Chapters 1-3 of Indiana Jones and the Black Book

Posted by Goodsport from adsl-216-102-199-185.dsl.snfc21.pacbell.net on July 26, 2000 at 02:08:30:

Chapter 1

    The commons clock struck the half hour, its Westminster chimes rumbling through the walls of the old college library. The small assistant librarian slowly walked up the narrow metal stairs of the "stacks", the loosely piled book shelves casting long ominous shadows from the bare fluorescent lighting spaced on every other aisle across the floor. She made her way up to the thirteenth floor (an unlucky number in her opinion for a library, but the builders didn't care about that sort of thing), and she made her way down the cluttered book aisle to the small cramped end study carol. She could see the silhouette of a man hunched over a large volume, staring intently at its dusty pages.

    "Dr. Jones, it's time for me to leave. Just lock up behind you when you're done."

    She saw the man wave his hand absentmindedly in the air, but received no response. She let out an exasperated sigh and turned to retrace her steps.

    Dr. Henry Jones, Jr., or Indiana to his friends, was staring intently at the Latin text that was spread out before him. The year was 1949. The war had been over for a few years now, and things were definitely booming at the college with the veterans returning with the GI Bill paying for their education. Indy was only able to perform the one thing he really didn't care about doing, research, in the wee hours of the morning when all the students finally cleared out of the building.

    Indy leaned back, removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes, then looked back at the book he had been translating from. His father had pointed him in this direction. Dr. Jones, Sr. had long since retired from the Medieval and Renaissance Studies department, but holding the status of tenured and retired professor, he still worked adjunct professorship. He also still badgered Indy on his responsibility to his job requirements, that of having to publish papers for the college based on new research. Indy was a field man! This was pure drudgery, but he knew his dad was right.

    Dr. Jones pointed Indy in the direction of an area of the library least used by the librarians... that of the donated manuscripts from "unknown" benefactors. Most were hand scribed in Medieval Latin or French, and though the resident ancient text scholars were well versed in the craft, this type of "grunt" work requiring the labor intensive work of translation of new acquired text was always saved for the poor graduate assistant or doctoral student. You rarely saw a full professor getting their hands dirty on the original text translations, though they did make themselves fully available when a discovery was made, and of course took full credit for the discovery! Only old Dr. Jones Sr. ever did his own "dirty" work, and though no student ever wanted to take his courses, they did respect him for doing his own research. He expected Indy to do no less.

    Indy pulled his gold Hampden pocket watch out of his pocket and opened the case. The time was quarter of two in the morning! He'd been involved with his translation for over six hours! He fingered the watch chain on the watch, and gazed at its face again. He rarely wore it, as it was one of the only things he still owned that he had received from his mother, and he only wore it when on campus. He paused in thought, then returned to the job at hand.

    Indy began his research on a topic that was not only one of unpopular content, but so little was available to research with. Indy thought, with a grin, that it was such an intense first effort study that he should apply for a second doctoral degree, but then he shuttered at the thought.

    The topic was historical witchcraft, or specifically what happened to the open practice of witchcraft between the time of the Spanish Inquisition, and its reappearance at Salem, Mass. at the time of the infamous Salem witch trials. There was no written record, no sources, no journals as all the survivors had gone underground during those hundreds of years between the two happenings. A 300+ year old vacuum existed in the historical records regarding this particular group.

    Indy pulled himself closer to the small study table, and once again leaned over the large volume in front of him. The then moved his journal aside that he had been writing the translations into. The book itself was not that eye catching, though for its apparent age it did not seem to have the usual musty odor or dry rotted appearance that most old manuscripts had. It was quite large, approximately four inches thick, and the overall size was 24 inches by 14 inches closed. All his father would say was, "Give it a look, but don't linger." Cryptic, as usual. And yet, why?

    The first translations seem to be praise prayers to the "dark one", but no specifics as to whom the "dark one" was, though Indy could surmise. There were several sections that seemed to hold the usual spells that he had read in other texts relating to the Greeks and Romans and their priest hoods. This text, nonetheless, seemed to have a darker and more sinister feel to it. Indy just couldn't pin it down.

    Indy looked over to his thermos and reached toward it to pour himself a cup of coffee, when he saw a reflection in the chrome top of the cup. He turned, but saw no one there. He looked as far back into the darkness as his eyes and the glare of the overhead bulbs would allow, but no one could be seen, and in the silence of the old building nothing could be heard. He turned back to the thermos, paused, then poured his coffee. As he began to lean back toward the work at hand, he felt a slight breeze on his neck and quickly turned around. Just out of the edge of the light, he could just make out the outline of a shape - not exactly human, but exactly what?

    "Who's there?" Indy demanded, in a tone that reflected his startled concern at being approached so easily without detection.

    The figure was still for what seemed an eternity, then slowly moved forward. It was a young girl. A very beautiful young girl in a hooded cape. He could not detect any details, as she stayed just far enough back in the shadows to hide her identity.

    "Good evening, Dr. Jones."

    "Good morning, Miss...?"

    "It isn't of importance, Dr. Jones. We have been watching you and your progress with great interest. Have you been able to successfully translate any of the great book?"

    Indy could detect a sense of urgency in the tone of her voice. It surprised him, almost as much as her unannounced arrival.

    "Yes. You spoke of a 'we'. Who are you, and why would this translation be of any interest to you, or to anyone else, for that matter?" Indy asked.

    "We are but a few in this area. But there are many more that have been without guidance. We kept this book, one of several handwritten copies, with considerable care, waiting for the right person to translate the words. We had this copy donated to this library and have waited for so many years for it to be found. I am pleased to have found you at your work on my watch tonight."

    Indy looked at her in amazement.

    "You've been watching this book? Why didn't you just take it to the linguistics department and have it translated?"

    "It had to be done by someone who was intent on the knowledge of the research. The research would allow for the correct translation of the text. We needed an expert with the knowledge and the will to bring forth the knowledge, not a technician who just looked at the words."

    Indy sat back in this chair. The young woman still stood at the edge of the light, just in sight, just out of detailed sight. Indy started to say something, when the young woman interjected.

    "We would like to invite you to a meeting. After you have accomplished more of your work and can give further details of your translations, one of us will return and guide you to the meeting. Our coven will be pleased to receive you."

    Indy started forward in his chair. "Coven!" he exclaimed.

    She smiled and stepped back into the darkness. Indy jumped up out of his chair, knocking it backwards, and leaped forward to grab her before she was able to escape - only to find no one there. Indy stopped and listened. No sounds, no footsteps, no breathing... only the quick beating of his heart.

    He turned around and looked back at the small study table that he had left. His chair was upright in front of the desk again, and his journal had been reopened, ready for his next entry. The hair on the back of Indy's neck stood on end...

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Chapter 2

    "Honest to God, Steve, I don't have a clue where she came from, or even went to! It makes me doubt if I should ever venture into the field again. I'm getting as absentminded as old Marcus was before he passed on!"

    "Don't be so hard on yourself, Indy" laughed the listener of Indy's emotion-filled harangue. Dr. Stephen Edward Michaelson sat in his oak desk chair, dangerously balancing on its back legs and leaning against the office wall. Puffing on his short briar pipe, he gazed across his desk at Indy through his thick, black-rimmed glasses.

    Indy and Michaelson had once co-authored a textbook in their early years at the college concerning their combined studies of a dig outside Hazelton. Steve was one of Indy's oldest established associates at the school, and after Marcus' passing of a few years before, had become one of Indy's few sounding boards and confidants located on campus. Steve Michaelson was a research man, pure and simple. Indy was quite the opposite, more at home in the field in his fedora and leather jacket. Not Steve Michaelson! He much preferred the book and pen to trudging around in the dust, heat and cold. He and Indy were like a well matched set of complete opposites, if such a thing existed.

    "You say they want to invite you to a meeting...of 'the coven'?" Michaelson asked.

    "Thanks right. But after I've translated more of the book," replied Indy.

    "Should be quite educational."

    "You're not seriously suggesting I should go through with this, are you?"

    "Absolutely," replied Steve, through a cloud of the aromatic Danish pipe tobacco. "If anything, you can always site them as sources for your paper. That way it saves you from having to dig so deep for pre-published material to plant in your paper."

    "Sure, but who in the world am I going to find to jury this paper? Using a 'coven' as source material isn't exactly the cup of tea for any of our esteemed college professors," Indy wryly remarked.

    "Hummm… the three witches from MacBeth come to mind," grinned Steve.

    "You're a big help!" Indy said, shaking his head.

    "Seriously, Indy, if you'd like me to plod on with the book translation while you're out poking about in the field, we could co-author the paper and help each other out. I'm currently between research projects, and I could always use the extra publishing credit this term," said Steve.

    "Actually, Steve, you read my mind. But let me tell you, I'm really acting more like Marcus everyday. I have a strange feeling about this book. To paraphrase a statement that Marcus made during a situation in our past, 'It's like nothing I've ever gone after before' - but in this case, I've ever dealt with before," replied Indy.

    "What do you mean?"

    "Nothing I can put in words. It's just a gut feeling. Like I said, I can really use the help. But old buddy, if I wave you off from this one, believe me, I have very good reasons. Just stop what you're doing and wait on me."

    "Understood," said Steve, "I'm not one to make work anyway." Michaelson tipped his chair forward and reached for his matches as Indy rose to leave.

    "I'm serious, Steve. If I say walk away, no arguments, no discussions, no questions, just walk and don't look back."

    As Indy closed the door of Michaelson's office, he left behind a very perplexed researcher, absently pulling at his cold pipe.

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Chapter 3

    Indy slowly walked down the steps of the large brick building, deep in thought. He worked his way around a crowd of students that had gathered at the bottom of the steps and realized that he had walked into the middle of a class change. He looked into the races of the passing students. No longer did he see the free spirit of youth, recently released from the bondage of parental control and flush with the excitement of new found freedom mixed with the possibilities of the future. He now looked into the eyes of tough, battle hardened veterans of the various theaters of the recently won war. Eyes that had seen death, and in most cases participated in its delivery to their past enemies. Indy understood this, being a veteran of several past wars himself. He smiled to himself as he remembered one of his old undergraduate anthropology professors saying that there have been, and would continue to be, pivotal events in man's history that define specific changes in man's development and behavior. The dropping of the atomic bomb would definitely go down as one of those pivotal milestones. The determined, hard young faces that passed Indy provided the proof of that thesis. The innocence was now gone.

    Indy shook these thoughts away and began turning the recent events over in his mind. With the successful recruitment of Michaelson to continue the translation while Indy worked the field, Indy knew that he had to make more personal progress in the translation before he could make contact with the coven. He quickened his steps toward his small office where both the black book and his journal lay waiting for him to continue the work.

    The sun had begun to set, its last yellow and orange rays feebly shining through Indy's small office window. Indy had been hunched over the text for hours, and his shoulders were aching from the strain. He sat up and stretched, then laying his pencil aside, picked up the journal and began to re-read the translations he had performed that afternoon. He had already determined the first section of the book to be a collection of worship phrasing of an unnamed sect. It was the preamble of the second section that he had labored over this day, and the message, though seemingly coded in an ancient code key, gave a veiled, brim warning to the "non-believer" in any continuance of reading of the text. It stated that, "the one to five, bridged together again, will bring forth the dark and great power of the one!" The last "one" had been underscored, denoting a strong and separate inference. To what? Or whom? Indy again read over his journal notations, double-checking his translation against the original text. Yes, it was definitely a warning. "One to five to one." What did it mean? There was something very odd about the language as well, as the code seemed to shift back and forth between a Latin text and another language that, though very familiar, was also strange and new to Indy. Very odd.

    Indy reach for his Hampden and noted the time. 7:45 p.m. He realized that he was hungry, and remembered he still had a graduate assistant on "standby" in his outer office. Indy pulled a cardboard box down from a storage shelf beside his desk. He place the black book inside the box, along with a set of hand written notes that were copied from his journal entries, along with a few of his current theories. He had the young assistant then carry the box across campus to Michaelson's office for the translation to continue. After phoning Steve that the box was on its way, Indy turned off his office light, and pulling on his fedora, walked down the long marble corridor, listening to his footsteps echo throughout the now-empty building.

    The main street in the small college town was packed with traffic and pedestrians. With the boom time of the post war on the rise, business had been brisk for the local shopkeepers - and this being Friday night, the streets were even more crowded than usual. Indy shouldered his way into the small corner diner to grab a quick meal, but saw to his dismay that every booth and stool was occupied, with more people waiting to be seated. Indy was about to turn away when a waiter caught him by his sleeve.

    "Dr. Jones? Mr. Morgan wondered if you'd care to join him for dinner? He's sitting by himself in the back booth."

    "Thanks," Indy replied as he turned to look toward the rear of the noisy and smoke filled room. He could barely see a raised hand beckoning him to come, and he began to work his way in its direction. Joe Morgan was a local jeweler and watchmaker. His father and grandfather had been in the business, and Joe had inherited not only the established family store, but he also had his forefathers' knack of keeping his hand in the daily operation and repair work. He was helping disprove the old theory that the third generation squanders the inheritance and destroys the family business in the process.

    "Dr. Jones, please be seated! Delighted you could join me. Delighted!"

    Indy slid into the booth and ordered a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Morgan sat across from Indy and continued an animated patter of small talk while lustily demolishing a plateful of liver and onions. Indy smiled, nodded and laughed in all the seemingly correct places of the conversation, but only half heard what Morgan was saying. Morgan finally set his fork and knife down, made a polite burp, and then looking quite satisfied with himself, reached for his water glass.

    "Ann tells me you're involved in some very interesting research."

    Ann was Morgan's second wife of ten years, who occasionally worked as a volunteer at the campus library.

    "Oh, I'm dabbling in a minor translation of an old Latin text. Nothing much to say about it," Indy cautiously replied, turning his attention to the other half of his ham on rye.

    "Oh, come now, I'm sure if it garnished the attention of the famous archaeologist, Dr. Indiana Jones, there must be much more to it!" exclaimed Morgan.

    Morgan leaned forward toward Indy, his onion tainted breath almost making Indy's eyes water.

    "Dr. Jones, isn't there anything in the text that may be of some interest? Haven't you made enough progress to draw any conclusions?"

    Morgan's sudden and strongly worded questions of interest were as apparent as the gaudy diamond stick pin he had prominently displayed in his tie. It twinkled and glistened among the crumbs of his recently devoured meal that were scattered upon his waistcoat.

    Indy decided to test the waters.

    "Oh, I don't know for sure. The phrase 'one to five to one' came up, but I have no particular theory of its meaning."

    Indy glanced up from his coffee and was startled to see Morgan's expression had completely changed. No longer was the animated and boisterous Joe Morgan seated across from Indy, but a completely sober, pale-faced, and steely-eyed man now stared at him.

    "So, you have made considerable progress, Dr. Jones. I believe now the time has come for you to meet with us."

    "Us?" asked Indy.

    "The ones you were told about during the nocturnal visit to you at the library," replied Morgan.

    "You're one of them?" exclaimed Indy.

    Morgan pulled his napkin from his lap and daintily touched it to his lips. He then brushed the crumbs from his vest and rose to leave.

    "Watch for my shop's advertisement in tomorrow's newspaper. You'll find the address as well as a meeting time when you read the ad. Good night, Dr. Jones."

    Morgan turned and disappeared into the crowd and thick cigarette smoke. Indy sat in the booth, still trying to sort out the events that had just occurred. He asked for his bill and discovered Morgan had paid for both of their dinners. Indy then pulled his fedora tightly on his head and walked down the windy street toward his apartment. As he opened the door, he heard his phone ringing on his desk.

    "Hello?"

    "Indy? It's Steve. Wanted to let you know the box got here just fine. Listen, I know you've been working on this translation for a bit, and I'd like to know if you'd let me borrow your notes for a spell so I'll have a starting point?"

    "I already did!" said Indy. "There is a set of my notes already in the box."

    The line was quiet for a beat.

    "Indy, all I received was the book. Someone must have removed the notes before it arrived in my office. Strange. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

    Indy slowly replaced the receiver. If Morgan wanted a meeting with Indy tomorrow, who would have taken the notes? Were there other players in this mystery? If Morgan did have the papers, would he still place the ad in the morning paper's classified… or was the dinner meeting just a stall for a partner to steal the papers from the box?

    Indy stretched across his bed and let out a sigh.

    Tomorrow's morning paper would tell the tale.

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