Chapter Seven: Subterranean Homesick Blues
Never lonelier? Iben knew that was a bit of an overstatement. After all, he was an orphan, and not the middle-aged kind whose parents have lately passed on, or the self-selected type who reject their blood relatives as unacceptable, but the real deal, raised in an orphanage from birth until age twelve.
Then on his thirteenth birthday, without a word of warning, he was sent away from the only home he’d ever known and placed in a very well respected boarding school where his non-existent family ties made him even lonelier than his homesick classmates. During his tenure at St. Anthony’s, Iben had been taken under the wing of the headmaster and his wife, who grudgingly suggested he call her mom. He did so, but with even less conviction on his side. So, Iben knew from lonely, and yet he’d still have to say that tonight was somehow worse.
Beep. Beep.
“Hang on, I’ve got another call,” Iben put the first caller on hold.
“Iben Powned.”
“Iben? For christsake, where the hell are you?”
It was Hamish McIntyre.
“Denmark,” Iben replied coolly, while in fact feeling quite conflicted. Was Hamish, the purported mastermind of this European holiday, pretending he didn’t know Iben’s whereabouts or, scary thought, was it possible that Hamish had nothing to do with this trip? The way things had been going, Iben didn’t like the odds.
“Bloody hell, what are you doing in Denmark?” Hamish demanded. “You do realize that you’re on deadline for this ABC project. You remember it don’t you? The assignment that I worked my ass off to secure for you? Then without so much as a by your leave, you depart for Scandi-fucking-navia. You don’t call; you don’t write. You’re going to blow this off, aren’t you, you ungrateful sod.”
Unless Hamish was a way better actor than he was an agent, Iben was going with the imposter theory, and was about to tell Hamish his fantastic tale, when he saw Dr. Apollo enter the lobby with the Labrador retriever by her side. Even bathed in the hotel’s five-star golden glow, Iben could tell the day had taken a toll on the diminutive professor.
“Listen, Hamish, now’s not a good time. I’m going to call you back,” Iben switched back to his other call. “Still there?”
“I wouldn’t advise you to play games with me, Iben,” threatened the girl who he thought might be the Thanksgiving Day messenger.
“I don’t know any games,” Iben said. “At least not the kind you’re playing.”
“We have to meet,” she said. “The Viking Ship museum, ten a.m. tomorrow.”
“No,” Iben replied. “I don’t think I can make it.”
“I do,” said she who assumed she would be obeyed.
“I know you do, but you’re mistaken. All kinds of things have happened to me in the past few weeks. Things that have made me question my own sanity, risk my life, question the trust-worthiness of long-time friends and associates and put them in harm’s way. You know on Lost when Locke started punching in the numbers? For an entire season he was, like, totally caught up in the daft idea that feeble task was steeped in fated significance. Until the day he decided he’d been wrong. Then he stopped punching in the numbers and, you know what? Nothing much happened. The world didn’t end; nobody died. So, I’m going to take a lesson from his experience and put an end to what I’ve been going through before I waste a year of my life, destroy my already foundering career and lose the few friends I have. I’ve got a book to write. I’m on deadline. I wish you every success in your current endeavor, whatever it may be, but count me out.”
Iben ended the call just as the dog caught sight of him and steered Dr. Apollo through the holiday throng in his direction. Iben hurried to meet them, hoping that Dr. Apollo would not collapse before he could reach her. But as soon as she saw him, she cried out a welcome and seemed to gain a bit of strength.
“My dear boy, I feared the worse. If anything had happened to you, I’d never have forgiven myself.”
“Dr. Apollo, as much as I appreciate your concern, you need not feel responsible for my safety,” Iben replied, gently taking her arm. “I’m a big boy now. If anything, I was worried about you. I turned around and you were gone.”
“Oh, I know. How stupid of me,” she said, but she was clearly anxious, scanning the crowd nervously as though looking for new trouble to find them.
“What do you say we go up to the suite?” Iben recommended.
Then on his thirteenth birthday, without a word of warning, he was sent away from the only home he’d ever known and placed in a very well respected boarding school where his non-existent family ties made him even lonelier than his homesick classmates. During his tenure at St. Anthony’s, Iben had been taken under the wing of the headmaster and his wife, who grudgingly suggested he call her mom. He did so, but with even less conviction on his side. So, Iben knew from lonely, and yet he’d still have to say that tonight was somehow worse.
Beep. Beep.
“Hang on, I’ve got another call,” Iben put the first caller on hold.
“Iben Powned.”
“Iben? For christsake, where the hell are you?”
It was Hamish McIntyre.
“Denmark,” Iben replied coolly, while in fact feeling quite conflicted. Was Hamish, the purported mastermind of this European holiday, pretending he didn’t know Iben’s whereabouts or, scary thought, was it possible that Hamish had nothing to do with this trip? The way things had been going, Iben didn’t like the odds.
“Bloody hell, what are you doing in Denmark?” Hamish demanded. “You do realize that you’re on deadline for this ABC project. You remember it don’t you? The assignment that I worked my ass off to secure for you? Then without so much as a by your leave, you depart for Scandi-fucking-navia. You don’t call; you don’t write. You’re going to blow this off, aren’t you, you ungrateful sod.”
Unless Hamish was a way better actor than he was an agent, Iben was going with the imposter theory, and was about to tell Hamish his fantastic tale, when he saw Dr. Apollo enter the lobby with the Labrador retriever by her side. Even bathed in the hotel’s five-star golden glow, Iben could tell the day had taken a toll on the diminutive professor.
“Listen, Hamish, now’s not a good time. I’m going to call you back,” Iben switched back to his other call. “Still there?”
“I wouldn’t advise you to play games with me, Iben,” threatened the girl who he thought might be the Thanksgiving Day messenger.
“I don’t know any games,” Iben said. “At least not the kind you’re playing.”
“We have to meet,” she said. “The Viking Ship museum, ten a.m. tomorrow.”
“No,” Iben replied. “I don’t think I can make it.”
“I do,” said she who assumed she would be obeyed.
“I know you do, but you’re mistaken. All kinds of things have happened to me in the past few weeks. Things that have made me question my own sanity, risk my life, question the trust-worthiness of long-time friends and associates and put them in harm’s way. You know on Lost when Locke started punching in the numbers? For an entire season he was, like, totally caught up in the daft idea that feeble task was steeped in fated significance. Until the day he decided he’d been wrong. Then he stopped punching in the numbers and, you know what? Nothing much happened. The world didn’t end; nobody died. So, I’m going to take a lesson from his experience and put an end to what I’ve been going through before I waste a year of my life, destroy my already foundering career and lose the few friends I have. I’ve got a book to write. I’m on deadline. I wish you every success in your current endeavor, whatever it may be, but count me out.”
Iben ended the call just as the dog caught sight of him and steered Dr. Apollo through the holiday throng in his direction. Iben hurried to meet them, hoping that Dr. Apollo would not collapse before he could reach her. But as soon as she saw him, she cried out a welcome and seemed to gain a bit of strength.
“My dear boy, I feared the worse. If anything had happened to you, I’d never have forgiven myself.”
“Dr. Apollo, as much as I appreciate your concern, you need not feel responsible for my safety,” Iben replied, gently taking her arm. “I’m a big boy now. If anything, I was worried about you. I turned around and you were gone.”
“Oh, I know. How stupid of me,” she said, but she was clearly anxious, scanning the crowd nervously as though looking for new trouble to find them.
“What do you say we go up to the suite?” Iben recommended.
****
As soon as he’d looked into her weary eyes, Iben decided not to share his worries with her. Was it really important for her to know that Hamish hadn’t planned this trip, that the Hanso headquarters existed in real life, but was now a bombed out shell, and that he’d been taken to an unknown location by men claiming they were the police who then drugged or hypnotized him to get information he didn’t know he possessed? Heck no. He’d leave her in blissful ignorance, a state of innocence he wished he’d hung onto.
Once they reached the Kierkegaard Suite, Iben made sure that Dr. Apollo had everything she needed for a long winter’s nap: fire in the hearth, hot toddy by her bedside, dog curled protectively at her feet.
In the suite’s living room, a Christmas tree twinkled merrily beside the fireplace where a Yule log glowed. It crossed his mind that this was a rather more homey setting than he’d ever had on Christmas, but he figured if he fell under its spell, St. Nick would show up with a candy canes filled with sodium pentothal and a bag alive with an army of mechanical tin toys.
Iben just wanted to do something normal. What about The Valenzetti Equation: Numbers of Necromancy? Not only had he not written word one, he had no idea what he was going to write about. Research and development was the first order of business. He unpacked the documents and maps that had been in the messenger’s backpack, found his copy of the Gary Troup novel Bad Twin, got out his laptop and logged onto Lostpedia's Valenzetti equation entry:
Once they reached the Kierkegaard Suite, Iben made sure that Dr. Apollo had everything she needed for a long winter’s nap: fire in the hearth, hot toddy by her bedside, dog curled protectively at her feet.
In the suite’s living room, a Christmas tree twinkled merrily beside the fireplace where a Yule log glowed. It crossed his mind that this was a rather more homey setting than he’d ever had on Christmas, but he figured if he fell under its spell, St. Nick would show up with a candy canes filled with sodium pentothal and a bag alive with an army of mechanical tin toys.
Iben just wanted to do something normal. What about The Valenzetti Equation: Numbers of Necromancy? Not only had he not written word one, he had no idea what he was going to write about. Research and development was the first order of business. He unpacked the documents and maps that had been in the messenger’s backpack, found his copy of the Gary Troup novel Bad Twin, got out his laptop and logged onto Lostpedia's Valenzetti equation entry:
“According to the 1975 orientation film in the Sri Lanka Video, the Valenzetti Equation “predicts the exact number of years and months until humanity extinguishes itself.” The numbers, 4, 8, 15, 16, 23 and 42, are explained as the numerical values to the core environmental and human factors of the Valenzetti Equation. Alvar Hanso also states in the video that the purpose of the DHARMA Initiative is to change the numerical values of any one of the core factors in the equation in order to give humanity a chance to survive. However, Thomas Mittlewerk revealed that as of 2006, they have failed to change the values through manipulating the environment, as the equation continues to arrive at the same six numbers.”
It didn’t take Iben long to come to the conclusion that the Valenzetti Equation could be interpreted to mean just about anything his story required. At first this seemed like a very good thing, but after four hours of trying to come up with a story that would plausibly fit any interpretation of the Numbers of Necromancy, he realized there was such a thing as too much literary license. If he had no idea what the Valenzetti Equation was supposed to mean, what was he going to write about?
It took him another couple of hours research to decide that iron, as in the stuff dug out of deep holes in the ground, was a solid substance he could use as ballast for the ephemeral equation since, oddly enough, it came up frequently. Iben made a list:
On Lost , Michael promised to take Michael to the Flatiron building in New York,
In The Lost Experience Rachel Blake clocked Malik in the face with an iron, earning him the nickname Iron man; The Black Rock ship carried mining tools, most likely for gold mining, but, still… Magnetite, magnetic iron, is often called the black rock.
The fake Henry Gale had been in mining, albeit non-metallic ores.Historically, iron was called the holy metal because it was used to make swords during the crusades.Magnetite, the lodestone, was also used to make compasses, as in “Let Your Compass Be Your Guide,” from the Lost Experience,Magnetism and electromagnetic anomalies play an important plot point in Lost. The hatch was ground zero for the electromagnetic anomaly. In Celtic mythology, Iron was immune to magic and detrimental, even fatal, to elves and fairies.And elsewhere in the Lost online archives, Iben had found references to the Krusk Magnetic Anomaly, site to the world’s largest iron deposits and one of the most magnetic spots on Earth.
Admittedly, Iben failed to see how these references added up to a story. For one thing, how would the numbers fit in? After further web surfing, Iben thought maybe it would work if the numbers referred to elements on the periodic table: 4 – Beryllium, 8—Oxygen, 15 – Phosphorus, 16 – Sulfur, 23 – Vanadium, 42 – Molybdenum. How would this fit with the end-of-days calculation? Perhaps in whatever reality the Lost world existed these elements were key to life as they knew it. He could sell that, he thought.
Unfortunately, Iron, number 26, was not represented as one of the numbers. Iben spent the pre-dawn hours trying to make a connection no matter how fragile between the six elements that fit the numbers and iron, and just as the Christmas morning sun turned the gray morning a merry cranberry red, he believed he’d found a pattern that might work.
“Wait for me, boy?” The white Lab had race ahead and disappeared into a crater. When Iben caught up, he was digging into black shiny sand. Iben was trying to see what the dog had found. “Move, Bops,” he commanded. The dog lifted his head, trotted over to Iben and dropped a glass eye into the palm of his hand. “Geez, that’s so cold it burns,” Iben said staring into the unblinking orb that then rolled over in his hand and shot a beam of light onto the blank wall behind him. Iben was suddenly chilled to his very core. He looked up out of the black pit and saw drifts of snow and a snowman was looking down on him. “Gelar!” the snowman said. Bops bounded into the black crater that had now revealed itself to be a tunnel. Iben dropped the eyeball and chased after him hoping to escape the cold, but the darkness was cold, too, so cold it felt like he was swimming through black snow, submerged in a lightless substance that allowed him to breathe but slowed his movements until he had to struggle to put one foot in front of the other. He was so exhausted, and cold, if only he’d hung onto the eye at least he’d be able to see where this tendril of warm, moist, meaty air was coming from.
Iben awoke to a snoot full of dog breath and an imprint of a keyboard on his cheek. Someone was knocking on the door, which made the dog bark excitedly and race toward the sound. Iben saw Dr. Apollo sitting in the wing chair next to the still crackling fire engrossed in his notes from the previous night.
“It’ll never work,” Iben said, referencing the pages she held.
“Merry Christmas,” she said, ignoring his negativism. “You’ll feel much better after you’ve had a hearty breakfast.”
A Santa-hatted waiter pushed in a room service trolley loaded with things to be merry about. Dr. Apollo clapped her hands with delight.
“Iben, I’ve asked them to prepare all of the foods I remember from my youth. I hoped to recreate the feeling of hygge, the feeling I most associate with being in a happy home.”
“Are you from here, then?” he inquired.
“Not originally… but come try the Frikadeller, the beef hash, the hot chocolate. And here’s the Risengrod! You know this is a favorite of Santa’s elves,” she said, filling his plate with food.
As he finished his first helping, he felt restored enough to bring up a subject he’d avoided long enough.
“Last night before you arrived at the hotel,” he began. “Hamish called.”
He didn’t want to alarm her so he was hesitant to go on. She looked very content offering the dog a Frikadeller from the palm of her misshapen hand, the one Iben knew she often attempted to hide or cover. Content, yet vulnerable.
“He…Hamish didn’t…” Iben stumbled over the unspoken words.
The dog savored the meatball, his head moving from Iben to Dr. Apollo and back again as though caught up in the tentative conversation and wondering what was going to be said next.
“He said it was time to come home,” Iben fibbed briskly.
The fire sparked festively, and the tree twinkled happily and the dog cocked his head, begging an unspoken question.
Dr. Apollo inhaled deeply of her cup of Glogg as though trying to commit its spicy scent to her personal hygge memory bank.
“I’m sure he did,” she said at last. “Since he had no idea that you’d left New York.”
“But how did you know?” Iben asked. “I was so afraid that you’d be completely freaked out to find out we’d been sent here on false pretenses. I have no idea how to explain what happened.”
“No, Iben. I’m the one who must explain. It was my idea to come here. I thought that it would be a good thing. That what you would discover here would be a tremendous boon to the success of your project.”
“Did you?” Iben didn’t know what question to ask next there were so many. For instance, why all the mystery?
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I didn’t tell you what I had in mind. The truth, I’d hoped that the trip could be accomplished without you learning I had anything to do with it.”
Really? Iben thought. “Okay,” he said. “I can understand why you would think a trip to the home of the Hanso Foundation might help me finish this assignment. I get that, intellectually. A little bit. Yes, it does seem like an incredibly generous gesture for one friend to make toward another, but if Copenhagen is your home, and you somehow have access to a private jet, and the wherewithal to check into a three-bedroom suite in a five-star hotel…..with a dog.” That gave him pause. “No, you know what, I don’t understand anything at all,” Iben said, dropping his aching head into his open hands.
“Well, here’s the explanation. I thought it might help if you could meet your father,” she said.
“My father?” Iben laughed. “No one knows my father. I was abandoned on the doorstep of the Helios Foundation. I’m a foundling. It’s not something that even you, Professor Apollo, would be able to Google so don’t feel bad that it didn’t work out.”
“Your mistaken, Iben,” she countered. “One person knows who your father is.”
Was this another riddle? Iben hated riddles
“I give up,” he said. “Like who?”
“I do,” she said.
“You do?” he asked.
There was a knock at the door.
“Iben, the person standing on the other side of this door is your father. Before you meet him, it’s important that you understand how I know him.”
Iben did know, but was powerless to say so.
“That’s correct, Iben. I am your mother,” she said.
“Who is he?” Iben asked his eyes fastened on the door.
“Enzo Valenzetti, my darling. Who else could it be?”
It didn’t take Iben long to come to the conclusion that the Valenzetti Equation could be interpreted to mean just about anything his story required. At first this seemed like a very good thing, but after four hours of trying to come up with a story that would plausibly fit any interpretation of the Numbers of Necromancy, he realized there was such a thing as too much literary license. If he had no idea what the Valenzetti Equation was supposed to mean, what was he going to write about?
It took him another couple of hours research to decide that iron, as in the stuff dug out of deep holes in the ground, was a solid substance he could use as ballast for the ephemeral equation since, oddly enough, it came up frequently. Iben made a list:
On Lost , Michael promised to take Michael to the Flatiron building in New York,
In The Lost Experience Rachel Blake clocked Malik in the face with an iron, earning him the nickname Iron man; The Black Rock ship carried mining tools, most likely for gold mining, but, still… Magnetite, magnetic iron, is often called the black rock.
The fake Henry Gale had been in mining, albeit non-metallic ores.Historically, iron was called the holy metal because it was used to make swords during the crusades.Magnetite, the lodestone, was also used to make compasses, as in “Let Your Compass Be Your Guide,” from the Lost Experience,Magnetism and electromagnetic anomalies play an important plot point in Lost. The hatch was ground zero for the electromagnetic anomaly. In Celtic mythology, Iron was immune to magic and detrimental, even fatal, to elves and fairies.And elsewhere in the Lost online archives, Iben had found references to the Krusk Magnetic Anomaly, site to the world’s largest iron deposits and one of the most magnetic spots on Earth.
Admittedly, Iben failed to see how these references added up to a story. For one thing, how would the numbers fit in? After further web surfing, Iben thought maybe it would work if the numbers referred to elements on the periodic table: 4 – Beryllium, 8—Oxygen, 15 – Phosphorus, 16 – Sulfur, 23 – Vanadium, 42 – Molybdenum. How would this fit with the end-of-days calculation? Perhaps in whatever reality the Lost world existed these elements were key to life as they knew it. He could sell that, he thought.
Unfortunately, Iron, number 26, was not represented as one of the numbers. Iben spent the pre-dawn hours trying to make a connection no matter how fragile between the six elements that fit the numbers and iron, and just as the Christmas morning sun turned the gray morning a merry cranberry red, he believed he’d found a pattern that might work.
“Wait for me, boy?” The white Lab had race ahead and disappeared into a crater. When Iben caught up, he was digging into black shiny sand. Iben was trying to see what the dog had found. “Move, Bops,” he commanded. The dog lifted his head, trotted over to Iben and dropped a glass eye into the palm of his hand. “Geez, that’s so cold it burns,” Iben said staring into the unblinking orb that then rolled over in his hand and shot a beam of light onto the blank wall behind him. Iben was suddenly chilled to his very core. He looked up out of the black pit and saw drifts of snow and a snowman was looking down on him. “Gelar!” the snowman said. Bops bounded into the black crater that had now revealed itself to be a tunnel. Iben dropped the eyeball and chased after him hoping to escape the cold, but the darkness was cold, too, so cold it felt like he was swimming through black snow, submerged in a lightless substance that allowed him to breathe but slowed his movements until he had to struggle to put one foot in front of the other. He was so exhausted, and cold, if only he’d hung onto the eye at least he’d be able to see where this tendril of warm, moist, meaty air was coming from.
Iben awoke to a snoot full of dog breath and an imprint of a keyboard on his cheek. Someone was knocking on the door, which made the dog bark excitedly and race toward the sound. Iben saw Dr. Apollo sitting in the wing chair next to the still crackling fire engrossed in his notes from the previous night.
“It’ll never work,” Iben said, referencing the pages she held.
“Merry Christmas,” she said, ignoring his negativism. “You’ll feel much better after you’ve had a hearty breakfast.”
A Santa-hatted waiter pushed in a room service trolley loaded with things to be merry about. Dr. Apollo clapped her hands with delight.
“Iben, I’ve asked them to prepare all of the foods I remember from my youth. I hoped to recreate the feeling of hygge, the feeling I most associate with being in a happy home.”
“Are you from here, then?” he inquired.
“Not originally… but come try the Frikadeller, the beef hash, the hot chocolate. And here’s the Risengrod! You know this is a favorite of Santa’s elves,” she said, filling his plate with food.
As he finished his first helping, he felt restored enough to bring up a subject he’d avoided long enough.
“Last night before you arrived at the hotel,” he began. “Hamish called.”
He didn’t want to alarm her so he was hesitant to go on. She looked very content offering the dog a Frikadeller from the palm of her misshapen hand, the one Iben knew she often attempted to hide or cover. Content, yet vulnerable.
“He…Hamish didn’t…” Iben stumbled over the unspoken words.
The dog savored the meatball, his head moving from Iben to Dr. Apollo and back again as though caught up in the tentative conversation and wondering what was going to be said next.
“He said it was time to come home,” Iben fibbed briskly.
The fire sparked festively, and the tree twinkled happily and the dog cocked his head, begging an unspoken question.
Dr. Apollo inhaled deeply of her cup of Glogg as though trying to commit its spicy scent to her personal hygge memory bank.
“I’m sure he did,” she said at last. “Since he had no idea that you’d left New York.”
“But how did you know?” Iben asked. “I was so afraid that you’d be completely freaked out to find out we’d been sent here on false pretenses. I have no idea how to explain what happened.”
“No, Iben. I’m the one who must explain. It was my idea to come here. I thought that it would be a good thing. That what you would discover here would be a tremendous boon to the success of your project.”
“Did you?” Iben didn’t know what question to ask next there were so many. For instance, why all the mystery?
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I didn’t tell you what I had in mind. The truth, I’d hoped that the trip could be accomplished without you learning I had anything to do with it.”
Really? Iben thought. “Okay,” he said. “I can understand why you would think a trip to the home of the Hanso Foundation might help me finish this assignment. I get that, intellectually. A little bit. Yes, it does seem like an incredibly generous gesture for one friend to make toward another, but if Copenhagen is your home, and you somehow have access to a private jet, and the wherewithal to check into a three-bedroom suite in a five-star hotel…..with a dog.” That gave him pause. “No, you know what, I don’t understand anything at all,” Iben said, dropping his aching head into his open hands.
“Well, here’s the explanation. I thought it might help if you could meet your father,” she said.
“My father?” Iben laughed. “No one knows my father. I was abandoned on the doorstep of the Helios Foundation. I’m a foundling. It’s not something that even you, Professor Apollo, would be able to Google so don’t feel bad that it didn’t work out.”
“Your mistaken, Iben,” she countered. “One person knows who your father is.”
Was this another riddle? Iben hated riddles
“I give up,” he said. “Like who?”
“I do,” she said.
“You do?” he asked.
There was a knock at the door.
“Iben, the person standing on the other side of this door is your father. Before you meet him, it’s important that you understand how I know him.”
Iben did know, but was powerless to say so.
“That’s correct, Iben. I am your mother,” she said.
“Who is he?” Iben asked his eyes fastened on the door.
“Enzo Valenzetti, my darling. Who else could it be?”
posted by The Alternative One at 9:28 PM
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