Chapter 2

Alexander Cameron never met a historical mystery that he didn’t have the urge to untangle. In his youth, he had few friends, preferring instead the company of his restless self. At times, he engaged with other kids, but he would quickly distance himself from them after only weeks, seeking refuge in his own thoughts and privacy. The games or activities they engaged in seemed pointless and confusing, so he found himself surrounded instead by puzzles and books, things he could do independently.

His love of history began in fourth grade, with his report on Amelia Earhart. Her life was compelling enough: her accomplishments, her willingness to challenge social expectations. But the final page of the book he read grasped him in a way his young mind couldn’t articulate.

“Nobody knows.”

That phrase - followed, of course, by a description of the uncertainty of Earhart’s fate - stared at him like a spiraling depth. Nobody knows. The whole of humanity, billions of people and all their collective knowledge and experience, standing on one side of a shroud hanging somewhere between the past and the present, with the truth on the other side, cloaked in darkness. There was a truth. Something had, factually, happened to her. Maybe it was as mundane as a plane crash, or as extraordinary as an alien abduction. It didn’t matter. What mattered wasn’t whether Earhart’s destiny was anything interesting, but the fact that nobody knows. And young Alex felt the urge to tear ravenously at that shroud, wondering if he could shine light on the hidden truth.

As an only child, conceived despite doctors claiming it was impossible, Alex was his parents’ raison d’être. Their entire life’s energy was centered around fostering his curiosity, enriching him, supporting him. They were committed to not spoiling him materially, but they gave him the entirety of their attention. When he was 11, his father came home with a book. Alex can still remember flipping pages, examining the bizarre drawings and incomprehensible characters. His young, creative imagination began crafting possibilities, entire universes that would explain the oddity in his hands.

“What is this?” he asked his father.

“It’s called the Voynich Manuscript.”

“I can’t read this.”

“Nobody can. It’s from hundreds of years ago and nobody knows what it means.”

Alex can still remember the feeling of the old shag carpeting of his house, un-remodeled since the 70s, that he laid down on that night as his parents watched the news. He had a notebook in one hand, flipped through page by page, and noted down any thought he had on the mysterious text. There was no logic or organization to his notes. They were a stream of consciousness comprehensible only to him. He felt like he was riding a wave or circling in a whirlpool into a dark past, and he made no attempt to swim against the current.