There was silence between them for a minute, while demons walked over their graves.

“And you say, in your cover letter, that it took how long?”

A brief ache passed through her blond brow. “I’ve spent the last five years carefully, painfully translating the copious text.”

“But you said the text was Koine Greek. The ease of this -”

“It was very likeGreek. I found that the Greek was almost like an evolved language that would have been used hundreds of years from now, maybe. Yet, still Koine, or common Greek.”

“Is there any proof of the existence of the two physicians mentioned in the manuscript?”

“I have discovered,” she began saying, as she looked through his tall windows, “much about them. They both attended the same medical schools. The short dark one did seem, according to those who went to school with him, to have an unreasonable sense of competition with the other. And, according to those who knew one or the other, or both, the tall muscular man was completely unaware of the other’s jealousy. That may have been part of the problem, as you have read. I tracked their last known location to the same hospital in Brussels.”

“And?”

“Their history ends there. We know that the short dark one followed the other one there for professional reasons, but neither one was ever heard from again.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely! The entire hospital caved in on itself; it crumpled into a great cavern that either opened up beneath it or was always there, waiting to consume whatever was built above it.”

“You never speak their names, do you? I noticed in your cover letter that you didn’t use both of their names in the book. Only one man’s name is used in the book. You -”

She looked through him. “That’s my business. When you’ve lived with this as long as I have, you may not be as eager to say either of their names.” She pointed at the box. “Maybe no one’s name ever again. A personal friend — a therapist — says I have become ‘acutely vulnerable’ to certain sounds, feelings, things; certainly cruel movies and the like, in her words. I agree with her.”

“You’re also sure about the dates recorded here?” he asked, again tapping the top of the manuscript box.

“Yes, the collapse of the hospital is a well-documented event — 1987.”

“Doctor Begels, it is impossible that ancient volumes could witness… ” he stopped suddenly, light dawning on his long, unhandsome face. “Did you say you had the manuscript carbon-dated?”

“Yes. I’ve had them inspected also, very trustworthy people in England, who have looked at the paper, the ink, everything. They believe them to be authentic. I reacted like you, at first. I was so disgustingly intrigued with the contents that I hadn’t thought to have them dated. As a last resort, at my father’s prompting, I took them to the experts in England. Nothing can prove them to be anything but three-thousand-year-old volumes. Which is why I have suggested the whole affair be published as fiction. You will agree that even as fiction, it is a littleon the unusual side.”

“Yes, a little.”

“The original leather-bound volumes I have permanently entrusted to the group I have mentioned, the dark brotherhood. They are eternally safe. I did this for several reasons. In their original state they are unedited, and for that reason they must never see the dark of day, or be published. They are also extremely ancient, which, as you stated, is impossible.”

“To say the least!” he fumbled. “We will definitely hawk them off as fiction, to avoid any awkward misunderstandings.”

“All the work was done on my laptop. I’m hinting, that once I did all the editing (with many suggestions by the dark brotherhood), I threw the edited stuff into the electronic trash bin and scattered it into cyberspace. Never to be recovered. Yes, later I erased and reformatted my hard drive. In a way, I wish it hadn’t been I who found them. Thankfully, you will never know the effect of poring over documents such as these. For example, I had to decode most sections (that I have been promised will never be published) that use the most unrestrained, hideous names for all races of people. Not words you might hear anywhere, my friend — the vilest names. By a process of elimination, I was able to tell which phrases belonged to which race, or group.” She paused, and caught her breath. “Five years, exposed to that.” She pointed to the box.

Early morning sunlight glittered through the dewy window and danced lightly across the forest green blotter on the desk. No light can touchthat book, she thought, and then her mind laughed. And maybe laughed again, but she stopped it.

“Yes,” he said, “you have excluded much text here.”

She laughed aloud. “It is best.” She smiled wearily. “Are you familiar with what is known as The Apocalypse According to John?”

“Of course,” he replied.

“In the Apocalypse According to John, also known as The Book of Revelation, there is mentioned in the first verse of the thirteenth chapter that there is a beast coming out of the sea, having ten horns and seven heads.”

“Alright, I’ll take your word for it, having never read it,” he said as he unconsciously steepled his index fingers again, safe in the protective church of his mind.

“It also states that on each of the Beast’s heads there is a blasphemous name.”

“And,” he smiled like the Cheshire cat, “your point being?”

“In the unedited version of the book I translated thirteen essays that graphically describe what was written on each head and what it meant. It also described how believers in the Messiah would be impaled on the horns, after the Beast had defeated Him and His angels in the last great battle, the battle in Megiddo, or Armageddon. I thought it wise to purge those kinds of things from the finished product. The Beast was apparently seen, at great length, by the book’s author.”

He couldn’t help but smirk. “Interesting! You’re quite sure the original is safe, Doctor?”

Her laugh was a challenge. “There isa brotherhood that no one knows, my friend, whose existence is so deep and dark that only a few of their ownbrothers on earth know who all the members are. One of them joked that they made the Masons look like the New York Times. I do not know this. They have promised me that no billions of dollars could ever make the real book surface again, even if I wanted it, or begged them. I wouldn’t, of course. They wanted all of it. They adore the complete text; and I even imagine they will worship it, as damnable as that may sound. Because they contacted meduring the translation process, I could not, under torture, tell you their location or even who I gave it to. All the details of my handing it over to them were quite clever and I shall never reveal them. So, yes, believe me, the original is quite safe. Not one word of this present manuscript had better be deleted or added, or the deal is off. There’s a symmetrical reason for this, as you may notice, if you have read it often enough, as I have. It must remain as it is — just as we agreed — or I’ll walk to another publisher. Or, better yet, never seek to publish it at all.”

“Well,” he said, “I’ve read it. It’s concise and brief. There’s no grand need to edit any of it.”

“Naturally, I made a few changes — only a few. As I said before, the language of the completed text is unnerving, unhinged. Every last thing was described in the coarsest language imaginable. I exchanged a few words to give the text a more clinical, less hideous effect.”

“This book will make you a very rich young woman, if not for the royalties, then for the set contract.”

“That’s all, then,” she said, nearly rising. He was not finished, she could tell. She politely sat back down, smiling slightly.

“Oh, one last thing, Doctor. The little matter of the title. Did you think over my suggestion of a title change? You’ve stated that the title literally translates as, ‘The Book That Unwound You.’”