The Theta Prophecy (10 page)

This explained why, when he went back to the village for a day of rest and to stock up on food, Benio wouldn’t talk to him. Anderson was disturbing the earth too much, even if it was on an island two miles away from where the Mi’kmaq lived.

There were times, as he labored further and further underground, that he suspected he might be losing his mind. Surely if anyone from his own reality could see him digging a hole to nowhere, they would think him insane. But even during these times, he didn’t give in to the doubts.

When he slept, he started having nightmares of being at the bottom of the hole, a hundred feet below the surface, and having the sides of the wall give way and bury him alive. He wanted to yell but couldn’t, because the dirt would pour into his mouth and he would die even quicker.

When he woke, he couldn’t help but wonder what the Mi’kmaqs would think if he was buried alive and never arrived on their shores again. Would they think he had disappeared the same way he had arrived, with a burst of light? Or would they think he simply chose to live out his remaining years on another island instead of with them? Would Benio have a suspicion of what had happened but decide to keep it to himself so no one else would be cursed?

He huddled in his makeshift cabin while a torrential downpour went on for eight hours. The cover he had built to keep water out of the hole was immediately ripped away by the wind. Afterwards, the pit was flooded for six weeks. He spent the time walking the island, trying to imagine someone in the future stumbling upon the spot in the ground where the flagstone markers would be placed, tried to think of what their reaction would be. Surely they would want the treasure they would think would be at the bottom.

Their discovery would lead to a world without AeroCams flying overhead, without checkpoints where everyone had to be patted down by guards who acted more like goons than a security force concerned with the wellbeing of the people they were supposed to be protecting.

He imagined a man who wanted to spend the day fishing with his son. But when it came to be their time to be groped (the boy was not spared having his genitals fondled just because he was five years old), the guards would find something in the man’s tackle box that they thought suspicious. A shotgun shell that had been turned into a bobber. That’s all it would take for the Tyranny to do what it did best.

“What are you trying to pull?” one of the guards would yell.

Before the man could answer that it was just a gag present, the guards would seize him, rough him up in front of his boy, then drag him away for a proper interrogation. If the man answered all of their questions with short replies that the Security Services liked, and if he had never said anything negative about the Tyranny, they might let him go. If not, his boy would never see his father again.

These were the things Anderson thought about as he left the wooden box at the bottom of the pit, wrapped in leaves to keep it from decomposing. A book that would change the future. There, at the bottom of the hole, he looked up toward the sky. Only a tiny blue circle of light was visible. So far away was it that it looked like a distant earth or maybe an alternate world, one in which there was no Tyranny. A Theta Timeline where people could actually trust their leaders.

And with that thought lingering in the back of his head, he began filling the hole back in with all the dirt he had taken out. Every ten feet, he put the removable wood planks back into place and started piling dirt on top of them too. Occasionally, as he filled the hole back in, he passed by the charcoal markers he had etched to mark his progress downward.

Weeks later, when the hole was completely filled with dirt, he would stand inside a circle of earth that was only slightly lower than the surrounding area. This was where he laid the flagstone as a marker for whoever would stumble on the area. He had, to the best of his ability, done whatever he could to change the Theta Timeline. His job was done.

Over the course of the next few weeks, he packed up his supplies, always thinking about all the different ways history might be changed by the thing he had done. With his boat loaded one final time, he sailed across the water, back to the mainland, and reintegrated himself with the tribe.

For the rest of his life, he spoke Mi’kmaq with everyone he saw, helped the men with their gardens, and taught the children math and basic science. Benio never asked about his time on the island, and because no one else bothered him with questions about what he had done there, he assumed the elder had made a point of telling the rest of the village to do the same. Ten years later, Benio died in his sleep. A few years after that, as he lay coughing and shivering, Anderson knew it was almost his time as well. He coughed and coughed and then—with one final hope that the future might be better than the one he had left—he fell silent.

Date: 1805

“I need to speak with President Jefferson right this moment,” Candenborn said, barging through the White House’s front doors with a package under one arm.

There were no Secret Service agents in those days. No front gate to keep protesters and lunatics away from the nation’s leader. The White House had only been completed five years earlier, and instead of being a place where tourists looked at the exterior walls from at least one city block away, the residence was open to anyone who wanted to stop by and air grievances with the person they had elected. For a few hours each day, the leader of the world’s youngest country would meet with people whose complaints ranged from compensation for farm animals that had accidently been shot, business deals that had fallen apart, and the land they thought they were entitled to.

As Candenborn stormed through the front door, the only person who tried to stop him was one of Jefferson’s assistants, and rather than tackle the man and confiscate whatever he had under his arm, the young man merely tried to tell the millionaire that he had to wait his turn like everyone else. All Candenborn had to do was narrow his eyes and smile and Jefferson’s assistant kept quiet. Someone as rich as Julius was recognized up and down the country. In fact, more people probably knew what he looked like than the man they had elected President.

In the middle of the oversized greeting room, a wooden table was positioned with four chairs stationed around it. Thomas Jefferson, the third President of the United States, sat on the far side, facing the entrance so he could see each visitor as they entered his home. As Candenborn barged through, only the chair to Jefferson’s right was occupied. A man in dirty overalls kept pointing to a map with one hand and slamming his other hand against the wood table in frustration.

Candenborn walked past the line of people waiting to speak to the president and said, “I need to speak with you right now.”

Jefferson looked up at his visitor. Even in those days, being the president, he could have asked someone to escort the unruly guest off the premises and a line of volunteers would have jumped at the chance. He also could have been egotistical enough to respond, “You will call me, Mr. President.” There was also the possibility that he would have seen that one of the richest men in the country was talking to him and told the farmer with a land dispute that he would have to wait until a more important matter was addressed.

Instead, he looked up and smiled and said, “Hello, Julius. Let me finish with Mr. Smith’s issue here and then we can chat.”

Candenborn had ridden straight to Washington from Nova Scotia after finding the book at Oak Island. He was so horrified by what it said that he had read the entire book at the bottom of the pit. Its words were all he had thought about since. In the past three days, he had only managed to sleep a total of four hours. But one look from the president and he knew he was going to have to wait until the two men were finished. Without another word, he pulled one of the empty chairs away from the table, giving them their privacy, and sat on it until the other matter was finished.

From where he sat he heard Jefferson tell the man, “Now, tell me how we can resolve this dispute so both sides are happy.”

Candenborn closed his eyes. The book, still in the wood box he had found it in, felt heavy under his arm. Heavier than it possibly could have been considering it was barely a hundred pages of roughly made fiber.

He was tired. It wasn’t just the lack of sleep. It was the knowledge that everything he thought he knew about the world was false. Or, at least, would one day become false. Even after reading the book a second and third time, he was disturbed at the idea that the country created on ideals and democracy would be turned into the very thing they strove to escape from. And worst of all, it would be men like him who were responsible for all of it.

He was proud of the fortune he had earned, thought every man should strive to achieve the success he had created for himself, but knowing that in the future those things would be used by a few men to turn a democracy into a monster made him sick to his stomach. Was he just like the men who would one day use their wealth to control the leaders? He didn’t think so, but if he wasn’t, what was the difference? Was it that he treated other people the way he would want to be treated? Yes, he had a fortune equal to the entire population of New York City, but he didn’t want to use that fortune to create laws that would benefit only him and harm everyone else.

The book had told him that the country would keep changing from the place he knew to a place where wars were fought to make rich men richer, where people were sent to jail to increase corporations’ profits, and where fears were played upon in order to pass laws that the population would never ordinarily allow. Entire countries would be wiped off the face of the earth. The world would become a board game, nothing more.

He heard Jefferson tell the farmer, “Inform him that you will give him a quarter of the land we discussed, with the agreement that he cannot build a dam to block the flow of the stream onto your property. That should settle everything for both of you.” And he knew they were finishing up.

Jefferson stood up then and—instead of turning to speak with Candenborn—looked at the other people in line and said, “Do you all mind if I meet with this gentlemen for a few moments? I promise I won’t be long, and then I’ll hear what the rest of you have to say.”

It was spoken in such a way that Candenborn knew that if a single person in line protested and said they had been waiting longer than the businessman who showed up and tried to butt ahead of everyone, then Jefferson would remain sitting right where he was and hear what everyone else had to say first. But how could anyone refuse when their leader asked them a question in such a humble manner?

When no one said anything, Jefferson motioned for Candenborn to sit at the table. Julius, however, motioned for Jefferson to follow him to another room so they could speak in private. But when Candenborn opened the nearest door, he saw it was an extremely large closet instead of an actual room.

“I don’t usually conduct business in closets,” Jefferson said with a smile.

“Close the door. No one else can hear anything I’m about to say.”

The president, being told what to do in his own home, played along and closed the coat closet’s door. A candle over the doorway illuminated an array of boxes and coats surrounding the leader of the country and one of its wealthiest citizens.

“What can I help you with, Julius?”

“I found what everyone was looking for at Oak Island. The treasure that was buried in the hole.”

There were a lot of things anyone who was told this news could have said. They could have asked what the treasure consisted of. They could have asked what the owner would buy with his new wealth. They might even give a playful jab and ask if they could have a small portion of the riches. Instead, Jefferson remained silent and let Candenborn say whatever else he wanted.

“There was no gold. There was no treasure at all. Only a book.”

“A book?” Jefferson’s voice grew louder with interest.

“Keep your voice down. No one else can know about this.”

“What kind of book?” Jefferson said.

“I know everything I’m going to say will sound like the ravings of a lunatic. If I was in your shoes and someone came to me with such a fanciful story, I would think them crazy. But when you look at the book,” Candenborn tapped the package against his side, “you’ll know everything I say is true.”

Jefferson’s eyebrows raised, but he didn’t say anything. Candenborn put his ear against the door to make sure no one was listening on the other side.

When he was satisfied, he said, “It’s from the past. At least a hundred years old. Maybe two or three hundred. I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

“But whoever wrote it is from hundreds of years in the future.”

In the dim light offered by the candle, Jefferson looked hard at Candenborn. Perhaps the president was wondering if one of his wealthiest citizens had lost his mind after all. Maybe he was wondering if a trick was being played on him and was reminding himself not to fall for it.

Finally, he took a deep breath and said, “May I see it?”

Candenborn closed his eyes and held the book, still in the wood box, out to his president. Jefferson let the package rest in his right palm, and with his left, removed the lid. With it gone, the president looked at the cover as if it should tell him something important. Instead, it was blank, no title or author’s name given, only faded, water-stained burlap.

He turned the cover over and began reading to himself. As Candenborn watched, he saw the president’s lips moving along with the words even though no sounds were produced. After only one paragraph, Jefferson’s eyebrows furrowed. After the first page, he was grinding his teeth.

By the end of the second page, he stopped reading and looked up. “Who else has seen this?”

“No one. Only you.”

“Do you mind if I keep it and read the rest?”

“Do whatever you want with it. It’s yours now. That’s why I’m here. You’ll know what to do with it better than I would.”

“Julius?”

“Yes?”

“Is the rest of it like the first two pages?”

Candenborn stared Jefferson right in the face and said, “Worse.”

The president took in a long breath, then leaned with all of his weight against the nearest wall.

“Julius?”

“Yes.”

“What should we tell people you found down there? People will know you found something.”

“No, they won’t. It was in this little wooden box. I told the men some odd symbols were written on the inside that I would have to take to an expert to decode.”

The president gave him an odd look.

“The men saw me come up with a small wooden box; I had to tell them something. Anyway, beneath the box was just more dirt. Anyone will think we stopped at one hundred feet and couldn’t go any further.”

“Couldn’t go any further?”

“I had my foreman flood the hole. I didn’t want people to spend the rest of their lives trying to find what was there, so I had my men dig a hole diagonally from the pit, out to the ocean, until they were connected. The hole is full of salt water now. Always will be.”

“But why?”

“If I hadn’t flooded it, men would keep digging, keep looking. That’s human nature. That’s what I would have done. This way, I can make up a message to keep people from looking any further. Rumors and gossip will do the rest.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me? I brought you the book; you don’t have to worry about me telling anyone else about it.”

“That’s not what I meant. What are you going to do now?”

“I’m selling my companies and moving to some place quiet where I can think.” When Jefferson started to say something, Candenborn raised a hand and added, “Read the rest of it and you’ll understand. I don’t want to contribute to anything that might happen in the future.”

“In the future…” Jefferson said, letting the words trail off.

Candenborn opened the closet door and, without saying goodbye or reminding the president to keep the book safe, left the White House.

In the coming weeks, his name would be popular amongst the papers up and down the east coast. Most mentions of his name would make it sound as if the millionaire had suddenly lost his edge and become a recluse. Others said he must have had a dark secret he didn’t want his rivals to find out about and was getting out of the game before anything came to light. Everyone had a theory, especially those with old grudges. Some people said that the failure to find anything on Oak Island had ruined the man. None of the stories referencing Candenborn mentioned that he donated vast amounts of his fortune to found colleges and universities in ten different states, all of which were free for anyone who wanted to attend.

But for all of his forethought about the hole, Candenborn got a lot wrong. Men didn’t stop trying to find the treasure at Oak Island just because it was booby-trapped to keep flooding. Additional expeditions took place in 1849, 1861, 1866, 1893, 1909, 1931, 1935, 1936, 1959, and on into the twenty-first century. Each time, treasure seekers spent their fortunes trying to uncover the hidden treasure, and each time they came away with nothing. Accidents happened. Men died in the pit. Instead of decreasing, rumors of what could be buried one hundred feet below ground kept increasing. Surely, people speculated, there had to be something down there even greater than pirate treasure if someone went to the trouble of not only digging the hole but also having it booby-trapped. Maybe Marie Antoinette’s jewels. Maybe lost works of William Shakespeare. Perhaps a Masonic treasure. No one ever guessed the treasure was already gone or that there had never been a treasure at all, only a warning.

As for Thomas Jefferson, most people remember him for what he had to say about the dangers of misguided governments, the tree of liberty and the blood of tyrants, and about the importance of keeping people educated because only an educated citizenry could maintain liberty. These people think the president spoke this way his entire life. And certainly, the principal author of the Declaration of Independence did want a better country and a better form of rule than the founding fathers could have expected elsewhere, but it was only after 1805 that his writing took on a more urgent tone, that he started telling anyone who would listen that tyranny was not an ideal to avoid but a creeping evil that must constantly be fought off. When his friends asked what made him write such things, he never offered a definitive answer.