The Visitor

"You use Freudianism to dismiss the existence and nature of an entire vibrant culture? It's a sad day indeed when myths are treated as facts, and facts are treated as myths. But extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence, I suppose. Allow me a moment to collect my thoughts." He paused, closed his eyes tightly, and assumed a lotus position with his hands. Mark fidget uncomfortably, and but just before he was about to interrupt on his reverie, Miles reopened his eyes. "You are a man of evidence, are you not? A man of fact and hard truth?"

"I should certainly like to think so," Mark said cautiously, sensing a trap looming in Miles' next words.

"And facts, I'm sure you would agree, should never be overturned by a theory, that facts always come before a theory."

"I'm not sure exactly what it is you're getting at."

"It is simply this. Theories certainly have their uses. Without theories, we couldn't identify patterns in things. Theories allow us to pick out common features of disparate events, identifying connections where no previous connections were apparent, allowing us to predict and respond to the future courses of things with a remarkably high degree of accuracy.

"But theories can also be dangerous. For every possibility that a good theory opens up, it closes at least another two. Your scientists surely would have discovered how to make faster-than-light travel work by now if it weren't for their blind dogmatic insistence that nothing can travel faster than the speed of light. Theories are good when they allow us to establish connections between facts. But theories aren't so good when they prevent us from establishing the same. As, I suggest, is the case implicit in your rejection of my claim that the Serangappi were real, and that this manuscript on your desk is a map of their ancient culture."

"I suppose I see your point. But that's rather, well, theoretical. If the Serangappi were real, how come we've never seen any direct evidence of their existence and activities? How come this map is only coming to light now, even though its worth must have been in the millions for a good long while now? And who even are you, to be able to make claims such as these, and expect me to accept them?"

"All excellent questions, Dr. Weston, but not questions that I am at the moment at liberty to answer as fully I would like. Rest assured that such answers do exist, and that, should you choose to investigate this matter further, are answers that you will have to discover for yourself. I am merely the gatekeeper. As for actually entering the gate, that is for you alone to decide."

He rose, and picked his briefcase up from where it lay by his chair on the floor. "I'll leave these materials with you. I'm confident you'll know what to do with them."

"How will I reach you if I have any questions?"

"Let's just say that if you have any questions, I'll be the one to reach you. Don't delay on this Dr. Weston, the world depends on this, not to mention your career. I'll be in touch."

He opened the office door, and signaled for the first student to come in.

"Hi Dr. Weston!" the student said, as he took a seat in the chair Miles had just left. "I was hoping there might be something I could do to get some extra credit. And what'd you say was going to be on the final again?"

Miles mouthed a quick 'good luck' towards Mark, and disappeared into the hallway.

THREE

"Where'd you say you got this thing again?"

"Some old guy stopped by my office and dropped it off. Promised it had enormous archaeological significance or some such. It's a hoax right? I should have known better. Got too excited. Sorry for wasting your time."

"No no no. That's not at all what I meant." Stephen Carmichael, technical director of archaeology, gestured towards a computer screen rapidly filling with numbers. "What you see on the screen there is the chemical makeup of the document. I took a corner off the document and burned it, and the machine here is figuring out what all's in it. And there's some weird stuff here."

"What do you mean?" asked Mark, walking across the room to take a closer look at the readout display on the computer.

"Well, first of all, it's old. See that line there? That's the carbon-14 present in the document. Based on the amount there, I'd say the trees that this particular paper was made were cut down somewhere between eight hundred and nine hundred years ago."

"Putting the date of this document around 1100 to 1200 CE?"

"Putting the paper of this document around then. It's possible that the drawings on this paper were added to it considerably after that original making of this paper, although that'd be a pretty unusual thing to do. It's harder to date the ink than the paper, but the results I'm getting are consistent with that age. So yeah. It was probably made around then. Which raises a number of questions."

"No kidding. Where the hell did this paper even come from? My modern history is weak and all, but I'm pretty sure people were still writing on cow skin back then."

"Vellum. Or papyrus, yeah. Only the Chinese had paper proper back then. But you said this was a map of Arizona?"

"With parts of Nevada and California thrown in, yeah."

"Beats me. I'm glad this is your project, not mine. So what are you going to do with it?"

"I don't know," said Mark, sitting down in a chair near the computer station. "Any other time, I would have thought this was a hoax. Uncredentialed guy showing up in your office unannounced, with a fabulous tale of how that thing you used to think was a myth is actually true? It looks a bit odd on the surface, you know?"

"Yeah. Like that time Sarah got a dude who was absolutely convinced he'd cracked Linear A. Would've made her career if he had. Too bad it was only a Captain America decoder with some sequins and glitter glued on."

"Exactly. But in Sarah's case, it was abundantly obvious she was dealing with a crazy person. This guy, this Miles Fenwick? He really looks like the real deal. And if you're telling me this map is as weird as you say it is." He paused. "Am I crazy for actually thinking about taking him up on this?"

"Batshit crazy. This guy says he has authoritative evidence about the Serangappi? The mythical people who group who never existed? You know, I've got an Amazon warrior hanging out back at my place. She gives great head."

"Yeah yeah yeah. You don't need to push the point. I get it. Still, though. It's worth checking out, maybe?"

"Let's think this thing through, yeah? On the one hand, you got an admittedly weird map. It's possible that there's something interesting going on behind this thing, something about its history that might intrigue someone. Best case scenario, it's a Chinese manuscript that never got tagged into a collection somewhere. Most likely scenario, it's a hoax, albeit an elaborately designed one."

"And on the other hand?"

"If that's all there was to it, I'd say it'd be worth checking out. Seeing what this map really is a map of. It'd make for good sight-seeing, maybe an interesting story. But we're talking about the fucking Serangappi, here. Can you image what it would look like to try to run a grant proposal through on that topic? 'Hi, I'm here to investigate the Tooth Fairy. I've got a good lead that she's working in cahoots with Santa Claus.' I mean, how would you respond if someone came to you with an investigation like that? It's bad enough for your professional reputation, but how on earth are you even going to go about getting funding for something like this?"

"So you think I should drop it?"

"I'm not telling you what to do. This could either be the greatest break of your career, or the point at which your career lost all future hope. If I was in your position . . . I'd probably drop it."

"My career!" Mark laughed. "I'm adjunct professor with a five class teaching load. My career is never going to go anywhere if I keep doing the things I'm doing, in the way I'm doing them. I just don't have time!"

"You should try having four kids at home if you don't think you have any time. Count your blessings, man."

"What woman could resist a cynic like that? It's nice to know you're such a family man."

"Hey, don't get me wrong, I love my kids. But I'm plenty glad I'm already in a sustainable, long-term, and well-paying position. The thought of how exhausting it would be to try and put in the extra hours for advancement, like you need to do, frankly terrifies me. But your point is good. It's not like you already have a reputation you could ruin by chasing this thing down. And you sure could use the break. Easy publication, you know? No offense."

"None taken." He studied Stephen's face blankly. The comment hit a bit close to home for Mark's taste, but he had to admit that Stephen had a point. And that Miles also had had a point. A more significant figure than Mark likely wouldn't have bothered to even give Miles the time of day, let alone seriously consider following him up on a supposed find that, he had to admit, bordered pretty close to the absurd.

It never was supposed to come to this. Professors lived a glorious and venerated life in an ivory tower of seclusion, only occasionally venturing beyond the walls of their citadel to magnanimously sprinkle their knowledge upon the hordes of lesser men, in the most eleemosynary of spirits. Instead, what did they do? Make less than minimum wage once you considered the number of hours worked, that was for certain. Hell, his pay raises didn't even keep up with the inflation rate. Where was the wealth and social acclaim that should have been his, as he had been implicitly promised by the establishment so many times before? Instead, he had a studio apartment, a run-down car he still hadn't finished paying off, and well over a hundred students who viewed him as an unwelcome and possibly unnecessary imposition on their self-proclaimed party time. This wasn't what he had signed up for. The possibilities of the job kept him at it, though, in the distant and ever receding hope that his academic dreams and aspirations, just might maybe could possibly with a healthy dose of luck and considerable divine intervention, come about. And as absurd as it clearly was, this bit about the Serangappi was the closest he had ever come to a legitimate breakthrough in research, a discovery that the rest of the archaeological establishment would find genuinely interesting. Really, it all came down to game theory in Mark's mind. The maximum cost of playing was a marginal loss in prestige, and maybe a few personal connections who might cut him off if he took the project up for himself. However, the maximum gain for following up on this project was, with a only hint of hyperbole to the description, the attainment of everything he had ever wanted from a career in academia.

"I've got to do this," he said. "I mean, I think I've got to do this. I don't know. I'll think about it."

"I've got your back either way, man," said Stephen. "Good luck."

FOUR

Mark took the stairs up to his apartment two steps at a time, partly because it fit his naturally long stride, but even more so because it took him past his downstairs neighbors' apartment all the more quickly. Sure enough, as he finished the second flight of stairs landing and came onto the landing before beginning to climb to the third floor, he heard their voices barreling out of the all-too-thin walls of the complex, rising higher in higher in volume as they engaged each other in yet another verbal fight and, he suspected, possibly another not-so-verbal fight as well. A loud crash of glass or possibly porcelain obscured an inarticulate yell, the suddenness of which make Mark pause for a brief instant. Before he could think better of it and move on to his own apartment, which would afford an only slightly less awkward exposure to his neighbors' expressions of feelings for each other, the door opened and Terry walked out. "Worthless piece of shit lazy bastard," exploded from the room, but disappeared back into wordless noise when Terry closed the door decisively behind.

"Hey," he said by way of acknowledgement to Mark, lighting the cigarette he held in his lips with a shaky hand. His hunched shoulders and vacantly resigned expression told Mark all he needed to know about Terry's side of things.

"Hey," said Mark. Then added, "Um, how's it going?" He immediately regretted the question.

"Same old, same old. You know." The voices from within the apartment grew quiet for a moment, until Terry's wife or possibly girlfriend, Mark didn't know which, seemed to have found a new target for her hostilities, which judging the tone of the noises coming from the other side of the wall, was probably their daughter teenage daughter. Judging from the other voice that had joined Terry's significant other, it sounded like his daughter wasn't terribly outmatched.

"How are you?" added Terry.

"Oh, I'm good. I'm good." Mark searched desperately for a way to end the conversation, but he felt too strongly for Terry's situation to just up and leave his neighbor to deal with his family alone and by himself. "How's . . . work?" he asked.

"Work is work," said Terry. "Work is work." He finished the first cigarette, and lit a second one. "I got laid off the dishwashing job. But McDonald's is hiring, and I've worked for them before, so I'm thinking of getting a job there."

"Still in the National Guard?"

"Yep. I'm actually about to head out to the base for monthly training."

"Sounds like a nice change of scenery."

"Oh, you know." Terry didn't volunteer anything more than that, and Mark didn't want to ask.

"Well, see ya."

"See ya."

At that moment, Terry's door opened again and the (wife? girlfriend? who knew?) came out. "What the fuck -- " then seeing Mark standing there, she changed her attitude on the spot. "Why, hello Mark! It's so nice to see you. How are you doing today?"

"I'm fine, thanks for ask--"

"Good, good. I'm just trying to help Terry out here, give him some motivation to be the man I just know he can be, isn't that right, Terry?"

Terry grunted something inarticulate.

"Now Terry, I've told you not to be rude to our neighbors." Turning towards Mark, she added, "He's about to go out and get a job and support his family like man, aren't you Terry?"

Terry grunted again, and refusing to make eye contact with Mark, looked out over the parking lot that fronted their shared apartment complex.

"You're an amazing man, Mark, an amazing man. I was just telling my daughter how amazing you are. She should hope to have a man like you some day, isn't that right Terry?"

"Sure," said Terry, still not looking at either one of them.

"Now let me tell you a story about Terry," she continued. "I thought he was a man of hope, and potential, and that's why I married him. I should've known he was a bum at heart, though." This last part she spoke with a disdainful glance at Terry's back, Terry having completely taken himself out of the conversation and absorbed himself in looking at what he appeared to take to be an extremely fascinating Ford Taurus.

"You don't really need -- " Mark tried to interject, but the woman in front of him just kept on with her so-called story.

"But that's why I'm good for him, isn't that right Terry? I keep you in line. I give you something to work for, to live for. I give you meaning." Turning back to Mark, she continued, "I give him meaning. Every man's gotta have meaning. And every man's gotta have a woman in his life to give it to him. Isn't that right Terry? I give his meaning to him. He'd be a mighty big loser if he didn't have me in his life, isn't that right Terry?"

Terry muttered something that presumably was supposed to pass for an affirmative, but it wasn't enough for the wife this time around.

"What was that, Terry? What did you say? You'd better not be giving me any of your goddamn mother-fucking -- oh, I'm sorry Mark. You didn't need to hear that. It's just that Terry sometimes gets a little attitude, and a strong woman like me isn't going to put up with none of that bullshit. That's why he married me. Because he knew I wasn't about to put up with none of that bullshit. You find a woman, Mark, who won't put up with no bullshit, you listen to me, you find her, and you'll be a happy man, not all lonely by yourself like you must be in that apartment of yours."

"That's, uh, good advice," said Mark, angling for the conversational path of least resistance. "But I've really got to get going."

"Of course, of course!" she said. "I hope you have a wonderful evening Mark."

He climbed the remainder of the stairs, all the while being accompanied by the slowly dying sounds of his neighbors' conversation. "What the fuck are doing something again, Terry? And where the fuck did all my beer go? Who the fuck do you think you are?"

He sighed, and unlocked his apartment door. Once inside, he placed his briefcase by the front door, and collapsed onto his couch exhausted from the events of the day. Try as he might to relax, however, his mind kept running over the myriad of things he still had to do that evening in the next few days. Occupying the forefront of his attention were the three finals he would have to design and develop over the weekend, finals constituting that absurd effort to quantify a student's learning process over a fifteen-week period by measuring a student's intellectual output over an arbitrary two-hour period. If his students thought they hated finals, they had no idea how strongly he felt about them.

It wasn't that he dislike his job, he told himself. It really wasn't. He loved the core it, the production of knowledge, and the sharing of that with others. It's just that so much of his job was precisely not what he considered his job, what with having to deal with all the administrative bullying and the self-entitled morons who took is class. Every once in a while he'd a meet a truly bright student who truly got it, ability and ambition seamlessly blended together into an individual who was truly a delight to teach. He'd been unlucky this semester as no such student had registered for his classes, making his teaching load unusually wearisome. Still, he told himself, there's one week to go, and summer vacation followed hard on that. It'd be nice to break away from the teaching routine for a few months at least. Perhaps he'd use it to follow up on this map thing the man, what was his name... Miles! -- had given him.

He stood back up from where he lay on the couch and turning on the television, began to prepare dinner for himself. As he waited for the water for his spaghetti to boil, he could hear the dialogue from the television in the living room. He hadn't bothered to check what program he had turned the television on to, but judging from the sound of it, it was probably a rerun of the Big Bang Theory. Sheldon seemed to be making one of his usual objections to the Nobel prize system, and the sound of the laugh track made a valiant but ultimately unsuccessful effort to convince Mark that Sheldon's comments in this case were indeed funny.

He tossed some spaghetti into the now boiling water, and turned to find the remote to change the channel on the television, and nearly turned the entire pot of water onto himself in surprise at the lone figure standing not three feet away from him. Her relaxed posture suggested complete comfort in a stranger's home, and Mark had no way of telling on the spot how long she had been in his place, or even how long she had been standing where she was, watching him revel in self-pity over a pot of slowly heating water.

"I'd be startled too if someone snuck up on me like that," she said, sticking out her hand by way of introduction. "You must be Mark. Miles told me I'd find you here." Though Mark normally wouldn't have welcomed the intrusion into his personal living space, the woman's complete self-confidence that she belonged in the area went a considerable ways towards convincing Mark of the same. And if Mark was to be completely honest with himself, there was something decidedly alluring about the woman before him. Certainly the knot growing in his stomach, and the stiffening of something below his stomach, attested to his state of mind.