I don’t recall if the disappearance of Professor Bancroft more than twenty years ago was ever mentioned in the local papers, but it has become a sort of legend here at the college. For years the older faculty have trotted it out as a cautionary tale, warning new colleagues to either publish or be asked to leave. Truthfully though, it’s more accurate to say that Bancroft simply stopped showing up for work.
As an instructor in religious studies and a researcher in the diverse areas of hermeneutics, he was granted a sabbatical to study the harmonizing effects which certain spiritual beliefs have on isolated communities. He chose for his subject a small Appalachian township located roughly fifty miles from here — the area had briefly made national attention several years earlier when the entire population of one of the villages was wiped out by an inferno at a tent revival. The professor explained to me before he left that it was the very same place where, years prior to the conflagration, several elderly women were found murdered by the addle-minded grandson of one of the victims.
Being a scholar, Bancroft spent many of those days before he left here in the library with me researching and discussing arcane philosophy. Mysticism, the Gnostics and their belief in the existence of a Philosopher’s Stone came up more than once. At the time, I assumed it was a new topic which he was preparing to cover in class and was simply testing his pedagogical methods (as a newly hired librarian, I was only slightly older than most of Bancroft’s students). But recent events have caused me to now realize that those discussions had a much deeper significance.
When the Professor returned to campus after four months of living alone in a cabin, he was a changed man. Upon entering my office, he closed the door and excitedly explained that dark rumors were swirling among the pocketed communities. Contrary to the “official” report that the devastating tent fire was an accident caused by the careless handling of oil lamps, some folks who had seen the wreckage first-hand reported that many of the bodies found outside the range of the incendiary had the distinct marks of bullet wounds.
Normally a quiet recluse, Professor Bancroft was now more animated. Gesturing wildly when he spoke, he repeatedly said that he had uncovered something cosmic, something involving “old religion”. He cryptically told everyone who would listen that we would “all find out soon enough.”
We never did. And we never heard from him again. One day the Professor just didn’t come to work. After two months, the sparse contents of his desk were placed into a single box and his office was ceded to a newly tenured colleague. The box was given to the library to store in the unlikely event that the professor ever returned.
The box eventually found its way into the basement where the college archives are kept. And there it remained untouched for more than twenty years — until last week, when a gentleman claiming to be with the Government called and asked for my assistance.
As the library’s longest tenured employee, my institutional memory has made me the default archivist for the goings on of the college, so I was not surprised that I was the one to whom the switchboard operator patched the call through. Rather than giving a name though, the voice on the line mysteriously introduced itself as being “with the Government” and asked in a knowing manner if I could retrieve for him the contents of Professor Bancroft’s desk.
As naively as I could, I replied that I was unaware of any such materials, but would check, as (truthfully) there is much down there which is unprocessed, and he would have to check back in person the next day.
I found the box exactly where I had left it in 1936 and quickly re-inventoried its contents — contents which so many years ago did not seem nearly as interesting. It included, among other things, a seventeenth century printing of Historiae Novae by Zosimos of Panopolis, an accordion file containing a collection of newspaper clippings detailing a series of grisly murders by seemingly innocuous people, and a yellowed map with dozens of small pin holes. As I held it up, the light created a shotgun effect centered in the area where I knew the Professor’s research had been conducted.
When the gentleman arrived early the next day and examined the scant remains of Bancroft’s office, his disappointment was evident, but he declared that he would nevertheless be taking the box. No receipt was offered; he simply stated that it was needed by some “very important people.”
Although my hesitancy to part with college property was genuine, I fear that the cold look from the Government man, if indeed he was from the Government, meant that he didn’t believe my librarian’s solemn denial when asked if I had removed anything. I am now convinced that at least one of the items which I appropriated is surely what he came (or was sent) for.
The first of these is a small notebook, the yellowed pages of which are covered with a spidery handwriting. It was contained in an envelope bearing the statement: “Confession of Mickey Johnson. Property of United States Government: Confidential.” The second item is the aforementioned map. And the last object which, inexplicably, I have not been able to put down, is a seemingly ordinary stone, a stone which I had originally inventoried as a paperweight.
For several sleepless nights, I have pondered the cosmic importance of these objects. They, coupled with my visitor’s fish-eyed stare and the sudden disappearance of the professor so many years ago, have led me to the realization that if I do not leave soon someone will come for me as well.
Although both Mickey Johnson and Professor Bancroft failed in their attempts to make the boy’s confession public, I can only hope that my efforts will be more successful. To this end, I am leaving the map and the notebook with you as a sort of Voynich manuscript to be deciphered by others more knowledgeable in these areas.
As I embark upon my destiny, I have no other choice but to take the stone with me.
God help my poor soul.
* * * * *
STATEMENT OF MICKEY JOHNSON
July 31, 1927
If found, please deliver to:
Albert Yancey, reporter
Mount Zion Observer and Examiner
My name is Mickey Johnson. Throughout my journey, which was short in distance, but measured miles in a very different way, I have read the local papers and am not surprised that every single one has covered my story. A group of elderly women missing from a small town is irresistible to editors, but add the intrigue that comes with the only suspect being on the loose, and the story quickly transcends geographic boundaries, making the country a much smaller place.
I have also noticed how news of this sort has the odd effect of bringing communities together in a way that pancake breakfasts and county fairs will never be able to — a ghoulish excuse for neighborly communication where one finds themselves striking up conversations with people they would not otherwise acknowledge; asking opinions, seeking information.
Raised in a small town, you understand the importance of the community grapevine to deliver the really important information faster and oftentimes more accurately than the local news. Putting it in the newspaper, for the most part, serves only an archival function. A way of recording and preserving the details of the town’s most important events such as births, marriages, and yes, of course, deaths of its citizens.
So, for the record, I don’t talk to rocks. There was only one. And I didn’t talk to it — it spoke to me. And I listened. The stone had remained hidden in my fist since the morning I found it. And although I did occasionally press it against my cheek or lips, it was simply to feel its comforting coolness. Only after I had left and read the things our townsfolk had said did I realize that I had been observed all along. I had believed that because I was always in the presence of such an important lady that everything I said and did was either overlooked or overshadowed by what Grandma was saying or doing. But I suppose folks have a way of surprising you with what they see out of the corner of their eyes.
Also, for the record, the stone doesn’t have a name. It’s an it, not a ship or a dog or some other thing that people need to label just to reassure themselves and let others know that a certain something belongs to them. I couldn’t name it because I didn’t own it. It wasn’t mine. In fact, it was borrowing me — helping me toward my destiny and instructing me on how to act in accordance to the real rules.
This shouldn’t be so hard to believe. After all, the tablets that the Lord gave Moses were stone as well, but we all know they were much more than that. Grandma used to call them “tables of stone,” said it was the Finger of God that wrote those rules.
Although she loved to quote from Exodus, Leviticus was probably her favorite — full of sacrifice and cleanliness. Grandma said a person could come out of a bath pink from scrubbing and still be unclean. With some people, even atonement can’t wash away all their badness. At least, that’s what she said Leviticus teaches us.
My journey is now over and no longer do I carry the stone, but I will rest assured that it is still out there, soon again to be in the proper hands. My labors are complete and there is nothing more to be done — no need to keep folks on edge wondering where I might be or what I might do next.
You’ve known me all of my life, Albert. We weren’t boon companions, but together we attended school and that makes you as close to a friend as I ever had. I also chose you to bring the message forth because you work for the newspaper and can make a permanent record of what really happened — just so there is no confusion as the story gets twisted through the grapevine.
My path to destiny began when Mr. Walter got run over by the train — or at least when his arm got run over by the train. He didn’t meet with “an accident brought about by overindulgence in distilled spirits” like you reported, but I will confess that I had to smile when the temperance ladies used the poor man’s death to distribute yet another pamphlet cautioning us on the detrimental effects that alcohol has on our physical and moral health.
As I watched him die that day, I’m quite sure the man was as sober as Grandma or any of her friends. But with no apparent eyewitness and not really having the schooling to know any better, the only conclusion the coroner could come to was that of accidental death. Mr. Walter was a drunk after all, and his family couldn’t contest that.
Grandma was my family. She was my guardian and protector as well as my teacher when the parents of the other students made me stop going to school because I was different. “Touched by God” is what Grandma would say, then reassure me with a line or two concerning the smiting of the wicked.
Even when she wasn’t preaching (which, in hindsight, wasn’t often), I was nevertheless constantly reminded to accord myself in the proper manner. Each morning as I rose I was greeted by one of her many embroidered passages: “A Tranquil Mind Gives Life to the Flesh, But Passion Makes the Bones Rot.”
I knew this was scripture, but it frightened me nonetheless. So I lived my life by Grandma’s example, avoiding all Passion and seeking Tranquility. This is not to say I wasn’t tempted by Passion, but the threat of rotten bones and eternal damnation served as a deterrent so powerful that Grandma didn’t have to use the stick as often as she probably would have liked.
Tranquility, though, was much more difficult to come by. I always thought it could be found in a place, only recently discovering that it comes through a person’s actions.
Perhaps it was living with Grandma that created my intense desire for the comfort of solitude and silence. Not that I didn’t want to hear the things she had to teach, they were important, I just needed a place to go — to think about them. And for years I had a favorite spot that nobody knew about, right there on top of the hill by the train tunnel — a secluded shelter where I searched for Tranquility.
It was there that I saw Mr. Walter lying on his belly in the ditch by the side of the tracks. He was staring at the tunnel like he was hunting a giant rabbit and if he laid still long enough his patience would be rewarded. I was a ways up the slope, but close enough to see that he was squeezing something so tightly that his hand was white. His face, though, was so red it was almost purple as he shook his head and muttered.
I couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying, but I got the idea there were plenty of words coming from his mouth that would anger the Lord. Aimless wandering surely did not bring him here. This was not the pleasant and submissive Mr. Walter, nor the jolly and stumbling Mr. Walter that everyone knew but avoided. Normally, you’d be hard pressed to find a more agreeable man in town; not envious or arrogant, and offensive only in his flagrant disregard for the mores against being the town drunk. But because we are warned not to associate with anyone who is a drunkard or to even share a meal, being seen with him would cast you in an unfavorable light with many in town.
For quite a while he and I just watched. I watched Walter and he watched the tunnel. When we finally heard the whistle of the train, he ceased his cursing and smiled.
I think we both knew that solemn sound signaled more than just the approach of a train. In a mutual moment of clarity, we each sensed that a significant event was literally right around the bend, and for the first time in my life I was going to experience something important that had not been set into motion by Grandma.
Just as hard as Walter was staring at the tunnel, I stared at Walter as he brought his feet under his body into a crouching position. Transfixed, I was quite sure I knew what was going to happen, but I couldn’t stop looking. And as the train emerged from the tunnel and the engine and the first few cars thundered by, Walter quickly stood up, steady as can be, and ran the four or five steps up the embankment and knelt down.
I watched silently and waited.
I could have yelled to him, not that he would have heard me, but I didn’t even try. I just waited.
He was in control of himself and the situation, even if it was his own destruction. Control is a rare quality that one should cherish when it comes your way. Lord knows, a man can tire of the cycle of sinning followed by atonement, only to be destined to transgress again.
And who could fault Walter’s intentions? Here was a man evaluated according to the moral codes set by the few who didn’t offer to help, but simply sat back and watched his capacity for shame grow larger. Before they passed, I regret that I did not ask Grandma and her friends if they knew of any scripture that warns against finding glory in the shame of others.
As we all now know, but to my surprise at the time, he didn’t put his head under the train. Instead he raised his fist and thrust it right into the blurred gaps between the wheels.
Just like a magician. Ladies and gentlemen, now you see it — Ta da! Now you don’t.
And just as a magician gets you to pay attention to everything but what is really important, so that you’re surprised by the big finish, I was so absorbed in pondering Walter’s lot in this world that I had forgotten about his clenched fist.
When he pulled out what was left of his arm, Walter didn’t scream, and although somewhat taken aback by the change in what I understood the script to be, neither did I. He just looked at where his arm ended, a little below the elbow, and exhaled.
The train continued off to wherever it was going and left Walter and I each to contemplate what had just happened. Of course Walter’s opportunity to contemplate was quickly drawing to a close, but I have been thinking about it ever since. Thinking about Passion and Tranquility and how men’s lives are governed and changed because of both.
Everything was quiet as it always is after a train passes and your ears adjust to the normal sounds of being alone, and it was in these seconds that Walter and I shifted our gaze from his stump to the fist resting on the gravel. And as Walter tipped over and rolled into the ditch, I was halfway down the hillside, my eyes riveted to that spot between the rails.
When I opened the fist I beheld its treasure. And that’s what it was — more than just a stone. Immediately I knew when I picked it up that I didn’t find it, I had been found.
The ground beneath me did not split asunder like Grandma used to say happens when the Lord really wants to make a point, but I understood that something equally momentous had just occurred. After listening to her preach about the destiny of others for years, I was now experiencing the real thing. I had witnessed Walter fulfill his own and knew that mine had just begun.
I had been chosen to serve, and I accepted.
I told no one about the stone, especially not Grandma. I was pretty clear about her position on “other gods” and their desire to exploit you with their false words. So it stayed hidden in my hand while I listened to it.
I listened to it while Grandma preached.
I listened to it as her friends judged.
I listened to it as I was instructed on the new system of rules and values to which I was now beholden.
And I felt rapture in every word.
Normally shunning the company of others, I now experienced a desire to be among people — without the company of Grandma. I was no longer satisfied to simply watch them, but now needed to walk among them, with them, and be a participant in their daily discourse of town happenings. And when Walter was finally noticed to be missing and folks got around to assembling a party to look for him, I joined in (against Grandma’s wishes!). In fact, I was the one who mentioned that he liked to watch the trains.
I had no idea whether or not Walter liked to watch the trains, but since nobody really knows or cares where the town pariah spends his time, my idea was as good as any and as it turned out nobody even remembered that it was because of my suggestion that his body was found.
I wasn’t sorry or sad about Mr. Walter. I don’t think he was a worthless man, but he was weak. I will never know how or where he came across the stone, but I do know that out of all the people on the face of the Earth, he had been chosen. And he failed.
Perhaps he thought he was stronger, or thought that serving a stone was beneath him. Maybe he rankled at the prospect of being told what to do, yet again — by an outsider at that. I had lived with Grandma long enough to know that when pride comes then comes disgrace, and with the humble is wisdom. I was both humble and wise enough to rejoice in my being selected to become a part of a greater whole.
I confess that I am now fully cleansed. I tried to explain this to Grandma during our final conversation, but she didn’t seem to be able to remember anything from Leviticus, or that she was the one who taught me how only sacrifice can lead to redemption. I listened patiently as she accused me with foam-flecked lips of being an idolater and a murderer and a reprobate and that my lot was the Lake of Fire where I would keep company with liars and cowards and the faithless.
I am not surprised that Grandma drew from Revelation for her final sermon — many things are revealed when you approach the end and your true destiny is apparent. What was surprising though, was that this same woman who lived her life in such a way so as to not to be excluded in death from the eternal presence of the Lord and the glory of his might, appeared to fear the salvation that I was bringing to her. You might even say she was Passionate in her fear.
I, on the other hand, have finally discovered — am wholly enveloped in — Tranquility.
As for the stone, my last act of divine service has been to place it so that it may select another who is in need of assistance. I am not allowed to reveal in which town it now waits, but because I was instructed to leave it by that school, I believe that it might choose a teacher or perhaps even a small child. Someone nobody in town would ever suspect.
Douglas Lind's work has appeared in Mount Zion Speculative Fiction Review and at crimsonhighway.com. He can be reached at
lind.douglas@gmail.com
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