Ghilan

Chapter 1

*****

(Introduction from Kitab Ghilan: An Exploration, Peter Manbeck, editor, LSU Press, 1986)

Commander Whatley F. Farmer, an alumnus of Louisiana State University and an avid book collector, was struck down during the Battle of Midway in 1942. Soon after, in accordance with his last Will and Testament, forty-eight crates of books were delivered by his executor to the Troy H. Middleton Library Special Collections Department at Farmer’s alma mater. Four dozen crates contained his entire library, much of it amassed during his globe-spanning, twenty year naval career. Unfortunately the crates arrived during a tumultuous time for America and the university. They remained unopened for almost fifteen years.

In the summer of 1956 one Jennifer Morris, a graduate student in Linguistics and a Librarian’s Assistant at LSU, found during her evening shift a very peculiar book indeed. Ms. Morris’ assignment was to open and catalogue the contents of the crates and provide a written assessment to the head of the collection. Of the seven hundred and seventeen books in the crates, many of which were rare, significant, and valuable, only one proved to be truly extraordinary. At half past seven on the evening of Wednesday July 17th she picked up what she described as a green leather quarto, no exterior titling, approx. 120 p. Thus began Ms. Morris’ lifelong study of Kitab Ghilan -- the handwritten title inscribed on its first page.

Conclusions and opinions are many and varied, but the generally agreed upon facts are as follows. The book was bound in the mid-19th century, and the cover page added at that time. It is made up of three handwritten sections of varying age. Paper, cover, inks, and materials are unremarkable. The contents are another matter.

Section I is a long poem whose title is commonly transliterated in English as Murr Sharbatas. It is written using a variation of the Coptic alphabet, by an unknown author or copyist, in a unique language having no other known exemplars. Paper and ink place the document in the late 17th Century.

Sections II and III were written during the mid-19th Century by a single left-handed male referring to himself as Vincent Windborn. Section II, often referred to as Windborn’s Tale, is a fantastic narrative in journal format. In it the author details his struggles to decipher the language and his misadventures doing battle with a strange race of supernatural beings. Section III is a brief but concise grammar of the language, which Windborn refers to as Ghilani, followed by a short dictionary.

Most scholars agree that the poem’s language is rather consistent and natural for the work of an auteur of the period, and believe Kitab Ghilan to be an elaborate hoax or a fictional story wrapped around an amateurish linguistic exercise. The remainder argues that the poem is either a cipher text, a form of glossolalia, or an example of asemic writing. Ms. Morris always felt otherwise, and was forever steadfast in her argument that implausibility is not a disproof. As she said in the now-famous 1976 documentary The Emerald Book,

If the poem’s language appears authentic, the papers and inks are consistent with the alleged age, details of the journal align with family records, and handwriting samples match those of the real Vincent Windborn, who was famous for making a hobby of genuine occult studies, why is it absurd to consider that we have an actual account? To me it seems much more implausible to think that a respectable man, who labored ceaselessly to legitimize his work and build his reputation, would create a work of occult fiction and then keep it a secret. Skeptics would have us believe that Windborn was a wealthy prankster who spent his life and fortune crafting a joke he would never enjoy. Poppycock. Mad he may have been, but he recorded what he experienced. That is clear.

Buoyed by her 1972 analysis of Cultes des Goules, a controversial volume containing incantations written in a language similar to Kitab Ghilan’s poem Murr Sharbatas, Ms. Morris never relented in her quest to prove the authenticity of her discovery. The volume and severity of the resulting criticism, from within and without academic circles, was remarkable. Much of what was written and said was erudite and measured, but some was vicious, ill-intentioned, and crude. Of the latter the most memorable was the scathing editorial written by Jewell Elkwallow for the Journal of Philological and Linguistic Studies in 1974. A classically trained Harvard linguist turned author of popular language books, albums, and audio cassettes, Mrs. Elkwallow accused Ms. Morris of having been swindled like a Cajun rube. She has traded her scholastic robes for a corset, Elkwallow continued, and waltzed out of the realm of intelligent inquiry into a Victorian fantasy novel. Let us all bid her a fond farewell. The knowledge that Elkwallow was highly regarded only by consumers, and that the JPLS was considered a mere vanity journal by serious academics, did little to blunt the blow.

Perhaps that is why Ms. Morris immediately agreed to cooperate with Tempsford and Lowery, two producers who had been pressuring her for over a year to participate in the making of an hour-long documentary called The Emerald Book. Thanks to her input, The Emerald Book contained no wild speculation other than a few dramatic interludes using hyenas to depict the creatures described in Windborn’s Tale. The final product was highly entertaining, well received by general public, and true to the source material. Due to director Tempsford’s sensational reputation, having previously made documentaries on UFOs, ancient astronauts, and bizarre Great Pyramid theories, academic backlash only worsened.

Unfortunately her obsession with Kitab Ghilan overshadowed an esteemed career. Her paper on Hungarian stop consonants, which I had the honor of helping prepare as her young Graduate Assistant, is the definitive work on the subject; her well-known agglutination table has proved essential to the study of adessive morphemes. And yet, when her name comes up in conversation, the first thing remembered is the peculiar green book she found thirty years ago.

In her defense, Ms. Morris was not alone in her infatuation. Perhaps it is the haunting rhyme and eerie subject matter of the poem, Windborn’s gripping tale, or the conspiracy theories that cropped up after the bizarre abduction attempt Ms. Morris narrowly avoided while vacationing in Paris in 1979; but whatever the reason, many are those who have whiled away the hours poring over the perplexing Kitab Ghilan. With the publication of this new exploration, which contains Ms. Morris’ original doctoral thesis and several other analyses by renowned experts in their respective fields, it may be that the reader will initiate, nurture, or if luck will have it, satisfy his or her own obsession.

It was my pleasure to be associated with Ms. Morris for over twenty years, first as her assistant, and later as her trusted confidant and colleague. Just as her passion for Kitab Ghilan overshadowed her other intellectual work, so did the depression that plagued the last two years of her life overshadow a lighthearted and positive soul. I choose to remember her as she was before she took her own life: a brilliant, cheerful, and determined woman of great courage.

I am honored by the publisher’s invitation to compile this study. Although definitive, it most certainly will not be the last word on the most curious quarto of the century. I only wish that Jennifer had lived to hold it in her hands.

Peter Manbeck

Burlington, VT

1986

Chapter 2

At his unhurried pace the skateboard wheels made a distinct ka-thunk at each sidewalk seam. It was an uncharacteristically sunny and warm November day, and he was enjoying the shirt-sleeve weather. And the nine-in-the-morning quiet. Everybody was at the mall doing their Black Friday shopping except him.

He smacked a Chuck-Taylor-All-Starred right foot against the concrete a couple of times and sped up, then crouched to zip beneath a branch overhanging the sidewalk. At the corner he hopped off the curb without slowing, a second later ollied over the opposite curb. This was the block, and on the right was the house, a faded yellow ranch with white trim. The lawn was perfect, the right front corner of it graced with a large Willow oak. Beneath the carport was a pile of junk covered with a blue tarp, the breeze making it flap sorrowfully. Next to it was a gray Mercury SUV.

Hmmm, Daddy’s home. Sorry Sellie, be back later.

Lots of traffic but nobody on the sidewalk, not even down by the elementary school where the old folks liked to walk laps. He cruised past the NO SKATEBOARDING sign and out across the blacktop playground with its bright yellow painted circles and hopscotch boxes. Approaching a slanted retaining wall he sped up. It was a hard-angled transition, not gently sloped at all, but he got up easily and axle-stalled on the lip before zipping back down. The first time he had tried it, when he was in fourth grade, his Mom had to tweeze asphalt flecks out of his palms. Now, after five years of practice, he liked to bring guys here who said they were tricky.

Cutting through the center of the complex, he made his way to the ancient foot-pedaled water fountain. He popped up the front of his skateboard and tucked it under his arm, romped on the pedal of the water fountain, and waited. Somewhere under the metal grate that surrounded it he heard that familiar hissing whine; there was a gurgle followed by a flaccid stream of milky water. He let it run until it was clear, took a few sips, and then let the brass pedal pop up with a clank that echoed through the buildings.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and swiped a finger across its face.

< Sellie: did u come by? dad took me to the mall.>

< Me: meet you where?>

He didn’t wait for an answer. He took two quick steps, tossed down his skateboard, and hopped on.

I knew I’d end up at the stupid mall.

Letting his mind wander he cruised up to the main road, past the theater and the auto parts place, took a left and cut through the apartments. On the other side he took a right, cutting the corner through the convenience store lot, crushing an empty orange and green hotdog box as he went. A hundred yards farther on he coasted down a long steep hill and the trucks on his board began to vibrate.

She’s gotta already know I’ve got a thing for her. But if she doesn’t, she’ll know after I sweated for forty-five minutes to get there. I don’t think she even likes me that much. Maybe I can get her to ask her Dad to give me a ride home.

At the bottom of the hill he stopped to check his phone before beginning his summit of the last hill.

< Sellie: Waiting in mega lines with people who smell >

< Sellie: you’re coming? It’s too far. >

< Sellie: Don’t come its too far. >

< Sellie: nEveRmiND *bored* waiting in line w/ dad for grandmas sheets SEND HELP  >

< Sellie: Why don’t you answer? >

< Me: LMAO OTW >

Ergie put the phone back in his pocket and began his long trudge up the concrete mountain. At the top, in the distance, he could see the first stoplight and the big sign. Ignoring the phone for the sake of speed, ten minutes later he arrived. He knew where she’d be. The fastest way was to take the back way, by the loading docks. Dropping his board at a trot, jumping on like a hobo onto a flatcar, he cruised around the rear of the mall.

Out of the corner of his eye, between the rows of parked semi-trucks, a dog ran past. An excited young voice echoed to him down through the trailers, speaking in what might have been a foreign language, followed by a yipping bark. Ergie leaned over hard and spun his board around, squatting down to pass beneath a trailer, popped up on the other side. A kid was stuffing a can of spray paint into a tattered backpack, but the dog was nowhere in sight.

You okay? Ergie called rolling up.

Fine, the kid said. He was maybe fifteen, his hair black and a total mess. The dark paint on his fingernails was well peeled.

Cool, I thought that dog was attacking you or something, I heard you cussin’.

I sprayed him and he ran off, the kid said.

Please have your pet sprayed or neutered, that’s what I always say, Ergie said.

Huh?

"Sprayed, spayed, have your pet…get it? It’s called a pun," Ergie said.

Ah. Hilarious.

Thanks. Haven’t seen you around before. Ergie detected the smell of paint. On the corner of the building he could see an elaborately painted design, bright red, still dripping. Sweet art.

Thanks, yeah, just moved here. I’m Zack.

That’s what’s cool graffiti-kid, but my name’s Ergie, and I gotta split. Seeya ‘round.

Zack smiled at Ergie’s strange rhyme. Peace, he said.

The dog sat by the brick wall bordering the loading dock lot watching them. Hopping back onto his skateboard, Ergie zoomed around the side of the mall past the dark storefront of an empty unit. There was still one sign in the window that said Out of Business Sale. He kept going, wound his way around still further to the main entrance.

At the wide bank of a dozen doors Ergie crammed his helmet in to his backpack and zipped it up. A tremendous woman in a sweater the color of an electric green safety vest was struggling to get her baby, swathed three blankets deep in a high-tech three-wheeled stroller, through one of the entries. Ergie reached over and hit the big square handicapped button. The door opened slowly for her. The lady and her baby went through without acknowledgment.

You’re welcome, Ergie said under his breath, and went in after her, his skateboard tucked under his arm.

The smells of the food court caught him a little off guard, tempting him immediately with pizza, chicken nuggets, mass market Chinese, and ice cream, an unbridled symphony of MSG, trans fats, and sugar in all its glory. Reflexively he reached into his pocket to see how much money he had. He pulled out two one-dollar bills, glanced at them, and crammed them back, disappointed in his reaction. He grunted in self-disappointment. He knew the food was bad for him, hated everything about it from the preparation to the advertising, but also knew that if he had found a five-dollar bill he would probably have gotten something.

He looked up. The huge lady in the safety green sweater had disappeared into the throng, not that he cared. He was trying to get his bearings. Sellie was near the Happy Kitchen store, and he had no idea on which end of the mall, or on which floor, Happy Kitchen could be found. The lights of a tall almond-shaped kiosk, the mall guide, shone in the distance. He headed that way.

Several times he had to turn sideways to get through groups of teens locked in very important conversations while in line for food. One kid, maybe twelve, stood in the Philly-steak line with a red carton of chicken nuggets in his hand, munching away under his expensive, football-logoed hat, its brim a perfectly flat plane directly over his eyebrows. His friend, sporting an oversized basketball jersey over a very retro velour track suit, gave him a playful shove that sent his nuggets flying.

Dick-wad!

Doofus!

Flat-topped grills and deep fat fryers sizzled and popped behind the murmuring voices, spitting out clouds of steamy, grease-infused air into the mall’s atmosphere. Up on the roof a massive system of fans, condensers, and pumps thrummed to process it all and failed. The mall’s ecosystem transformed grease into to money and back again, giving off body heat and sweat in the process. The floor was slightly slippery from humidity and oil.

Wearing a matching green cap and polo with the mega-mall logo proudly emblazoned upon them – two interlocking circles with the vertical eye shape in the center inhabited by a stylized pineapple – a man barely five feet tall tugged a translucent whitish bag of trash from a square, swing-lidded bin. As the man lifted it up, Ergie saw the accumulated brown liquid in the bottom of the bag, a mixture of soda from half-empty discarded cups, ketchup, melted ice cream and frozen yogurt. It left a trail as he dragged it to his big gray-plastic hopper and piled it on top. Previous splashes of the muck had dried solid in teardrop-shaped spots on his khakis and black tennis shoes. His shirt and hat were immaculate.

Ergie stepped over the sticky trail and went to the lighted kiosk that held the mall guide. A mall cop stood beside it in his uniform, a white shirt and dark blue pants. The milky polyester fabric was stretched tightly across his chest. A silver bar tacked over the pocket read SPIELREIN. His face and neck were puffy and red, almost purple around the collar; his eyebrows and lashes were so blond he seemed to have none. Ergie figured he would look more authoritative if he pulled his cap down in front instead of letting it rest so far back on his head. A few wispy translucent hairs struggled on his forehead just under the brim. He might have been thirty years old or fifty. Ergie couldn’t tell.

No skateboarding in the mall, young fellow, the guard said without investment. It wasn’t that he particularly objected, Ergie thought, it was just something for him to say, something for him to do. He spoke to Ergie as if he was twelve instead of almost sixteen.

Got it, Ergie said, No boarding.

Anywhere on the property. Understood? The fetus of a smile stirred in the womb of the man’s face but he seemed unable to give birth to it, to let it take a breath and begin its life.

Yes sir, Ergie said, vaguely aware of the pity that had crept into his tone.

What store are you looking for kid?

Happy Kitchen. Do you know where that is?

Sure. East Wing, that way, second floor, about two-thirds of the way down.

Thanks, Ergie said. He smiled naturally, he couldn’t help it. Thanks a lot.

Stay out of trouble.

You too, Ergie said and smiled, a little wider this time.

The big man snorted. Then it shuddered forth reluctantly, haltingly, covered in mall-muck but still alive after all; he shot Ergie a lopsided smirk and his belly shook.

I’ll give it a shot, kid, he said.

Resisting the temptation to drop onto his board, Ergie trudged on. Walking seemed slow after riding. It would not have worked in these crowds anyway. He went to the right side, where the flow seemed to be more eastbound, and merged into the crush. A smog bank of perfume from the candle warehouse engulfed him as he passed by, only to be replaced by a blast of body odor that reeked of musky chicken soup and old urine. He glanced around furtively but nobody fit the bill.

At the massive stairway he split off from the flow. As he approached from the side he saw his reflection in the thick greenish glass panels that prevented shoppers from falling off the steps. He looked away, made a fish-hook turn, and started climbing.

Hey, look who’s here!

Ergie looked up and immediately stopped. Two boys were trotting down the steps, Billy and Pratik from homeroom.

What’s up Iggy? Pratik said. He bit the point of his tongue so that its dark tip was showing, and he laughed through his teeth. He was concentrating, trying to think of something smart to say, shot a glance at Billy to see if his buddy had anything.

Read any good books lately? Billy asked, giggling and poking an elbow at Pratik to punctuate his remark.

Hey guys, what’s up? Ergie said, and swallowed spit.

The two boys came down side-by-side and two steps at a time, taking up the stairs as if he wasn’t there. Ergie flattened himself against the glass but still Pratik slammed shoulders with him as he passed.

Seeya round Sheldon! Billy hollered.

Buhzinga! added Pratik, and they were gone.

Ergie resumed his march up the steps. At the top he surveyed the territory for further hostiles and looked for Happy Kitchen. He didn’t see it, assumed it was further down. He headed that way, switching his skateboard from his right hand to his left.

It was less crowded up here and there were no mall cops in sight. Again he fought the urge to put his wheels on the ground and speed off. With his board under him he could do anything, go anywhere, take part in his landscape on his terms. He could only be slammed, smashed, or hurt as a result of a mistake he made. Every curb or a park bench he ground his board upon was his friend and confidant, every retaining wall he lept from was a teammate in an adventure. If he scuffed a knee or sanded a palm, he smiled and took his lumps. He could take that kind of thing from friends and