
There are parts of this story that sound similar to something that I may have read or heard before, but I avidly listen as he continues.
“Gabriel had resumed his old friendship with his merchant neighbor, and was happy to see that his daughter had blossomed into a beautiful young woman. He had always thought of her as a sister, and was delighted to be reunited with the people who were as good as family to him. Now during this time in Gabriel’s life, there was quite a bit of political turmoil, as you well know. His neighbor, the merchant, was brothers with the local governor, and was housing British officers hoping to incite a match with his daughter.”
I nod. I can picture Uncle Mike’s setting of this story quite easily. Maybe there’s a movie about it.
“Gabriel was torn because he cared very much for his neighbor family, but he was favoring the rebel cause, and had even begun to print rebel propaganda in secret.”
I wonder how much Uncle Mike is embellishing this story for dramatics. It would be difficult to know these intimate connections and details of a person’s life without recorded personal accounts such as letters, journals, or diaries. “Do you have any personal accounts relating to Gabriel on hand?” I decide to interrupt to ask.
“Personal accounts we’ll get to, my dear. But you must have a little faith,” he says, shaking a pointed finger at me in jest.
He moves to his desk. Reaching down into his bottom drawer, he recovers some dated books and documents. “I haven’t found many records of Gabriel aside from his enrollment records at Harvard, and a few of his rebel propaganda prints. It seems as if someone went to great lengths to be sure most of his personal property was destroyed.”
He hands me some photocopies of documents, and photographs of antique revolutionary propaganda.
“Hmm, what exactly happened to him?” I ask, flipping through the documents.
“Gabriel was executed under the suspicion of being a dangerous rebel. His property was destroyed. His business partner escaped, and sadly these pamphlets are all that is left to remember his existence.”
My heart sinks. There’s always sadness in uncovering stories of tragedy. In historical contexts, it’s usually a disconnected sadness. But for some reason, this story has a strong effect on me.
Poor Gabriel.
What about the young neighbor girl? I imagine she was devastated. I say a little prayer for Gabriel in my head, as I’m brought back to the attention of the photographed pamphlets in my hand.
“These are quite a find, but how do you know Gabriel was the printer? I’m sure he was smart enough not to put his name on treasonous rebel propaganda?” I ask, holding them up in scrutiny.
“Right. Of course he wouldn’t. He used the print mark of one of his ancestors. His uncle passed it down to him. It’s just there, on the bottom corner, if you can make it out.” He points to a small symbol I had overlooked in the corner of each of the documents.
A small noise escapes my lips in reaction to the symbol.
Uncle Mike sits down to study me over the rim of his glasses.
“Eleanor, you know this mark?” he asks.
In fact, I do. It’s the same printer’s mark that Rafe pointed out to me on my tour of this hall. That would insinuate a huge connection!
I’m brought back to the conspiracy theory Rafe uncovered to me. Could parts of it be true? Is Uncle Mike about to reveal ancient history to me? My pulse is racing at the prospects.
Snapping back to attention, I answer Uncle Mike. “Yes. I believe I’ve seen this symbol in this building. I can’t remember the name of the room, but this mark is designed on one of the windows. Rafe pointed it out to me when he gave me a tour of the building.”
“Ah, I had a feeling about that young man after I met him.” Uncle Mike shakes his head in confirmation. “Yes, that mark is the same. It has since been used on other historical buildings including several free press buildings. It’s even displayed in the Library of Congress. It has become quite a symbol
of significance. I suppose young Raphael has told you some sort of theory surrounding this symbol?”
“Well, yes he has,” I hesitate, not sure where to begin. “He said there’s a common theory, and a much lesser-known theory. Both theories relating back to a royal printer in the sixteenth century who was famous for printing Bibles in English, thus enabling the general public to ‘receive the engrafted word.’ The lesser-known theory includes the same printer undergoing the printing of a secret ancient text dating far back throughout human history that has since disappeared, and this symbol now possibly representing a group of people who protect the long-lost text.”
“My word, what a stretch, eh?” Uncle Mike laughs. “Would you believe both theories hold some partial truths?”
My heart skips a beat – I’m such a nerd.
“You mean to tell me of the existence of a printed text of prehistoric instructions that can help mankind defeat an ancient evil?” I ask, sure that my eyebrows have surpassed my hairline.
“No, my dear, I mean to tell you I believe a text was printed. Your own faith will tell you how to interpret anything we may find. That is the beauty and curse of the ‘engrafted word’… it all comes down to interpretation. Now, let’s get back to these theories, so I can explain what I know to you.”
I hold up a hand to stop him before he goes on. “Uncle Mike, don’t you suppose Rafe is more qualified to help you on this project? This is exactly why he wants to work with you. What you’re talking about is everything he’s described to me for his dissertation. He’s much more educated on the theological side. I’m flattered that you would consider me, but I feel as if I’m not qualified for such an enormous breakthrough if you actually have concrete evidence of this.”
Uncle Mike sits contemplating me for a moment.
“Eleanor, I am not an ignorant man. I’ve been very aware of what Raphael has been poking into for some time now. He has largely been turned away because my focus has been on a much more important piece of this puzzle. There’s something that needs to be done before he can be brought in on this.”