the Source (2008) (3 page)

Chapter
5.

That evening as they arrived at the Beinecke Library, Lauren squeezed Ross's hand and kissed him. 'I want to know you're in the audience,' she whispered, as they got out of his car, 'but don't sit too close to the front or you'll make me nervous.'

Rooms thirty-eight and thirty-nine of the Beinecke had been combined to form a lecture theatre capable of sitting seventy, and Ross took a seat at the back. The room filled fast and he saw Zeb Quinn's red curls at the front. A man in a tweed jacket sat next to her: Bob Knight, Yale's professor of linguistics and Lauren's head of faculty. Ross didn't like him. He had a reputation as a ruthless self-publicist who shamelessly took credit for other people's work. Lauren had tried to keep hers under wraps until she was ready to discuss it, but he had pressured her into revealing details of her initial findings tonight, during Voynich Week.

A priest with sharp features and dark, hooded eyes took the seat beside Ross. Any member of the public could attend the open seminar, but it was obvious from all of the cord and tweed jackets that most of the audience were academics, researchers and Voynich aficionados. Kelly wondered what a priest was doing there.

The lights dimmed and the first two speakers spoke at such length about spectral analysis, number sequences, polyalphabetic ciphers and other esoteric aspects of the cryptanalyst's dark arts that they made the world's most mysterious manuscript sound tedious and obscure. Torpor descended on the stuffy room and Ross, exhausted and jet-lagged, struggled to stay awake. To his surprise, the priest sat tense and expectant, radiating energy.

Then Lauren stood up and the mood in the room changed. For all her gravitas, she exuded warmth, her full lips constantly on the verge of smiling. Her blonde hair and emerald dress set off her eyes as she gazed confidently at the audience. This was what they had come to hear. The priest took a notebook and pen out of his pocket. As Ross watched Lauren arrange her notes and introduce herself, he felt a surge of fierce pride that she was his wife and would soon be the mother of his child. He was no dullard but he felt ordinary compared to Lauren. Her PhD had been about conserving dying languages, but for the last few years she had focused on the riddle of the Voynich Cipher, and had succeeded where all those before her had failed. Where they had crunched numbers and analysed sequences on a computer, she had used her expertise in her own field.

As a child, Lauren had once written to her parents, 'I don't like this school. It's boring,' in fifty different languages. Her parents had moved her. She still cherished the knowledge that in Amazonia there was a dialect called Tariana, which required a speaker to include a supporting suffix after everything they said, or their listener would assume they were lying; that there was a Caucasian language with no vowels, and a South Asian dialect whose innumerable verbs included gobray (to fall into a well knowingly) and onsra (to love for the last time). It upset her that of the six thousand languages left in the world more than half would be extinct by the end of the twenty-first century.

Lauren cleared her throat and the room fell silent. She began to read.

' "Welcome, fellow scholar, your efforts have not been in vain. Though your name and mine are insignificant this story is not. Know this: discoveries may excite our blood but mysteries sustain our soul. When we're strong and arrogant, mysteries remind us how little we know of God's world. And when we are weak and desperate, they encourage us to believe that anything is possible." ' Lauren looked up and smiled. 'You've just heard the opening lines of the Voynich, expressed for the first time in English.'

A low murmur rippled through the audience, like wind through a field of barley. Text from the Voynich flashed up on the screen behind Lauren. She continued, 'With my assistant Zeb's help I've now translated all of the manuscript, except the astrology section. I won't present a verbatim transcript until I've completed it.' She glanced meaningfully at Knight. 'Having been asked to share a synopsis of its contents, however, I can tell you that I found no code.' The audience's murmuring grew to a buzz and people were scribbling notes. 'I'm now convinced that Voynichese is a synthetic language. Those linguists among you will know that there are two types: a posterior language, which is based on existing languages, the most famous example being Esperanto, and a priori language, which is created from scratch. The latter is virtually impossible to translate without knowledge of the creator's rules of grammar and vocabulary, which in this case we don't have. Luckily for us, however, Voynichese appears to be of the posterior variety: a blend of two ancient languages, which have then been transliterated into the unique symbols we see in the text.'

A hand shot up from the audience. 'Which two languages?'

The priest's fingers were working at a string of rosary beads.

Lauren shook her head. 'I'm not prepared to reveal the root languages until I've completed the translation. Then I'll make a full announcement and publish all my supporting work.'

'Are you sure there's no code in the text?' asked a woman at the front.

The priest's fingers moved faster on the beads.

'With Zeb's computer models, we realized early on that a code was unlikely,' Lauren said. 'Given the age of the document and the intractable nature of the text, any code would have had to be a polyalphabetic cipher. But our entropy analyses, which looked at the pattern of symbols in the text, showed that it was too regular, too much like a proper language, to be a code.'

The priest's hand shot up. 'Dr Kelly, before you share with us how you translated the Voynich, perhaps you could tell us what your translation has revealed?' His English was perfect but held the faint trace of an Italian accent.

Lauren nodded. 'First, let me apologize to all those who, like me, hoped the manuscript contained some secret. Contrary to certain claims, the Voynich Cipher wasn't written by the medieval monk Roger Bacon and, sadly, it's not an ancient Cathar text, a wizard's treatise on alchemy, a mystic's vision, a message from God, written in the language of angels, or any of the other fanciful things many believed.'

There were audible sighs of disappointment.

'The Voynich is simply the story of a mythic quest in the classic tradition, an allegory of man's greed that shows a prescient awareness of today's environmental concerns. I've purposely translated it without trying to reproduce the archaic language of the time to highlight the sense. It tells of a scholar priest who accompanies a troop of soldiers into a vast jungle in search of Eldorado - the fabled city of gold. His mission is to chronicle their adventure and to claim the souls of the conquered for his church. The gruelling quest decimates the soldiers, leaving them lost in the middle of the forest. Just as they abandon hope, they stumble across a garden filled with strange plants and inhabited by even stranger nymphlike women and other bizarre creatures. It turns out to be both an Eden - and Hell. They find wonders and miracles there, but something terrible too. Only the scholar priest lives to tell the tale.'

As Lauren recounted the story in more detail she used the screen to punctuate her narrative with disturbing illustrations from the manuscript. The audience listened politely. Her synopsis was only a theory until she published and her full findings were accepted. The priest, however, appeared transfixed, his sharp features expressing a blend of incredulity, wonder and concern.

'Our unknown author provides one final twist. Not only does he employ a unique language, present us with bizarre illustrations and an even more bizarre story, but he - and I assume it's a he - claims that the fabulous garden illustrated and described in the manuscript actually exists, and that his story is true. This is how he concludes: "Congratulations, fellow scholar, you have read my story and so proved your dedication, intelligence and wisdom. Whatever your faith, God has now chosen you to do what I cannot: keep His garden safe and ensure its miraculous powers are used for His glory. One day, mankind will doubtless need these powers. I only pray it deserves them. Amen." ' She smiled. 'Because of the extraordinary pains he took to tell his story, it's tempting to think it might be true, and that he created his ingenious language to guard its secret.'

The room was buzzing again.

'You have no idea of the author's identity?' asked the priest.

'No. He doesn't give his name.'

'What do you expect to find in the astrological section you haven't yet translated?' demanded another voice.

'A map?' someone shouted.

Lauren raised her hands for calm. 'Before we get too excited, we must remember that at the time the Voynich was written, in the late sixteenth century, encrypting documents was extremely fashionable. So, sadly, I'm afraid the likelihood is that the author simply possessed an extraordinary intellect, a mischievous sense of humour - and the leisure time to indulge both.'

She waited for the audience's laughter to subside. 'Nevertheless, the Voynich is still a work of genius and if you want to read my synopsis of the translated story I suggest you visit the Beinecke pages on Yale's website.'

In the hallway outside the meeting room, members of the audience besieged Lauren with questions.

Watching her, Ross felt a stab of regret - and envy. After his PhD he, too, could have carved out a career in academia. Harvard and three other good colleges had offered him positions to continue his studies, but he had declined them. If, after graduating from high school, you tell your parents that their only child - their only son - has no interest in taking over the struggling farm that's been in the family for generations, but is leaving to take up a scholarship at Princeton, you'd better be successful. To Ross, that meant making money. A lot of it. So he had joined Big Oil. And, if he was honest, he had never wanted to be an academic. He liked the buccaneering cut and thrust of oil exploration, journeying to the more inhospitable parts of the world and finding what no one else could.

How quickly things had changed, though. He had once been the shining star with the glittering career ahead of him, while Lauren had been the dedicated academic destined to spend her career in worthy obscurity. Now her star was in the ascendant and, as he watched her fielding questions, he realized she had no idea of how huge her achievement was. She hoped her translation of the Voynich would bring her promotion within her faculty but it was clear to Ross that, once she had completed it, she could take her pick of any job in her field - across the world. Suddenly he had a vision of himself as a house-husband, looking after their baby, while Lauren ascended to even greater heights. He consoled himself with the thought of their three-week holiday. He would worry about finding another job when they got back.

Lauren smiled and beckoned to him, but the priest suddenly engaged her in conversation. Though not a big man he had a commanding presence. Ross watched him introduce himself and, above the hubbub, heard him say: 'I asked if you knew the author's name because I've seen confidential Vatican files that may reveal his identity - and help to unlock the final astrological section.'

Lauren's eyes widened. 'Really?'

'Yes. I rather hoped we might collaborate.'

'I'd certainly love to see the files.'

'We'll happily show you everything in exchange for certain conditions.'

'Such as?'

'The Vatican needs to retain some control over publication to restrict circulation of anything that might be injurious to the Church.'

Lauren flashed her most polite - and dangerous - smile, from which Ross knew the priest would leave empty-handed. 'I'm sorry but I must decline your kind offer,' she said.

'I'm speaking on behalf of the Society of Jesus,' the priest said, as if it was unthinkable anyone could refuse. 'This is for the Holy Mother Church.'

'That's as may be, Father, but this is a personal project and I don't believe in putting any restrictions on academic scholarship.'

There was an awkward pause. Then the priest reached into his robes and handed her a card. 'I have to respect your decision, Dr Kelly, but if you change your mind please don't hesitate to contact me.'

As she took the card, Bob Knight intervened smoothly: 'If Dr Kelly's tight-lipped, Father, don't take it personally. She guards the privacy of her work fiercely, keeping most of her files at home. I'm her head of faculty and I barely knew the detail of what she was presenting tonight.' He took Lauren's arm and steered her away. 'Now, if you'll excuse us . . .'

As Knight led Lauren to the end of the corridor the priest stared after them. He was older than Ross had first thought, although his blue-black hair contained little grey and his face was unlined - but for the frown marks between his eyes. Suddenly the man turned, and as the priest's dark eyes met his, Ross saw that he was seething with rage and frustration.

When Lauren returned, beaming with excitement, Ross put his arm round her and escorted her to the exit. 'Congratulations. You certainly got everyone around here buzzing. That priest seemed pretty intense, though.'

She grimaced. 'He said the Vatican had files that might interest me, but he wanted some kind of gag, so I passed.'

'And Knight? He looked pretty excited.'

'He is.' Outside in the cool night air, she gave him a strange pleading smile. 'You want the good news or the bad?'

Ross had never been a fan of bad news. 'The good.'

'Knight's promising me whatever I want at the faculty. I'll be a full professor, significant salary rise, everything.'