The Unfathomable Whims

To truly know despair, one must become an erudite student of the condition of man, for it is only then that one can 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 remains 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 method of receiving the artifacts was, of course, not normal procedure, but my superiors overlooked said informality because of the many valuable back channels I had accrued. Every month I was sent between five and ten parcels, most of which were worthless junk, clear forgeries, or, to be quite frank… 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 France was occupying called Saint Loui, Mauritania. This location was quite perplexing, for 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 so that I might know who sent the parcel. 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. Pechmann 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 that seemed to have consumed his work. He and his mentor eventually fell out because of a disagreement they had 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 jabs and blows, though the adroitness of their pugilism, I must say, left much to be desired. The last I heard of Pechmann was that Wirth booted him out of the Ahnenerbe, and he was left begging wealthy German citizens for funding, no doubt 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 barber's shears that I used specifically for this type of job. After cutting the twine and removing the paper, what sat before me was a gold box about ten inches tall and four inches in width and depth. It had a slick sheen and a flawless finish. An envelope was tied to it with more twine, which I removed to read its contents, and it stated,

Dear friend, I know it has been more than half a decade since we last spoke. For this absence, I am sorry, but you are the only one I can trust with it. I implore that you do not let the contents of this box or letter be viewed by anyone but yourself 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, as of late, through some very dark times. 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, for 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

That madman Himmler has ousted Wirth from the Ahnenerbe and has sent his SS after us. My team and I were being 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 soon be at war, dear friend. I pray Hitler’s Germany will be defeated, but if by chance they are victorious, they cannot gain the power of old Atlantis. In the gold box is an artifact that will validate our discovery, but I ask you not to show anyone until we can meet again. After you've ascertained the veracity of the artifact, bury it in a location no one will find. I hope it will also fund my and my colleagues' escape from the Nazis. I know I'm placing a heavy burden on 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 their hands on old Atlantis. Again, please bury the artifact soon, for we are unsure of its properties. We do know that burying the gold box shields one from its contents' 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 had, I would not have sent the funds he was asking for. I was sure it was a ruse to obtain cash from the museum’s coffers. 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. I didn't believe his Atlantis nonsense, but I was sure he was indeed in a sad state. Still, I was not going to get involved, nor would I let the museum get involved. I was, however, 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? As I was about to open the box, my daughter, only ten, found her way to my study as she often did in the evening after school.

“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…" Let's 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 package. Hinges were at one corner of the box that seemed to be so exquisitely crafted that they seamlessly aligned with the form of the box's surface. I remember thinking Pechman at least had an eye for quality when creating his hoaxes. I forced it open, and the box split down the middle, and then I discovered that it was actually a wooden box with gold plating. 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 some type of onyx base. In the onyx were, of course, carved some unknowable glyphs. Every forgery from some mystical land isn't 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 we concluded that it had fourteen facets, six of which were square and eight of which were triangular. I held it up to the window, and the light burst through the crystal and enchanted the entire room in a sea of iridescence. My daughter was so enamored by this spectacle, 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 on 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 sunlight would enchant her room when it refracted in the crystal.

Months later I had forgotten all about the crystal, and it became just another useless bauble on my daughter’s windowsill, but I remember, so vividly, that it was in August of 1939 when I began to receive my lesson in despair. It started when my daughter, who had just turned eleven, got in an argument with her six-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 buy groceries. When I arose and went into the kitchen where the argument was being had, I witnessed my darling Trista backhand her brother so harshly he collapsed to the floor and burst into tears. I ran to him first to console him, then turned and scolded his sister.

“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.

While I was inspecting my weeping boy who had a large red mark across his left cheek, I didn’t at first catch the absurdity that she 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… just go 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 of weeks, 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 until the last day of August, when 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 when she realized he wasn't there, 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. His face lay over the edge of the bed and was splattered with blood, and his eyes were wide open and lightless. Trista repeatedly stabbed his corpse with my barber shears as if she were in some type of trance. When I looked upon her face, she stared back at me, and for a brief second, her eyes were completely shrouded in darkness as her little hands thrust over and over again into my son's body. Even though I knew my boy was already dead, I leapt at Trista, tackling her while 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 clear 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 was 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.