Behind the Ivory Veil
4 Finding Our Boy
Thursday, 17 March 1955, Greenwich, Connecticut
THE DESERT SUN sun beats down as Doc climbs one dune after another—dunes that were in different places hours ago. That was before the sandstorm buried him and his fellow archaeologists in the Sinai. He has to get help. Any relief from the burning heat. More miles of desert to cross.
In his Greenwich home, Doc snapped back to reality, staring at a carved wood panel in his library that replayed the event. Each of the eleven panels in the room showed a different expedition. His eye wandered back to the massive blank panel above the fireplace. This year, his visit to the City of the Gods, his crowning achievement, would be carved on that panel.
“Or,” he mused, “like Wilton, I will lose my credibility and be accused of an elaborate hoax. The capstone of my career will be an albatross around my neck and I will sink into oblivion.”
The very existence of the papers in front of him should be proof enough. But he found them in a dream. Can I trust my memories? It was all so unreal. Yet he found himself unable to doubt that it occurred.
He should have investigated further before returning to America, but time was of the essence. Scavengers masquerading as archaeologists still followed the steps of legitimate scholars, stealing from the digs to supply a booming black market in antiquities. At the docks in Athens, Doc excused his hasty departure to such a one with a plea of illness. Ryan McGuire. Doc was sure he would see that particular thorn in his side again. It just showed that sharing a common circle did not mean common ideals. Doc weighed the evidence in support of an expedition against the academic and physical risk involved. He had a week to think during the voyage back to New York. He had scarcely left his cabin on the entire crossing, so intent was he on reading Wilton’s journal. There were no mountains near enough to Metéora to have walked to in a day. Geologic maps showed no places within twenty miles that would match the terrain Doc had walked. The whole journey was impossible, yet he had been there.
Doc shuffled the notes and maps on his desk. He had been studying them ever since his return in October. Four months now. He was confident he could find the cluster of houses where his guide would await him, but where they had gone from there he simply could not tell. He was so absorbed in his study that he didn’t hear the bell ring and William had spoken twice at the library door before he responded.
“Doctor Jacobsen is here to see you,” the steward repeated.
“Oh, thank you, William. Send her in.” Doctor Margaret Jacobsen was a dear friend of Heinrich’s. Her caring for him extended far beyond his need for a research assistant years ago.
“Phillip, how are you?” she asked, coming into the room and reaching for his hands.
“I’m fine, my dear. What’s the news from the outside world? Did you get the references I asked for?” Doc was already reaching past her outstretched hand for the satchel she carried.
“Be patient, Phillip. It’s all here.”
“You’ve been telling me that for twenty years, Margaret.”
“And it has yet to sink in.”
“Well, come. Sit down. Would you like coffee or tea?” Doc asked. William materialized at the door. “Coffee please,” Doc said.
“Certainly,” William responded.
“Not for me,” Margaret said. “I want to show you what I’ve found.”
“A reference?” Doc slapped his hands together and cleared a spot on the desk between them.
“A whole book! But you aren’t going to like it.” She drew a thin and brightly colored book from the bag and set it in the middle of the desk facing Doc.
“The Last Gift? A children’s book?” he asked.
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
“A children’s book?” he repeated. “This is a serious scientific study. We don’t need children’s books.”
“Who led you on your journey, Phillip? Who told you the story? Look at the name. Ben Wills. I’ve discovered that Benjamin Wilton wrote fiction under that name.”
“Wilton? Writing children’s books?”
“Phillip. Please stop talking in italics. If he couldn’t get anyone to believe him with scientific research, why shouldn’t he put it down as a children’s story and hope some little believer would rise to take up the search?” Margaret calmly reached for the teapot William had brought and poured a cup for each of them.
“Once upon a time,” Doc read from the first page and then closed the book. “I can’t do this. Could you just give me a synopsis? Didn’t I ask for coffee?”
“You know how coffee keeps you awake if you drink it this late in the afternoon. Now drink your tea, dear,” Margaret said.
“I thought you weren’t having any.”
“I wouldn’t insult William by not sharing what he brought for us. That would be terrible.”
“The story?” Doc motioned at the book.
“The book was published about a year after he disappeared, according to your account, August of 1937. The publishers wouldn’t give much information. They said the manuscript was sent to them from overseas. They had a contract for Ben Wills’ works and had no reason to believe that it was not his. It came with a cover letter designating a college in Indiana as future recipient of all his royalties, which were apparently not much.”
“I don’t understand,” Doc said. “Wilton never had any connections in Indiana. He was strictly Ivy League.”
“How can you be so sure of that? Very little is known about his life in the U.S. Everything is about his travels and scholarly work.”
“No. I knew Wilton personally. I was with him the night he disappeared in 1937.”
“Oh, Phillip! Who were his parents? Did he have any family? Who else knew him?”
“He was my advisor on my thesis and I worked several digs with him in the early thirties. I know—or I think—he was involved in the gathering of intelligence in Central Europe as Hitler rose to power. Sending things to Indiana simply does not make sense.”
“And all I remember is you disciplining a student by shouting out ‘Thou shalt not quote Wilton in this class!’ We were all terrified.”
“In the forties, it could ruin your career to cite Wilton. So, tell me. Here we have his story in a children’s book. An unheard of Greek goddess who was left bound to old Olympus behind an ivory veil, abandoned by the gods as they take flight into the heavens. There she awaits a mortal savior.”
“Hmm. Sadly, it’s a different story,” broke in Margaret. “This is a little romance about a magician who falls in love with a gypsy princess. It’s set in one of those all-purpose romantic gypsy eras. A forbidden love. Different castes. But the magician frees the leader of the gypsies from a camp where he has been taken prisoner. He is adopted into the clan and marries the princess. They live happily ever after.”
Margaret noticed doc’s shattered look.
“Phillip!”
“No gods? No ancient myths? No prophecy? No function? No goddess?”
“Well, the story says the princess had found the magician when he was quite ill and tended him until he recovered. She wasn’t helpless.”
“We already have a goddess Health, and Asklepios is a healer. Heritage is usually important. The lyric muse and the healer and health. Her legitimacy depends on a function. Gaia and Uranus—earth and sky—are the parents of Hyperion or light and watchfulness. Hyperion and Theia, or brightness, become parents of Helios—the sun. Helios is the father of Phaeton of heat and danger. This one is a late parthenogenesis myth and not a common archetype by that time.”
“Music? All the spells in Ben Wills’ little book are sung. It’s a common contrivance in this type of story,” Margaret said. “Wait. Parthenogenesis?”
“Conceived in empathy with Health and born in the same hour as Hygeia.”
“Hmm. Try this. A goddess of empathy. Maybe one who can heal through her unique gifts of empathy and music. That would bring a wonderful gift to humanity—when we are ready for it.”
“Gift?”
“Like Prometheus giving fire to humans. The goddess behind the ivory veil brings the ability to heal ourselves—or each other. It’s the title of the book: The Last Gift. It has nothing to do with the rest of the story. Perhaps it’s the last gift of the gods to humanity.”
“Prometheus. He was one of Wilton’s contacts. I remember them meeting at a dig in ’34. Never knew his real name. Younger than me. After the brief meeting, I never saw him again.”
“Perhaps Wilton passed on something besides information,” Margaret said.
Margaret’s voice was soothing to Doc and she let him drift in the fantasy she wove. For a moment, he forgot they were both pushing retirement—him a little harder than her—and saw her as they had been thirty years earlier, ready to dream and believe.
“Margaret, are you a believer?”
“You know better than that, Phillip. I’m a wisher. I wish it were all true. I wish the goddess was real. I wish we were twenty years younger. And I wish we were a few more steps ahead of Ryan McGuire.” Her last statement broke the spell. Ryan McGuire had been a problem for Doc ever since the young man had joined an expedition eight years ago and stole the most valuable artifacts. Of course, there was no proof of that. The artifacts simply disappeared at the same time McGuire did. They’d never been seen again. McGuire, when confronted, said he’d taken ill and had an emergency appendectomy. He had stitches to prove it. Still, the artifacts were gone.
“He was arriving in Greece when I was embarking. He seems always to be a few steps behind me no matter where I work. Or ahead. It’s the affinity.”
“Affinity to what?” Margaret asked.
“Oh. His nose is connected to buried treasure. He always seems to know where I am.” Doc knew that Margaret dabbled around the edges of the occult, but he had never shared the depth of his own involvement in all their twenty years as companions. Doc bore the Second Face of Carles—the staff of the Vagabond Poet that was said to control fire. Ryan McGuire, known as The Blade in the Great Cobhan Carles, bore the First Face, the Athamé. The tools knew each other. “I told him I was ill when he asked why I was leaving. Thought it might be my appendix.” Margaret chuckled at the veiled reference to McGuire’s excuse eight years ago.
“Well, he’s arrived here. I saw him at the library in the city yesterday. He caught me by surprise when he asked about your health.”
“What did you say?”
“Oh, I told him that you’d been fevered and unable to leave your home since returning from Greece. I was just picking up some reading material for you. I don’t think he saw the book.” They both laughed at the incongruity of Margaret bringing a children’s book to Doc.
“Margaret, I’ve done all I can here. We need to mount an expedition,” Doc said abruptly. They’d both known this moment was coming. Doc had stated as soon as he arrived home that he would be going back to Greece in the summer. “We need a team.”
“Who do you have in mind?”
“No one… but you. But from now on, we need to devote our research to assembling the proper team. I know that I forbade the quoting of Wilton in my classes, but the time has come to dig out everything we can about him. In his journal, he alludes to other papers that he wrote. We need to find them.”
“Perhaps we should invite Ryan to become part of the team. We know he’s looking for whatever we are. If we had him closer, we could keep an eye on him. It might throw him off the real scent.”
“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer? Margaret, you are becoming positively Machiavellian. But Ryan would be as likely to murder us to steal our lunches if he was hungry. He’s a grave robber, pure and simple.”
“You said there was nothing apparent at the site to be stolen.”
“The very existence of the site would be an invitation to Ryan to exploit it or the family who guards it. Andrew told me his son returned from his last trip to the City with Wilton so demoralized by what had happened that he ran away and joined the army. He was only fourteen when he was killed in the war. We can’t let the value of this family or this sacred ground be harmed by exploitation. I’m half tempted to simply walk away and never go back.”
“Half tempted, but not all the way. I know what you are like, Phillip. Once the puzzle has been presented, you will worry it until there is a solution.”
“Perhaps we should sleep on it. Let’s make the rounds of the libraries in the morning and see what else we can turn up.” Doc paused to pour two glasses of sherry and handed one to Margaret. “Do you think you’ll be safe spending the night here? I’ll have William make up the guest room.”
Margaret sighed. “Still the guest room? When will you learn, you old fool.” They finished their sherry and went to their rooms.
Friday, 18 March 1955, Greenwich, Connecticut
YES, THERE IS PASSION after sixty. It might not burn as brightly as that of youth. It might take a bit longer to kindle the flames. Sometimes taking longer has its own rewards. But for the most part, the equipment is more likely to atrophy than to wear out. And so, Doctors Heinrich and Jacobsen continued the practice secretly as they had when she was his student and a scandal could have destroyed both their careers. Though their relationship in 1955 might have raised some eyebrows, it was unlikely that it would have caused more than a ripple in the world of academia.
Nonetheless, they breakfasted separately in their rooms in the morning, served by Doc’s all-knowing companion and steward, William.
Unlike Margaret, William had not been a student of Doc’s, but rather a classmate. The two had formed an unlikely friendship during a lively discussion of the romanticization of mythology in art. Doc took the part of the fact-driven archaeologist. William Renton debated from the viewpoint of the artist. A third member of the discussion was Sylvester Dalton, a literature major who was well-versed in the influence of popular mythology on contemporary literature. The three became close friends, but William and Sylvester became much closer.
It was obvious to Doc that their relationship could cause censure and likely arrest. Intercourse sodomy was illegal in the United States, whether between males or between male and female. The law was openly used to persecute homosexuals. Upon graduation, Doc offered a position in his household to William that would allow him both privacy for his personal life and a studio for his professional life. In return, William provided the basic services of a gentleman’s gentleman and the role had suited him so well that he never left. Sadly, Sylvester had passed away in the early thirties, victim of a viral infection.
William delivered Margaret’s soft-boiled egg, toast, coffee and the most recent issue of The New York Historical Society Journal. Then he took Doc his toast and coffee. Doc was sitting at his table with a stack of papers in front of him. He wore a dressing gown and his bed was a mess.
“William, have you seen my latest issue of Archaeological Digest?”
William went to the bed and pulled the magazine from beneath the pillow. “I left it there for you last night thinking you might want to read before sleeping.” William busied himself at opening the drapes.
“Of course. So tired last night. Probably slept on the other side.”
“Yes. You were exhausted. Do you need anything else?”
“That will be sufficient.” Doc watched William move toward the door, then muttered under his breath, “I should have asked for the Linguistics Quarterly.”
“It’s under the other pillow,” William responded and left the room.
Half an hour later, Doc was pounding on Margaret’s door. “Margaret, I must see you at once!” he said, pushing open the door.
“Phillip! In the morning, no!” Doc was already sitting on the edge of her bed bouncing like a teenager. Margaret hid behind her magazine. “I’ve not put my face on.”
“Come now. Respectable people are already having discreet tête-à-têtes in coffee shops all over the city.”
“This is not a coffee shop nor anything near discreet.”
“I’ve found something very important. Look at this article.” Doc shoved his Linguistics Quarterly behind Margaret’s raised magazine. Margaret grabbed the issue out of his hand and began to read. “Music and Language: In Search of the Mother Tongue by J. Wesley Allen. Bet he’s a Methodist.” She quickly scanned the article. The symbols used by the writer to translate words into music were identical to those found in Wilton’s papers. “Incredible. Where from?”
“Look at the editorial note.”
“Indianapolis City College. Of course.”
Friday, 18 March 1955, Beech Grove, Indiana
“Mr. Hart,” said the extremely nervous young man, “May I… I should like…” He glanced to the kitchen door of the house in Beech Grove home where Rebecca and Mrs. Hart stood watching. Rebecca looked somewhat bemused but smiled encouragingly. “Sir, may I ask your daughter’s hand in marriage,” Wesley burst out. Once started, he could not stop. “I assure you that I am able to comfortably support a wife and children, though I expect things will improve in the coming year when I receive a full professorship. I have acquired a small but acceptable home just a block from the campus where Miss Hart and I are both affiliated. I am not a wealthy man, but I assure you that I will devote myself to providing for my wife and family. I am, sir, an honorable man and hope you will grant me the privilege of marrying your daughter.”
Charles Hart stood from the sofa, crossed the room to the music of “You’ll look sharp,” and turned off the television.
“That Fuller was never a match for Cason. I don’t think we’ll have a real matchup until Marciano faces Cockell in May. We won’t want to miss that one.” Charles reoccupied his seat and waved Wesley into a chair. “Have you discussed this with the lady in question?”
“Uh… Sir… I felt it best to get your permission first, sir. But… We have spoken of our feelings for each other,” Wesley stammered.
“Becky!” Rebecca Hart scrambled to her father’s side, her mother a step behind her. She was twenty-three years old and didn’t even live with her parents, but Wesley had insisted on this meeting. She was blushing furiously as her father held out his arms and she perched on his knee. “It seems the gentleman you brought home to dinner this evening was not really interested in the Friday Night Fights. Is there any reason that I shouldn’t grant this young man the privilege of marrying you?”
“He hasn’t asked me, yet, Father.” Mrs. Hart burst out laughing. Wesley went red.
“Well, that settles it,” said Mr. Hart. “Mr. Allen, you have my permission to ask my daughter for her hand, but I simply can’t guarantee her answer.” Wesley gasped and looked at Rebecca. She grinned at him but was shocked when he fell to his knees in front of her and her father.
“Rebecca Hart, my heart is bursting with love for you. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? Becc, will you marry me?”
It was Rebecca’s turn to gasp. Her father gave her a gentle shove off his lap and she fell to her knees in front of Wesley, taking his hands in hers. “Yes!” she squeaked. They knelt in front of her parents, lost in each other’s eyes.
“I guess that settles it,” Mrs. Hart laughed. “You might as well kiss him and seal the deal, Rebecca.” Both the young people blushed crimson, but Rebecca leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on Wesley’s lips.
“Yes,” she whispered again.
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