In Tongues of the Dead (10 page)

“So what
is
the Voynich manuscript, exactly?” Benicio asked.

Father McCallum shrugged. “It's a bound collection of parchment paper leaves, handwritten in a continuous flowing script, language unknown. There are more than two hundred and thirty pages, roughly broken into five sections — the sections are based on the crude drawings that appear throughout the manuscript. The herbal section features a number of drawings of plants, all unknown, of course. The second section is astronomical or cosmological and contains drawings of star systems and representations of what might be the zodiac. Next there is the biological section, with odd drawings of veins or blood vessels and portly, naked women. Then the pharmaceutical section, which has drawings of small containers and samples of medicinal plants and herbs. At the end is the recipe section — mainly lines of text, each starting with a drawing of a star. That's the literal description of it, but what it
is
— no one knows.”

There was a long silence in the room. Finally Father
McCallum spoke again. “Do you know what the Voynich actually is?”

Benicio shook his head. “No.”

“You don't?” McCallum asked in surprise. “I assumed they would send an expert.”

Benicio laughed. “I only knew about half of the story you just told.”

“I'm confused,” McCallum said.
Why has the Vatican sent this man to take over my life's work? A man who knows less about the Voynich than I do
? Father McCallum composed himself and asked, “What kind of cases do you normally investigate?”

“Events and puzzles related to mythology and biblical lore. When I was a graduate student, I researched the effect of myth on psychological well-being and social practice.”

“Myths,” the older priest said.

“Listen,” Benicio said gently, “obviously this is your project. I don't plan on taking anything away from you. I want to help investigate whatever's going on — that's all. I want to put your mind at ease. I'm here to help
you
.”

Father McCallum immediately felt better. As much as he wanted to dislike this young priest, he couldn't. The man was so respectful.

“Now,” Benicio continued, “do you have any idea why the church has been interested in the Voynich for all these years?”

“No,” Father McCallum said, deflated. “I was hoping you were here to tell me.”

“All I know is a rumor I heard once.”

“A rumor?”

Benicio grinned. “It's a bit of strange one.”

The old priest leaned forward in his chair.

Benicio took a moment to compose himself before he started. “Do you know anything about the Nephilim?”

Father McCallum thought about it. “It rings a bell. Something Old Testament.”

“Yes,” Benicio said, “an Old Testament myth. The Nephilim are briefly mentioned as the half-breed children born of angels who had relations with women.”

Instantly, the color drained from Father McCallum's face.

“What is it?” Benicio asked, alarmed.

“The boy,” the old priest said. “The boy who can read the manuscript. One of the things I heard him say was, ‘half man, half angel — God's secret.'”

Now it was Benicio's turn to be shocked. “The cardinal told me there was a child who could read the manuscript — but that's all he told me. Did the boy really say that?”

“Yes.”

“How did you find this boy?”

“There was a school tour at the Beinecke. I found the boy staring at the Voynich display.”

Benicio whistled.

“So, what does it mean? Why can the boy read the book?” Father McCallum asked.

“I don't know for sure.”

“What about the rumor you mentioned?”

Benicio nodded. “Right. The rumor is that the Voynich was the Nephilim's story. The story is, God hated the Nephilim, and He hated the angels who disobeyed him by having relations with women. He wanted them all destroyed. That's why God sent the floods to wipe out the world. But the world wasn't
wiped out. The Nephilim survived — a few of them, anyway. And they managed to memorize their history. It was passed down from one generation of Nephilim to the next until they could record it, in the pages of the Voynich manuscript.”

“Why can't we decipher it?”

“It's written in the language of the Nephilim, the half-breeds. A language we cannot read — by God's command.”

“So God doesn't want us to read it. It's His secret.”

“Yeah, that's part of the story.”

“You know,” Father McCallum said thoughtfully, “the very first thing the boy said was, ‘the language of the forsaken, the tongue of the dead.'”

“The word
nephilim
means
the forsaken
or
the dead ones
,” Benicio said slowly. “In ancient times, anyone thought to be Nephilim was considered dead already.”

“The Voynich is written in the tongue of the dead,” Father McCallum mused. He paused and then added, “That means the boy —”

“— is Nephilim,” Benicio finished.

Jake quietly opened his office door. Harold Grower was sitting in the waiting room. He'd been sitting there for the last twenty minutes. Early for his appointment as usual. Jake never started sessions early — boundaries were a big issue. He closed the door silently and went to his desk. He had another minute before the session started.

On top of a pile of mail was a letter from Blue Cross, the health insurance company that would be paying for Harold's appointments. Jake had sent Blue Cross an invoice for Harold's first four sessions; this should be the check to cover them. He opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper. After Jake's name, Harold's name, and some dates, stamped at the top in bold capital letters was:
CLAIM DENIED
Beneath that there were strings of numbers and codes that inevitably described why the claim was denied. Jake shook his head and read no further. This happened frequently with insurance companies. A doctor might forget a signature or date on a claim form, and the claim would be denied. Sometimes claims were denied because the coverage in one calendar year had run out. Jake dropped the letter on his desk. He'd deal with it later.

He looked at his watch: eleven-thirty. Harold was his last appointment before lunch. He wished it were quitting time — he wanted to get home and see his family. He wanted to unwind. He wanted to see how Wyatt was doing.

Jake opened the door to his waiting room again, this time more noisily. Harold's face lit up, and he jumped to his feet.

“Dr. Tunnel!”

“Come on in, Harold.”

The older, slightly overweight man came quickly into the
office. His manners and agility suggested a man younger than the graying hair and glasses suggested. Harold immediately settled on the couch as Jake dropped into his leather desk chair.

“What's on the agenda today, Harold?” he asked casually.

Harold looked concerned. “I'm worried about you, Dr. Tunnel.”

Jake preferred not to be formal in speaking with clients and normally operated under first names. Some of his clients insisted on referring to him as “Dr. Tunnel” anyway — especially the older ones. Harold insisted on the title. “You're worried about me?”

“I think you're unhappy. I think you're missing something.”

Jake shook his head. “You know what, you're probably right, but I can't let you use the session to help me. This is
your
time. It wouldn't be fair.” Jake used the classic therapy line to get out of talking about himself.

“Oh, I don't mind. I think it's important.”

Harold had been referred to Jake by the military base. Jake had a steady stream of patients from cfb Halifax, which housed a large segment of Canada's naval fleet. The base had its own psychiatrists and psychologists, but management often sent personnel to private doctors for ongoing therapy. Harold's therapy was definitely ongoing.

Six months ago, Harold Grower, a Navy helicopter pilot, was sent to help locate the crew members of a fishing boat that had capsized during a bad storm. Harold had gone to the back of the chopper to bring a rescue diver and a fisherman up on the winch while the co-pilot flew the chopper. Somehow, Harold fell out of the helicopter and dropped fifty feet into the cold, thrashing waters of the Atlantic in the pitch dark. He was in the water for almost twenty minutes before the co-pilot found him and he was winched onboard. Harold Grower had been off duty for five months, and talked constantly about how God had saved him that night.

“Are you happy?” Harold asked intently. “I mean are you
really happy, deep down inside?”

It was a bad time to ask that particular question. Jake was tempted to say he wasn't the slightest bit happy. He was tempted to say his son was sick, and all Jake wanted was for Wyatt to be better. He knew he couldn't say any of those things: the psychologist must seem invulnerable. If he showed his flaws, Jake would not be convincing as a healer. Clients need to borrow from the strength and resolve of the therapist. “I'm fine — how have you been feeling?”

Harold looked at him sadly. “God reaches out and touches all of us with a message. We just have to listen.”

“What message did God give you?” Jake asked quickly. One way or another he was going to get these sessions focused on Harold Grower.

“God wants me to lead.”

Jake smiled slightly. “To where?”

“To the answers we seek,” Harold replied without a trace of a smile. “God wants me to provide the guidance when the path is lost.”

“Do you talk to God? Can you hear Him?” Jake wondered if Harold was slipping into a psychotic disorder. His focus on being saved by God was outside the realm of a normal reaction to an abnormal event, and could indicate post-traumatic stress disorder. But if Harold thought God had given him special powers, Jake would have to try a different approach.

Harold looked even sadder. “Of course I can hear Him. God talks to all of us. We have to choose to listen.”

“How do we do that? How do we make that choice?”

Harold laughed. “I can't answer that.”

Jake didn't know how far to push it. He wanted to ask more questions, to search for a psychotic element, but he didn't want to suggest he believed in Harold's delusion. He decided to use another classic therapy technique, reflection. He restated Harold's perspective.

“So, God communicates with all of us but we have to choose
to hear the message. The problem is how and when we make that choice.”

“That's right,” Harold said. “The curious part is how God talks to us. Sometimes it is directly, in our dreams or in things we see. Sometimes it's indirect, like events that happen in the world. Sometimes God communicates to us in tragedies that affect us.”

“Tragedies like when you fell out of the chopper?”

Harold laughed loudly. “I wasn't talking about me, but I see why you'd say that.”

Jake really didn't want to go there. He didn't want to talk about God communicating through tragedies. Just thinking about it flooded him with anxiety about Wyatt. He wanted to get off the topic.

“You certainly are a man of faith,” he said.

“You are, too, Dr. Tunnel. You are, too.”

Jake waited, but Harold just smiled.

“So let's get started for today,” Jake finally said. He opened Harold's folder to signal they needed to get to the business of therapy. “Let's —” He looked at the unsigned release-of-information form, right at the top of the papers in the folder.

It was fairly routine for psychologists to contact close family members to get different perspectives; it helped the doctors assess patients and monitor treatment. Jake wanted to talk to Harold's wife, and any other relatives, if he had them. Harold had never talked about his family, and he refused to sign the release form.

“Oh,” Jake said. “Before we get started, I wonder if I can get you to sign this thing now.”

“Actually, Dr. Tunnel, I don't think that'd be helpful.”

“Oh come on, Harold. I just want to talk to your wife and see what she thinks. I don't need to say anything about our sessions. They're confidential.”

Harold shook his head. “No, not yet.”

“Maybe next time?”

“Maybe. You'll get to speak to my wife soon enough.”

Jake relented. He didn't want to push: it could damage rapport. “Did you bring your schedule?” Harold was keeping a weekly schedule of his activities so they could make sure he had sufficient structure and social opportunities.

Harold kept smiling. “We are all people of faith. We all believe in something, even if we believe in nothing at all. Faith separates us from animals. Those of us who don't possess it shrivel up and die.”

“Right,” Jake said. He really wanted to use the appointment for therapy. “Do you have your schedule for last week?”

Harold looked serious. He somberly reached into his coat pocket and brought out a piece of paper.

“My schedule for the last week,” Harold announced.

“Great, let's have a look.”