The Old Painting

“What is that?”

I looked over from the kitchen counter where I was mixing the drinks. Sarah, the exceptionally attractive co-ed I’d met at the bar that night, was standing in front of the fireplace and looking at the picture that hung above the mantle.

“Oh that? That’s the picture painted by my dearly departed and totally insane great grandmother.”

“Insane?” She quirked an eyebrow at me as I walked over and handed her the rum and Coke.

“Yeah, according to family history, she kind of lost it when my great grandfather got inducted into the army. She painted that in the insane asylum about three months before she died. He was in the 101st Airborne and was killed in action about six months later.”

“Why do you think she was insane?”

“Well, just look at it,” I said. “The thing makes no sense.”

It was a picture of a black obelisk outlined in red flames. The front of it was covered with strange white squiggles from the top to the bottom. The effect was definitely striking, and the squiggles did have a pattern that suggested writing of some sort, but it was in no language any of us had ever seen.

“Was your great grandmother a student of ancient languages?”

“No, just a typical 1940’s housewife. I think she only had a sixth grade education. Why do you ask?”

“Because that looks a lot like Sumerian cuneiform.”

“Come again?”

“You know I’m majoring in ancient languages, right?”

“Sure, of course, I remember you telling me,” I said. I actually hadn’t remembered, as my mind had been on other things, mainly the curves under her tight blouse, but I wasn’t about to admit it.

“Well, I’m telling you Bob, that is cuneiform.”

“Are you saying you can actually read it?”

“Maybe. I’ve got an app to help translate,” she said, pulling out her phone. “Take that down and bring it over to your kitchen table and I’ll take a look.”

“You really don’t have to do that. I mean, it’s probably just nonsense,” I said. I definitely had other things I’d rather be doing with her than translating the oddball scrawls of a late insane relative, but she just grinned at me and said, “Come on, it ‘ll be fun.”

I sighed and took the painting down and brought it over to the table. She also had me get her a pen and pad of paper, and she sat down and started pouring over the writing. She barely touched her drink, which despite what those of a suspicious nature might think, really did only contain rum and Coke. I sat at the table across from her, sipping dejectedly.

“This is interesting,” she said after about twenty minutes.

“Did you actually find something?”

“I translated the first few lines, and they are actual words.”

“Really?” I asked, interested in spite of myself. “What does it say?”

“Alas, he whom I love shall not return. In the garden marketplace shall he meet his fate.”

I stopped breathing. The drink slipped from my hand and spilled on the floor, but I didn’t even notice. Sarah’s eyes widened as she saw the look on my face.

“Bob, are you okay?”

“That’s impossible.”

“What is?”

“My great grandfather. The battle he was killed in was the battle for the Arnhem bridge. Operation Market Garden.” Now it was her turn to look shocked.

“Didn’t you say she painted this…”

“Nine months before he died, yes.”

“But that’s, that’s…” She took a hefty gulp of her own drink.

“Okay, that might be a coincidence,” I said, without much conviction. “What else does it say?”

She bent once again to her work. A few minutes later she had more done.

“My son shall have two of his own, before he is consumed by the crab.”

“My grandfather had two children. He died of cancer. Cancer the crab.”

“The girl shall bear naught, being a bride of the divine, until her heart gives way. The boy shall have one and find his end in a clash of steel.”

“My aunt was a nun. She died of a heart attack. My father was killed in a car crash. I’m an only child.”

We sat back and stared at each other. By this time I had refilled my glass, emptied it, and filled it again. She just sat there looking shocked.

“Is there more?” I asked.

“Yes, a bit more.”

“What does it say?”

“Are you sure you want to…”

“Yes, yes, just finish it!”

She bent her head once more. A few minutes later she was done.

“He who is left may yet a venerable age attain, should he not fly to the eagle’s nest.”

“Next week, I’m scheduled to fly to Washington, DC,” I said slowly. “Could that be what she’s talking about?”

“I don’t know, but if I were you, I’d cancel that flight.”

“Yeah, there’s no way I’m going now.”

So I did cancel my flight. I was not on American Airlines Flight 5342 when it collided with a Black Hawk helicopter over the Potomac river and all 64 on board were killed. It would have been 65 if not for my great grandmother, who maybe wasn’t so crazy after all.