The Unfathomable Whims

To truly know despair, one must become an erudite student in the condition of man, for it is only then can one attempt to comprehend his relation to the umbral and unfathomable whims. Before the war, I lost that which was most precious to me, and received my doctorate in despair. Though, even now, the true magnitude of its depths remain a mystery.

It was the summer of 38, and I had just been promoted to head registrar in the anthropology department at the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History. Part of my duties was to acquire artifacts for possible exhibits and study. Because of relationships I procured during my travels after the first World War, I was often sent objects directly to my home. This of course was not procedure, but my superiors overlooked said informality because of the many back channels I had accrued. Every month I received between five and ten parcels; most of which were worthless junk, clear forgeries, or to be quite plain… items that were of no real interest. In fact, the parcels would sit unpacked in my office for weeks until I had time to open and review them. One such package that I received in June of that year did not follow this trend, not because of any peculiarity in its size, form, or packaging, but because of who sent it and from whence it came.

Twine was tied tightly at both ends of its length, and it was wrapped in unassuming brown paper. I was about to place it in one of my “open weeks later” piles, but when I glanced at the postage, its country of origin intrigued me. It came by way of France from a region in North Africa that country was occupying called Saint Loui Mauritania. This was quite perplexing. I had no relationships with anyone from the region, and as far as I knew there were no archaeological digs going on in the area. This prompted me to read the full postage and see from whom was the package sent. To my surprise, I found that it was a colleague of mine that I met nearly a decade ago at an AAA (American Anthropological Association) meeting in Poughkeepsie, NY. Engel Pechmann was his name. He was a German born American archaeologist who studied under the infamous Herman Wirth, and unfortunately Pechmann got in bed with Wirth’s Nazi Ahnenerbe organization. Pechman was indeed a talented young Archaeologist. He did some fine work in Egypt, but it led him to some crazy theories about the supposed lost island of Atlantis. He and his mentor, Wirth, who was the head of the Ahnenerbe think tank had a bit of a disagreement about where the fabled Atlantis might be. Even after I tried telling them that Plato’s Atlantis was simply an allegory, Wirth insisted it was submerged in the North Atlantic, and Pechmann insisted that if one actually took what Plato said word for word, then Atlantis is probably submerged under sand in the great Sahara desert. This professional disagreement turned into a personal grudge; and eventually, as these things sometimes do, it devolved into blows. The last I heard of Pechmann was that Wirth booted him out of Ahnenerbe and he was left begging private wealthy German citizens for funding to pursue his Atlantis theories. Perhaps he found his donors, or perhaps a disgraced Nazi archaeologist needed some cash and wanted to pawn off some forgery purportedly from a mystical land. Either way, I decided to open the package.

I had a pair of heavy and sharp barbers shears that I used specifically for the job. After cutting the twine and removing the paper, what sat before me was a glossy gold box about ten inches tall and four inches in width and depth. An envelope was tied to it with more twine which I removed to read its contents. It stated,

Dear friend, I know it has been more than half a decade since we last spoke. For this I am sorry, but you are the only one I can trust. I implore that you do not let the contents of this box or letter be viewed by anyone until we can meet again in person.

I do hope that Julie and the children are in good health and spirits. The remembrance of them, your quaint home, and our long chats into the night about our chosen profession has helped me through some very dark times as of late. If I survive this, I will make it my top priority to find a good woman and start a family… but for now my friend, there is only the work. You see Francis, we found it, and that bastard Wirth was wrong yet again. Atlantis is in the Sahara, in that region called Mauritania like I theorized. I suppose Wirth and I were also both in error though. Atlantis is not the Aryan paradise we imagined it to be. It would not be wise of me to go into much more detail now. In fact, I’ve already revealed too much. In case of my passing, please memorize these coordinates, and burn this letter after reading it.

Lat: 21° 7' 0.3792'' N

Long: 11° 24' 18.6552'' W

Wirth has been ousted from Ahnenerbe by that madman Himmler who has sent his SS after us. My team and I were funded by some elite German businessman, and we had to disguise ourselves as French missionaries to gain access to Mauritania. While conducting our research in Atlantis, we got word that some of our benefactors were sent to concentration camps, and others sided with Himmler. You were right dear friend… I should have never involved myself with these people. My team and I decided that it would be best not to let Atlantis get in the hands of the Nazis, so we’ve split up and are traveling to remote parts of the world, for we will be at war soon dear friend. I pray Hitler’s Germany is defeated, but if by chance they are victorious, it cannot gain the power of old Atlantis. In the gold box is an artifact that will validate our discovery, but I ask you not show anyone until we can meet again. Bury it in a location no one will find it except yourself after initial viewing. I hope it will also fund mine and my colleagues run from the Nazis. I know this is asking much of you, but you are our only hope. In two weeks time, I will send you another letter from a different location. The contents of the letter, including the name, will be bogus, but you will know it is me, because within the envelope will also be a small piece of paper with a sketch of the artifact. Wire the funds to the address posted, and be sure to burn the sketch. I cannot thank you enough dear Francis. I know you will help us, for the world is at stake if the Nazis get there hands on the Atlantis site. Again, please bury the artifact soon, for we are unsure of its properties. We do know the gold box and burying it shields one from its influence, but its full nature is still unknown to us. Many more treasures have we discovered in the depths of the earth below where Atlantis once stood, and I hope one day we can again meet and plan a trip to the site. Hitler and his Nazis are relentless though. It will take the combined might of the world once again to stop what is brewing in the fatherland.

Your friend,

Engel Pechmann

I never received that second letter, but even if I did I would not have sent the money he was asking for. I was sure it was a ruse to obtain cash from the museum’s funds. Pechmann was a good lad and an excellent archaeologist, but he was right; he should have never gotten involved with those damned Nazis like I warned him. I didn't believe his Atlantis nonsense, but I was sure he was indeed in a sad state. I was not going to get involved though, nor would I let the museum get involved. Still, I was curious to see what concoction he had crafted. What manner of forger was he... a novice or would it fool even me if I were a bit younger and less experienced. My daughter, only ten, found her way to my study as she often did in the evening after school. As I was finishing Pechmann’s letter, she asked,

“Papa, what’s in the golden box?”

She pointed towards it while holding one of her dolls in the other hand.

“I don’t know sweetie… lets find out together shall we,” I said smilingly.

She came to my desk and leaned against it inquisitively, her eyes never leaving the aurous sheen of the parcel. Hinges that seem to be exquisitely crafted so that they seamlessly aligned with the form of the box were in one corner. I remember thinking Pechman at least had an eye for quality when creating his forgeries. I forced it open, and the box split down the middle. It was actually a wooden box, with a gold plating on its outer surface. If it were completely made of gold, perhaps I would have believed Pechman’s ridiculous story. At the center of the right half of the box was a long inlaid object covered in what looked like black velvet. I took the object out and unveiled it. It was a crystal mounted on what looked like some type of onyx base. In the onyx was of course carved some unknowable glyphs. Every forgery from some mystical land is not complete without the obligatory mysterious glyphs you see. Still, it was nicely crafted. The Crystal was especially dazzling. My daughter and I counted the sides together, and concluded it had fourteen sides. Six square sides, and eight triangular sides that gave it an magical charm. I held it up to the window light and it enchanted the entire room in a sea of iridescence. My daughter was so enamored by this, she blurted out ecstatically,

“Ohhh Papa, please can I have it!”

I looked upon the object and thought… why not... it's just a forgery. I told her that it was not to be played with like a toy though, and was more like a decoration to be placed on a table. She agreed and we decided to put it in her room’s windowsill where she already had all sorts of baubles, stuffed animals, and ornaments. She absolutely loved it, because during certain times of day, the sun light would enchant her room when it refracted in the crystal.

Months later I had forgotten all about the thing, and it became just another useless bauble on my daughter’s windowsill. August of 39 is when my family’s lives started to get a lesson in despair. One day my daughter, who was then eleven got in an argument with her seven year old brother. It was the usual inane bickering over something inconsequential that children sometimes engage in, but it was so loud it started to disturb my work. Usually my wife handled such things while I toiled away in my office, but she stepped out to get groceries. When I arose and went into the Kitchen where the argument was being had, I witnessed my darling Trista back hand her brother so harshly he collapsed to the floor and burst into tears. I ran to him and scolded her,

“Trista! How could you do such a thing!”

“Papa, he was out of place. For those who intend to rule, dominance must often be exerted,” she said casually.

Consoling and inspecting my weeping boy who had a large red mark across his left cheek, I didn’t at first catch the absurdity that was uttered. No shame, atonement, or even a relapse into anger was shown, just some strange Machiavellian axiom flowed from her eleven year old lips.

“Dominance… what! Trista what in the hell is wrong with you! You know violence is not our way. Just… got to your room! We’ll talk when your mother returns!”

Later that night my wife and I questioned her about where she got such notions about dominance and ruling, and she said the strangest thing I had ever heard.

“Those who rise from the Stygian Sea… they told me Papa.”

We monitored her closely for a couple weeks after that, and we even took her out of school for a few days to see a doctor. They said everything seemed fine, and nothing out of the ordinary happened for the rest of the month. It wasn’t until the last day of August that our lives would change forever. My wife and I awoke and were doing our usual. I was getting ready for work, and she was making breakfast. We both noticed the children weren’t up yet, and my wife decided to go check in on both of them. She went to Gildo’s room first, but he wasn’t in there so she went to Trista’s room, and what she saw caused her to let out such a terrifying scream, I am still haunted by it even to this day. I ran to the room, and what I saw was Trista hunched over Gildo’s body in her bed as she repeatedly stabbed him with my barbers shears. It was as if she was in some type of trance. Even though I knew my boy was already gone, I leaped at Trista, tackling her as my wife wept on the blood drenched floor.

My darling Trista curled up in my arms, her eyes wide open with deep dark bags beneath them, and suddenly an iridescent sea of light enchanted the room. I stood up with her clasping tightly around me, and I looked upon the windowsill. The most peculiar thing became dreadfully aware to me as my wife wailed over my son's soulless corpse. The bright yellow paint on the walls around the sill had started to fade, and the color of the various baubles and toys were extremely bleached. At the center of the sill sat the artifact, except the crystal atop it was no longer clear and burning with chromatic radiance. It was pitch black... as jet as a moonless night, yet it still enchanted the room with iridescence. The day after, my daughter was committed, and Hitler invaded Poland.