TETRGRAMMATON: Cracking the Voynich Manuscript. Chapter 1: You Never Hear the Train That Kills You.
Chapter 1: You Never Hear the Train That Kills You.
Late December
1895. Mid-morning, Shepherd’s Bush
district of West London.
The tea shop is a
warm bouquet of chamomile, cinnamon, and ginger. Above a glass case of assorted
scones, the proprietor hung a strand of electric Christmas lights, the latest
craze of the Royal Household who often promoted such things. Outside the calm
confines of the tea shop, the village was bustling with Christmas shoppers.
Sergey Stepniak
stirred a bit of cream in his tea as he marveled at the bourgeois trappings these
British peasants favored. “Americans are even worse,” he wrinkled up
his nose as if he had caught a whiff of the great unwashed that dominated this
part of London.
When no acquaintances
were available for deliberation, Sergey’s habit was to argue with the
newspaper. Today’s London Times reported that the American President,
Grover Cleveland, had his Christmas tree decorated with electric lights to
promote public safety.
“He probably owns
stock in an electric company, “Sergey sniffed.
The newspaper article
included an artist’s rendering of a weeping woman in front of a burning house.
The caption read, “Every year hundreds of homes burned to the ground because of
open-flamed candles on Christmas Trees.”
“Serves them
right for their pretensions and ignorance,” he said loud enough for the
next table to hear.
Sergey was once a
very handsome man, but time had not befriended his looks. He admired his
reflection in the teacup and mouthed the words, “Soon they would all burn.”
Sergey set about creasing his London Times back to its original folds to
return it to the paperboy. Now it was time to review his speech for the Friends
of Russian Freedom Soviet at the safe house in Shepherd’s Bush.
With the holiday bustle,
Sergey never heard the two well-dressed men walk into the tea shop. They came
to his table, glided into their chairs, and sat as emotionless as statues. Sergey
stole a glance over the rim of his glasses. He surmised that the men didn’t
belong with these English simpletons either. Maybe they were Italian or Spanish
from their complexion, expensive clothes, and cologne. Did they object to his comments about the house
fire? It was a free country, for now, he
mused.
No one at the
table acknowledged the other, so Sergey then went back to reviewing his speech.
The two men did not speak to each other and did not order tea. They just sat
there – watching. Sergey could feel the weight of his dagger pull at the pocket
in his coat, and it gave him strength.
After several
minutes passed, the shop’s proprietor bustled over to their table, “What
might I get you, gentleman?”
To which one man answered,
“Mezentoz.”
Startled by the
word, Sergey bolted from the table. The men did not restrain him, and he was on
the street in a flash. Glancing over his shoulder, he witnessed the men stroll
through the shop doorway. They weren’t running – not even hurrying. The one man
looking for all the world like a stage actor, took a moment to tip his hat a young
woman. “Cretins!” Sergey hissed.
Soon he realized
that the killers didn’t need to hurry. Twenty years ago, on the streets of
Moscow, he outpaced several policemen after driving his dagger into the throat
of General Nikola Mezentoz of the Russian secret police. Now the wintry air
burned his lungs and the cobblestone streets punished his flaccid body and jumbled
his brain as he fled.
Sergey ducked
into an alley as a train whistled in the distance. He glanced back to see the
two men still pursuing him as one brushed a snowflake off the shoulder of his
coat. The men locked onto Sergey, neither speaking nor acknowledging each other,
but smiling at him as hunters do with cornered prey. Reaching inside his
waistcoat, he fingered the same dagger he used to kill Mezentoz. He knew it
would be as useful as a butter knife against two professional assassins.
The snow began to
fall in heavy curtains that deadened sound as a heavy snowfall does. Off
somewhere in the blizzard, a train blew its whistle again. It was then Sergey
began to formulate a plan. If he could make it to the other side of the tracks,
the train would hold up his pursuers while he sought refuge with his comrades
at the nearby safe house.
Sucking in a deep
breath, Sergey charged from the alley to the railroad tracks. When the men
realized that Sergey planned to put the train between them, they broke into a
sprint. Turning around, Sergey knew he had little chance. He cried out in
frustrated agony as he stumbled between rails on the track ballast. He was
doomed!
Just when he had
given himself up for dead, his attention refocused to his front where he saw
salvation emerge from the sheets of falling snow. The Volkhovsky brothers and
several other people he was to meet at the safe house came out of the gloom
like a host of angels. His pursuers slowed to a walk before the defiant crowd.
Sergey stepped over the tracks as the freight train trundled by. His lungs
burned, and his senses fogged by the exertion and dampening snowfall, he fell
to his knees in exhaustion. But he was safe!
Struggling to
pull himself upright, he noticed the expressions of his friends had changed
from defiance to something like repulsion. Some people gesticulated wildly; others
covered their mouths. A few looked away. The Volkhovsky brothers ran at him
clinching their fists and pumping their arms like were they in a race. Wondering
if his pursuers had someone made it past the freight train, Sergey turned
around just as a passenger train coming the other way cut him in half.
