“My precious Ophelia,

Too many hours have passed since I last saw you. So numerous are the events leading to our separation, it’s difficult knowing exactly where to begin. Foremost, I want you to know the love I have for you, a love that has never wavered. Nevertheless, forces beyond my control have required our parting, and I will forever bear the sorrow of a mother who never knew her beloved daughter.”

Ophelia looked up from the manuscript, glanced at it again, and shook her head in disbelief. What is this? Is this some kind of a joke? Returning to the tarnished parchment, she continued.

“It was with great reluctance and trepidation of heart that now, after all these years, I am contacting you. However, the inexorable flow of events have driven us to a point of crisis, and I can no longer protect you by concealing you in the recesses of time. Thus I, your mother, because I have traced all things from the beginning with accuracy, resolved to write them to you in logical order, most excellent Ophelia, so that you may know the things pertaining to our legacy, and your role that is destined to come.”

“Richard!” Ophelia yelled from the attic. “Did you put this here?”

“Just a minute hon, I can’t hear you. I’ll be up soon.”

Walking through the door, Richard saw Ophelia standing in a corner of the attic. At her feet, a small chest, the lid open. In her hand, some sort of document.

Lifting her head, she looked at him, her wide, opal eyes beckoning an explanation. “Did you put this here?” Annoyance registered in her voice.

Shrugging his shoulders, his eyebrows furrowed trying to understand. “No. What is it?”

“Come on. You had to have put this here. You’re the only one who has access to the attic.”

“Seriously, no. I don’t know anything about it.” Moving toward her he knelt, looking into the box. “What is all this stuff?” He pawed through mounds of old, discolored paper, pictures, graphs, devices he didn’t recognize laying on the bottom.

“You didn’t write this letter?” she accused, pushing the paper into his face. “It’s addressed to me. By my mother!”

“Your mother?” Standing, he reached for the letter and lifted it gently from her hand. “You never knew your mother.”

After reading the first few paragraphs, he looked up, searching her face. The lines of stress drew the corner of her mouth downward. The anguish in her eyes cut into him. “This doesn’t make sense. Did you read the whole letter?”

Choking back a sob, a mix of anger and bewilderment broke through. “No. I stopped after the second paragraph.”

Picking up where she left off, Richard read aloud.

“In the days of Claudius, Roman Emperor, I happened to reside in exile, on the isle of Corsica, in the city of Aiacium. A man of unusual stature arrived by ship. A decent and noteworthy vessel, borne along by a warm southeasterly wind, carried him from the Mediterranean Sea, and he took shelter in our harbor.

Of particular note was his garb. Rather than the conventional robes and shaggy, unkempt hair style fashionable at the time, the man was impeccably dressed. A white linen shirt with a high collar skimmed his jaw. Frills decorated the front. A long, black, pleated coat draped from his shoulders to below his knees. A tall cylindrical hat covered his short-clipped, black hair.

I first met him in the marketplace. He was a stately man, tall, with navy blue eyes, sharp and focused. He bore a black ivory cane with a gold top, not to help him walk, but to augment his dignity and presence. As he stopped before each booth, he gently fondled their wares with it, until finally, he settled on mine.

Returning the cane to its place by his side, his eyes, vast as the sea, looked deep into mine. His broad, bushy mustache turned upward into a smile and he spoke. ‘Out of infinity, you are the one.’ Then he said my name.”

1-2

Richard stopped reading and looked into her eyes. An intense mix of anger, fear and wonder gazed back. Although age had silvered her hair, the beauty of those eyes, even when angry, pierced his soul. “Let’s just take a breath. There’s got to be a logical explanation.”

“This wasn’t here yesterday,” Ophelia protested. “I reorganized the attic thoroughly. Today, I came to get my art supplies and set up my studio. There it was, conspicuously placed by the easel.”

“Alright, alright,” he said, shaking his head. He looked back at the box. “I’m sorry. I don’t have an explanation right now. Let’s bring this thing downstairs and investigate a little further. I’m sure we’ll find an answer.”

Nodding her head in agreement, she slumped over the box and closed the lid.

#

Francis Carter inspected the ship’s moorings and looked to the horizon. Dark storm clouds flooded the southern sky and he pulled the long coat up over his shoulders. No time to waste. Donning his top hat, wrapping a black scarf around his neck, he grabbed his cane, and headed toward the marketplace.

Small birds and domestic fowl buffeted his legs as he strode the colonnade. The hum of a thousand voices, broken now and then by the sound of bleating sheep or oxen, faded into the background as he searched the massive crowd surrounding him.

Wealthy merchants sold their wares from inset nooks between the massive columns. Others displayed their goods in the open street, calling their vast audience to come and inspect their merchandise.

Reaching the end of the colonnade, he felt the cool, storm wind, blowing inland from the sea, and inhaled the rich ocean air. Small booths now replaced the marble columns, and ragged fabric flapped in response to the menacing threat of the approaching squall. There alone, packing her goods to protect them from the storm, a woman, clothed in a long robe of blue and white. A rope sash pulled the garment tight to her slender frame. As she turned and looked up at him, he spoke. “Out of infinity, you are the one, Aeliana.”

“Sir,” she stammered, returning his gaze. “My wares have been stowed, you must return another day, for a great tempest is upon us.”

“My dear.” His eyes never left hers. “My business is far from this port. I beg you, let us take our leave. Help me find shelter from the oncoming storm. Tomorrow, all will be made clear.”

Pulling the tattered fabric covering the booth, she jammed it into a deep, long basket along with her other goods. Hefting it to her shoulder, she bent forward into the wind. “My means are scanty, but come. There is one Inn. An unlikely presence as yourself may not find welcome, but I can guide you there.”

Falling in beside her, he strode, tall and erect, jabbing his cane into the sand as they made their way through the deserted street. “You rightly spoke when you said your means are scanty. I, on the other hand, have come seeking treasure, a treasure that only you possess.”

“You speak in riddles, sir. All I own is here upon my back.” Snorting a cynical laugh. “I can assure you, no such treasure exists within.”

“Indeed.” He felt raindrops striking his face, blown hard at them by the wind. The advancing storm caused a thick gloom to settle over the town, forcing darkness well before nightfall. “Sometimes, my dear, treasure is concealed in the most unusual places. But enough talk of this. Look!” Spotting the sign he pointed. “We’re nearly there. I suggest we hasten. The storm is upon us.”

The heavy wooden door closed against the howling wind. A slowly dying fire and wood smoke, swirled in greeting. Carter turned and smiled. “Aeliana. Please, dine with me this evening.”

1-3

Her heart pounding, Aeliana watched him walk to the center of the room. Sweeping the tall, cylindrical hat from his head he placed it on a table, scanned the room and released what seemed to be a contented sigh. Without speaking, he walked to the hearth, fanned the embers beneath the small, black cauldron, and waited for the flame. Adding fuel, he returned and sat at the table. "Bring me some food", he demanded from the innkeeper.

His voice, deep as the ocean, commanding, shook her. His smile and presence, alluring, knotted her chest. From a distance she watched as a servant  brought him a small loaf, a little oil and some fresh water. Breaking the bread in two, he waved it at her, beckoning to come and sit.

 Her legs unsteady, Aeliana cautiously moved and sat down across from him. Looking down, he dipped the bread in the oil, and gently handed it to her motioning to eat. The fire, now revived, shimmered changing patterns of orange and yellow across the room. “Aeliana,” he said in a sudden turn of conversation. “Do you prefer the comfort of being inside; or do you prefer being outdoors?”

Laughing, she quipped. “I suppose, on a night such as this, the home gives shelter and protection against the tempest. Still.” she pondered more deeply. “It’s a necessary restraint. Given better circumstances I would prefer the outdoors.”

“Why?” Was all he said as he dipped his own bread in the oil and took a bite.

“No barriers,” she replied, not even thinking. Her thoughts raced as this man, unfamiliar, yet powerfully mysterious seemed to hang on her every word, as though he were listening intently to her rapidly beating heart. “Inside, we’re limited. I walk so far, and must return. At night I lie down and look at the same wooden panels surrounding me. Outside, I’m free, without boundaries. I could walk to the horizon and still not reach the sunset. I could lay beneath the ever changing stars and marvel at the vast depth of the sky.”

Returning from her dream image she looked at him. His eyes, sparkled, laughing, not at her, but radiating delight. He nodded his head as though in agreement, then, waving toward the outdoors, “Even out there we have constraints.”

“I know of none,” she teased.

“Gravity, for one.”

“More riddles, sir. I’ve never heard such a word.”

“Indeed, language can be a constraint. You understand those who speak your language, but what of others. You haven’t noticed, but I’m speaking to you in my own language, and yet you are hearing me in yours. At the same time, I can understand you.”

Pushing herself from the table the shock of how little she knew of this man struck fear into her. “What sorcery is this?!” she yelled. “Some spiritistic trick?!”

Reaching into the interior of his coat, Carter pulled a small gem from his pocket, held it out in the palm of his hand and placed it on the table. It sparkled, amethyst and green. Flashes of light, like lightning, pulsated within whenever he spoke.

“A simple tool,” he said. “A device that allows us to speak with each other. It can just as easily be turned off.” Playing his hand across the top, the light within the crystal died. He spoke words, unintelligible. Until, finally, he turned the device back on.

Her thoughts swirling; a disoriented mix of doubt, longing and fear, she stood and looked at the gem. “I must leave now.”

Rising to his feet, Carter simply nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

A wondrous yearning gripped her; a desperate desire, as though freedom, like a wave of the sea broke over her. The dreadful unknown drove her backward, and she stammered. “I . . . I’ll be at my booth.”

Crossing the room she hefted her basket and opened the door. The wailing wind whipped her hair violently backward.

“Aeliana,” he called. “You won’t need that.”

Not looking back, she pushed her way into the storm.

1-4

Late afternoon sun, fractured into spears as it pierced through partially open curtains bathing the room in amber light. Ophelia eyed the parchments stacked neatly on the tabletop. Across the room, Richard fiddled with the instruments taken from the box, now strewn on the floor, arranged in some pattern he must have felt relevant. A nervous, sick feeling gripped her chest and her breath labored as she reached for another page.

“Suddenly I noticed he wasn’t speaking my language. I understood what he said, but he spoke foreign words. I began to panic, until he showed me a small jewel, amethyst and green. The gem was the key. Without it, his words were intelligible.”

“Ophelia. Find that device now! It’s among the effects I left for you.”

Ophelia scanned the objects that Richard had organized on the floor. There, off to the side, a small jewel sparkled as one of the spears played across it.

“What’s that?” she asked.

A look of confusion registered on his face as he looked back at her. Pointing, she pressed. “That. The small gem over there.”

Shrugging, Richard reached for the device, stood and joined her at the table, holding it out in the palm of his hand. He waited while she studied it.

A small, donut shaped base with a dull luster cradled the gem. Flat on the bottom the jewel bulged from the center like a half-dome, its facets glistening in the sun. Although solidly fixed in the frame, no visible suspension rods or wires connected to it.

Ophelia returned to the letter. “Put the device in your pocket. Keep it on you at all times. Next, locate the map of Ajaccio and find the port of Tino Rossi. Pack up the remaining contents of the case. Don’t leave anything behind. Bring the map and case to a man, Aston Thomas Carter. He will know what to do.

Ophelia, do not delay. You must act decisively, with urgency. I, your mother, Aeliana Carter, with all the love in my heart, bid you success.”

#

One lone street lamp illuminated the sidewalk, reflecting luminous gold off the rain soaked pavement. Ophelia looked out the bedroom window; the chill in her heart reflected the cold, autumn night.

“You’re leaving tonight?” Incredulity dripped from Richard’s mouth. “Can’t this wait until morning?”

Still facing the window, she shook her head. “No.” Turning to face him, the tightness in her chest closed in, choking her. Taking a deep breath through her nose, she continued. “There’s an importance to this I can’t ignore. I can’t explain, but I feel it. Did you get the address?”

Tearing the paper from the pad he handed it to her. “If the web search is correct, this is it. He lives in the city, about an hour’s drive. He’s a pretty famous author. What makes you think he’ll see you?”

Gently pulling it from his fingers, she nodded. “I don’t know. But it’s early enough. If I leave now, I should be back before midnight.”

“I can’t believe you’re leaving!” The vehemence in his voice registered his agitation. “You’ll drive for an hour on a stormy night, to meet some strange man, if he’s even alive. The web says he’s ninety six years old. Then you’ll somehow initiate a discussion of this bizarre letter that neither of us understands. Am I missing anything here?”

Looking him straight in the eye, she choked back a sob. “Richard.” She paused, collecting her thoughts. “I have to. It may come to nothing, but I have to see this through.”

“Alright.” He shook his head. “Alright. I’m just concerned for your safety. I’ll come along.”

“Don’t be silly. You have work in the morning. Besides, if I need someone to do research, this is the best spot. I’m as close as the phone. I’ll let you know as soon as I’m on my way home.”

Pulling her raincoat from off the hook on the door, he swung it around her shoulders and pulled her toward him. Gently pushing a silver strand of hair back from her cheek he looked down at her dainty feet, toes colored red, to match the glossy glow of the raincoat. Leaning in, he kissed her firmly, then, “I’ll be here.”

#

The buzzer to the high-rise, yellowed and cracked by age, dripped unrelenting rain as Ophelia signaled her presence. Shivering from the biting cold, she waited for a response. Again, she signaled.

“Who is this?!” An angry voice boomed through the intercom. “What business is this that disturbs me in the middle of the night. Go away!”

Pressing the button again, she didn’t wait for a response. “My name is Ophelia Clark. I’m looking for Aston Carter.” She shouted over the wind. “I have an urgent message from Aeliana Carter. She said you would know what to do.”

A click of the lock on the door beckoned her entry. “Twenty twenty four” was all the voice said. Reaching the elevator, Ophelia quickly stabbed the button for the twentieth floor. Moments later she stood in front of the door. Hesitating, she took a breath and rapped lightly.

The door swung. Facing her, an old man dressed in a black linen robe. Hunched over by age, he simply grunted, turned and meandered into his apartment.

Ophelia scanned the room as she reached the end of the hallway. Generally austere, lacking upkeep, books littered the room, stacked on the floor, tables, shelves. The musty smell of old paper and dust swirled in the air. Notes laced between the books, seemed to provide an index to the stacks.

Looking again at the man, she found him staring. Squinting through creases around dark, inkblot eyes, he studied her. His long, crooked nose shrouded by sagging cheeks and a cleft chin held her at bay. “What do you know of Aeliana Carter?” He demanded.

Caught off guard, she stammered, trying to collect her thoughts.

“Come on. Out with it! I don’t have all night.” 

“I received a letter.” Ophelia replied quickly. The combination of cold and her raw nerves collided causing her to shiver uncontrollably. “It was addressed to me, from her.”

Relenting slightly he backed down. “You brought it with you, I hope.”

Without saying a word, she lifted the case and held it for him to see.

“Come.” Moving to a nearby table, he pushed aside papers and old volumes, clearing a space for the two of them. “My apologies. Your visit caught me off guard. Please sit.” Noticing water dripping from her coat and her obvious discomfort. “Can I fix you a cup of hot tea?”

“Yes, thank you. That would be nice.”

Returning with the steaming cup, he placed it in front of her, then sat across on the other side of the table. “May I see the letter?”

She reached into the case, extracted the first two pages and handed it to him. “I’ve only read the first two. There’s a lot more.”

Pulling eyeglasses from a pocket in his robe, he began. He stopped after the first page and looked intently at her. “Just like mom,” he said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “She always had a flair for the dramatic.” Stupefied to the point of being numb, Ophelia could barely hear his words as they washed over her. “It’s true, Ophelia. I am your brother.”

1-5

Finishing page two, Aston Carter looked up at Ophelia. Deep in thought, his eyes seemed to focus on some distant, invisible object. Returning to her, he looked over top of his glasses. “You have the gem and the map?”

Ophelia gave a slight nod as she pulled the chest closer to her.

“Has anyone else seen this?” His stare bore into her. The rasp in his voice reflected urgency, fear.

Ophelia shrugged. “Only my husband, Richard. We were together when I found it.” 

“I want you to listen to me closely.” his voice, old and cracked, seemed almost a whisper. “Your husband is in grave danger. Where is he now?”

“At home.” The pressure of fear constricted her chest as she spoke.

“Close by?”

“In the suburbs, Queens, about an hour away.”

“We need to get to him as soon as possible! Are you in contact with him?”

“I have my phone.”

“Call him. Have him prepare to meet us.”

“Us?” Her voice shook as alarm and confusion welled within.

“Ophelia!” His eyes burned into her. “I’m sure you realize by now, there is much more to this than you know. Call him! I’ll get my things.”

#

Her heart was pounding as she hung up the phone. Pacing the room her coat brushed against a pile of books on a nearby table, sending them flying to the floor. The books shook in her hand as she tried to replace them on the table. What’s taking so long? Impatience welled within. Stopping, she eyed the title of one volume, “The Great Conversation.” Slowly she played her hand across the cover, lightly brushing her finger against the embossed letters, then laid it on the stack with the rest.

“Ready?” The voice from behind made her jump.

Whirling, she saw Aston, dressed in a black suit, a waist-long rain cloak draped over his shoulder and a cane in his hand. His long crooked nose, white hair and narrow eyes, like a bald eagle, she laughed to herself.  “We need to go,” he said. “Follow me!”

“But my car is parked on the street.”

“Forget your car, you won’t need it. Come quickly.”

Grabbing a tall bowler hat, he peered down the empty corridor of the highrise and led Ophelia to the elevator. Her stomach lurched as they plunged downward to the basement parking structure. Over and over, Richard’s name rifled through her mind, as though repetition would somehow prevent the unthinkable from invading her thoughts. She felt a sick dizzy feeling as Aston Carter settled in front of a cream colored luxury vehicle.

“Get in.” He demanded.

Ophelia noted the insignia as she opened the door and sank into the soft leather seat. Bentley Continental, she mused. The console, like the inside of a supersonic aircraft, came to life as he grabbed the wheel. “Destination.”

“What?”

“Your address. Where are we going?”

Within moments they were on their way to Ophelia’s home, and to Richard.

In silence they rode. Carter navigated streets and corners, never looking at a map or asking for directions. Ophelia activated her phone and stabbed Richard’s name. “You won’t get through,” Aston pointed to the interior of the vehicle. “Shielded. Nothing gets in, or out. We’re invisible to electronic detection and tracking.”

Ophelia squirmed in her seat, pressing her feet into the floorboard. Uncontrollable shivering returned as she cradled the phone in her lap. Traffic lights compounded her agony as green flashed to red, taking an eternity to allow passage. Turning to Carter, she looked hard at the contour of his face, illuminated only by the glow of the dashboard lights. “How is it you are my brother?” she began deliberately. “We’re nearly fifty years apart in age.”

He simply grunted. “I was wondering when you’d get around to that. Good old mom and dad.” The scorn merely dripped from his lips. “Left me to explain things.” He gazed out the windshield, eyes transfixed, not on the road, but on some distant memory of the impossible. “That book you saw in my study, The Great Conversation, what do you know about it?” 

“I grew up on the streets, never had a lot of education.” Ophelia struggled to recall her childhood. “Shuffled from family to family. I found my family on the street. Only.” Her voice trailed off. “They weren’t my family either. One by one I saw them fall. Violence, drugs, poverty. They disappeared like the morning mist. Richard. It was Richard who saved me.” The urgency of the moment washed over her, and she stopped cold.

“I hope you’re not going to break into a monologue each time I try to teach you something?” He scolded. “I take it you don’t know anything about the book.”

Ophelia just shook her head and looked into her lap, fighting the sick, queasy feeling overwhelming her.

“Robert Maynard Hutchins was an American educational philosopher. He maintained that the Great Conversation began in the dawn of history and that it continues to the present day. It inspires tradition and guides the trajectory of society, humankind. His predecessor, Mortimer Adler said, ‘What binds authors together in an intellectual community is the great conversation in which they are engaged. In the works that come later in the sequence of years, we find authors listening to what their predecessors have had to say about this idea or that, this topic or that. They not only harken to the thought of their predecessors, they also respond to it by commenting on it in a variety of ways.’”

He paused, waiting for her to absorb the information. “I’m telling you now, there is much more to this than authors commenting on authors.”

The tires skidded against asphalt as he wheeled the car into the driveway. Not waiting for the vehicle to halt, Ophelia jumped out and bolted to the front door. Bursting through, she stopped cold. There, lying on the floor, his body illuminated only by the lone light of the hallway, lay Richard.

Falling to her knees, Ophelia burst into tears. The box flew from her hand and crashed on the floor as she groped his body, looking for any sign of life. Face, white, ghost like. Arms lifeless, growing stiff. No breath. Retching from acid in her stomach, fear constricted her like a straight jacket and she couldn’t breath.

“He’s dead.”

The voice from behind, barely registered over the trauma. Ophelia had seen death; was intimate with it. “How do you know?!” she screamed. Yet in her heart she knew the truth of his words. “How do you know he can’t be revived?”

“Look at his body. Not a mark on it. I’ve seen this before. It isn’t a natural cause. It’s the work of an assassin.”

“I have to call for help!” Ophelia gasped as she clutched her phone, hand trembling.

“No!” The voice of Aston Carter became clear, forceful. “We must leave. Now!”

Slumped over the body of her beloved husband, Ophelia felt too weak to stand. “No, I can’t,” she wept. “I can’t just leave him here!”

“Ophelia.” The voice, firm and confident. She felt the gentle touch of his hand on her shoulder. “You must. Whoever did this wasn’t interested in your husband, they are interested in that.” He nodded to the case she had dropped next to Richard. “They will stop at nothing to retrieve it, and will kill everyone who has anything to do with it.”

1-6

Detective Lance Roberts stood and crossed the room. “Any news on the whereabouts of the woman?”

Sergeant Reynolds shook his head and looked up from his laptop. “Nothing, sir. We have an APB out on her. She won’t get far.” Swiveling his laptop for Roberts to see. “This just in though. Check it out. She drained the bank account shortly after his death.”

“Let me see,” Roberts demanded. “How much she take?”

“That’s just it, there wasn’t that much. A couple thousand. But,” he looked up at Roberts. “People been murdered for less. My guess is she’s trying to skip the country.”

“Maybe. Make sure the airports are on the APB list. We don’t want her slipping through.”

“Already done. If she tries that route, we’ll have her.”

“What about the husband’s laptop, anything yet?”

Grabbing the computer from the corner of the table, Reynolds held it up. “There’s no disk drive. This one’s all solid state. It means it’ll take a little longer to hack. The laptop is password protected, but I should have it soon.”

“Okay.” Roberts turned and strode back toward the body. “Keep me posted.” Stooping down, he scanned the area. “I want forensics on this too. I need to know the cause of death. There’s not a mark on his body. No blood, no sign of a struggle.” He breathed a weary sigh. “We can’t rule out natural causes just yet.”

 “There’s more sir.” Reynolds stood and stretched. Spinning the laptop toward Roberts, he looked intently at him. “The girl’s got a record.”

#

The background light of the suburbs melted into the distance as the Bently raced north into dark, back country roads. Ophelia sank into the soft leather seat, arms crossed, hugging herself, head bowed. The numbing fog of the day’s events swirled in her mind. Unable to move or respond, she sat in silence, tears running down her face, falling to her lap.

“There’s nothing you could have done.” The distant sound of his voice bounced off her and fell silently to the floor. “If you were there, you would have been right beside him. They would have the box, and the map.”

Hardened by life on the streets, survival instinct kicked in. Ophelia took a deep breath, and lashed out. “What’s so important about this box anyway?!”

“It’s what I was trying to explain on the way to your home.” He paused, thinking how to verbalize the impossible. “Ophelia. I want you to listen closely. Our family are curators of The Great Conversation.” Again silence. Waving his right hand in the air. “This is much more than a book! Much more than some dusty old relic that you picked up from the floor and placed back on the table. It’s a living organism. Like individual human chromosomes, The Great Conversation is the genome of human society. Intertwined with mankind since the dawn of history, it molds thinking and shapes humanity into what you see around you today.”

The silence began to frustrate him. “Are you getting this, Ophelia?”

“What I’m getting,” Ophelia began. “Is out of this nightmare.”