The Mysterious Last Words of J.E. Thevenin

My name is Jimmy Thevenin. The story I am about to tell you began more than 250 years ago, but for much of that time was hidden away in private archives, museum collections, and dusty closets. It is not a story in a traditional sense. It has no obvious plot. It has a beginning, but no end. And it is told in ciphers, riddles, and clues. Over the years I have taken to calling it the Thevenin Cipher, but the mystery described in these pages did not begin with me. Its name was determined long ago by one of my ancestors. My part didn’t come about until 1993.

I was a young man attending college at a small university in West Virginia. It was late at night and there was a knock on the door of my apartment. I lived just off 6th Avenue. The area was popular with students, but had its fair share of malcontents, partyers, and drunks. I left the chain on and cracked the door two inches. There was a man dressed in a three-piece suit. His grey hair was slicked back like he was some sort of Gordon Gekko wannabe from Wall Street. He was holding a brown hardshell attaché case like the one my father carried when I was just a kid. Very old school.

“Yes?” I said.

“Mr. Jimmy Thevenin?” the man replied as he took off his horn-rimmed glasses and tucked them in the breast pocket of his suit.

“Yeah?”

He handed me his business card. “My name is Robert McIntosh.  I am an attorney with the firm Fitzgibbon, Riley, and Marsh. I have a matter I need to discuss. May I come in?”

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw empty pizza boxes, crushed cans of Jolt Cola, and beer bottles discarded around the room. Books, marginally clean clothes, and a pile of dusty mail spilled over the edges of the kitchen table. “Uh, what’s this about?”

“I assure you that it will be of interest,” he replied.

I saw no one else lurking about so I swung the door open. “Okay, come on in.” He stepped in and assessed the room as I moved a stack of dirty clothes from an old recliner. “Please, take a seat.”

I sat across from him on the couch. He smiled the way adults do when they pass judgement but say nothing. Perched on the edge of the chair, he placed the attaché in his lap and rolled the tumblers on the three-dial combination lock with his thumb. “Thank you. This won’t take long.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

The two metal clasps on the front of the case popped and he awkwardly opened it while trying to keep it from sliding off his lap. Looking over the lid, he squinted slightly as he considered the question. “No, I am here on a matter involving a member of your family.”

My mind raced through the possibilities but settled on the obvious choice in my mind. “Oh, are my parents getting divorced?”

He closed the lid and placed a thin cardboard box on the top. “I do not handle divorces. You might ask your mother or father if you have concerns about that. I have no knowledge of the matter.”

His answer sounded exactly like something a lawyer would say. That joke about one-hundred lawyers at the bottom of the sea popped into my head, but I let it pass. “What kind of lawyer are you?”

“Business, estate planning, and special services for very exclusive clients.”

“I don’t understand.”

He folded his hands on the cardboard box and exhaled slightly. “Your great-uncle, Mr. J.E. Thevenin is, was, a client of mine.”

I shook my head. “I didn’t know I had a great-uncle that was still alive. My parents never said anything.”

“Yes, well, he was estranged from your great-uncle long before your father was born. I believe the rest of your family was told J.E. passed away in the late 1960s.”

“So, he didn’t?”

McIntosh suppressed a chuckle as he placed the box on the coffee table and set his attaché case upright on the floor beside the chair. “No, he most certainly did not. Your great-uncle lived to the age of one hundred. He died in his sleep in 1985.”

“Eight years ago?”

“Yes.”

“Do my parents know?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Thevenin left clear instructions that I was to not inform any family members except you. And I was to not do that until you reached your twenty-first birthday.”

“That was yesterday.”

“Yes,” McIntosh said as he looked around the room, “I am aware.”

“Why me instead of my father or grandfather?”

McIntosh cleared his throat. “Well, he believed, in his words, that a lack of common sense takes at least two generations to breed itself out. You were his ‘last hope.’” He paused for a moment. “I must say that your performance in school has proven his faith in you was correct.”

“How would you know that?”

“We have been watching.”

“You spied on me for eight years?”

“Yes.”

“For fun?”

“J.E. left a sizable estate. I am a trustee. Our fees were provided for.” He tapped his finger on the box and seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. A slight smile formed in the corner of his pursed lips. “Your decision to major in history is fortuitous.”

“Fortuitous?”

“Something that implies a positive or lucky outcome,” he said as he smoothed his tie, offering a thin, tight smile.

“I know what it means. I meant why is it fortuitous that I major in history?”

“You will see. J.E. left a letter that explains things rather well. I once asked him how much information I should provide when you and I first meet. His reply was simple, ‘Don’t tell him anything, if he can’t figure this out on his own, he’s just as dumb as his grandfather, and doesn’t deserve what’s coming.’” McIntosh continued to tap his fingers on the box. “Besides being quite wealthy, your great-uncle was harshly blunt at times.”

I sat up a little straighter. “So, what’s coming?”

“That is not for me to say,” he replied and handed me the box. “Everything he wanted you to know is contained in this archive. It is somewhat disorganized for my liking, but that’s the way he wanted it. There is a cover letter addressed to you on top. At this point, that is all the information I can provide.”

McIntosh stood, put his glasses on, picked up his attaché case and went to the front door. Still seated on the couch, I looked back and forth at him and the box. “Wait, is that it?”

“Yes,” he answered as he placed his hand on the doorknob.

I jumped over the back of the couch to stop him from leaving. “Aren’t you going to wait and let me open it?”

“No, my role in this matter is complete.”

“But what if I have questions?”

He opened the door. “Well, Mr. Thevenin, I guess it’s just like your great-uncle said, ‘you are on your own.’”

With that, Robert McIntosh, Esquire, stepped out of my apartment, down the steps, and disappeared into the night. I felt the weight of the box in my hand and slowly closed the door. Walking back to the couch, I sat down, swept the empty pizza boxes off the coffee table and set the box in front of me. It was black, one-inch thick, and just wide and long enough to fit a stack of unfolded notebook paper inside. The initials, J.E.T. were foil stamped on the outside.

The blue neon glow of the Bud Light clock on the wall showed nine o’clock. I found the remote between the couch cushions and turned on the T.V. The X-Files theme was just beginning to play. It seemed like an appropriate soundtrack for the moment. I gently shook the box and felt the lid start to slip. The suction gave way and the lower half of the box plopped down on the table. Inside, the first item was a notecard:

Letter of Instruction

The following Letter of Instruction and archive are part of the estate files of Mr. J.E. Thevenin. It was his wish that the contents of this box be provided to you immediately following your twenty-first birthday. His reasons are explained below. Other than what is contained herein, I can provide no further information on the subject.

It was signed in blue ink, “Robert McIntosh, Esquire, September 10, 1993.” I flipped it over and looked at the back of the card. It was blank. I tossed it in the upturned lid of the box.

The next document was a yellowed piece of cotton fiber paper with evenly spaced lines of cursive handwriting. It was addressed to me:

Dear Jimmy,

                My name is James Ernest Thevenin, and I am your great-uncle. Seven generations ago, one of our ancestors, Henri Thevenin, was a scout, frontier trader, and ranger on the Virginia Frontier. Between 1774 and 1783, prior-to and during the American Revolution, he witnessed a remarkable series of events that foretold a great adventure. Many of those events, and their significance, remain secret to this day, protected by the ciphers and riddles recorded on the pages in this box.

                I spent a lifetime gathering these clues, but my age and an unexpected illness robbed me of the opportunity to solve the puzzle on my own. My hope is that you will take this cryptic assortment of codes and riddles and continue my work. Discover the mystery that Henri Thevenin left behind for our family.

                You are holding much more than a collection of random documents; combined, they are the key. I did the hard work for you, kid. Gathering the clues took decades. Here you have everything you need to discover Henri Thevenin’s secrets. This is a puzzle box of ink and paper, its entries ending not with conclusions, but with ciphers, riddles, and the cryptic instructions our ancestors left behind a very long time ago. Keep them secret. Keep them safe.

                I believe that Henri left a great truth hidden somewhere along the westward road from Virginia’s colonial capital. I believe it is a truth that can only be understood by walking the path he took all those years ago. This is a breadcrumb trail leading from the heart of British power in Virginia to the raw, untamed frontier of what is now West Virginia. The clues point to at least seventeen different stops.  Each location is a piece of the puzzle, each challenge, a test of your observation and intellect.

                I am presenting to you an opportunity to follow in Henri’s footsteps. Use these clues to navigate the historical landscape. Solve the puzzles left at each stop to unlock the location of the next and discover whatever truth he left out on the frontier. By engaging with the facts on the ground—by becoming Henri Thevenin yourself—you will uncover the final secrets this archive holds.

I wish you luck. May God grant you success and safe travels.

J.E. Thevenin

1985

 P.S. Tell your grandfather he is still an idiot.

I reread the letter twice and placed it in the lid with McIntire’s note. The next item was typed on the letterhead of Fitzgibbon, Riley, and Marsh:

Mr. Thevenin,

                While the contents of this box are exactly how J.E. Thevenin left them, there are some valuable resources beyond these papers that could help you on your journey. Your great-uncle firmly believed that Freemasons and other groups would continue to leave clues hidden in plain sight. In addition to many other things, I was instructed to keep an eye out for books, films, or other public information that contained certain keywords, or were written about very specific topics.

                There are a series of novels that fit this requirement.  Interestingly, Mr. Henri Thevenin himself, the original author of this great quest, is a major character in the books. As such, they are likely to have hidden details and backstories that will add context and solutions to the riddles and ciphers contained in this box.

                To prepare for your quest, I strongly suggest familiarizing yourself with the novels Through the Fading Darkness, Beyond the Fading Darkness, and Winter’s Ghosts. I preferred the audiobook editions. They will provide rich, emotional context as you go about solving your great-uncle’s mystery.

R.M., Esquire.

I put the note down. Robert McIntire knew a great deal more than what he let on.  I hate lawyers.

The rest of the box’s contents were a collection of maps, handwritten notes, and four thick envelopes. Each one had a title written on it: Dunmore, High Country, River, and Battle. At the bottom, there was a small green pouch with a drawstring that was tied in a knot. I had to use my teeth to open it. Inside, there was an old looking compass, a piece of semi-transparent paper with a jagged line on it, and a key with a tag on it.

I put the other items back in the box and examined the tag and key more closely. Both were newer than most of the other items and were attached by a flimsy yellow string. The key looked like any other modern key but was smaller than a standard door key. It was brass but time had turned it a dull, dark golden brown. The tag was about the size of a business card. It was frayed and yellow. There was faded handwriting on one side: 1900 3^rd Avenue, Huntington, WV 25703.

I thought about the address. It was just a few blocks away; a bank across the street from a bar called Mycroft’s. I knew it well. I dangled the key by the string and then looked at the contents of the box. “I gotta call Maggie.”