The Ghost Manuscript

by Kris Frieswick

  “But what does ‘playing ball’ mean, exactly?” she asked. “How can we prove it’s Arthur without ruining the tribe? Revealing who is in that burial site is a losing proposition for them on every level. They have no reason to cooperate.”

  “I’m working on something,” said Harper. “I’ll tell you about it when it’s a little more fully formed. In the meantime, we should let them know what they’re facing. We can’t waste time trying to find a perfect solution before we get things moving here.”

  “It’s going to be ugly,” she said. “They’ll be fighting for their identity.”

  “I know,” said Harper. “I’ll call Sachem Clark and tell her we need to meet with the Tribal Council. Today.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  Harper’s phone call with Clark did not go smoothly. Harper reminded her of their conversation the previous day, that he had some evidence that white men had come to the Mattakeese fifteen hundred years ago. This time, however, he also mentioned that he had evidence that many of them had stayed when their leader left. Physical evidence—scientifically verifiable and conclusive.

  This new wrinkle was met with the same blank, emotionless denial that had greeted them at the office the day before. When Harper pushed, insisting that he understood what this discovery would mean for the Mattakeese tribe of the Wampanoag nation of the great Algonquin peoples, and its future, the denial changed to anger, then rage, and then, like the final stage of grief, something that Harper thought sounded very close to acceptance, or at least defeat. Clark agreed to arrange a closed-door meeting that night with the five-member council.

  “I told them I’d bring the manuscript,” said Harper. “So they can see for themselves that we aren’t making it up. Can you translate a few of the meaty parts—the burial scene, the part where he says half his men stayed behind, gifting the tribe the sword as payment for their promise to guard the tomb—things like that. Stuff they might recognize.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Oh, and translate the part about Morfran’s warning about other strange men who may follow after him,” said Harper. “The tribe will definitely recognize that part of the story. Sachem Clark especially.”

  She spent most of the day on her task, while Dafydd sat in the backyard, soaking up the sun. Harper busied himself with documents and phone calls. He was setting something in motion legally—some sort of offer for the Mattakeese, something to persuade them to go along with Harper’s search. She couldn’t wait to find out how he was going to do it.

  She called Annie and told her about the meeting.

  “Be careful,” said Annie. “The Morfran manuscript is the closest thing that this tribe has to a Bible—and this one is actually true. There’s no telling what they’d do to get their hands on it.”

  The thought sent a chill up her spine.

  That bible might turn out to be the best bargaining chip they had.

  She worked for the rest of the afternoon on the translations, barely touching her lunch. Dafydd came and went, checking in on her from time to time, lightly kissing her on the neck, but she barely acknowledged his presence.

  When the translation was done and printed out, she spent several more hours photographing, in high-definition on her phone, every single page of the manuscript and taking careful notes on its construction and materials. She transferred the images to her cloud account and set them up on her computer so they would run in a slide show. She highlighted the pages that contained the text that she’d translated. It was like doing a book report.

  Then she slid both manuscripts and the monk’s translation into a plastic bag, sealed it, and went outside, where she hid it somewhere she was sure no one would find it—a hole she dug at the base of the wisteria plant growing up the secluded arbor in the forest behind the inn. She could have given them to Dafydd. But if the worst happened, if someone came after them, it would be better if she was the only one who knew where they were. She knew she would never tell.

  At quarter to six, Harper came by her room.

  “How did the translation go?” he asked.

  “Very well,” she said. “Pretty straightforward. I also photographed the entire manuscript so that we don’t have to take it with us to the meeting.”

  Harper bristled.

  “We have to take it,” he said. “Why on earth would they agree to the deal if they weren’t sure that we actually have the book?”

  She spun her computer around to face Harper and hit the play button. A video started—Carys, stating her name and the date. Then the video zoomed in on the date on the front page of that day’s Barnstable Patriot newspaper. In the same continuous shot, she placed the newspaper down next to Morfran’s manuscript and carefully flipped through the first few pages to show that they matched the ones in the photos.

  “Huh,” said Harper. “You sure you weren’t a spy in a previous life?”

  “Pretty sure,” she said, grinning. “If the tribe believes us—if they believe this manuscript is authentic—they’re going to want to just take it and make us go away. They have guns. And they outnumber us.”

  Harper sat still as he processed this. It was obvious by the tightness in his jaw that he hadn’t even considered this possibility. She waited while he thought it through.

  “You’re right,” he said. “We can’t risk bringing it with us. Tonight is just about making our case.”

  “John,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “What are we going to offer them?”

  “Their past…and their future,” said Harper.

  She couldn’t imagine what he was talking about, but they didn’t have time to chat about it. This was Harper’s show, not hers. She had to keep remembering that.

  “I’ll go get Dafydd,” she said. “I think we’ll need safety in numbers.”

  “No,” said Harper. “Just you and me. Too many people and they’ll get scared. Best we leave Dafydd out of this.”

  Carys was going to fight, but he was right.

  “I’ll go tell him we’re leaving,” she said.

  “Did you put the manuscripts somewhere safe?” asked Harper.

  “Very safe,” she said.

  Harper left. She went to Dafydd’s door and knocked.

  “Hi, beautiful,” he said, then pulled her in and began to kiss her. With great effort, she pulled away.

  “I just came to tell you that we’re heading to the Tribal Council meeting now,” she said.

  “Oh,” said Dafydd. “I didn’t know it had been set. Let’s go.”

  She swallowed.

  “You’re not invited, I’m afraid,” she said. He started to open his mouth, his shoulders thrown back, and she put her hand on his chest. “These are just the preliminary negotiations, and it will be best if it’s just me and Harper. We don’t want them thinking that their secret has gone international.”

  “I don’t like it,” he said. “Are you going to give them the manuscript tonight?”

  “Absolutely not,” she said. “It’s in a safe place. We won’t let them near it until we have some assurances that they’ll cooperate.” She smiled at him. “I’m sorry to leave you behind. I’ll make it up to you when I get back.”

  He smiled and then kissed her softly.

  “You better,” he said. “Good luck.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  Carys kept her bag containing the computer and the Morfran translation on her lap during the drive to the tribal office. She didn’t like being so far from both of the manuscripts. She felt like she was missing a piece of herself.

  They arrived a few minutes early, and a couple of cars were pulling up in front of the office. She and Harper got out of the Range Rover and met the eyes of the two other arrivals but exchanged no greetings. The drivers, a middle-aged man and an old, gray-haired woman with a slight stoop, shook han
ds with each other silently and proceeded inside the building, not bothering to hold the door open for she and Harper. Harper stood in front of the closed door and looked over at her.

  “Well,” he said. “This is getting off to a great start.”

  She shrugged.

  “It’s not like they are happy about this,” she said.

  Harper reached for the door handle, then paused.

  “We can’t tell them who is in that grave,” he said. “If they knew, they would never let us near it. We have to keep that to ourselves until we’ve arrived at a deal.”

  “What if they already know?” she asked.

  “I guarantee you they don’t,” said Harper. “Arcturus was just a brave warrior when he was buried here. Only time turned him into King Arthur, and they haven’t been part of the story. We have the only link between the legend and the man in that tomb—the Lestinus manuscript.”

  They pulled open the door and entered. There were three men—one a very old white-haired man they were seeing for the first time—and two women, including the sachem. The council ranged in age from around forty to well past eighty. The youngest was Michael Heath. He glared at Carys with his deep-set eyes, then looked away. This was going to be bad.

  Harper approached Clark.

  “Good evening, Sachem,” he said, extending his hand. “Thank you very much for agreeing to meet with us today.”

  She did not shake his hand. “It didn’t seem like we had much choice in the matter,” she said. “Let’s get started.”

  The tribal council members took their places on one side of the conference table, and Carys and Harper sat on the other. She pulled her computer out of her bag, put it on the table, and fired it up. It sprang to life with an unexpectedly loud musical flourish that couldn’t have been more out of place. She cringed.

  “I call the Mattakeese tribal council to order,” said Clark, “and seeing that we have a quorum, I ask you to state your name and tell us what business you have before us.”

  Harper took a deep breath. Tension radiated off of his body.

  “Councilors,” said Harper. “My name is John Harper, and this is Carys Jones. I thank you for seeing us this evening. It is an honor to—”

  “Just get on with it,” said Clark.

  Harper closed his mouth and reset his shoulders.

  “Ms. Jones and I have a manuscript written by a man named Madoc Morfran. It was retrieved by Ms. Jones last week from a cave on the coast of Wales. The manuscript she recovered was written in the sixth century. It is entirely in Latin, a version that is also traceable to the sixth century. It is the first-person record of a journey made by Morfran and a small fleet of sailing vessels from the British Isles, across the Atlantic Ocean, to a location on the eastern coast of North America that he describes in detail. The purpose of the journey was threefold. He wanted to find a place where the people of the British Isles could potentially escape invading Anglo-Saxon armies, which were on the move again after decades of peace. He wanted to find a land that was not experiencing the crippling drought that had plunged his country into famine and illness. But more important, he made the journey to find a safe place to bury his father.”

  Carys sat silent and still, watching the expressions on the faces of the councilors. Each maintained a look as stony and impenetrable as the next. It was almost as if they had rehearsed it.

  “When Ms. Jones found this manuscript, she also found a sack of ancient artifacts that have been identified by scientists in Wales as originating from the northeastern coast of North America. These artifacts included several seeds of plants indigenous to this area as well as several quahog shells. There was also an arrowhead from the Middle Woodland period and several pieces of gold jewelry, British in origin, all dating to the mid-sixth century. This cave had not been entered or breached since its entrance was sealed up by the person who left the manuscript and those items there, Madoc Morfran, who returned to the British Isles several years after he had left on his journey.”

  Harper paused, took a sip of water from the glass that was in front of his seat. The stony-faced councilors had not flinched. Not one of them.

  “The manuscript describes the location and conditions of the burial of his father,” said Harper, turning to Carys. “Ms. Jones has taken the liberty of translating the sections of the manuscript that describe the location and the manner in which his father was buried, and the people he encountered while he was in North America.”

  She reached into her bag, pulled out the translations, and slid them across the table to Clark. Clark slid them to the old, white-haired man. He began to read them and his hands shook slightly.

  “We believe, due to the various data points referenced in the book, the origin of the artifacts, and the specific details about the burial location and the native population that lived there, that Morfran landed here, and that the ancestors of the Mattakeese were the gentle people of the sand who showed Morfran and his crew kindness and allowed his father to be buried here,” said Harper.

  He paused dramatically and looked at each councilor in turn.

  “This is complete nonsense,” mumbled Heath to the other councilors. Clark shot him a hard glance. No one said a word. Carys felt a cold sweat begin to break out on her back. Harper took another sip of water and continued.

  “I direct your attention to two sections of translation,” said Harper. “The first is where Morfran is describing the bargain he struck with the native peoples. In exchange for guarding the burial site of his father, he gifted those people with a great sword, described in detail in the translation. It was made of iron, a material that would have been entirely unknown to the native people at that time period. It was topped with a single large ruby.”

  Despite the fact that the room was air-conditioned, a small bead of sweat broke out on the forehead of the ancient female councilor. Her thinning gray hair was beginning to get wet at the roots. She lifted one frail hand and wiped the drop of sweat away.

  “There is also a section of the translation in which Morfran describes his departure from the area,” said Harper. He looked at each councilor in turn again. “It states that before he left, he warned the native people to be on the lookout for other men, a strange breed of man, who might arrive. He warned them that these men would be very dangerous and that they should be avoided.”

  Clark lowered her eyes briefly, then raised them again to lock stoically on Harper.

  “And lastly,” said Harper, “I direct your attention to the portion of the translation in which Morfran states that when he left the native peoples and sailed back to the British Isles, half of the crew members—all males, all white European—stayed behind because, and I quote, ‘so lovely were the native people, and so verdant and fertile were the land and seas.’”

  At this, the middle-aged councilor, who had a head of dyed black hair and green eyes, his shirt straining at the buttons around his stomach, gripped the edge of the table with his hands. “I’ve heard enough,” he said. “This is complete nonsense. I move that we adjourn. I’d like to get home for dinner.” He began to stand. Clark looked at him.

  “We remain in session, Cedric,” said Clark. “Please sit.”

  “Thank you,” said Harper. “Carys has prepared a video showing you the manuscript in great detail—”

  “You didn’t bring it with you?” asked Clark. “As we agreed?”

  Carys interjected. “With respect, Sachem Clark, we thought about that and Mr. Harper and I decided that until we had come to trust and understand one another, it might not be…wise…to have this ancient manuscript physically present in this meeting. But this video shows we have it.”

  “That’s not what we agreed,” said Clark, her eyes burning into Harper.

  Carys hit the play button on her computer for the video program and spun it around to face the councilors. All eyes were glued to the screen for
the tape’s three-minute length.

  “That could be any old book,” yelled Heath when the video was done. “You just made this all up to blackmail us into giving you something. I have no idea what, but I’ve had it.” He stood up abruptly. The old, white-haired male councilor stood, too. Carys stood as well and stared into Heath’s face.

  “If we were making it all up,” she barked, “then how do we know your tribe possesses an ancient sword? Made of iron? A sword that can be conclusively dated to fifteen hundred years ago—long before any aboriginal tribes were in possession of the technology to smelt iron. How would we know that for the past fifteen hundred years, your tribe has been protecting the tomb of a man, a white man, buried on Sandy Neck? How would we know that before you were even a tribe, your people were descended from white Europeans—information that you’re sworn to keep secret?”

  Heath and the white-haired councilor remained standing, mouths slightly agape, each waiting for the other to say something. Neither did.

  “You know what we say is true,” she continued. “It matches your legends exactly, except you called this great visitor Maushop, not Madoc. You have the sword, and this manuscript describes it exactly, so you know that’s true. You know where the tomb is, and this manuscript describes that location perfectly. You’re keeping its location a secret. And this manuscript provides a clear, verifiable explanation for why you feel you must do so.”

  The two men looked briefly at each other. The elderly female councilor had her head down and was fidgeting with her hands.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I really am. But you know we are not making this up. And pretending we are won’t change the facts.”

  There was dead silence as Heath glared at her. She held his gaze. Harper slowly reached over and touched her hand. She flicked it away and continued to look at Heath.