TETRAGRAMMATON Cracking the Voynich Manuscript. Chapter 2: The Setup.
Present day. A
Mid-May afternoon on the porch of Shadowlawn, the residence of Veronica
Albright in Holly Springs, MS.
Nigel Roddey
Albright, or ‘Trick’ as he preferred, was tall, athletic, with thick dark hair
that he slicked back in a careless fashion. He erred to overdressed for most
occasions, and if that wasn’t possible, to look like he was between sporting
engagements. Today it’s the latter, as he is wearing traditional all-white
tennis togs with one of his mother’s monogrammed tea towels draped over his
shoulders.
An active athlete
all his life, Trick is in stark contrast to the object of his aggravation—Erin,
a yoga-sculpted neighbor of his mother’s, whose pink silk hounds-tooth suit
ensemble suggested high tea at the club. Erin’s purpose today is collecting
money for a charity mission to South America. There was something about her
manner that disagreed with him, but Trick could not help admiring her pink
Christian Louboutin stiletto heels and long, toned legs
“Trick,” she
stabbed at the word like making a choice between a ‘trick’ or a ‘treat,’ “Is
that short for something?”
Trick cringed at
her inflection. He wasn’t sure if it was due to her nasal accent or the sheer
decibel level of her voice.
“My given name is
Nigel,” Trick threw a quick glare at Erin to head off the evitable amusement
his given name often brought.
Erin was
oblivious to his visual cue, “Nigel!” She threw her head back and belted out a
snort, “Nigel!” Snort. Snort. Snort.
Trick crossed his
legs, folded his arms over his chest, and waited for a lull in the snorting. It
wasn’t time wasted, he had a enjoyed some of his Bombay Sapphire and tonic.
When Erin finished,
he said, “I didn’t have much say in what my parents’ named me.”
Trick used
understatement and sarcasm like a laser scalpel. All of this was missed on
Erin, she wiped a tear from her cheek and gave Trick a blank expression.
“Nigel.” Snort.
“Yes. I earned
the nickname ‘Trick’ at school by scoring three consecutive touchdowns in as
many plays.” He paused for some flicker of understanding from Erin.
Erin wiped her nose with her sleeve. Trick unfolded himself and
offered her a tissue box. She took it
wordlessly.
“Not a ‘thank
you’ or even ‘go screw yourself’,” he thought. “Ah-hem,” clearing his throat,
“A ‘hat-trick’ is the name given to the feat of scoring three consecutive goals in hockey, cricket, and
other sports,” he paused, “so I suppose I should be grateful I’m not
called ‘hat.’
She wasn’t bad
looking when she wasn’t speaking Trick thought, although wiping her nose on her
suit sleeve did more to rid his wanton fantasies than a cold shower with Queen
Elizabeth.
Erin extended her
hand with the tissues balled up in a clump to Trick. He took it; then she
tilted her nose at him and said, “Our church is building a water treatment
plant in the Vilcabamba Valley in Ecuador, and we would like your sponsorship.”
“Ah yes. Now I
recall where I’ve heard that name. The local people are reputed to live extraordinarily
long lives, well into triple digits.”
Erin flushed and
bit down on her lip. Trick tossed the used tissues in the wastebasket next to
Erin.
She looked up.
He met her eyes, “It
was the playground of the Inca.”
Erin avoided
Trick’s gaze by looking off to the porch ceiling, “I wouldn’t know about that.”
Trick’s constant
companion is a golden retriever named “Mousse,” named after the hair-gel the
dog looks like it uses. For Mousse, there is nothing more inviting than a cool
wooden porch floor with a ceiling fan. Like many dogs, Mousse had a gift for
precognition. The dog had been half-asleep next to Trick, but she struggled to
her feet with a ‘urghhmmmph’ sound that showed annoyance. Mousse had predicted
it was about to get noisy, and she’d be better off napping elsewhere.
Trick smiled as
the dog trotted off, “That dog is way too smart he thought aloud.” He slicked
his hair out of his face and took a deep breath, “The possibly well-meaning but
certainly misguided belief that other cultures need western religions,
technology, or government is both arrogant and foolhardy.”
Tricked fetched a
pair of Nez Paz reading glasses from the wicker table and stole a glance at her
shapely calves, then invited a volleyed response with an arched eyebrow. Trick,
as many Southerners and English became in time, tended to the eccentric.
Just then, a
screen door in the back of the house slammed shut. Erin glanced inside the
house hoping for some relief in the guise of Veronica Albright, Trick’s mother.
When no rescuer revealed themselves, she gathered herself up and arched her
back like a cobra about to strike.
“Sir. Those
people had no running water until our church installed it.”
Trick startled;
he once had a teacher who drew her fingernails down the chalkboard whenever
students got unruly. Erin’s voice would have been more effective in crowd control,
he speculated, but inhumane. Recovering somewhat, he folded his arms, looked up
to the ceiling and wondered why the sky-blue painted porch ceiling hadn’t kept
this haint away. Southerners painted the ceilings of porches ‘sky-blue’ or ‘haint
blue’ as it discouraged nest-building wasps and had the added benefit of
keeping away ghosts or haints.
“Lord, help me
over the fence.” Trick paused to retrieve his gin and tonic from the coffee
table, “Are you sure I can’t offer you some refreshment?”
Erin shook her
head.
Trick blotted his
brow with the monogrammed tea towel, then settled back into the wicker chair
with his arms folded.
“What, may I ask,
was the benefit to those people?”
Erin rolled her
eyes and relaxed back in her chair now that victory seemed at hand. She had to
explain things to these bumkins all the time. Wasn’t it obvious?
“Why, hygiene, of
course.”
Trick recoiled
only slightly, now becoming acclimated to her discordant delivery.
“Hygiene,” he
repeated.
Trick placed his
gin and tonic on the table, then removed his Nez Perce glasses. He leaned
towards her in order to focus on his opponent.
“Of course.”
Erin looked to be
late thirties, single, and attractive like a Park Avenue escort. She produced a
tiny, green lizard-skin purse and held it with both hands, pinkies out, to draw
Trick’s attention to her gold Cartier watch.
Then pretended to look at the dial.
“Was that
Veronica?”
She stretched her
neck and scanned into the house for a moment—she, like the lizard that gave its
life for her purse.
Trick thumbed
through a stack of Vogue magazines his mother left hoping for at least a Garden & Gun or Cigar Aficionado.
“Mother is off
running her after-church errands. She figures that as long as she’s dressed up,
the whole town should get to see her.”
Erin flashed her
Cartier at him. “And for a breath of fresh air, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Trick raised his
glass in a salute to her repartee, finally, this conversation was about to get
interesting. He noticed the locked, clear bubbles in the ice cubes of his
cocktail, which brought him back to the topic at hand.
“Hygiene you say.”
Erin flared her
nose at him.
Trick smiled,
“Very worthwhile, indeed.”
He took the last
dewdrop from the crystal glass and then looked around in the vain hope that
someone from the house was bringing him another drink.
Tricked looked up
from the glass and said, “How do you plan to provide clean water to all the
other settlements in the Vilcabamba Valley?”
She chortled as
if she was explaining to a child why they shouldn’t drink a dozen Cokes a
day.
“Clearly that is
outside of our church’s budget.”
Trick leaned
forward, “So you provided a standard of living advantage to only one group in
an area with dozens of indigenous communities.”
She nodded.
Trick settled
back into the chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Why?”
“To save lives.”
“Doubtful,” Trick
leaned back and tented his fingers, “You built a water system to ingratiate
yourselves with a people who had discovered the secret of long life.”
“And to save
lives – MISTER Albright.”
Just for fun,
Trick mimicked clearing his ears like one would while swimming. Although her
voice was ear piercing, he didn’t care to be overtly rude, even if she was from
some Godless land like California or even Belgium.
“Madam, did your
organization contemplate the regional impact of your local water system? These
communities have co-existed peacefully for thousands of years, and you
introduce a technological edge into one of them.”
Erin’s ears
flushed bright red to clash with her pillbox hat. Whether her anger was from
Trick calling her ‘madam,’ the question itself, or both, was unclear.
Veronica Albright
announced herself with an ‘Ah-hem,’ a withering look to her son – also a tray
of shortbread.
Veronica is tall
and slender, like Trick. Unlike Trick, she is blessed with a high metabolism
and need not exercise more than her daily walks. She is wearing her Kôkichi Mikimoto
pearls, gold studs, pumps, and a little navy-blue dress that her late husband
would have found aggressive for Sunday. She was bound to catch eyes from the
mature men around town today – if not in the sanctuary too.
Matching his
mother’s warning with a skeptical eyebrow. “Oh, hello, Mother.” He eyed her up
and down. “The new preacher must be a widower?”
Veronica fought
to keep her glower, but it dissolved into a smile. Trick was often successful in
defusing his mother’s wrath.
With the danger
from his mother neutralized, he looked back to challenge Erin like Errol Flynn
fighting off a gang of pirates in a classic Hollywood swordplay scene.
“You propose to
introduce a technological edge into a community with a tendency toward extreme
old age, while just thirty miles away from this very spot the people of the
Mississippi Delta have the lowest life expectancy in the country.” He paused to
replace his glasses, “Why not help them?”
Veronica was, as
her late husband often observed, a “good mover,” and she moved with the grace
of a Linx. For this reason, many close friends referred to her as “Kitty,” a
nickname she grew to be fond of, as long as its use was confined to close
friends and family.
“Erin, excuse
him, dear. Trick is just being provocative. He spent last summer doing the same
thing in Guatemala.” Veronica turned her gaze to her son with her hands on her
hips. “Trick love, could you make some of that wonderful espresso of yours?”
“That’s all
right, Kitty,” said Erin.
Trick glanced to
see if his mother’s hostess-mask had melted off. Erin was not family nor a
close friend. No one dared call her “Kitty” until invited – but Veronica kept her
self-control.
“How
unfortunate,” Trick thought.
Erin jumped from
her chair like she’d been pinched but took time to throw Trick an evil eye.
“Would you look
at the time!” Raising her jeweled Cartier yet again without noticing the time. “I
really must hurry to my Junior League meeting.”
She took a moment
to discretely flip-off Trick then stomped off the porch, down the wooden steps,
and onto the sidewalk with her “knock me down and fuck me pumps.”
The pumps and
tight skirt rekindled Trick’s imagination. He smiled appreciatively at the
well-tailored bottom fading into the distance. Psychiatry noted that men
thought about sex every seven seconds, for Trick, it was a bit more often.
“Looks like two
Indian boys fightin’ under a blanket,” He said with an exaggerated back-woods
accent.
“Ahem!” Veronica
cleared her throat and raised an eyebrow at Trick, “Please don’t tease my
neighbors. I can’t run off to a cabin-in-the-sky like you. I have to live with
these people.”
“When you say
people, does that include cougars,” Trick paused a second for dramatic effect,
“Kitty?”
They both
laughed.
Veronica got back
to character soon enough, “Don’t judge, Nigel Roddey,” she let Trick’s proper
name hang in the air for effect, then softened her tone as she considered
Erin’s choice of footwear, “My word, her shoes are $700 at Neiman Marcus.”
Trick rolled eyes
and said sarcastically, “They’ll be mighty handy in the jungles of the Vilcabamba Valley.”
He drained the
very last watery dregs of the gin and tonic from his glass, then got up to fix
another drink.
Pausing on the
way to look back at his mother, he said, “I neglected to posit that the Church
killed off the South American civilizations with greed, now they’re going to kill
the survivors with sanitization.”
“Is that one of
my tea-towels you sweated all over,” Veronica grabbed the towel and shook it at
her son, “Can’t you just stop being a man sometimes?”
“Anytime you
like, mother,” Trick made his way inside. “How about now since there is a mouse
right behind you?”
Veronica let out
a tiny “eek” and whipped around to see nothing but highly polished oak
flooring. She looked heavenward and prayed, “Lord, help me over the fence.”
Veronica was on
the verge of exasperation but is distracted by the scene just beyond the porch
where several expertly tailored yards of pink Chanel collide with the brown
uniform of a delivery man halfway down the sidewalk. Packages fly in the air,
both bodies sprawl on the lawn like bowling pins.
Now, flustered even
more, Erin directs her vexation towards the prostrate delivery man, “Clod, Oaf,
Fool!” and bustled back down the sidewalk in a torrent of pink pumps hitting
payment.
Trick turned to
his mother and drawled, “Well, that was un-Christian.”
“Bless her heart;
she is positively deafening even from here.” Veronica rushed to meet the
delivery man on the porch steps. “Good heavily days.” She brushed some grass
off his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” The
man had a bright, round face that could have been a model for the
man-on-the-moon in a children’s book. “Just like in football, the hits aren’t
as bad as they look.” He paused and smiled, “Rather enjoyed it, in fact. It’s
been a slow day.”
Trick offered the
man his hand. “That was my fault. She’s mother’s new neighbor from San
Francisco. I’m the one responsible for getting her knickers in a twist.”
The main laughed.
“Oh, we’ve met.” He wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “She came to the door
in a negligee last week, and a towel before that.”
Trick and
Veronica looked at each other. “Wait. What?”
“It happens a lot
to both men and women. People are themselves around us delivery folks. It is as
if we become part of their inner lives.”
The man paused to
gauge Trick and Veronica’s reactions. Veronica looked at Trick. Trick was lost in
his own thoughts about Erin in a negligee.
“I thought this
gig would be tame, this company is very exclusive. The man gestured to his
truck in the street, “Notice that the van is unmarked.”
Trick and
Veronica looked to the street and sure enough, there was a plain, but
muscular-looking and highly polished black Mercedes-Benz van on run-flat tires.
“I soon found out
that rich folks are crazier than a soup sandwich. No offense,” he paused to
gauge their reaction, “I could tell y’all things about this street that might
surprise you.”
Trick put his
fingers in his ears. “Ugh, I know too much about these people already!”
“Would you care
to rest for a moment?” Veronica pointed to a wicker chair. “Can I get you a
glass of water? Tea? An ice-pack?”
“No thanks, I’m
good.” He chuckled and picked some grass off his trousers.” Under his arm, he
carried a box with a logo of Yale University’s Beinecke Rare Book Library. The
package is big enough for several journals or the latest John Grisham novel.
“This never gets
old.” Trick examined the quality of the wrapping, turning it over in his hands.
“Getting packages, I mean – like Christmas all year round.”
“Beats delivering
mail for sure.” The delivery man thought to himself about homeowners who set
their dogs on him to avoid getting bills, summonses, or even junk mail. “I
reckon the neighborhood is safe now that the pink missile launched.”
Trick chuckled at
the man’s joke. Veronica covered her mouth with her hand and fought the urge to
laugh aloud.
“I need a
signature,… let’s see.” The man looked at his mobile pad, “Nigel Albright.”
With the driver’s drawl Trick’s given name came out “Naaa -jell.”
Trick rolled his
eyes and took the pad from the delivery man. “Wait a minute; you have a package
for me?” His pen hovered over the pad. “Who knew I’d be here?”
The man stifled a
yawn, this kind of thing happened all the time, “I dunno, how does Amazon know
what I want before I do? It’s techno-magic.”
Trick began
tearing into his package to discover what appeared to be a book wrapped in a
sheet of hard, brown shipping paper tied with string. He turned the package
over in his hand, “I hope this a book on how to fix that damned Rolls.”
Veronica sampled
the weight of the package, finding it delightfully heavy, “I think to fix the
Rolls we’ll need a book from the other team.”
Trick pulled the
end of one of the strings, and the heavy paper began to unravel. “You mean the
Baptists?”
Veronica swatted
his shoulder, “Don’t be ugly.”
Trick smiled.
Veronica was well-read and quick on her feet. She was also an excellent conversationalist,
travel companion, and muse. Veronica and her husband had collected an extensive
library of history and natural science at Shadowlawn, but she found that
borrowing books through her Kindle suited her technophile mentality and frugal
nature. To feed her Kindle habit, she had library cards from New York, London,
and a dozen other cities. Starkville, MS, home of Mississippi State University,
had an excellent on-line lending program.
As the book
reveals itself from the packing materials, the smell of glove-leather fills the
air. From the nest of wrapping paper appears an ancient book, possibly from the
medieval era, bound in plain heavy leather. The cover was secured with two
straps so that the leaves could not swell from humidity. It was heavy for its
size like cell phones tend to be. Underneath, a small stand supported the book
for reading on a table.
Trick turned the
book over in his hands to admire the bookbinders’ artistry.
“Wow. I just read
about this book; this is a copy of The Voynich Manuscript.”
Trick turned
several pages that revealed strange writing and fantastical drawings in vibrant
colors.
He read from a
card enclosed with the book, “The Voynich Manuscript is often referred to as
the most mysterious book in the world. The author, language, and purpose of the
book is a mystery. Some claim the book is a repository of black magic, some say
a hoax, and some speculate it’s from a lost civilization.”
In the
excitement, Trick and Veronica forgot about their guest, the delivery man. He
tapped on the electronic pad to break the spell the book apparently held on
Trick.
“Yale sent you a
book?” He sighed. “All I ever get from college is bills – and donation requests
from the alumni association.”
Veronica took
what looked like a gift card from the package and read aloud. “This book is a one-time,
limited collectors printing in period inks on natural vellum. The giver has
asked to be anonymous.”
Trick looked up
from the pages and teased, “I’ve got a secret admirer, mother.”
“It’s no secret
they admire you a lot, no telling what this cost,” Veronica stole a peek at the
book. “I heard through my book club that Yale would produce a limited edition
for collectors of medieval manuscripts. This must be one of those.”
Trick sat back in
his chair and lost himself in the wonderfully odd illustrations on the heavy
leaves. The artwork and calligraphy were both stunning – and strange. Each page
he turned contained images more fanciful than the last, “How long did it take
to create a work like this?”
Veronica already
had her Kindle out searching for information. “Often it took a lifetime,” she
said, “One of the great mysteries of the book is that there are no mistakes in
calligraphy, no evidence that the author needed to erase a word or even a
letter. The only fault in the manuscripts is that some of the pages are lost.”
The delivery man
started down the porch steps, “Time is money, and this company knows everything
we do on the clock.”
Trick couldn’t
help himself. “I’ll let Erin know.”
“Much
appreciated,” the delivery man acknowledged with a wave and hustled to his van.
At about the same
time just down the street, Erin texted the number ‘32’ to a northern California
cell number.
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