Young Whit and the Shroud of Secrecy

by Phil Lollar

  “I kept your dinner warm,” she said with a glaze of ice in her tone. “You didn’t say you’d be late.”

  Karl set his briefcase and keys on the counter. “Papers to grade” was his sole apology.

  He had grown distant from Frieda over the past few years, partly because of the pressures of his work schedule, but mostly because both felt a good deal of anxiety over their family situation. They didn’t talk about it anymore, preferring to ignore it in the hope that things would resolve themselves one way or the other. Saying nothing was easier than picking the scab off the wound repeatedly.

  Karl sat at the table as Frieda placed a plate of liver and onions in front of him. Ich kann es nicht glauben! She knows I hate liver and onions! he thought. Probably why she made it.

  He considered telling her the news about the journal. He’d thought he had a lead on its whereabouts seven years ago, but it came to nothing. They had both pinned their final hopes on it, only to have them dashed when his search came to a dead end. Nein. Better to say nothing to her until he could find out more. Harold would not readily give the information about the journal’s whereabouts. He’d have to come up with some other way. Perhaps Harold’s wife, Fiona? Or one of his children?

  The phrases on the paper kept repeating in his mind: neamhnaid fior pris—“pearl of great price.” And beatha fhada—“long life.”

  He had to find that journal. It was the only way to locate the cloth.

  Karl ate a few bites of the liver and pushed the plate away. Some things were never meant to be eaten, he thought.

  Frieda picked up the plate and deposited it in the sink. “I’m going to bed,” she said, then crossed the room and walked up the stairs.

  Once she left, he didn’t give her another thought. His mind instead returned to his time in the Holy Land. He had been researching artifacts in Jerusalem and the surrounding area when he met a man in the field who was full of energy, enthusiasm, and the passion that comes from new adventures.

  “American?” the man had asked.

  “Yes, by way of Germany. I’m a professor of religious languages at the University of North Carolina. Karl Mangle.”

  He had offered his hand. “Harold Whittaker. I’m an American as well, though I live in Scotland presently.”

  “Well, it’s gut to meet someone who speaks the same language. Talking in Hebrew is an exhausting exercise. You have to think before saying each word.”

  He had grinned. “That’s probably a good idea in any language.”

  The two men hit it off instantly. The following weeks were spent mostly together, moving from site to site, sharing dreams and ambitions. After they parted, they kept in contact through the years. Karl told Harold about openings at North Carolina and later at Duke University and gave him a glowing reference. He was pleased when Harold accepted each position.

  After Mangle felt he could fully trust Harold, he told him about a discovery he had been privy to—a cloth that supposedly had the power to heal. Harold was enthralled at the information, though it was likely, he said, nothing more than a myth. “Legends,” he deduced, “oftentimes breed great enthusiasm, but rarely do they breed fact.”

  Karl now stood, walked to the refrigerator, and took an orange from inside. He peeled it and then, grabbing his briefcase, went into his study and sat behind his desk.

  Opening the left drawer, he slid back the fake bottom, revealing a number of letters. He thumbed through them and, finding the one he was looking for, pulled it out.

  We regret to inform you that your application as a member of the Center of Scientific Understanding has been rejected. While we appreciate your interest in C.O.S.U., we have rigid standards for admission that must be met. We wish you the best in your advancement of knowledge.

  Sincerely,

  Alois Goetkin, C.O.S.U. Secretary

  Karl folded the letter and returned it to the hidden compartment. His bitterness rose up again. He intended to prove them wrong, and the cloth was his means to do it. If he could prove the existence of the cloth and its ability to do what it was purported to do, he would not only be accepted into their organization, but he would also demand a position of rank.

  A cloth that could heal and extend life—that would eclipse every artifact and invention in C.O.S.U.’s inventory. It would launch them into the forefront of scientific discovery. And before all that, it could restore his family, and perhaps his marriage.

  The clock on the mantel chimed eleven. Mangle picked up his orange, eating it as he walked. At the top of the stairs, he paused in front of the door where Frieda slept. He walked on toward the spare room, deciding to sleep there instead.

  The door to the boys’ room was slightly ajar, the hall light left on to chase away the bogeyman. He stepped inside.

  Both boys slept. He checked their covers, pulling them up to make sure the boys stayed warm. He’d heard there was a lot of sickness going around, and that was the last thing they needed.

  In the second bed, his oldest stirred. “Dad?”

  “Sorry. I was just checking on you.”

  “You’re home late again.”

  “Ja, liebling. I’m very busy right now with work and all.”

  “We haven’t seen you in days. You won’t be gone again this weekend, will you?”

  “I‘m not sure yet. We’ll see. How was your day?”

  “Okay. I made a new friend this week.”

  “Das ist gut! Now get to sleep. You need to stay healthy. Your lungs can’t handle these colds going around. I don’t want you landing in the hospital again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Karl walked past the rickety wheelchair leaning against the wall and through the door, closing it behind him.

  “Leave it cracked open!” the boy pleaded.

  “I will. Good night.”

  “Night, Dad. Love you.”

  “Und ich liebe dich, Steve.”

  Chapter Five

  The next morning, Johnny waited on Emmy’s porch, ready for their walk to school. She was late, as usual, which was frustrating because he liked being prompt. But after all they had been through in their short friendship—mystery solving, treasure finding, clearing his family name, and threats of bodily harm—he supposed lateness wasn’t that big of a deal after all. He wondered at that moment whether he should tell her everything about the journal and the secrets it held.

  No, he decided. At least not yet.

  Johnny watched as each breath he exhaled formed into a miniature cloud. He imagined small lightning bolts streaking out of some, while others produced tiny blizzards. Then he imagined teeny people under those clouds, weathering the storms with teenier umbrellas.

  “Why does it do that?” Emmy said.

  Johnny started. “What?”

  Emmy came out the door. “Why can we see our breath when it’s cold outside?”

  Gathering his book bag, he followed her off the porch, away from their homes on Magnolia Lane, and down the road toward school. “Well, we all have a lot of moisture in our lungs. And in winter there’s less moisture in the air. So when your warm breath hits the cold air, the moisture condenses into little droplets of water. It’s the same way clouds form.”

  “You just made that up,” Emmy teased.

  “Nope. Ask Mr. Bustamonte.”

  “I did ask him last week. He just said the best way to learn was to find out for myself.” She frowned and added, “I don’t think he knew.”

  They walked quietly for a while, stepping intentionally on all the ice puddles along the way. It became a contest, and Emmy quickly built a lead. Out of the corner of his eye, Johnny spotted a symbol that looked like two Ws scratched into a fence. He stopped to look at it.

  “What’s wrong?” Emmy asked.

  “Have you noticed these symbols popping up around town?”

  Emmy shrugged. “No. Why?”

  “Just curious. I don’t remember seeing them before.” He reached out to touch the scrawl in the wood when a German she
pherd on the opposite side of the fence jumped against it, snarling, barking, and snapping. Johnny leapt back, and Emmy laughed.

  “Crazy dog scared me half to death!” he exclaimed.

  “Really? I couldn’t tell!”

  They resumed walking. “Hey, you’re still planning on coming over tonight for our Halloween party, aren’t you?” she asked.

  Johnny nodded. “Yeah, in fact I’m trying out my costume right now. Can’t you see it?”

  “You’re coming as a schoolboy?” she said. “That’s disappointing.”

  “No!” He pulled back his left coat sleeve. His arm was green from wrist to elbow. “What do you think of this?”

  “You’re coming as a pickle?”

  “Very funny. I developed a compound that, once I’m adequately exposed to the sun, should make me bioluminescent.”

  “I have no idea what that means,” Emmy spouted, still distracted by looking for ice puddles.

  Johnny smiled proudly. “It means . . . I’ll glow.”

  That got her attention. Emmy stopped in her tracks. “You mean, like a firefly?”

  “Yeah, though I’m not planning to be a bug. I’m dressing up like Moses when he came down the mountain with the Ten Commandments. If you believe in that sort of thing.”

  Emmy looked confused. “Of course. Doesn’t everybody?”

  Johnny gave her a furtive glance but decided not to press the topic. “What’s your costume?” he asked.

  “I’m going as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. It’s my favorite book.”

  “You’ll need a Toto. Want me to bring McDuff?” Johnny offered.

  “He actually does look like Toto,” she said brightly. “Yeah, that would be great!”

  He watched her crunch another ice puddle. She was far ahead in the ice-puddle-crunching contest, thirty-five to seventeen, but it didn’t matter. His heart was not in the game, nor was his mind. Both were centered on the cloth.

  He wondered about the history of it. Where did it come from? How could a cloth heal anybody? How did it come to be in his family’s possession? Why wasn’t it in a museum or being studied by scientists who could harness its power and help people with it? The inventor inside him wondered if he could be the person to do that. He could make a name for himself and be famous, and his discovery could end all sickness. The thought of it made him feel exhilarated . . . and nervous.

  So much responsibility. And so much power.

  He began to imagine his life as a Nobel Prize–winning physician, traveling the globe and healing diseases in India and Africa and China and the South Pacific. He was mid-trance when he caught Emmy looking at him with that look she often wore: part curiosity, part sympathy.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “I’m right next to you, though a few seconds ago I was in the South Pacific.” He smiled.

  She shook her head and muttered, “Boys. Daydreaming when you should be concerned about more important things.”

  More important than developing a cure for every sickness? he thought. Instead he asked, “Such as?”

  “Figuring out some way you could come trick-or-treating,” she answered. “It’ll be a perfect night for it.” Johnny didn’t respond. “Why don’t you ask your dad?” she added. “Maybe he’ll let you go after all.”

  “I doubt it. My dad doesn’t usually change his decisions.”

  “It doesn’t hurt to ask, does it?”

  “Doesn’t help either. My dad’s about as pliable as a steel rod,” he said aloud.

  “Well, you’re pretty clever. How can you bend a steel rod?”

  “It would take a lot of force.”

  “Or a way to make it look like it was bent,” Emmy suggested.

  Johnny scrunched his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  She looked at him as if he were being silly. “You’re the scientist,” she said. “How do you make a solid object appear to be bent?”

  He thought for a minute, and then the light bulb went on. “Refraction. By bending light, say, through a prism, or even water, you can make rigid objects appear to bend when the only thing actually bending is the light itself.”

  “See, I knew you’d figure it out,” she said, smiling.

  “But how does refraction help me change my dad’s mind about trick-or-treating?” he pressed.

  They had arrived at the school doors. Emmy looked down at Johnny’s green-tinted arm. A cloud passed overhead, and his limb began to glow softly. “Like I said, you’re the scientist.” She turned and walked inside, calling back, “You’ll figure it out, too.”

  Johnny thought for a moment, and an idea crept into his mind. It would mean a trade-off: sharing something he knew but didn’t want to share for something he wanted to do but couldn’t. However, it just might be what he needed to make his father’s steel-rod mind more pliant.

  Chapter Six

  Seven hours later, Johnny put refraction into action. He walked into the Religious Studies Department of the Humanities College at Duke University and up to the front desk. An angular woman sporting black horn-rimmed glasses and a blue paisley dress looked up from her typing as he approached. Her smile was punctuated by two symmetrical dimples, one on each side of her mouth.

  “Can I help you with something, dear? I’m pretty sure you’re not a student here. Too young,” she said with a wink.

  “I’m Professor Harold Whittaker’s son. I’d like to see him,” Johnny replied.

  “Oh!” She adjusted her glasses and examined him more closely. “Now you mention it, I do see the resemblance!” She giggled and held out her hand. “I’m Mrs. Drexler, department secretary. Nice to meet you!” They shook. Her hand was clammy. “You know where your father’s office is, I expect?”

  “Actually, no, ma’am. This is my first time here. We haven’t lived here very long. I’ve wanted to come, but—”

  Mrs. Drexler’s phone rang. She reached for it and said, “Take the first right, then the second left. It’s three offices down. His name’s on the door. I don’t know if he’s there, though. I think he’s teaching a class.” She picked up the phone. “Religious Studies Department, Mrs. Drexler speaking. How may I help you?”’

  As she continued to talk, Johnny walked down the hallway, his footsteps echoing along the reverberant passage. The occasional sound of voices rumbled behind closed doors, and a stray student walked quickly down an intersecting passage. Otherwise the halls seemed deserted.

  A shaft of light glimmered through a window perched high on the outermost, east wall. Flecks of dust floated lazily, eventually landing on the hardwood floor planks, only to rise again as he trod on them.

  Johnny had taken the right turn and was about to make the left when he saw a placard on a door that bore a familiar name.

  Dr. Karl Mangle.

  A rush of ideas flooded Johnny’s mind. Mangle knew about the cloth, and he had been searching for the journal. He knew about its power to heal. And he had translated the ancient text for Harold.

  He must have loads of books that tell about the cloth, Johnny thought. He looked up and down the hallway.

  Deserted.

  The only thing standing between him and possible answers was the door in front of him.

  He knocked softly.

  No answer.

  He tested the knob.

  Unlocked.

  He hesitated. Should he go in? Sure, he and Ben had broken into Provenance Town Hall, which led to his solving the mystery of the Confederate gold, but that had gotten Ben arrested. Besides, sneaking into someone’s private office seemed different somehow. If he got caught . . .

  He debated with himself for a few more seconds and then decided it was worth the risk. He quietly turned the knob and peeked inside the room.

  Empty.

  He took a deep breath, slipped inside, and gently closed the door behind him, his heart racing.

  The room looked like a library. Hundreds of books lined bookshelves on every wall from floor to ceiling. More books
were scattered in piles on the floor, in chairs, and on the desk. There were more books here than in his father’s inner sanctum, and that was saying something. Immediately to his right was what looked like a small antechamber Mangle used to store even more books, along with office supplies, a coffeepot, a bottle of clear liquid, a few boxes of cookies, and a jar of Tootsie Rolls. Another door in the antechamber led to a small restroom.

  Johnny moved to the shelves and scanned a few titles.

  The Eleusinian Mysteries

  Twelve Lectures on the Connexion between Science and Revealed Religion

  Historia Croylandensis

  Discoveries in the Ruins of Nineveh and Babylon

  The Tomb of Tut-Ankh-Amen

  The Book of the Dead

  Enthruscarum Antiquitatum Fragmenta

  Johnny wasn’t sure what he had expected, but most of these titles were way beyond him. Many were in differing languages, and even the English books read like a foreign language. He pulled one and then another from the shelf if a title looked as though it could be even remotely connected to the cloth. He wished there were an encyclopedia that translated dense books like these into regular people’s language, but he found none among the books lining Mangle’s shelves.

  After searching about ten minutes, he was ready to give up when he saw the corner of a note sticking out of the top of a book buried under a stack of papers: Journey through Arabia Petraea, to Mount Sinai, and the Eternal City of Petra, the Edom of the Prophecies. The note corner had a lone word visible on it.

  Neamhnaid.

  One of the words from his ancient journal.

  He opened the book and pulled out the note. It was the translation of the phrase that Emmy had asked Harold to translate for her—confirmation that Harold had given it to Mangle. “Neamhnaid fior pris . . . beatha fhada.” Directly below it was scrawled another phrase: Μαργαριτάρι της μεγάλης τιμής—μακροζωία. The scratching looked familiar, though he couldn’t say why.

  Other phrases followed, but he couldn’t make heads or tails of any of them. Then several names were listed.