She detested jogging but needed the release. It was still almost an hour before sunrise and yet outside it was a muggy 79 degrees. Early morning was the only time to run in August and still it would be miserable enough to make her question her decision to leave Wales. She went to the kitchen and rummaged through several of the drawers, looking for a headlamp. It was in the second drawer from the top. She adjusted the strap and put it on her head.
When she opened the door, the breeze she had hoped would greet her was absent. It was dead calm. She stepped out onto the porch and closed the door softly behind her. The moon was close to full, bright enough to illuminate her surroundings very well. She had barely crossed the yard when she heard her Uncle’s geese start honking.
Oh bother, I hope that doesn’t wake anyone.
Her uncle had kept geese as long as she could remember. He called them his watch dogs and every time they visited he had told her and her brothers how the geese had saved Rome in the early days from a siege by their Celtic ancestors. He would always smile and say ‘Learn from your enemy.’ Uncle Henry swore that geese were more attentive than any dog and the noise always set the dog to barking as well.
It was too dark and dangerous to run on the county road without any reflective running gear, so she headed for the dirt road that meandered for about three miles through pastures and woods on Uncle Henry’s farm. She switched on her light and forced her legs to move fast enough to call it jogging.
In the city, she listened to pod-casts while she ran. Out here, she wanted to enjoy the sounds of nature. It was so peaceful, but the first mile was torture.
She realized just how out of shape she was as her body protested the sudden rigorous activity. The two raccoons and three deer she saw in the first mile helped her take her mind off of it. At the halfway point, however, she decided that pushing herself the entire distance was too much and had just slowed to a walk when her iPhone vibrated against her leg. She almost jumped out of her skin. She glanced at the screen before answering.
“Hello, Gilbert. Thanks for calling.”
“Good morning, Gwyn. You sound like you’re out of breath.”
“Yeah, well I decided to take a jog this morning, and it’s really kicking my tail.”
“Good for you. How are Uncle Henry and Aunt Bonny?”
“Well, they certainly look frailer. They were devastated to hear that Dad had passed away. Uncle Henry is going to help me with funeral arrangements today. Is Gary there yet?”
“Look, I asked Brittany to stop by and check in on you around nine o’clock.”
It was not lost on Gwyn that he had ignored her question.
“What for?”
“I thought you could use the support.”
“That was thoughtful, Gil. How are you holding up?”
“As well as can be expected under the circumstances. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Don’t worry about me, Gilbert. I’m fine. I’m glad I’m here.”
“Can you scan a copy of that document and send it to me? The Metropolitan Police want to have a look at it.”
“Well, there isn’t a scanner here. Is it urgent? I was planning on going to town tomorrow.”
“It can wait until tomorrow. Listen, we’re going over to the university now to start taking care of Dad’s personal belongings and then we’ll go back to the morgue to make final arrangements. I’ll call later.”
“Okay. Take care.”
Gwyn hung up and continued jogging. She had wanted to ask what he had learned about the document. It would have to wait. What concerned her now was the relationship between her brothers.
I just hope Gilbert isn’t too hard on him.
She worried about her little brother. They all worried about him. It had happened without any real warning about a year after their mother was diagnosed with cancer. He had been in a serious relationship, but soon after his mother started chemo, something happened and it all blew up. He never spoke of it. He seemed to just withdraw into a shell. No one pressed him, but when they asked how he was doing, the answer was always a cynical comeback. Then, about a month before he left home, he had told the family that he would be making an important announcement at their Easter get-together.
He was conspicuously absent at the Easter morning service, and arrived about thirty minutes late for dinner. They had tried to guess what it was he wanted to tell them. Gilbert thought he might have a secret girlfriend and was going to announce that he was getting married. Gwyn and her dad had agreed that he had probably found a job and was moving off somewhere. Their mother had only said, “I just hope it’s something positive. For months now, a dark cloud has doused the light I used to see in his eyes.”
Throughout the meal, they all waited for him to make his announcement, but he was very quiet. At one point, Ian had said, “Son, we missed you in church today.”
He never looked up. He stared at the lamb and mint sauce on his plate for a moment and then he raised his head and glanced around the table. He stared into each of their eyes and held their gaze for just a moment before moving to the next one. Then, very softy, almost as if he were making an apology, he said, “It’s all a chasing after the wind. I don’t want to believe it, but I think he was right. I’ve been reading it now for months. ‘A grievous evil’ is what he calls this life we live under the sun. In another place, it says, ‘I am like a mute who can not open his mouth or offer a reply.’ Life has taken the wind out of my sails. I need to find the wind again.”
Then, he had put his head back down and finished the meal in silence. After the table was cleared, they had all gathered back in the living room. It was Gilbert who asked the question.
“Alright, lover boy, we are all bursting with curiosity. What is this announcement you have for us?”
His answer still rang in her ears.
“I made it at the dinner table,” he said quietly.
That day was the last time they had been together as a family. Gary began travelling and, at times, seemed to drop off the face of the earth. First, it was the Far East and India, most recently he had been in Damascus and Istanbul. It was strange. He wasn’t angry and privately conveyed this to all of them. He had dropped in for Christmas the year before Mom died, but Gilbert hadn’t been able to make it. He had been at the funeral. Gwyn had gone back and read Ecclesiastes a dozen times. She had tried to talk to him, but he was too angry, too pessimistic, too dark . . . All he would say to her attempts at encouragement was, “This too is meaninglessness, a chasing after the wind . . .”
Gwyn looked in the mirror. Her eyes were still red from crying. She had jumped in the shower after her run and simply melted, sobbing uncontrollably as the water coursed over her body. The pain she felt seemed as fresh as the moment Gilbert had broken the news to her at the airport. She took some comfort in that. The grief made her feel more alive, more human. The feelings of loss and heartache seemed to give existence meaning. It was proof of just how meaningful the relationship with her father had been. It was the positive side of pain and she felt a pang of sorrow for anyone whose relationships were too shallow to experience the blessing of grief.
She got out of the shower and looked at the clock. It was almost 8:20. Brittany was supposed to be here before noon, and Gwyn wanted to do some more research before she showed up. She dressed in a hurry and then gulped down a breakfast of yogurt and muesli. She settled down in front of the computer nursing a cup of Costa Rican coffee brewed from the Fair Trade beans she had purchased at the Galleria on Wednesday. When she heard a knock at the door sometime later, she looked at the clock and was shocked to see that it was already 11:00 am. She heard the screen door swing shut and turned around to see her childhood friend and companion from every summer vacation.
“Gwyndolyn O’Brien!”
“Brittany Kirkpatrick, it’s so nice of you to stop by.”
“What are friends for?”
It was a long hug and Gwyn felt like it infused her with energy.
“I’m sorry to hear about your father. He was a great man.”
“He was. Thanks. Now, he is reunited with Mom. As long as I remember that, I do pretty well.”
Brittany pointed to the computer. “Working remotely?”
“No, I’m actually doing some research on a document that, strangely enough, might be connected with Dad’s death.”
“Get out. You’ve got to be kidding.”
Gwyn told Brittany what her father had given her and what they had found when they opened it after his death. She let out a low whistle.
“Wow! Imagine that, a bona fide mystery right here in our own backyard. What have you learned so far?”
“I spent most of the day yesterday working on it and to be honest, I learned far less than I had hoped.”
She motioned for Brittany to sit down. “You majored in anthropology. Maybe you can help me.”
“Actually it was a double major in anthropology and international studies, which I have to admit is a strange route to take back to one’s hometown. What have you learned?”
Gwyn handed Brittany the document.
“First, I researched that symbol at the top. There is no exact replica of it anywhere. It seems to be composed of two different symbols. In the middle is the Ouroboros, the snake swallowing its own tail. It is a very ancient symbol used by the Chinese and Egyptians thousands of years before Christ, but also by the Greeks, Gnostics, and Masons, as well as in Kundalini teaching, Theosophy, Norse mythology and West African belief systems like that of the Yoruba.”
“Well, I’m glad to see you’ve narrowed it down.”
“Right. The only thing those groups seem to have in common is a genetic code that makes them homo sapiens.”
“Now, that is what I call international studies. As far as I’m concerned, every snake is evil. It’s been that way since the Garden of Eden.”
Gwyn smiled. Her Texas relatives had taught her how to identify and kill cotton-mouths, copper-heads and rattlesnakes almost as soon as she could walk. Still, most people could not be bothered to identify them. They simply grabbed a .410 and played it safe. The cartridge was cheaper than a ride to the emergency room.
“What is that funny star?”
“Well, that proved to be much simpler. This eight-point star is really just two squares one on top of the other with a 45-degree twist. It is called
Rub el-Hizb
if I’m pronouncing it right.”
“That sounds like Arabic.”
“It is. From what I can tell, it means something like ‘lord sustainer of the party or sect.’ Think about it. El-Hizb.”
“What’s it supposed to make me think of?”
“I thought of Hizbullah.”
“Goodness sakes, girl. You don’t mean those people launching rockets at Israel?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know what the connection is.”
“What else did you learn?”
“Take a look at this,” she said, handing her the hand-written note. “This is a translation of the important part of the document.”
The council’s decision to cancel son of prophet and erase every trace remains among our most solemn duties. It will be a red English sunset on Suri-Strend with a golden sunrise in Tunis when the bird which has flown is brought back to Südde-i Saadet. Walk in the snow but leave no footprints. Assistance for the sendoff may be obtained from our ever faithful D. Hasten delivery.
13 Jumaada al-awal 1149
Brittany sat looking the document for a minute.
“Well, Tunis is in Tunisia, but that is about the only thing that makes sense to me.”
“I have learned that
Südde-i Saadet
was one of the nicknames given to Istanbul during the Ottoman Empire. It apparently meant something like ‘threshold of felicity’, a reference to the happiness of entering the capital of the Islamic realm.”