James Steimle - The Kukulkan Manuscript

“Good of you to join us,” one of the old gentlemen said.

Putting his Ebola-virus briefcase on the table without a word, he inserted a small key. The case popped open. Then, round the table he went, passing out one manila envelope to each person in the conference room. He was the youngest man present, but didn’t want anyone to notice it. His face remained as stern as everyone else’s. As he lifted each envelope, he made sure it did not quiver in the air. Not once did he breathe through his mouth.

One elderly man stood as the circle began to open their packages. In a raspy voice he said, “I assume you’ve all read the brief and understand the nature of the codex.” He shot the younger man a look as the briefcase locked with a snap.

Silent and listening, the young man waited at the far end of the table. He wore a face without emotion. The smell of lemon spray scented the air.

“You have before you a similar paper written by a Dr. Dennis Albright of Ohio State University,” the old man said as everyone but the young man standing at the opposite end of the table scanned the words in the file. “News of the find seems to have spread to a greater degree than we realized.” He looked up at the young man and said, “Peter.”

With his fingers firmly attached to his briefcase so he wouldn’t flinch, Peter said in as bland a voice as he could manage, “It appears that Dr. Ulman sent a codex to another professor, a Dr. Troy Kinnard of Stratford University. Within four days, Professor Kinnard passed the ancient record on to a student by the name of John D. Porter.”

“And what do you know about this Mr. Porter?” the old man said, still standing.

“Everything,” Peter said. “Mr. Porter has been at Stratford for almost seven years. His focus is Ancient Near Eastern studies, and he is praised for his research. He is single, lives alone in a dusty apartment adjacent to the University grounds, has a small hole of an office on campus, and is a member of the Mormon church.” Peter waited a minute, looking over everyone’s grim stare. “Mr. Porter was evidently in need of a dissertation topic and has chosen Professor Ulman’s find on which to focus. He’s both bound and driven by a time limit. If he doesn’t complete his written dissertation and present the argument to Stratford by the twenty-first of May, he will fail to gain his doctorate and will be evicted from the institution. That means he will be working fast.”

“Current developments?” the old man asked, though he already had a pretty good idea, and Peter was aware of it.

Nevertheless, Peter spoke as if he were the only one understanding the situation. “John Porter has now been joined by a young lady, another student at Stratford University. Her name is Erma Alred, and she also is renowned in what she does. Liberal, intelligent, lives alone, has no religious affiliation and is unlikely to join any church whatsoever.

“Alred was Dr. Ulman’s prized student for a little more than a year and a half, until he went to Guatemala. An archaeology student specializing in ancient America. She is a hard-nosed woman with a mighty flame inside, so she won’t be pushed around by Porter. She’s wise and intelligent enough not to be taken advantage of.

“The two students together, complemented by Porter’s pressing time schedule, will mean quick and efficient work on their part. But they will formulate separate opinions. While Ms. Alred has an excellent reputation and is destined for success in her field, Porter is making a questionable name for himself. He’s clever but eccentric.”

Waiting a moment as Peter stood motionlessly, breathing through his nose, the old man at the far end of the oval redwood let his associates mull over the information before speaking. “Gentlemen…I think it is time we inform other interested parties.”

Quickly, Peter said, “I have already prepared a meeting.”

All the bones in the room chilled in silence as thought-filled eyes looked on the young man.

But Peter stood like a work of marble in very expensive attire. His skin was cold and white. His dark hair, short, slightly receding, was sprayed into immobility. He paused, letting the world push its stressful hands past him, and looked calmly to the old man standing on the other side of the table.

Unmoved by the words, the elderly figure was little more than a reflection of Peter set far in the future.

The air hung icily throughout the room, but no one shivered.

“Good,” the old man said at last. “We have no time to waste. We all have work to do now…so I suggest we adjourn until this evening.”

April 11

9:07 p.m. PST

The glass door slapped against the door frame when it closed, and for a second Alred was sure the pane would break and rain razor-sharp shards all over her back.

A few heads turned then turned away, but the owner, a thin old man who she assumed was Bruno, called from behind a counter in his gruffest voice, “Don’t worry about it! Been meaning to get it fixed anyway.”

She looked back at the door, which was fine.

Walking into the depths of the cafe, Alred found herself a booth away from the bar. From here she could see most of the restaurant, but wouldn’t easily fall in the path of everyone else’s eyes. Bruno came to her quickly, wiping his hands with a yellowed rag. “What can I get you?” he said with enthusiasm.

“Coffee,” she answered, taking papers out of her bag. She opened a copy of LOGOS, The Journal of Archaeology, which Porter had called her about. “Better read Dr. Albright’s paper,” he’d said, and there had been no levity in his voice. She wasted no time tracing down the table of contents.

But she looked around as Bruno left.

The cafe had the air of being safe, like the kitchen of one’s childhood home. Sure that she’d heard of the place from other students, Alred wished she’d found it earlier in her career at Stratford. There seemed to be a number of individuals from the University, but at this hour, most sat tired and relatively quiet, save those laughing over hot mugs and dinner at the bar.

Booths tightly lined the walls of Bruno’s cafe, which bent like three halls around the kitchen in the center. Tables filled all the extra floor space. Red and white checkered cloths draped over every tabletop, and the floor was a simple gray color with a battered shine. Rafters could be seen in the brown ceiling, and the walls were also wood brown without insulation. Evidently, the kitchen produced enough heat in the winter time that no fiberglass padding was needed. The warmth and smell of cooking smoked the inside of the cafe, and it was hard for Alred not to think of her mom.

She hated being reminded about her parents. Alred shoved the thought away.

During the warmer months, there was probably a fan above Bruno’s kitchen to vent the hot air and delicious aroma outside.

Happy not to return to a chilled apartment, she preferred to be hugged by the cafe and its friendly fever. Bruno brought the coffee and asked her if she wanted something else. She shook her head, and the old man ran off, yelling at someone who only laughed in return.

Alred’s eyes found the beginning of the essay Porter said she had to read: THE MESOAMERICA MIDDLE-EAST CONNECTION

Codex KM-1 and Related Finds by

Dr. Dennis Albright, Ohio State University

She squinted, attempting to understand how this Dr. Albright could have come upon their project. If others scholars were involved, especially those with their Ph. D’s, her dissertation would quickly lose importance.

After reading the title three or four times, Alred finally decided she couldn’t push through it. She couldn’t do any of it. Or rather, it was possible, but she didn’t see the project with Porter as being as profitable as Masterson had described.