Father McCallum hurried down the sidewalk toward the bus stop. Only one late-morning bus heading for East Haven stopped near the library. He wanted to be on that bus.
He was less than half a block from the stop when he saw the bus pull up. He had to get home right away. He started to run; he couldn’t bear the thought of missing that bus.
He didn’t. Gasping, he hobbled up the steps and showed his bus pass to the driver, then collapsed into the first empty seat he came to.
When he’d begun working at the library, the Vatican had found him rooms in a house on Henry Street, about a fifteen-minute bus ride from Yale. Today the trip seemed to take two hours. The entire ride he sat looking out the window, nervously playing with the key that hung on a chain around his neck.
Finally the bus stopped at the corner of Elliot and Henry streets, and Father McCallum climbed off and rushed home. He rented the top floor of a traditional Georgian colonial home, and shared the kitchen with his landlords, a retired couple in their late sixties. Like Father McCallum, they were quiet and kept to themselves much of the time. The three had grown to be friends.
The priest hurried to the back entrance of the house. He was about to do something he’d been rehearsing in his mind for more than twenty years.
He went in and started up the stairs. At the top were three rooms: a small living room, a bathroom, and a modest bedroom. The priest entered the bedroom and went directly to the wooden blanket box at the foot of the bed, then unlatched and opened the lid. He lifted out stacks of sheets and blankets and set them aside carefully. At the bottom of the chest was a small metal box with a heavy lock. He pulled it out and set it on the bed, then took the key from around his neck, a key he’d worn every day of his twenty-two years in New Haven. Finally he was going to use it. He unlocked the little box and opened the lid.
Very carefully, Father McCallum pulled an envelope from the box and looked at it in admiration. A large wax seal held the flap of the handmade parchment envelope in place. The seal bore the symbol of the office of the Holy See, one of the most secretive and powerful branches of the Vatican, and the branch that had sent Father McCallum to Yale.
He vividly remembered sitting in the office of Cardinal Espinosa twenty-two years ago. Father McCallum had memorized every word of his sacred mission. The cardinal held up this very envelope and said: “If anyone ever claims the ability to read the Voynich manuscript, you will break the seal on this envelope and follow the instructions. Do not lose this envelope. Do not contact us unless you are sure that the Voynich manuscript can be deciphered. Many scientists and scholars will come to this book but they will find nothing. The manuscript will be read by someone who cannot be recognized by his or her outward appearance. You will know when it happens. Then you will break the seal on this envelope. Keep this secret until that day comes.”
The priest slowly broke the wax seal, lifted the flap of the envelope and pulled out a sheet of parchment. He unfolded the weathered piece of paper, his hands trembling, and read:
Do not lose track of the child but do not contact him directly. Under no circumstances must the child be allowed to see the manuscript again and certainly not to read the manuscript aloud. Do not neglect this instruction.
Call this number: 390 (66982) 69.88.35.11 immediately for additional instructions.
The child? How could they have known? Why didn’t they tell me I was waiting for a child for the past twenty years? He knew he could follow the first instruction: he had the name of the school the child attended and would go there after lunch to learn more about the boy and try to find out where he lived. He read the second instruction again, then leaned across his bed and picked up the telephone. He carefully pressed each digit. His hands were shaking.
The phone rang only once before it was answered.
A female voice said, “Please hold.”
Father McCallum started to speak but realized the woman was gone.
He waited for about five minutes, imagining a series of phone calls and a flurry of activity at the Vatican. The Voynich manuscript must be important if the Holy Church had kept one line, one phone number, dedicated to his call. He tried to calculate what time it would be in Rome. He thought the Vatican was six hours ahead of Connecticut, so it must be around dinnertime there.
And then the phone clicked and a voice said, “Yes?” It was a voice well worn with time and betrayed a heavy European accent Father McCallum couldn’t quite place.
“This is Father McCallum. I have been instructed to phone this number.”
“Yes, yes, I am well aware. Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Can anyone hear our conversation?”
“Not on this end.”
“Good, good,” the voice murmured. “Now tell me who read the manuscript.”
“It was a six-year-old boy.”
“Yes.”
Father McCallum expected another question but none came so he continued, “The boy is autistic and a teacher told me that he has never spoken, but he spoke to me.”
“He said the manuscript was written in the language of the forsaken.”
“The forsaken?” the voice asked.
Was it the cardinal? Father McCallum strained to place the accent. “The boy said the forsaken were half angel, half human.”
There was a silence. Then: “Tell me, did he read any part of the manuscript to you?” The voice was suddenly sharp.
The priest felt sure it was Cardinal Espinosa. “No,” he answered. “I asked the boy to read it but we were interrupted.”
“Do not allow the boy to read the manuscript,” the cardinal said roughly.
Father McCallum felt uncomfortable. “Yes, of course,” he said.
In a more relaxed tone, the cardinal said, “Fine. That is good. And you have told no one but came immediately to this task — to call me?”
“That’s correct.”
“And you know how to find this boy?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. Do not contact this boy directly. Continue to be aware of him and how to find him. I am sending someone to investigate further. When he arrives you will apprise him of the situation and then wait for further instruction from my office.”
Father McCallum was taken aback. “You’re sending someone?”
There was no reply, and he realized the cardinal had hung up the phone.
He felt let down. He would probably not participate in the investigation of the boy. He was only a watchdog, and now, at the most important moment, someone else would take over, and he, loyal Father McCallum, would end up at a desk job somewhere. He had always hoped solving the mystery of the Voynich manuscript would be life-altering, and that afterward he wouldn’t mind leaving his post at the Beinecke Rare Book Collection.
Instead he felt a cold chill. It is all for the service of the church, he reminded himself, rubbing his hands together. He had more work to do: he needed to find out about the boy. Where the school was and where the boy lived. When the Vatican representative arrived, Father McCallum would demonstrate his usefulness.