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Authors: Abby L. Vandiver
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walking behind him, shooing him
with his hands. He followed Father Marquette until he rounded the first corner
of the long hallway that led back to the sleeping rooms and with a scowl
growled, “Get,” and gave Father Marquette another push.
The
entire time Father Marquette was gone, Father Realini paced from the window in
the library, out of the room, trotting to the end of the hallway where Father
Marquette had disappeared, and then back again to the window. Each second being
drawn out by worry about the letter they had forged getting back in time to be
placed in the book. They needed to get that book out of the Library and out
into the world. To be found. To be decoded. He knew it. And, now, it was by
God’s grace that the Collegio Romano was short of money and decided to
sell some of its holdings discreetly. Including, he would make sure, the
manuscript.
He
was standing at the end of the hall, peering around the corner, wringing his
hands, his heart pounding, when he heard two voices at the other end of the
corridor. One he recognized was Rector Bershoni’s voice.
That
man coming today, the one moving ever so much closer to where he stood, was a
rare book dealer from London. He would not take such a book, jumbled with what
appeared to be nonsense, and pictures of naked women and plants that had never
before been seen on this planet, unless it had some history. Some intrigue. He
and Father Marquette had given it that. A letter stating that Emperor Rudolph
II of Germany had purchased it for six hundred gold ducats because he believed
it to be the work of Roger Bacon was sure to sway him.
Finally,
Father Marquette came dashing around the corner on the polished wood floor.
Wind scooped up through his long black cassock, his ferraiolo flying off his
shoulders while he held onto his biretta .
“Hurry!”
Father tried to whisper as loud as he could. “Hurry, they’re almost here.”
The
gentleman didn’t take long to look over the library’s books. He seemed to know
just what he wanted and was out in no more than twenty minutes.
“Well,
did he buy it?” Father Marquette peeked around the corner of the library door.
“Yes.
Yes, he did. Come in Father Marquette.”
“Who
was he?”
“I
told you. A book seller. A seller of rare books.”
“Yes,
I know that. But, what was his name?”
“Voynich.
Wilfrid Voynich.”
Chapter Eleven
Cleveland
Heights , Ohio
June 17, 2011
Dr.
Sabir had several theories on how mankind would ultimately find out the truth
about his origins. The first was the ability to travel in space and return to
the ruins of Mars. The second would be the discovery of more manuscripts. And
the third way, he thought, would be the finding of a remnant of the people who came
here. Untainted knowledge held, through hundreds of thousands of years, by
isolated people. Perhaps an oral history. But he hoped something written.
Although he thought last contact by our ancestors, or “Ancients” as I liked to
call them, was more recent than that, possibly ten to twenty thousand years
ago.
His
first theory, the idea of space travel, he thought was not something that would
happen before the twenty-first century.
He
was wrong about that.
Although
it was only a couple of decades after he wrote his theories in 1949 that we
went to the moon, man had yet to travel to, and excavate, Mars. Something my
brother Greg had once told me I needn’t worry about happening anytime soon.
Still,
pictures showing the ‘Face of Mars,’ as it has been named, were believed by
some to be ancient ruins on the face of the planet. Those pictures had opened
up discussions on what could have been there. Dr. Sabir and I, separated by
generations, had learned from the AHM manuscripts the Ancients had tried to
cover up what was left. They’d hoped that the ruins would somehow tunnel
themselves underground. That they would sink. The ancient writer of the AHM manuscripts
admitted that that hope was thin. With
with his hands. He followed Father Marquette until he rounded the first corner
of the long hallway that led back to the sleeping rooms and with a scowl
growled, “Get,” and gave Father Marquette another push.
The
entire time Father Marquette was gone, Father Realini paced from the window in
the library, out of the room, trotting to the end of the hallway where Father
Marquette had disappeared, and then back again to the window. Each second being
drawn out by worry about the letter they had forged getting back in time to be
placed in the book. They needed to get that book out of the Library and out
into the world. To be found. To be decoded. He knew it. And, now, it was by
God’s grace that the Collegio Romano was short of money and decided to
sell some of its holdings discreetly. Including, he would make sure, the
manuscript.
He
was standing at the end of the hall, peering around the corner, wringing his
hands, his heart pounding, when he heard two voices at the other end of the
corridor. One he recognized was Rector Bershoni’s voice.
That
man coming today, the one moving ever so much closer to where he stood, was a
rare book dealer from London. He would not take such a book, jumbled with what
appeared to be nonsense, and pictures of naked women and plants that had never
before been seen on this planet, unless it had some history. Some intrigue. He
and Father Marquette had given it that. A letter stating that Emperor Rudolph
II of Germany had purchased it for six hundred gold ducats because he believed
it to be the work of Roger Bacon was sure to sway him.
Finally,
Father Marquette came dashing around the corner on the polished wood floor.
Wind scooped up through his long black cassock, his ferraiolo flying off his
shoulders while he held onto his biretta .
“Hurry!”
Father tried to whisper as loud as he could. “Hurry, they’re almost here.”
The
gentleman didn’t take long to look over the library’s books. He seemed to know
just what he wanted and was out in no more than twenty minutes.
“Well,
did he buy it?” Father Marquette peeked around the corner of the library door.
“Yes.
Yes, he did. Come in Father Marquette.”
“Who
was he?”
“I
told you. A book seller. A seller of rare books.”
“Yes,
I know that. But, what was his name?”
“Voynich.
Wilfrid Voynich.”
Chapter Eleven
Cleveland
Heights , Ohio
June 17, 2011
Dr.
Sabir had several theories on how mankind would ultimately find out the truth
about his origins. The first was the ability to travel in space and return to
the ruins of Mars. The second would be the discovery of more manuscripts. And
the third way, he thought, would be the finding of a remnant of the people who came
here. Untainted knowledge held, through hundreds of thousands of years, by
isolated people. Perhaps an oral history. But he hoped something written.
Although he thought last contact by our ancestors, or “Ancients” as I liked to
call them, was more recent than that, possibly ten to twenty thousand years
ago.
His
first theory, the idea of space travel, he thought was not something that would
happen before the twenty-first century.
He
was wrong about that.
Although
it was only a couple of decades after he wrote his theories in 1949 that we
went to the moon, man had yet to travel to, and excavate, Mars. Something my
brother Greg had once told me I needn’t worry about happening anytime soon.
Still,
pictures showing the ‘Face of Mars,’ as it has been named, were believed by
some to be ancient ruins on the face of the planet. Those pictures had opened
up discussions on what could have been there. Dr. Sabir and I, separated by
generations, had learned from the AHM manuscripts the Ancients had tried to
cover up what was left. They’d hoped that the ruins would somehow tunnel
themselves underground. That they would sink. The ancient writer of the AHM manuscripts
admitted that that hope was thin. With
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