Chapter Four: Reaching Out

If this were a book, thought Iben, I’d have time to consider how incredibly surreal this is. The situation of a metallic beast bearing down on him while in the center of the midway in a carnival named after a Polish mathematician seemed somehow one that only Tristan Tzara could truly appreciate. But, in fact, the huge dark-green words REDI-MIX and REDI-CRETE were coming at him too fast to really contemplate. Iben did what he always did in situations like this, he yelped like a schoolgirl and ran. He didn’t even bother looking back to see the crash. He hoped Ventril, the barker, was ok but knew instinctively that somehow she could take care of herself.

In the car Iben surveyed the cheap toys he’d won at the carnival. Brood hen nest, rose bud, bear and horse, pair of cupids, map. That damned monotonous melody kept inching its way back into his head. He picked up the polar bear music box and inspected it closely. Turning it over in his hand he revealed a strange legend embossed on the bottom of the box.

01010111011011110111001001010011011001010010000000
1000000111001001100101011100110111010000100000011
0110001100001010011100110010001010111011000010111
00100110010001110011

*****

0110100001100001010011100110010001101100011001010
111001100100000010101000110100001100101001000000
1110010011001010110111001110100

What the hell is this? Iben thought, Morse code? He looked at the map and noticed the words “Satellite Interference” printed on it and thought the entire image looked rather like the head of a clown to him. Jeez, like I need more mystery. What I really need is to get home and make a call.

As he pulled up to his apartment building he noticed that the super had already replaced the broken glass in his window with a piece of plywood.

“They’re upstairs waiting for you, Mr. Powned,” said Jensen, the doorman whispered, tilting his head to toward the NYPD squad car parked in front of the fire hydrant.

“Thanks, Jensen,” he said to the doorman.

Sure enough, when Iben exited the elevator on his floor, a policeman was standing in front of his apartment door. “Weigh too many doughnuts,” Iben thought, chuckling at his own wit as he approached his front door

“Can I help you, officer? he said to the rather rotund beat cop.

“You Iben Powned?” He pronounced it “I been pound.”

Iben ignored the mispronunciation.

“Yes sir”

“Officer Ovular. I’d like to ask you a few questions ‘bout the bullet holes in your window. Gotta minute?” he said, inviting Iben into his own home.

The other officer seemed to be enjoying himself ransacking through Iben’s belongings inside the apartment. He gave them both a sheepish grin as Iben and Ovular entered the room.

“My partner, Grillo,” Ovular said. The other policeman nodded. Iben looked at him accusingly hoping he’d get the hint and stop rifling through his stuff. “The super let us in. Potential crime scene,” he said in explanation.

“Any idea who did this, Powned?” Ovular took out a small pad and pen, flipped the cover, wrote for a second and said, “You got any enemies, Powned? Somebody holdin’ a grudge or somebody that don’t like you?”

“No, officer, I believe it was probably a stray bullet,” said Iben as he began picking up the books that Grillo had tossed to the floor.

“Now if you don’t mind, I really have some cleaning up to do. Thank you!”

Ovular and Grillo didn’t offer to help, but they didn’t try to stop him, either.

“Let us know if you remember anything else,” replied Grillo as they left the apartment.

Iben released a deep sigh of relief and went immediately to the phone. As it was ringing, he pulled out his laptop, logged in and began typing in the numbers from the bottom of the music box.

“Hello? Professor Candace Apollo’s office.”

“Candy? Thank god you’re in. Look, I’ve just sent over a very strange e-mail. Do you think you can you tell me what it is?”

Candy Apollo was Iben’s only real friend and while they had met a few times in real life they had spent the majority of their relationship getting to know one another via e-mail. Apollo was a professor of Romantic Studies and Literature at NYU but, quite frankly, she was the smartest person Iben had ever met. Despite her occupation she was well versed in almost every field he could care to name. She knew that Iben used her to further his writing career but she liked the idea of being friends with a TV writer since she was a closet pop-culture junkie herself.
After a few moments of silence, in which Candy received and read the e-mail, she said, “It’s a positional numbering system, Iben.”

“A what?” he countered.

“It’s binary. You know; on and off, zero and one, binary! The language of computers.”

“What’s it say?”

“Ah, let me run it through a translator… One second. Ok. The first line of code reads, “worse rest landwards.” The “W” and “S” in “worse”, the “T” in “rest” and the “N” in “landwards” are all capitalized.” The second line reads, “handles the rent.” The “N” in “handles” and the “T” in “The” are capitalized.

“That makes no sense to me. You have any idea what it means?”

“No, not really. Give me a few minutes though, and I’ll see what I can come up with. I’ll call you right back.’

“Thanks, Candy. I’ll be here.”

He hung up the phone and returned to alphabetizing his trashed bookshelf until the dog’s whining, sniffing and scratching at the couch pillows drove him so crazy he had to ask, “What is it, boy? Lose your squeaky cheeseburger?”

The dog yipped encouragingly, and Iben lifted the corner of the sofa allowing the dog to capture it’s prize, which wasn’t a chew toy at all but a very old leather case bound by a braided leather strap. He unwound the band and found that the leather case protected a number of pages made from vellum parchment foolscap. The paper was fragile and stiff and covered in an elegant calligraphy. Iben leaned back into the crook of the sofa and began to read:

The Black Rock Sea Trader

Which e’er way the wind turns
My son, you first must learn
Of a dangerous realm called the sea…

The seven seas they’re unkind
And they’ll leave you behind
That’s the future that fate kept for me…

It was said Magnus alone
Could’ve killed Davy Jones
With a steely look or a frown…

Four score odd the crew,
Filled with gold it is true,
To Portsmouth forever now bound…

At the New World quay
Twenty-three vacant each day
‘Cept for grieving wives, sons and daughters…

No one’s ever claimed
Or were found the remains
Nor precious metals to fill up the coffers…

O’er ancient whale roads
That entwine the whole globe
And along the trade winds of wrath…

The ocean, it’s said,
Never speaks of the dead
When the cold winds of winter tack back…

The first mate made rounds
And the rigging odd sounds
As great waves broke o’er the railing…

And every man knew,
As Magnus did, too,
That the hull of the Black Rock was failing…

When the storm came a stealing
With every man reeling
Came the wreck of the ship the Black Rock…

Then the gales came a slashing
And the lightening flashing
Never again to find New World dock…

Where lies this man brave
Lost in some watery grave
As the mariners all know so well…

That a ship filled with gold
Or slaves ever so bold
Is destined to run ‘ground in hell…

Their fate remains lost
Their lives an uncommon cost
And the widow’s pine, wasting their prime…

In Portsmouth they prayed
Over every bare grave
And the church bells chimed forty odd times…

Now here is the mystery
That’s hidden from history
The ship found a tropical land…

A mysterious place
That rose out of the waves
A place touched by the almighty’s hand…

Which e’er way the wind turns
My son, first you must learn
Of a dangerous realm called the sea…

The seven seas they’re unkind
And they’ll leave you behind
That’s the future that fate kept for me…

The phone rang startling Iben from the poem.

“Hello?”

“Iben, it’s Candy. Ever seen “The Da Vinci Code?”

“Yeah.”

“You know the part where the old man does all the strange things to himself in the Louvre before he dies? He leaves Fibonacci numbers, anagrams and symbols?”

“Yeah, but what does that have to do with positional numbering systems?” he said sarcastically.

“The binary string and the encoded messages are anagrams for “New World Sea Traders” and “The Netherlands.” Apparently it’s the name of the company and the place where the music box was produced.”

“New World Sea Traders? I was just reading a poem about a trading ship called the Black Rock. They mention a place called the New World Dock. Do you think there is any connection?”

“I’m not sure, Iben, but I can look into it for you.”

“Yeah, no rush but if you find anything let me know. In the mean time I’ll do some research on my own. Thanks Candy.”

“No problem. Later.”

“Bye.”

Iben hung up and went back to the sheaf of parchment. There were about twenty pages and each one was printed in an elegant hand. The calligraphy was beautiful, he thought, but who wrote them and why? He thumbed through the titles. “Persephone’s Bees”, “Malik, The Ironman”, “Confections of Apollo”, “Alvar”, “Purgatory”, “Let Your Compass Guide You” and “Retrievers of Truth.” Hmm… interesting titles, he thought. He pulled another poem from the stack. Let’s see what this one is about.

Alvar

Down through the slick corridors of concealment
Suppressing the stark light
The keeping of mysteries can mire
The noblest of objectives in eclipse

To this shadow we fell prey

This, our aspiration then
To deliver and bestow new life to
A dying land and a failing people

Lucidity and control
Will guide us into a new light
To rescue humankind
We need first tap into our humanity.

A worldwide movement
Set against the dark regime
To provide us another chance,
To build a better future,
To further our expectations and
Sustain, enhance, and support us
All on an island of serenity and joy.

Namaste

On the back of the parchment was written:
“Since the dawn of time man has been curious. Imagining all that is possible. Reaching out to a better tomorrow. Discover the experience for yourself.”
The Hanso Foundation - Copenhagen

It looks like I’m traveling to Copenhagen. I hope my passport is current, he thought as he descended into oblivion…