The Prophecy

26

Ulster took the black marker from the tray and stood near the left side of board. For the next step, he wanted to make sure Payne and Jones could see everything he did.

‘Based on the assumption that the author was from France, I translated every word in the letter into Middle French. Unfortunately, the words were still jumbled and made little sense. I had the same issue when I used Old and Modern French. Next I tried Provençal, but the results were similar — nothing but chaos. I also tried Latin, then Italian, Greek and finally Hebrew. But guess what? None of the languages seemed to fit. If I pushed and pulled and finagled a bit, I was able to see some semblance of structure, but I doubt this is what the author had intended.’

Jones agreed. ‘You’re probably right. Most codes are pretty straightforward. If you know the cipher, then the rest is easy.’

‘Thankfully,’ Ulster said, as he tapped on the board with his marker, ‘I was preparing this chart for you. Otherwise, I might not have seen it.’

‘Seen what?’ Jones asked.

‘The rhythm.’

Payne furrowed his brow. ‘The rhythm?’

With his marker, Ulster drew an asterisk next to four words: brother, line, mother, and time. ‘Take a look at your copy of the letter. How many lines are there?’

‘Four,’ Payne replied.

‘That is correct. Four lines. The words I have identified are the final words of those four lines. Now tell me, what do these words have in common?’

Payne knew it wasn’t their language because all of them were different. According to the chart, brother was Greek, mother was French, line was Latin, and time was Italian. Other than that, he wasn’t quite sure what to look for. ‘I have no idea.’

‘Of course not,’ Jones teased. ‘In the future, never ask a white guy about rhythm. If you have a choice, turn to a brother for help.’

Payne rolled his eyes. ‘Okay, Brother Jones, what’s the answer?’

‘The words rhyme. Brother and mother definitely rhyme. And line and time mostly rhyme. At least they would in a rap song.’

‘You are correct, David. The vowel sounds in those words do rhyme. But strangely, they do not rhyme in French. Or Latin. Or any of the other languages. They only rhyme in English.’

‘No shit?’

‘No, I’m quite serious. Your letter is a simple quatrain with alternate rhyming verses.’

‘Are we talking Middle English like The Canterbury Tales, or Early Modern like Macbeth?’

Ulster grinned. ‘I’m talking this decade like Harry Potter or Twilight.’

‘This message is current?’

‘Very current. And once that had been determined, everything else fell into place. I suddenly realized that some of the words that appeared to be nouns — for instance, choice — were meant to be verbs. In this case, chosen. Once that was resolved, the message became quite clear to me.’

‘Hold up,’ Payne ordered, slightly aggravated by the turn of events. ‘Let me see if I got this straight. We just spent fifteen minutes discussing regional dialects and the sentence structure of Provençal, but you’re telling us the message was meant to be deciphered in English.’

Ulster nodded. ‘It appears that way, yes.’

‘Then why didn’t you tell us that to begin with?’

‘Why? I’ll tell you why. Because someone tried to kill you for this letter!’ Ulster’s voice had an edge to it that hadn’t been there before. ‘And I’m quite confident once I read the translation you’ll focus solely on the message and nothing else. However, in my professional opinion, I think that would be a grave mistake. I believe this letter was created by a brilliant man, a craftsman with a gift for puzzles. And unless I’m terribly mistaken, everything I have told you about this letter will eventually be important to your search — wherever that may lead.’

‘Oh,’ Payne said, trying to ease the tension, ‘in that case, thanks.’

Ulster took a deep breath then cracked a smile. ‘Sorry, Jonathon, I shouldn’t have raised my voice like that. I’m simply hungry, and tired, and craving waffles.’

Payne shook his head. ‘Actually, Petr, I’m the one who should apologize to you. You’re doing us a favour here. Without your knowledge, we would’ve been screwed.’

Ulster waved his hand dismissively. ‘Well, the good news is that we’re nearly done. At this point I feel I have adequately prepared you for my translation.’

‘Are you positive? Because I’ll gladly wait some more if you want to discuss dangling participles in Ancient Rome.’

Ulster smiled wider. ‘No, I’m quite sure. Let me write it above my chart.’

With a purple marker, he carefully printed the quatrain in English on the top of the board. Four lines. Two couplets. Twenty-two words in total. Composed in six ancient languages but translated into a seventh. When he was done, Ulster sat down and admired his handiwork, making sure that he had made no errors. It read:

Payne and Jones copied the translation, word for word, then took a moment to examine it. When they were done, they shifted their focus back to Ulster.

Jones asked, ‘Any thoughts on what it means?’

‘Sadly, English literature is not my forte and never will be. Therefore, if you are looking for deep artistic meaning, I’m afraid you are asking the wrong man. However, if you are searching for a literal translation of these words, I’d be happy to chime in.’

Jones nodded. ‘I’m with you, Petr. My brain was built for facts and numbers, not artistic interpretation. I can read a poem and tell you if I like it, but I can’t dissect one to save my life.’

Payne cleared his throat. ‘There’s no need. I’ll save your life. Like always.’

‘Will you now? And how are you going to do that?’

‘I know what the message means.’

Jones snapped his fingers for effect. ‘You solved it, just like that?’

Payne smiled confidently. ‘Plus, I think Petr made a mistake in his translation.’

Jones laughed. ‘Oh, man, this is gonna be good! Please enlighten us, Brother Payne.’

‘Yes, Jonathon, I must admit I’m rather intrigued by your insinuation. Please continue.’

Payne pointed at the screen. ‘This poem is about someone in Philadelphia.’

Jones rolled his eyes. ‘Philadelphia? How do you figure?’

He stared at Jones. ‘What’s Philadelphia’s nickname?’

‘The City of Brotherly Love.’

‘Exactly. Just like the first line. “From the city of brothers”.’

Jones argued. ‘Wait, where’s the love? It doesn’t say anything about love!’

‘Look at the next line, DJ. You’ll find your love there.’

‘Oh,’ Jones grunted.

Payne turned his attention to the screen. ‘Petr, in the third line, are you certain about the word mare?’

Ulster looked at the board and nodded. ‘Fairly certain, why?’

‘By mare, did you mean a female horse?’

‘Yes.’

‘An adult female or a baby female?’

Ulster shrugged. ‘Just a female. An age was not specified.’

‘In that case, may I suggest a substitution?’

‘You may.’

‘How about filly instead?’

Ulster considered the word. ‘Yes, filly would fit. “A filly with no mother”.’

Payne smirked at Jones. ‘Hey, DJ, what’s the abbreviated name for Philadelphia?’

Jones stopped smiling. ‘Philly.’

‘And the nickname of their professional baseball team?’

‘The Phillies.’

‘How about that? A Philly with no mother. That’s two references to the city. I have a strange feeling that isn’t a coincidence.’

Ulster stood and changed the word in his translation. ‘Nor do I.’

‘While we’re at it,’ Payne said, ‘why don’t you tell Petr about the woman who gave us the letter? Where was she from?’

‘Philly,’ Jones mumbled, unhappy with his friend’s success.

Payne grinned, glad he could finally contribute something to the conversation instead of listening to Ulster and Jones going on and on about historical events.

‘Last, but not least,’ he exclaimed. ‘When we’re done talking to Petr about the letter, where do you think we’re going next?’

Jones swore under his breath, refusing to answer the question.