The Atlantis Keystone (4 page)

Surprised that he had actually found something of interest he put the book back on the shelf and left the room to get another couple of hours sleep.

B
ritt-Marie! Kom hit, jag behöver hjälp med mitt korsord!” Emma could hear Erik’s grandmother’s voice echoing from her bedroom all the way to the estate’s library where Emma was sitting attempting to work on her dissertation. It must have been something very important, she thought, as the old woman had a touch of panic in her voice but because she had shouted in Swedish she could not understand a word. Emma sat in a worn, old fashioned leather chair in front of the unlit fireplace. It was comfortable. She liked the room and the chair in particular. She likened it with an old trusted dog which had seen its best days but devoted all its attention and love to its owner. Professor Simmons, or Paul as she now referred to him, was there as well. He was sitting in a similar chair with a footstool supporting his feet, supposedly reading the local paper; in Swedish. In the few days she had been at Torpa she had grown to like the tranquillity and the striking beauty of the place. Although they had spent most of their time outside or in the manor house, the old castle building was not far from view wherever they were. Its mysterious dark windows, the two dark lakes surrounding it, the moat, drawbridge and its many ghost stories, sent shivers down her spine. She knew that the basement had a dungeon but she tried not to think about it. Erik’s family certainly lived very comfortably and they were evidently wealthy but she didn’t envy him. Erik’s childhood had been anything but happy from what she had heard, although Britt-Marie had at least always been there for him.

Britt-Marie had served the family since before Erik was born and had been Erik’s nanny throughout his childhood. She was now in her fifties, her hair primarily grey with bits of dark brown interspersed. Her appearance was motherly, as some would picture a wet nurse. Her rather outdated flowery dress and white apron didn’t conceal the fact that she was short and had a robust slightly overweight body with large bosom and chubby arms and legs. Her face had started to show signs of aging but her eyes were youthful, full of gentleness and kind-heartedness. She was now in the position of a nurse with the unenviable task of taking care of the old woman. Erik’s grandmother was not very old, merely seventy four but she had not been able to walk for at least ten or twenty years. For this reason she stuck to her bed most of the time, shouting orders to Britt-Marie who clearly had the patience of a saint. Emma could not feel any compassion for the old matriarch. She was plain mean and probably the reason why Erik’s parents had chosen to spend all of Erik’s childhood in their flat in Stockholm, rather than at the grand Torpa estate. Erik had told her that he had basically been raised on the estate by Britt-Marie. Emma felt sorry for him. Britt-Marie seemed like a very nice and fastidious person but it could not have been easy to grow up without the guidance and protection of his parents. It didn’t seem to have affected him in a negative way though. When he didn’t reminisce about Anna he was certainly charming enough to get a whole army of depressed people to laugh and he must have had a good upbringing to have got to where he was career-wise. She understood that he was on the brink of being made partner in the law firm where he worked; and he was very young for a partner.

Emma had found out from Britt-Marie that the old woman had never approved of Erik’s mother’s choice of husband – Erik’s father. For some unknown reason she had always hated him, going back as far as just after their wedding, and she had ensured that their lives had been turned into a nightmare by spreading rumours about him and not letting him be involved in the running of the estate. Apparently it was a miracle that the grandmother had accepted Erik. In fact, he was the only person whom she tolerated. Emma had seen the old woman only once during her week-long stay at the estate in Sweden. It was the day they arrived. Still in her bed, she had thin long grey hair and was fairly skinny with angry almost frightening eyes refusing to return Emma’s nervous smile. She had not even taken Emma’s outstretched hand but had muttered something in Swedish to Britt-Marie. Emma was sure she had heard the words ‘helvete’ and ‘jävlar’ in her short ramblings. These were two of only a handful Swedish words that Emma had managed to pick up at that stage and she knew it meant ‘hell’ and ‘devils’; very strong words to use for a pensioner. Britt-Marie seemed to have chosen a milder translation and had said apologetically: “She is tired today and would like to be alone for a little bit”. Emma had not found this at all strange or insulting at the time. She had assumed that the old woman was seriously ill or perhaps even senile. Her assumption was wrong as other than the fact that she could not walk, she had never showed any signs of illness. It was the constant shouting, bad manners and the way she treated her poor nurse that had further lowered Emma’s opinion of her.

“Britt-Marie!”

Here we go again, Emma thought. Less than a few seconds later she could hear Britt-Marie’s rushing footsteps out in the corridor.

“They should really install a better communication system; maybe some sort of alarm to save the old woman from shouting!” Paul said, not taking his eyes off the paper.

“Do you really understand what you’re reading Paul?” Emma asked with a mixture of admiration and bewilderment.

“No, I’m just looking at the pictures. Other than what I’ve picked up this week, I’ve never learnt any of the Scandinavian languages.” He cleared his throat and resumed his attempted reading.

Emma laughed quietly in response. The thought of Paul, the great linguist, not understanding a word of what he was reading was amusing. She glanced over at him, focussed as he was on the paper. It had been Paul’s suggestion for him and Emma to go to Sweden to speed up the process to get the wall opened. He was afraid that the whole question would be buried in bureaucratic paper-shuffling unless he did something. She was as eager as him to get the permission and had agreed to come without a moment’s hesitation. The thought of spending a couple of weeks in Paul’s company was an appealing prospect to her, albeit intimidating at the same time. She would never admit it to anyone but she had come to terms with the fact that she had feelings for him. At no point in her life had she been interested in romance or relationships. She had been younger than her contemporaries at school due to her being fast-tracked twice as a result of her advanced abilities. As a result, she had not had many friends as a child. This had changed at University where she had started to go out more and socialise. Despite this she had not met anyone who had captured her imagination – until she met Paul in her second year. He was about ten years her senior but still one of the youngest professors at Oxford. He was teaching ancient Egyptian. His thick ill fitting glasses concealed any potentially handsome features but she couldn’t care less about his appearance. She was unsure whether her feelings for him were of admiration for his work or of him as a person – or perhaps of his intelligence and dedication. She figured that it might in part also have been due to the flattering attention he was showing her. Sometimes he was even seeking her out after lectures to discuss points of interest or in the library where she was often studying. Whether this was because he was interested in her on a personal or a professional level was difficult to tell but he had never taken any steps to express feelings or intentions. She was aware that she had an uncommon linguistic talent. Now, after her three year undergraduate degree in linguistics at Oxford, she spoke six languages fluently, including German, French, Spanish, Greek and Arabic, and was studying three ancient languages and scripts; ancient Egyptian, Latin and Linear A. Paul, or Professor Simmons as she used to refer to him as at the time, had seen her potential and had persuaded her to do a master’s degree combining her language skills with archaeology. He had been convinced that she would do well in the academic world and had suggested that she should go on to do a PhD at Oxford after her post graduate degree. He had also been the one who had got her interested in the ancient Minoan civilisation. Emma had always been attracted to unsolved mysteries and cherished a challenge. This advanced civilisation remained a mystery, partly because of the vast amount of written material that remained undeciphered. This was enough to convince her to choose this as the topic of her all important dissertation. If she managed to make progress within this area, she may achieve fame within the academic world. She knew that Paul was working towards the same goal. He had spent many years studying Linear A and although some progress had been made, it appeared a near impossible task. Anyway, she was happy to be there next to Paul, in the Torpa library on their shared quest.

“Erik should be here any minute. There is an article here about the planning permission to break open the wall which I would like him to translate.” Paul handed her the paper. “They mention both my name and Mrs Stenbock’s. I do understand a few words. There are similarities with German. There is a quote there which appears to say something about ‘death’ – ‘dött’, similar to ‘Tot’ in German.” He leaned over and indicated where it was.

Emma took the opportunity to be funny and suggested: “Perhaps it’s saying that any old professor or a student trying to break the wall will die…” They were both laughing at this as Erik entered the room, panting.

“I’m so sorry about my grandmother. Apparently she had a crossword emergency. I hope she hasn’t disturbed your peace too much this morning. She has always been like this unfortunately; at least as far as I can remember.”

“No worries at all”, Emma said with a smile. “No need to apologise. We were actually discussing an article in today’s local paper. Would you mind translating?” Emma handed him the paper.

“Sure thing, I’ll do my best.” Erik took the paper, cleared his throat and sat down on the chair by the desk, facing them. He was struggling a little bit to find the right words in English but managed very well:

“A request has been submitted to the local council for permission to break open one of the walls in the oldest part of Torpa. The request is…” Erik struggled to find the right word, “monitored with interest by many locals and has resulted in a number of… complaints from the general public. The wall is said to have been … hm … raised in the fourteenth, oh no fifteenth, century to block up a door to a small room in the old stone house. The reason to why the door was blocked up at the time is not known. Whether this is the room which according to … folklore … contains a girl buried alive is subject to debate but many still believe in the legend, expecting to find the remains of the young girl upon opening the wall. Eighty seven year old Sture Ekman …Oh I know him”, Erik added, “who lives only three kilometres from Torpa said yesterday: ‘They would certainly be tempting fate by going anywhere near that room. Anyone who has tried to break the wall has died’. One of the objections to the application is that it would be unethical to break open this possible resting place. Leading the initiative to open the wall is Ingrid Stenbock at Torpa. She is being supported by a professor from Oxford University, Professor Paul Simmons, who suggests that the hidden room may house an important ancient artefact. The debate continues. The local council has given no indication of when they are likely to come to a final decision.”

“I had no idea this would cause such uproar”, Paul said as he started to put his slippers on. “The whole ‘threat of death’ folklore is amusing but surely no one can actually believe that opening a wall can cause someone’s demise! It actually makes me more convinced that there is something of value hidden inside.”

“Consider Tutankhamun’s curse,” Emma pointed out. “After Tutankhamun’s tomb in the Valley of the Kings had been opened, a number of people present at the opening ceremony later died in more or less unexplained circumstances. I personally don’t believe in any type of curse or supernatural hocus-pocus but you never know…”

“Well, in this instance I think you do. It’s ridiculous to suggest, firstly, that opening the wall in pursuit of science – in pursuit of the
truth
– would be sacrilegious and, secondly, that anyone would die in the process”. Paul suddenly seemed a bit out of spirits. Emma was certain that he had enjoyed his first few days on Swedish soil in the beautiful Torpa estate. Now she understood that the process of waiting for the Swedish local council to make the decision to allow the opening of the wall was starting to take its toll on his mood.

Erik’s parents had already given their permission to go-ahead with the opening of the wall. Emma’s first impression was that Erik’s mother, who appeared to be a shrewd business woman, had only accepted this on the basis that it would attract media attention and visitors to the estate. His father seemed a fairly quiet and laid back character who didn’t really care what happened to it. He had left the decision to his wife. The mere fact that Erik’s parents had honoured them with their presence in the house given their tragic relationship with the old woman was in a way surprising, although Erik had told Emma that his parents had started to live there more frequently since his grandmother had become less active. She could not blame them. Emma herself could imagine spending the rest of her days next to the breathtakingly beautiful lake surrounding the house, breathing the wonderfully fresh air. Compared to London, where she had grown up, this was the equivalent to living on a health farm.

The decision was now in the hands of the Swedish local authority. The weight of the mere opinion of an Oxford professor had already given significant credibility to the whole idea but Paul had felt that he needed to be on site to ensure that it actually happened and to relieve Erik and Mrs Stenbock of some of the pressure. There had been a surprising amount of press-coverage, albeit only in the local paper and on the regional news. This was clearly an issue close to many locals’ hearts.