Tangled in Dreams

johnjgeddes (75)in #fiction • 10 years ago

One dreary morning in January suddenly became magical. An alluring Siren glided into my life.

“Sariah Wilkinson,” she smiled, holding my hand and my gaze a fraction of a second longer than manners would dictate.

“Paul Rutledge,” I smiled back.

“Surely, you mean Doctor Rutledge, she purred. “ I must say humility in a man of accomplishment is certainly a virtue—not to mention attractive.”

I admit my mental tape hit a blank patch—yes, and there were a few awkward moments where staring into her bewitching green eyes left me speechless—but she adroitly rescued me.

“Would it be all right for me to sit down?”

“Oh, please do, Ms. Wilkinson,” I recovered my voice and wits at the same time and pulled out a chair for her, opposite me.

“It’s actually Miss Wilkinson and I prefer Sariah.”

“In that case, you’ll have to call me Paul.”

The fact was, she could have called me anything—she was that beautiful and I was thoroughly captivated by her.

“I saw your article in The New York Times and I was so impressed, I just knew you were the person I could entrust with my secret.”

“And what secret would that be?”

She unfolded her lovely legs and then re-crossed them, tilting them to the side with the grace of a high-fashion model.

“I have an artifact to show you which I acquired by means of a most unusual provenance.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You might say I was spoken to in a dream—and given instructions I immediately wrote down upon awakening.”

She paused to gauge my reaction, but I remained poker-faced. “Go on.” I prompted.

“It was a very unusual dream. I live alone in a Victorian apartment and was feeling depressed. I noticed an oblong metal plaque on the wall beside my door. I have no idea why I never noticed it before and then suddenly, a voice began speaking out of it.”

I raised my eyebrows, “A voice?”

“Yes, a man’s voice—quite dim and indistinct. At first I thought he was a radio announcer —but as I listened closer, I discerned he was giving specific instructions on where I could find a strong box of great value.”

“And where was this box supposedly located?”

“It was in upper New York State in the Finger Lakes region."

"Really?" I asked, arching an eyebrow and wondering where the conversation was going.

"I dug it up on a small ridge, exactly where it was supposed to be.”

I was mesmerized by her account.

She reached down and opened a black valise she had brought with her—it resembled a doctor’s bag. Out of this, she withdrew the artifact.

I knew it the moment I saw it. It was the lost Book of Mormon. I recalled Charles Anthon’s account: a gold book, fastened together in the shape of a book by wires of the same metal…and along with the book an enormous pair of spectacles.

It was the same book, sans the spectacles.

My jaw must have dropped because she looked at me quite pleased, and I thought, feeling vindicated.

“Sariah…I’m overwhelmed…speechless. Of course, you must know what you’ve found.”

“I do—at least, I was fairly certain—I just wanted confirmation.”

I nodded, “And I too need a second opinion. If you don’t mind, I’d like to consult with a colleague who specializes in this area.”

“Of course,” she smiled. “I’ll leave my phone number and we can set up an appointment.”

After she left, I was trembling with excitement. I was on the phone immediately to Jerrod Mason at the Antiquities branch of the Smithsonian.

“I’ve an artifact here you’ll want to see.”

“Oh please, Paul—not Native American—I’m up to my ears.”

“It’s Mormon.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. It was brought to me by a young woman, but I don’t want to speak on the phone. How soon can you be here?”

“I’ll grab a flight and be there later tonight. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

“No problem with that,” I smiled.

The following day the three of us met in my office and Jerrod’s reaction was the same as mine.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe it. This tangled metal has caused such controversy—particularly for the Smithsonian—and here I am, holding it in my hands.”

“Metal? Then, you’re not convinced it’s gold?” asked Sariah, a concerned look on her face.

“It’s copper with gold overlay—the leaves are thin as tin and engraved on both sides with a dark stain that makes the hieroglyphs easier to read.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed.

Jerrod was quick to reassure her.

“Oh, but that’s not the point—the gold doesn’t make it wondrous—its mere existence does. This is amazing,” he said, hefting it like a rare tome, “it weighs about 50 pounds and these D-shaped silver binding rings allow it to open like a book. Marvelous!”

“Can you decipher the writing?” I asked.

“No,” he frowned, “it’s not an known script—in fact, I doubt it’s a known language at all.”

“That’s interesting.”

Sariah was looking quite defensive.

I intervened. “It doesn’t detract from the find,” I reassured her.

Her demeanor had definitely changed, however, and she wasn’t convinced by my words.

Jerrod enthused, “You’ll want this authenticated by several experts and then I’m sure it will be exhibited…”

“No,” she said firmly. “That wouldn’t be right.”

“But surely you wouldn’t want such a marvellous object hidden away in a museum vault?”

“I’m not sure what I want.” She placed the book back in the bag and reached for her coat.

The look of alarm on Jerrod’s face told me I’d better say something.

“Can we meet later for dinner, Sariah—just you and me—and discuss this?”

Her eyes darted from me to Jerrod, but in the end, she relented.

“Why don’t we meet at Coro’s at eight?” I suggested, figuring she’d feel more comfortable than if I came to her apartment.

She nodded and left in a somber mood.

Jerrod was beside himself. “What the hell is she doing, Paul—does she walk around with that satchel like a military aide carrying the nuclear football?”

“Maybe she feels more comfortable with it in her possession.”

“It doesn’t belong to her, you know—it belongs to posterity.”

I nodded. “She’ll have to be recompensed and reassured that no harm will come to it.”

“Damn it, Paul—it’s more than that—she’s guarding it like the Ark of the Covenant.”

“I’ll talk with her, Jerrod. Let’s just be gentle with her for now—go slowly.”

He wasn’t convinced, but there wasn’t much he could do. Hell, there wasn’t anything any of us could do—she held the metal. It was her call.

When she walked into Coro’s, she was breath taking. My heart stopped as I caught a glimpse of her lithe figure in the doorway. When she spotted me and waved, her smile seemed to light up the room.

Maybe I wasn’t as concerned with the book as enraptured by her and her ethereal beauty. No doubt, my objectivity was compromised, but at the moment, I was the only real link to Sariah and the book—and if she chose to walk, the world would lose another piece of its history.

I rose as she approached the table and again, as on the first day in the office, when she held my hand, I felt transported.

“I’m so glad you came,” I murmured.

Her huge green eyes turned toward me and I felt cleansed—my heart burned within me.

Shamefully, I have to admit we didn’t discuss the book at all. I have no idea where the hours went, or why I felt so feverish in her presence.

The night was spent in laughter—the essence of her—a face with flowers pressing on. I was intoxicated by her perfume, her laughter and always, by her eyes.

She bewitched me with the poetry of her beauty—as Virginia Woolf said, who shall measure the hat and violence of a poet’s heart when caught and tangled in a woman’s body?

When I awoke the next day, I had no recollection of what we said. When Jerrod called, I felt the fool.

We went to her apartment, but she was gone—from the look of things, she fled.

Jerrod was livid and beside himself with rage.

I was inconsolable.

I have no idea what became of her and the book. But now, when I think of her, it’s not of antiquities or artifacts—it’s her essence, her smile, lingering like a sweet perfume.

Sariah. Her name is like perfume poured out.