Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

The Naereaon Manuscripts
The Naereaon Manuscripts
The Naereaon Manuscripts
Ebook291 pages4 hours

The Naereaon Manuscripts

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars

()

Read preview

About this ebook

An epic tale of adventure and mystery spanning 18 generations of a family in search of treasure, and the discovery of how their lives interconnect.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherJames Hegarty
Release dateAug 8, 2020
ISBN9781005292867
The Naereaon Manuscripts
Author

James Hegarty

James Hegarty is an improvising pianist, music producer, and filmmaker who writes on creativity and artistic expression. His compositions have been performed in Europe, Asia, and throughout the US. He recently filmed a documentary on the creativity of street musicians in cities across America.Throughout the 1980s he worked as a free-lance commercial music producer confronting the intersection between art and commerce at a time when technology was rapidly changing the recording studio landscape.For twenty years he has been a college professor who teaches composition and jazz students to expand their creativity and discover their personal style. Over the years, he has been chair of the departments of music, mass communication, and communication, the division chair of creative arts and communication, and he now oversees departments that explore the potentials of multidisciplinary and experiential academic experiences.He has written concert reviews and articles on music technology for magazines and music journals. He interviews artists and innovators for his YouTube series, “Creativity Is...” Hegarty lives with his wife in a century-old historic home in St. Louis where he uses the space to record and produce avant-garde jazz and classical music.

Read more from James Hegarty

Related to The Naereaon Manuscripts

Related ebooks

Action & Adventure Fiction For You

View More

Related articles

Reviews for The Naereaon Manuscripts

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars
0 ratings

0 ratings0 reviews

What did you think?

Tap to rate

Review must be at least 10 words

    Book preview

    The Naereaon Manuscripts - James Hegarty

    What you are asking, my friend, is not such a simple thing. No, not in these times.

    Trevyn Nerron sits across the table from me and smiles faintly; everything he says when he is smiling is a lie of some kind.

    I say nothing. I wait.

    Look, look, he says in some haste as an afterthought, here we are tonight, in the last inn before the frontier and who is here? Who is here?

    There is a dog lying in the corner near the fireplace. A pitiful fire smolders. Although the room is large, what? Twenty tables or more? I can count the travelers on this hand.

    Sometimes finding the right road is the way to find something you do not expect. You might not want this.

    A slight left handed smile flickers for a moment as he looks off into the distance.

    You have told me nothing. Even now you are speaking like my father, only he is better at hiding his lies.

    Look, look. The dog is moving. It is not dead, it is only sleeping. So, you owe me another 50 silvers. The only time I have seen Trevyn smile fully is when money is involved.

    The floor of this old inn is deeply worn and darkened with age and by the dirt carried in on the boots of countless travelers on the edge of the frontier. In other times, the great room would be filled with people of many nationalities who had converged at this point at the end of the road. But tonight, two other men sit slumped in their chairs, sleeping near the fire. A man sits with his dog at his feet, near the door, collecting the cost of room and board for one night. Tonight, he, too, is asleep. No one travels these roads in these uncertain times.

    Again, what? Nothing. You are saturated with visions beyond reality my friend, Trevyn. I owe you nothing. The dog is dead, I swear. His owner has kicked the poor thing. That is the true reason why it has rolled over.

    Behind a door somewhere an old phonograph record is playing. Sonny Rollins.

    My father knew the way and he told you. This I am certain.

    What you are asking is hard. It is hard to remember the tales of your father. There are so many and at the time they seemed so strange. I was young when he told me these things. You were ten years older and by that time you had moved to the city.

    Still, you must know now how important they are. Do you not?

    No. I do not.

    The sound of the tenor sax fills the silence. Trevyn Nerron stares off into the distance beyond the men sleeping, beyond the blackened boulders that surround the fireplace, beyond the pines outside the windows and envisions the coastline beyond the frontier.

    Richard Q. Eaton shifts in his chair and glances again at the door, almost expecting it to open.

    Two stones. Four short sticks

    Now, after four nights, the bark on the sticks has worn away. The stones are chipped and scratched, smaller even, than they once were.

    The man across the table from me suddenly leaps from his chair.

    The stones sing!

    Listen, listen carefully. It is clear that you are a fool. What do you know? Nothing! And I will tell you nothing. You will learn nothing here.

    Impulsively, the man slams the sticks down upon the table in rapid fire succession. They form a geometric shape that encompasses the stones as they lie upon the table.

    See? Don't you?

    He taunts me, again and again. Hours pass and he continues. He tries to wear me down, just as the sticks are wearing away, thinner and thinner.

    Rain falls upon the roof. A regular pattern in extended cadence, repeating. Drip, drip, silence, drip.

    The wind rattles the windowpane in random counterpoint to the orderly pattern of drops forming a puddle on the century’s old wooden floorboards.

    I don't know exactly what hour it is but I open my eyes to such a total darkness that all time seems wiped away from the earth. Floating, I am, amid the amplified micro-sounds of a storm blowing in from the Straits of Erengal.

    I rise, light a candle, and pull a pot from the cupboard, place it on the floor, position it to catch the water that continues to leak through the roof.

    The wind is howling now, I hear shutters banging in the distance. There is an abandoned cottage nearby.

    Waves crash upon the rocks far below along the shoreline.

    The candle flickers sideways in the draft of air seeping in past the window frame. I put on a kettle for tea to help chase away the dampness.

    Time slows, the tea is warm, the candle pulsates.

    On my lap, a brown leather book. Richard D. Eaton's ship's log from 1610. Ailisean, it reads, stamped upon the cover in gold letters, worn now and faded. The leather is marked with the touch of time, intersecting and crossing. Patterns overlapping and coinciding. I open the cover and turn randomly to a page, not far from where I had left off earlier. Jagged and irregular are the forms, the shapes of the ancient letters, written with the point of a handmade pen. I begin to decipher the words, translate the sentences, clutching the teacup for warmth.

    Broiling and grey is the sky, even swirling, churning it is. Early in the night watch the sea explodes and the wind rips through us from the East. Hasty and earnest we are to drop sails and lash the boom. The fury of the deep pelts us and lunges for us, the sea pitches and falls away in the dark recesses of mountainous waves. Four days towards the eye of the Southern Ocean we are, with not a single island within a hundred miles or more. Lightning flashes, the hull creaks pitifully as it pounds upon the waves, the wind unrelenting. Darkness does not abate, yet time I do not know. I grip the wheel as it pushes and pulls and I am aware of only the boat, the ocean, the wind, and our lives joined amid one furious energy. Straining against eyes burning from the salt spray, I search ahead for each moment's path. Onward we sail, driven by the wind and waves, knowing not what lies ahead.

    Upon my windowpane, the rain thrashes, wind surging and receding, building, and withdrawing in repeating patterns of sound, layer upon layer. Waves and wind against the foreground of my own breathing growing deeper and slower, my eyes looking away into the darkness, searching for meaning.

    The rhythm patterns and melodies gradually ritard, the sounds fade from my notice, the candle rises and falls with a slow diminuendo of intensity. Perhaps my eyes have closed, or the candle has flickered out. The wind drones on.

    One

    Patterns and Intersections

    1. Friday Night

    Nothing's getting done these days, it’s the same thing, over and over. I wish I could just finish something!

    Same here. Remind me again why we’re doing this?

    It's Friday evening and my friends and I are collectively venting. All this will fade into a cloud of grey dust particles by Monday morning, sort of like the stuff that collects on the manuscripts hidden away in vaults and archives far from the notice of nearly everyone else in this room.

    Are we ready? Cool, that band I told you about, they're playing the late show just down the street. Anyone want to go?

    We'd been hanging out for at least a couple of hours. Just a few of us from the Institute trying to find a way to shift into Friday night.

    We'll come along, at least for a while. It is Aaronsuel and his girlfriend, Julie. He works a few offices down the hall from me in another research group. None of us knows what the other is doing. Sometimes we don't even know, ourselves.

    I think I'm heading home, Camille said. She's in A's area and I don't really know her at all. She doesn't look the experimental type to me and this is going to be pretty out there. Probably just as well. It's going to be pretty loud, too, I suspect.

    After a while A. and Julie head out but I'm in for the duration. The Necks don't show up here that often and I am looking forward to hearing their whole set.

    Well after midnight their jam breaks into a frenzy of energetic rhythmic stabs and finally subsides in a long trailing diminution of intensity and volume. We're left holding our breath, savoring the last moments. Gradually, one by one, the audience heads out into the street. I turn left towards the subway, a few people pass me but I don't notice. I'm in another place and time, remembering the bands I played in, the gigs that came and went. And as I'm walking, the night's final moments of music continue to replay in my head, time transfixed, preserved, present.

    2. Dover Design Group

    Good morning, Rodger. Raining again, isn't it? I swipe my badge and step quickly towards the elevator. Roger never blinks, he's looking out the front window, imagining something.

    The elevator door opens, and I push number 5. Alone, quiet. No elevator music today?

    In exactly 23 seconds the elevator door opens and once again here I am at the office. I push a glass door and it silently glides open. The white noise patterns of rain on the pavement are simply a memory. But I am still wet, dripping water from my shoes and the umbrella in my hand. Rodger is still entrenched behind his desk, a couple of computer screens glowing blankly at his side. Silent testament to nothing unusual in a place as intentionally usual as could possibly be.

    I stop for a moment at Sara's desk. She's worked here almost as long as I have. Nearly every morning, she's here early, watching the door and smiling to everyone as we come in.

    I hope you got here before the rain started. One more day of this and I'm buying big yellow rain boots.

    It is raining when I got here. And I already bought some boots, myself, thank you very much. Last year, in fact. I just can't stand sitting here feeling like a personal rain forest. Pretty soon all kinds of jungle plants are going to sprout around me.

    That might not be allowed, unauthorized plants were banned in last week's company-wide memo, remember? It is hard breaking the news to some of mine, but in the end they understood. Best for everyone concerned, they said.

    She shakes her head and smiles at me.

    The Dover Design Group logo hangs on the wall behind her. Stylishly industrial in a sandblasted mat finish sort of way, suspended against an imported Brazilian mahogany wall. Water drips from my umbrella on to the glossy white marble floor, a remnant of the previous tenant, a real estate management firm. It always gives me the creeps when I see it, so completely out of character with the style of this cast iron loft building.

    I need to keep moving, can't let myself drip all over this imported flooring. I'm starting a small lake here. See you!

    Beyond Sara's desk, I pause in front of the face scanner, the only indicator that something isn't quite ordinary here. In a moment, the automatic door slides to the left and I step into a long stark-white hallway. On either side are closed white doors with nothing but room numbers on the name plates. Far ahead at the end of the hall, a glass conference room with windows, a bit of daylight glowing through the rain.

    And here, on my right, is office 21B.

    3. Coffee Shop

    The coffee shop at the end of the block, want to get out of here for a little while?

    Work is slow at the office; it is late summer. I have worked at the Institute now, well how many months has it been? Almost everyone is away on holiday, visiting friends, working from home, the place is almost deserted except for Sara and a few of us with nowhere to go.

    Behind nameless doors, among the data streams and hidden corners of the internet lies a lot of questions that need answering. Most days, stepping into a virtual world seems like infinite space, borderless, expansive, limitless. Today, there is nothing but dead ends, locked doors, and echoes of my own voice bouncing back at me from dark alleys. I turn off the screen and pace around the room. This is getting old. It’s been two years now of non-stop intensity. That’s a long time without air. Without even a window that I can fling open and feel the wind blowing through the room, carrying the sounds and smells of the world, work is starting to feel as stale as the air in here.

    I call my friend Saphan in the office next door and suggest a break. A real world, step out of the door and take a real walk kind of break.

    Sure, why not, it is summer, isn't it? I feel like I haven't seen the sun for weeks. Give me ten minutes.

    I hear the automatic lock on my office door click as I walk down the hallway towards the reception area. Sara is reading a book, art history, she wants to be a professor someday. I hope it happens for her. She loves painting.

    The street is filled with people walking, running, traffic creeping through the narrow streets. I feel like a stranger in a foreign city. Just keep walking, no one will notice me if I try to act normal.

    Large cold-brew, please.

    I am still standing at the counter waiting for my order when Sephan opens the old wooden door and steps inside. I hear his boots resonating deep on the dark wooden floor. The instantaneous transition from the soundfield of the street to the hushed wood paneled atmosphere of the shop is always like entering a different world.

    Northern Indian music is playing softly on the sound system. The sitar is gradually unwinding the raga in the alap section. Slow peaceful discovery of the melody.

    What's he having? Saphan is looking up at the menu board.

    The same thing he always has. What can I get for you?

    Black tea, the darkest you have. With a dash of ginger or cinnamon if you have some.

    We do, which would you prefer?

    Ginger, thank you.

    I'll bring it to you, please, have a seat.

    The melody grows more distinct, broader in range, more highly ornamented.

    Do you ever think about traveling somewhere, anywhere at all?

    I know Saphan had recently relocated from England, and I am interested to hear about the city. I find myself missing London more and more frequently these past months. With work becoming so routine, and nothing turning up that gives any hint of an exciting thread of research, I realized I am looking for something new. Increasingly that something is beginning to seem like it would be somewhere else.

    4. About Orin

    Orin Kindrew’s father named his son after himself, just as I had been named after mine.  Maybe that is one of the initial things that bound our friendship.  His father is a noted jazz musician and my friend had grown up with a love of music.  During our time at Columbia, we would spend many nights in the clubs, listening to whoever was coming through.  In New York, there’s always someone doing cool things.  We both got a lot of inspiration out of the spontaneity of the music.  For a while we played in a trio.   Orin played piano, I played bass, and a guy we met at a jam session played drums.  We would play gigs as often as we could.

    After our time at Columbia, we set out together for Southeast Asia to explore some of the hidden places we had discovered on earlier research trips.  That was eleven years ago now.  We spent five years there, riding out the great recession as best as possible.  After that I came back to the States for the Columbia professor gig and Orin stayed in Thailand.  We had kept in touch, met at conferences, and generally poked around the research world.  Orin wrote a book that attracted some attention, which got him an appointment as director of the Institute as we call it.  When Orin emailed me that he had accepted the directorship it meant we would both be in the New York again, so I called him up.  We had dinner at an Indian restaurant on the Upper East Side not far from the Metropolitan where he had given a lecture earlier that evening.  Over the next couple of months, we’d get together occasionally.  When a research fellow position opened up, he emailed me.  At the time, I was struggling to stay engaged with my professorship at Columbia and really questioning my decision to do academic research for no other purpose than printing a few copies and making presentations at conferences.  

    When Orin arrived as director, the Institute had a forty-year history as a solid traditional conservative think tank.  Unfortunately, in that last few years it had grown to have a reputation of supporting the causes of wealthy clients with strong political connections.  The outcome of its research was often a foregone conclusion because the work had become so bent by the bias of power. Independent research just wasn’t happening there at that time.  Eventually, none of the best researchers would have anything to do with the place and the quality of the work tanked.  

    That’s when Orin came in and convinced the Board to turn the reputation around.  He spent a lot of time on the road going after new clients, convincing them the organization had a new direction.  A lot of the employees didn’t agree with the new direction and left.  With positions to fill and a new direction ahead, Orin has been able to attract a new brilliant team that is energized to find solutions to issues that each one in the organization really cares about.  The place feels like a start-up now.  Our research is socially founded and we are going after situations where large corporations are exerting disproportionate amounts of power and influence through deeply financed legal actions that ordinary people and smaller entities don’t have the resources to stand up against.  Orin saw knowledge as the weapon that could take down wealth, power, and influence.  He understood that research, the ability to know more about a given situation than anyone else, is a rare commodity these days.  And as a result, it wasn’t long before the Institute became a deep background player in some of the biggest environmental and social actions of the past couple of years.  

    Ten years ago, when Orin and I were bouncing around Southeast Asia on a shoestring, riding worn out Soviet motorbikes on dirt roads far into the rural areas in search of artifacts or archaeological sites, we had no idea where any of it was going. Life was just a late-night jam, riffing on what we knew, playing free jazz and just digging the open-ended form of it all. 

    I see him now, about once or twice a month, we have short random chats or on a rare occasion catch a dinner someplace near the office.  Sometimes I ponder how much our paths, our stories, are so interconnected and yet we rarely intersect.  Two parallel realities with seemingly random nodes of interaction.  I’m trying to figure that out.

    5. Dust Collisions

    The sun is just setting, low in the sky sending a shaft of intense light through the entrance doors of an unremarkable building in TriBeCa. The lobby is empty, dust floating in the air reflecting the orange light in perhaps a million individual pixilations.

    A pattern on the floor is intersected by the shadow cast through the doorway - four Art Deco doors with geometric metalwork patterns. Walking into the interior is like cracking open a time

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1