10
Indiana Jones awakened in a chair and for a few unsettling moments had absolutely no idea where he was. He was stiff and uncomfortable in a plain, boxlike room perhaps twenty feet by fifteen with a steel door to his left and the opening to a corridor on his right. His first thought was that he was being held somewhere against his will. Then the steel door opened and a man in Army drab backed through it carrying a short stack of large, flat boxes of pink and white, followed by another soldier similarly dressed carrying some sort of a large, cylindrical container by its handle, a column of wax-coated thick paper cups arching down from beneath one arm.
"Good morning," the second soldier said amiably. "We have coffee and doughnuts." They disappeared into the corridor and the archaeologist rose with a grunt, attempted to stretch and twist a little, then hobbled painfully after them into a small, brightly lit room dominated by a single long table surrounded by padded chairs on casters.
Rory appeared a moment later, peering suspiciously around the corner until he recognized a free meal, at which point he cheerfully joined Dr. Jones.
"Where were you?"
"Restroom," the red-headed man said through a mouthful of doughnut.
"Where is Miss Welsh?"
Rory swallowed. "Her cousin came and got her a little while ago."
They were quiet until the soldiers departed. Indy asked, "Did you see anything?"
McKenna smiled crookedly. "What makes you think I tried to snoop?" He chuckled at the look he received. "Sorry. Everything's tightly sewn up."
"Signs or plaques on doors or anything?"
"Restroom."
They ate in silence for a little while.
"I won't be selling the papers," Indy finally told him.
"I didn't think so," Rory sighed.
A stranger strode into their midst from the corridor. "Good morning, lads," he said, looking at neither as he chose from the assortment of doughnuts and procured a cup for coffee.
"'morning," they replied in unison.
"I don't think I've seen you here before."
Indy leaned forward to offer a hand. "Dr. Henry Walton Jones, Jr."
"What field are you in, Dr. Jones?" the stranger asked while shaking his hand.
"Archaeology."
"Oh! Well that's just dandy! And you, sir? May I ask your name?"
"Rory McKenna, sir. Just plain Rory McKenna."
"Just plain, eh? Well, that's just fine, too. What brings you to my facility, then?"
The man wore plain clothes and seemed far too relaxed to be a military type. "This is your project?" Indy queried.
"Oh, yes, yes. Did one of my staff summon you, Dr. Jones?"
"Ah, no, uh-"
"Neville. Walt Neville. Pleased to meet you."
"Doctor?"
"No, son," he replied, though he was closer to Rory's age than Indy's. "I'm just an old pilot with a few nifty ideas."
"Oh, well…are we to understand you do something with dream research here?"
"You're not here to sell me something, are you?"
"Not at all, Mr. Neville. I came across some old documents I needed someone knowledgeable of…of dream interpretation to look at, and it turns out one of your employees is related to an acquaintance of mine."
Neville bit into a doughnut, decided it was not to his liking, set it aside on a napkin, and chose another. "What sort of old documents?"
"Some…odd notes my father penned before he passed away."
"Your father was also an archaeologist?"
"No. His focus was Medieval studies."
"Medieval studies…and dream research."
Rory quietly nibbled his doughnut.
"Which of my staff is reviewing the papers?"
"Oh, I think it was-"
"Dr. Moore," supplied McKenna.
"Oh. Excellent."
Erich reappeared at that moment. "They're here," he said to someone following him, and shortly thereafter a fetching older woman with close-cropped hair and skin the color of maple fudge entered the room.
"Dr. Moore," Neville acknowledged, nodding his approval.
"Good morning, Walt. Dr. Jones?" she said, gazing directly at Indy.
He sat up straight and grabbed a paper napkin to wipe at his fingers with. "Dr. Moore," he said, rising to his feet to greet her.
Feeling uncomfortable, McKenna rose also.
"For some reason, your father took it upon himself to break down the Book of Revelation into symbols he then used like a code."
"Did he?" Neville blurted, apparently astounded. He glanced between Moore and Jones a few times before settling on the woman in his employ. "The entire thing?"
She nodded hesitantly, looking bewildered.
"The Christian Book of the Dead," the man whispered, his focus distant, a smile beginning to turn up the corners of his mouth. "How marvelous!"
"Excuse me," Indy said, shaking his head. "The Christian…book of the dead?"
"Well you know," the man continued, emphasizing his speech with his hands, "the Egyptian Book of the Dead and the Tibetan Book of the Dead."
"I…know of them," Jones admitted.
McKenna said, "Well, I don't. What are you talking about?"
Walt Neville told him, "Archaeologists are still finding books of the dead. There never was just one. Apparently they wrote them when a pharaoh died to help prepare him for his journey to the afterlife. Each of them are similar of course, but each was written by different priests and who knows if there was ever any actual specific mythology they were supposed to try and remain somewhat true to."
Dr. Moore said, "I don't understand."
"When I was in France, I heard that the Christian Book of the Dead was one of the artifacts Hitler badly wanted, but could never find. It was supposed to be a book much like the others, describing the sort of things one could expect upon death and how one would make their way to heaven, hell, or perhaps even purgatory."
"But this is the Book of Revelation," Rory insisted, trying to squeeze into the circle. "From the Bible. It's about the Apocalypse."
"Actually," the slender woman interrupted, her large eyes dark and kind, "There is still speculation as to what is actually being described in Revelation. Some scholars have insisted it was a series of visions, and others claim they were dreams…." Her eyes widened. She looked at her employer. "Are you saying that if you transcribe the Book of Revelation as you would a dream, then it would give you clues as to what will happen on your journey to the afterlife?"
"It's been done before," Neville told them with a warm smile that finally lingered on Indy. "At least twice during the Middle Ages. But the copies were considered nonsensical. The authors thought to have been insane."
Moore spoke up, "But the interpretations would have only made sense to the translator him or herself."
"Which is why it was considered more myth than reality."
"My father rewrote the Book of Revelation in an attempt to replicate this so-called Christian Book of the Dead?"
Neville smiled again. "Your father's copy is as unique as each one found in a pharaoh's tomb. Unlike those, however, it would make the most sense to him only."
Indy shook his head. "But…but what did it tell him?"
The pilot looked at the woman with the faint Jamaican accent. She said, "He may have discovered solace in his interpretation. It may have comforted him, foretelling his fate in the afterlife."
"Foretelling? Fortune-telling is more like it!" Jones groused. "I can't believe…he would waste his time on such a thing."
McKenna asked Moore, "So it's useless to anyone else?"
"The interpretation would have been for him alone," she confirmed.
Neville looked perplexed over Henry's reaction. "You don't place stock in dreams."
"Do you? Is this what you people do here? You try to dream of enemy encampments or blueprints for new weapons? Are there so-called psychics here like they supposedly have over in Russia? Remote-viewing highly classified secrets? Trying to figure out how spoon-bending can be used against deadly threats?"
"Every mammal other than the spiny echidna of Australia dreams," Walt told him, stepping aside and gesturing for the two newcomers to help themselves to the pastries and hot beverage. "Like the rest of our organs, our brain does not shut off, but does undergo a type of hibernation stage when we're sleeping. It reviews the day's events and merges certain ideas and images with those things that have been on our minds the most, attempting to fit pieces together like a jigsaw puzzle, seeking patterns that may encourage us toward the most beneficial outcomes to our problems. The dream is expressed in metaphor, which as I'm sure you know, is a sign of intelligence. The more you attempt to pay attention to your dreams, the easier it becomes to recall them. Once you've learned how to decipher the metaphoric language of dreams, they suddenly become a useful guidance tool."
Henry sighed. "I know you're not actually going to explain to me what you do here."
"I'm afraid it holds no relevance to your father's work."
"You wouldn't just tell us anyway?" McKenna asked.
Neville blinked at him. "It's still in the developmental stages."
"May I have my father's papers back?" Indy asked.
"Of course," Dr. Moore told him. "I'll get them for you." She left with Erich right behind her.
"Why would Hitler care about what he thought was some kind of Book of the Dead?"
Walt drank deeply from his cup, then wiped at his lips with a napkin. "Well, Dr. Jones, it's hard to tell. We know he liked to work what were thought of as symbols of good fortune into his uniform insignias and flag designs, so it's likely he thought he might find some way to harness some power or force he thought might be connected to such a tome."
"You know this," McKenna accused, "because you're doing something similar here yourself."
"We're doing nothing more sinister than attempting to harness the power of dreams."
"Dreams or nightmares?" Indy challenged.
"Whatever it takes," Walt replied. "Was your father a religious man?"
Indy answered, "As it suited him, but perhaps more so after we…as he was growing older."
"Would he have questioned his…destiny?"
"Do you mean, was he uncertain as to whether he would end up in heaven or hell? Perhaps." Walt began to speak again, but Indy's face went blank, his mouth popping open as something clicked into place in his mind. "Yes, yes, I'm fine," he replied to Neville's questions about his sudden shift. "I'm okay. Really."
"More coffee?"
"I'm good," he responded, something like strange relief washing over his features.
Erich returned with Ellie and a nice envelope with Dr. Jones Sr.'s papers inside. "I'm sorry if we disappointed you," he said.
"No, no. Everything's fine. I think this turned out well. Uh, could you tell me how to use this Freudian method to interpret things?"
Erich looked at Henry strangely, and then nodded. "It's very easy. When you have a dream, just list the main aspects of it as simply as you can. Beside each entry write down three or so things it makes you think of. Read the entries instead of the dream description and you should find it makes more sense that way. If it's easier, you can circle or underline the words that fit together for the most comprehensive interpretation."
"That's fascinating," he said, reaching to shake the man's hand, and then turning to shake that of Neville. "Maybe it'll come in handy for me someday."
"Oh, are we finished?" Ellie queried.
"I think so," Jones answered. "I don't know what you're making here, Walt, but I hope it's for the better good."
"We hope so to, Dr. Jones," he replied warmly. And then, as they were leaving the room, he told him, "Pleasant dreams."
"That place really gave me the willies," Rory mentioned once they were outside and climbing into Ellie's car.
"It was strange," Indy conceded thoughtfully, clutching the envelope to his chest.
"Oh. I think it's fascinating!" Ellie gushed, turning in her seat to make certain the way was clear before backing up. "The hypnosis and the suspension of disbelief, making super-soldiers out of unconscious subjects-"
"What?" McKenna blurted.
"Oh, no," Indy grunted.
"They didn't tell you any of that? About the people who can walk through walls and fly and such?"
They were all quiet for a moment, riding through sunshine filtered through treetops, tired, but overall pleased with how things had worked out.
"You're pullin' our leg!" Rory complained.
Ellie giggled. "Am I?"
"No one can fly," Indy grumbled. "Not really."
"Suit yourselves," she said with a grin and a shrug.
"What will you tell your employer?" he asked McKenna.
"The truth. That what he was looking for is not what he thinks it is, that it's useless to anybody but a dead man."
"Hey, that's my father you're talking about."
"I meant no disrespect," he said, removing his hat again.
"They probably won't believe you," Indy told him. "I should make you a copy."
"Really?"
"I don't see why not."
"Well aren't you the kind one!"
"Now and then," the archaeologist grunted. "Are you too tired to drive to the airport, Ellie?"
"Which one?" she asked.
"Our friend here has to resume his life. He has a camper to pick up and a son to visit. What's his name, Rory?"
"Ah. His name would be Geoffery."
"Don't be gone too long from him, Rory."
"No, sir, I shan't."
Indy asked, "Will your boss want the rest of his money?"
"If I can present him with copies of what he wanted, then I'm certain he'll pay me…even if they are worthless."
"Not to me," Jones said, smiling to himself. "He'll pay you to take him to the airport," he told Ellie, grinning at the squeak of protest he heard issue from the back seat. He had left his hat in the car while they'd been in the strange facility. He picked it up and slouched in the seat, covering his face with it so he could catch a few winks. He wondered if he'd dream about the past few hours now that the situation was resolved. If Neville was right, then odds were he would not. Miss Welsh and Mr. McKenna struck up a bit of polite conversation that drifted in and out of clarity as he slowly succumbed to unconsciousness. He ought to have reminded McKenna not to bother him again. Told him if he needed something from him, to ask instead of stealing. He thought about the Book of Revelation and what some of the references in it might mean to him. And then, just before he crossed over to that peculiar land of strange metaphor, he smiled again, recalling his father's cryptic last words to him…
"I know where I'm going."