Tales From the Black Chamber, page 13
“Well, it might not be the same necromancer,” said Joe. “For all we know there are a few.”
“But I bet they’d know each other,” said Wilhelmina. “Who runs this organization?”
Mike clicked a few links on the page and they found themselves looking at the biography of the organization’s director, Monsignor Wystan Clairvaux. A professionally photographed black-and-white headshot of a very good-looking, clean-shaven, dark-haired man in a Roman collar looked out at them.
“I saw that guy on Fox News the other day,” Wilhelmina said. “He was great. Very smart, very adept in arguing his points. I disagreed with him, in that I think you Catholics should stay Catholic, but he just about made me forget that. And he’s even better-looking on TV. Richard Chamberlain used to be everyone’s handsome priest, but this guy could eat his lunch.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” swore Mike. “Look at this guy’s CV. No wonder he can do what he does. He’s totally wired within the hierarchy. North American College in Rome. Taught in Prague and Liège. Stints assisting the Cardinal Archbishops of Los Angeles and Chicago. Speaks six languages. Doesn’t say what they are. Had a gig at the Vatican Secretariat of State in the Section for Relations With States. Doing China. Oh crap. What do you bet one of his languages is Tibetan?”
“The breviary came from Prague,” Anne said.
“This can’t be a coincidence,” said John. “Where’s Claire?”
“In the science lab,” said Wilhelmina. “She’s working with Rafe and Lily on some background stuff.”
John picked up the phone on Mike’s desk and got Claire to come to the main office. They explained their deductions to her evident satisfaction, and she was quickly on the phone, dialing the Manhattan offices of Ecclesia Nova, Monsignor Clairvaux’s organization.
“Allô? Yes, I am Martine du Bois calling from the offices of France 2 television,” Claire said in a very good, subtle French accent. “I would like please to arrange an interview with the Monsignor Clairvaux on the topic of the future of the Catholic priesthood. No? Really? Is he to be reached there? No? Do you know when he shall return? Well, I am sorry. Our story will run within the week, as there is a current scandal in the Dordogne over the shortage of priests. If you can please to have him call me at the following number …”
Claire hung up and said in pure American, “He’s gone. ‘On retreat.’ He does this a lot, apparently, and no one really knows for how long or exactly where.”
“Wanna bet he’s holed up with the Voynich Manuscript somewhere?” asked Joe glumly.
“All right, this is mostly Steve and Mike’s beat,” said John. “I’ll go downstairs and get Steve up to speed. John, you start working the property records in and around New York City—check Connecticut and New Jersey, too. Also, maybe check L.A. and Chicago, since he lived there at one point.”
“Got it,” said John.
Wilhelmina walked over to her desk and picked up an overnight-letter envelope. “Claire, this came for you.”
Claire looked at the return address, tore it open, and scanned the first couple of lines. She looked up and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a translation.”
Everyone packed into the conference room, fidgeting nervously and waiting for Claire and Joe. Lily looked a little bleary, and Anne thought Rafe looked hung over. They came in together a few minutes later, Claire still staring at the sheets of blinding white 30-pound bond paper in her hands, and Joe carrying an overhead projector. After Joe set it up, Claire set the papers on the projector and said, “I think this speaks for itself. By way of background, Professor Geoffrey is a wonderful, grandfatherly former professor of mine at Oxford who knows more than anyone else alive about the history of Inner Asia and China. He became a Collaborator at my invitation, as he’d once intimated he’d had an uncanny, terrifying experience in Bhutan. He knows very little about what I do, but he’s just the most wonderful gentleman. His books are both scholarly and funny. So, anyway, without further ado …” She switched on the overhead projector and put up the following letter, which the members of the Black Chamber read in stunned silence, broken only by the occasional gasp or profanity.
My dearest Claire,
Thank you very much for allowing me to provide you with some slight assistance in your duties, whatever they may be. I am delighted to have this opportunity to put my meager knowledge at your disposal.
The original facsimile you sent showed a word in a handwritten form of Tibetan. It spells . Which is to say, bdud, the written form of dü, or demon.
Applying them as the numbers 9-21-11-21 in the shorter cipher you provided yields:
14-16-15-b-d-2-23-23-15-b-d-u-d 2-b-2-d-d-4-8 2-6-4-l3-7-4-8
Some thought led me to believe that the first word ending in bdud might well be the traditional name of one of the Four Māras (bzhi bdud), four traditional Tibetan demons syncretized into obstacles to enlightenment by Buddhism. And, in fact, the name ‘chi·bdag·gi·bdud, the name of Chidag Dü, the Demon of the Lord of Death, fit perfectly. Inserting his name provided me with some further letters to fill in the code, thus:
‘-č-i-b-d-a-g-g-i-b-d-u-d a-b-a-d-d-4-8 a-6-4-l3-7-4-8
At this point, I was frankly stumped for several days, as the second word does not fit any Tibetan word, demotic or literary, written or spoken, that I could conceive of. My inspiration came by simply Googling the sequence. Abaddon is Hebrew for “destruction” and is the name of a demon—“the angel of the bottomless pit”—in the Christian Bible (Rev. 9:11).
‘-č-i-b-d-a-g-g-i-b-d-u-d a-b-a-d-d-o-n a-6-o-13-7-o-n
Examining the beginning of Revelations 9:
1. And the fifth angel sounded, and I saw a star fall from heaven unto the earth: and to him was given the key of the bottomless pit. 2. And he opened the bottomless pit; and there arose a smoke out of the pit, as the smoke of a great furnace; and the sun and the air were darkened by reason of the smoke of the pit. 3. And there came out of the smoke locusts upon the earth: and unto them was given power, as the scorpions of the earth have power. 4. And it was commanded them that they should not hurt the grass of the earth, neither any green thing, neither any tree; but only those men which have not the seal of God in their foreheads. 5. And to them it was given that they should not kill them, but that they should be tormented five months: and their torment was as the torment of a scorpion, when he striketh a man. 6. And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them. 7. And the shapes of the locusts were like unto horses prepared unto battle; and on their heads were as it were crowns like gold, and their faces were as the faces of men. 8. And they had hair as the hair of women, and their teeth were as the teeth of lions. 9. And they had breastplates, as it were breastplates of iron; and the sound of their wings was as the sound of chariots of many horses running to battle. 10. And they had tails like unto scorpions, and there were stings in their tails: and their power was to hurt men five months. 11. And they had a king over them, which is the angel of the bottomless pit, whose name in the Hebrew tongue is Abaddon, but in the Greek tongue hath his name Apollyon.
… suggested to me that Apollyon (Greek Απολλυω, meaning “destroyer” as well), might be the correct reading of the last word, the remaining missing letters then being p, l, and y, yielding:
‘-č-i-b-d-a-g-g-i-b-d-u-d a-b-a-d-d-o-n a-p-o-l-y-o-n
Or, simply, Chidag Dü Abaddon-Apollyon. To be sure, a fearsome juxtaposition, or perhaps identity.
Plugging these letters into the longer cipher text, I thus had:
1-a 3-o-5-p-a-p-o y-a-n b-o-y-o-10-a-y-5-u-12 9-l-a-5-a-l-i y-18-19-u y-i-n-20 1-a d-18-b-l-a d-i b-u-d-a-22 č-i-g-24-o-n-g-d-a-1 g-y-a-y-a-d-a-1 g-u-b-č-u g-o č-i-g-p-a a-n-n-o d-o-5-i-n-i-l-a b-25-17-a-y d-a-1 5-o-1-g-o-l-17-a-y-d-a-1 l-a-24-i-n-a-17-a-y d-a-1 g-22-18-17-a-’-i-17-a-y-17-y-i-12 d-i-n 3-25 1-a-’-i y-i-g-18-’-i-12 b-22-i-12-g-i-y-25 d-on-d-u 26-o-1-27-4 d-o-n-l-a 17-i-o-g n-u-12-p-a-g-i-5-a-22-a-y-20
At this point, a combination of extensive knowledge of Tibetan, a fondness for acrostic and crossword puzzles, and—oddly enough—the classics, allowed me to fill in the rest of the letters thusly:
ñ-a z-o-m-p-a-p-o y-a-n b-o-y-o-h-a-y-m-u-s b-l-a-m-a-’-i y-e-š-u y-i-n-. ñ-a d-e-b-l-a d-i b-u-d-a-r č-i-g-t-o-n-g-d-a-ñ g-y-a-y-a-d-a-ñ g-u-b-č-u g-o č-i-g-p-a a-n-n-o d-o-m-i-n-i-la b-ö-k-a-y d-a-ñ m-o-ñ-g-o-l-k-a-y-d-a-ñ l-a-t-i-n-a-k-a-y d-a-ñ g-r-e-k-a-’-i-k-a-y-k-yi-s d-i-n z-ö ñ-a-’-i y-i-g-e-’-i-s b-r-i-s-g-i-y-ö d-o-n-d-u q-o-ñ-x-o d-o-n-l-a k-l-o-g n-u-sp-a-g-i-m-a-r-a-y-.
Or, more recognizably:
nga tsom·pa·po yan bo·yo·hay·mus bla·ma’i ye·shu yin. nga deb·la di bu·da·r chig·tong·dang gya·ya·shi·dang gub·chu go chig·pa an·no do·mi·ni·la bö·kay·dang mong·gol·kay·dang la·ti·na·kay·dang gre·ka’i·kay·kyis din·tsö nga’i yi·ge·’is bris·gi·yö don·du khong·tsho don·la klog nus·pa·gi·ma·ray.
This is clearly Tibetan—not particularly literate Tibetan and a transliteration of the spoken language rather than the formal written language—but Tibetan nonetheless. In case, for whatever reason, you require the equivalent text in written Tibetan, it would read:
Now, begging your pardon for the pedantic manner in which I have reached it, I am very gratified to present you with my translation. I suspect it will surprise you greatly, and I hope it is some assistance to you.
I the writer am Jan Boiohæmus, priest of Jesus. I am writing this book in Buda in one thousand and four hundred and ninety-one anno Domini with Tibetan, Mongol, Latin, and Greek sounds, with these my letters, so that they will not have the power to read the meaning.
So, you appear to have a document written by Father John the Bohemian in a mixture of languages and a cryptic cipher, in Buda in 1491. This is fascinating, as there’s no known contact between the West and Tibet between the journeys of Odoric of Pordenone circa 1325 and António de Andrade, S.J., in 1624, yet our friend Jan clearly speaks Tibetan and, apparently, Mongolian. Why do we not know anything about him? Why did he disappear? Did “they” get him?
The document you have is fascinating. If it comes to the light of day before I shuffle off this mortal coil, I’d love to have a look at it. Thank you very much for allowing an old man to attack a genuinely new and interesting puzzle. I hope my solution satisfies.
In accordance with your instructions, I have discussed this with no one. I trust I will not have offended you by destroying all my notes and sending you the sole copy of this letter, which I have not saved to any computer medium. I remain eternally in your debt and thus ready to assist you in any regard in the future.
With fondest regards,
Lewis
Lewis Geoffrey
Professor Emeritus
Balliol College, Oxford University
School of Oriental & African Studies
After a long silence, John spoke up. “Okay, what does this tell us?”
“I’m not sure, but I just crapped my pants,” said Mike.
“Seriously,” said Joe, “this is scary.”
“I think we can all agree on that,” said Rafe, rubbing his temples hard, “but what can we take away that’s helpful?” He took a long draw on a water bottle.
Anne spoke up. “Well, the fact that Jan writes ‘1491’ fits with what’s known about the Voynich Manuscript as well as the breviary. No one’s exactly sure, but as far as anyone can tell, the Voynich Manuscript was written between about 1450 and 1520.”
“And Buda in that period makes some sense if he were a scholar,” said John. “There was a university there then, and it’s right around the reign of Matthias Corvinus, the great patron of art and scholarship. Maybe more importantly, it would have been a way point from Western Europe to the East, either via Russia or, more likely, the Ottoman Empire.” He turned to Anne. “Is there any known connection of the Voynich Manuscript to Budapest?”
“No. The first record we have of it is in Prague in the early 1600s, in the possession of an alchemist named Georg Baresch who studied at the Jesuit Clementium in 1603. Baresch evidently had no idea what it was, as he wrote repeatedly to Athanasius Kircher—another Jesuit, incidentally—who had published a Coptic dictionary and a decipherment of Egyptian hieroglyphics.”
“A famously ridiculous decipherment,” interrupted John, “but that’s hindsight for you. Sorry, Anne. Go on.”
“No problem,” nodded Anne. “We have Baresch’s 1639 letter to Kircher mentioning it as a ‘Sphynx’ (with a y, yet!) that has been quote—’taking up space uselessly in my library for many years’—unquote. Interestingly, he asked Kircher to solve the cipher, but not the content—which is of course impossible—but apparently Baresch knew or suspected something about the content. Also, he may have acquired the book illegally.”
“Nice,” joked Rafe. “I like my alchemists shady.”
“Now, there once was a faded signature, or inscription, on the first page of the name Jacobus de Tepenec, who’s known to be a Czech doctor who received the title ‘de Tepenec’ in 1608. So conceivably he owned the book sometime after 1608 and before Baresch, but there’s no direct proof of that. One leading theory is that since he got his title from Rudolf II for curing the Emperor of a disease, perhaps Rudolf gave him the book. Or, since it doesn’t seem to match de Tepenec’s handwriting, maybe someone else wrote his name there at some undetermined later date.”
“My head hurts,” joked John.
“Sorry it’s so vague, but that’s history,” said Anne. “So Baresch dies, sometime before 1662, leaving the book to one Johannes Marcus Marci, another doctor. The last written document we have from Marci is a letter to Athanasius Kircher dated 1666, which seems to be a cover letter sending Kircher the manuscript along with Baresch’s copious notes on the thing. And at this point, the book disappears. Wilfrid Voynich said he found the Marci letter with the manuscript in the library of Villa Mondragone in Italy in 1912.”
Lily tapped her nails on the conference table and said, “So its provenance is almost entirely mysterious. No wonder it has so frequently been held to be a hoax.”
“There is a plausible theory on how it got there, though,” explained Anne, “that goes something like this. Kircher was a professor of mathematics at the Jesuit Roman College. He built up a huge library and collection of objects, artifacts, devices, and oddities of nature, which became known as il Museo Kircheriano, the Kircher Museum. Several catalogs of its contents are published between 1680 and 1773. The Voynich Manuscript doesn’t appear in any of them. When the Jesuits are suppressed for the second time in 1870, they’ve been using the Villa Mondragone for about five years. In order to keep Vittorio Emanuele’s troops from seizing a lot of the order’s books, they mark them ‘private library of P. Beckx,’ Peter Beckx being the Superior-General of the order. And, in fact, years later, when Voynich gives the book to the Beinecke, they find exactly this label on it—which Voynich had never mentioned. Kircher’s correspondence was also kept at the Villa Mondragone, so it’s theorized that the manuscript came into his possession at some point and then travelled with various Jesuit libraries until arriving in the Villa Mondragone, where Voynich found it. It was a boarding school by then, and the Jesuits were secretly selling off some books to restore the building.”
“Okay, so what does this all mean for us?” asked Joe.
“Well, it occurs to me that the connection between the breviary and the manuscript seems to definitively be located with the Jesuit community in Prague. We know the breviary came from a Jesuit captured and executed in Britain. Some of the Jesuits of the English Mission—most famously Edmund Campion—spent time at the Jesuit university in Prague. So I think it’s not too much of a leap to imagine that our Jesuit comes to Prague and somehow runs across this snippet of Voynich code and its Tibetan equivalent, which have made it with the manuscript from Budapest to Prague by some means. He jots it down, possibly not even knowing what it was. He goes to England, dies, and meanwhile the original key to the manuscript he used is lost somewhere in Prague.” She paused a moment and shuddered a little with the thrill of antiquarian discovery. “Or maybe it’s still there.”
“Neat as that may be, where are we going with this, Anne?” asked John.
“Well, it implies to me that someone somewhere other than the author knew about the book and possibly its contents. So it’s entirely possible that our bad guy, perhaps this Monsignor Clairvaux, came by his knowledge of the key through some sort of historical game of telephone, with necromancer passing it down to necromancer. And for the first time in, what, four or five hundred years, someone knows where both the book and the key are.”
“What bothers me,” said Rafe, “is what he wants it for.”
“I just hope to crap it doesn’t have to do with Hüsker Dü, or whatever his name is,” said Mike grimly.
John looked down at his notes, “You mean Chidag Dü Abaddon-Apollyon, Demon of the Lord of Death, the Angel of the Bottomless Pit? Sounds like a lovely fellow. I mean, just because he’s a member of the Apocalyptic-American community, that’s no reason to pre-judge him.”
“Laugh it up, fuzzball,” said Mike. “When’s the last time you ran into a demon?”
“Let’s think this through,” said Rafe. “Assuming that this guy wants to summon a demon, even one with a less impressive business card than Mr. Dü, why do you summon a demon in the first place?”
“Power,” said Mike. “You make it do stuff for you. Kill your enemies, grant you special favors.”
“Knowledge,” said Joe. “Like Faust.”
“Illusions and sex are big in medieval necromancy too,” said Anne.
“Sex?” asked Wilhelmina, speaking up for the first time. “Who wants to get down with a demon?”
“Well,” conceded Anne, “you weren’t necessarily getting down with the demon—although you might send a succubus or incubus to beset your enemy, who’d then be getting down with a demon. You were usually using their power to let you have sex with some woman you wanted to do—sometimes magically. Sort of a magical rape that made her fall in love with you or whatever. I mean, it’s all crackpot, infantile fantasy stuff.”
