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Prologue
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"Wherefore, O Judges, be of good cheer about death, and know this of a truth - that no evil can happen to a good man, either in life or after death. He and his are not neglected by the Gods; nor has my own approaching end happened by mere chance."
Socrates speaking in the "Apologia" -Plato
PROLOGUE, Scene 1. INT. A professor's library study. Germany 1890's. Night.
The study is dark save for the light from one large glass domed kerosene lantern. The room is panneled in heavy rich mahogany. Bookshelves line the walls almost to the top of the twelve foot ceiling. A tall floor to ceiling window, its curtains drawn back to reveal the moonlight spilling across the outer grounds, towers beside a massive wooden desk. The legs, handles and corners of the desk are carved in an ornate scroll pattern characteristic of high Victorian furniture. Near the opposite side of the desk, on a wall facing the window, a fireplace with fire blazing casts bizarre shadows across the chamber.
Standing behind the desk in front of a large chair is Dr. Anton FURTWANGLER, Professor of Archeology at the University of Munich. He is old, tall (over six feet two inches) but frail from advanced disease. His hands have a slight tremor but his blue eyes sparkle, evidence of a mind still sharp and alert. He is dressed in nightclothes and a heavy woolen robe.
On the desk in front of him are scattered papers and a small pile of what appears to be individual sheets of parchment. Some are curled as if they have been rolled up like scolls. Others lie flat on the desk. Next to the pile is a modest wood box without a top. Dr. Furtwangler bends down and gently places the individual sheets of parchment, one at a time, into the box. When he has finished, he drops, exhausted, into the chair behind the desk and sits motionless. His breathing is slow and labored.
The maid, HELENA, enters the study.
HELENA
Herr Furtwangler! What are you doing out of your bed! The Doctor specifically ordered you...
FURTWANGLER
(interrupting)
Stop fussing. I'm fine, Helena.
HELENA
You are *not* fine, sir! You'll be the death of yourself... and me as well! You must return to your bed. Your son will be home in three days and he can take care of all these filthy old papers.
FURTWANGLER
I'll just be a moment more. I must finish up a few things with these documents.
HELENA
Always it's papers! These dirty old scraps, look at the mess they make of your desk. Honestly, Herr Furtwangler, I don't know what you see in all these filthy things.
FURTWANGLER
(sadly, staring out the window)
They are the last records of the past, Helena. The marks on these manuscripts are the final surviving manifestations of a writer's soul.
HELENA
Pfoo! Well if you ask me, it's all the past and the past is dead. And you will be too, if you don't come back to your bed.
FURTWANGLER
(firmly)
Helena... in a few moments. Stop back in five minutes and I'll be done.
HELENA
Well, five minutes then and not one second more!
Helena sweeps out of the study. Furtwangler leans forward on the desk and draws out a sheet of writing paper. He reaches for a pen and bottle of ink and begins writing.
FURTWANGLER (in voice over as he writes)
"My dearest Wilhelm,
In case your arrival is delayed or if I must depart this life before I see you, I wish to share a few last instructions. Most of my affairs, while on the surface chaotic, underneath that impression you should find in good order.
One final item, however, requires your attention. I am concerned about the manuscripts in the wooden box on my desk. They are Latin transcriptions of fragments from much older documents, possibly the Book of Thoth, The Book of the Dead, and the Luxor Necropolis Texts. Their contents are disturbing, apparently pieces of spells pertaining to soul transferral and pathways to the underworld. I know you do not share my concern for such things, but they could be dangerous if they fell into the wrong hands.
I would ask you to forward them under safe seal to Dr. Theodore Momsen at the University of Heidelberg. I thank you for your diligence in this matter.
There is nothing more to say. I await your arrival in hopes that this letter will prove unnecessary. If that is fated not to be the case, then I will remain eternally,
Your loving father,
Anton Furtwangler"
Furtwangler leans back in the chair, his breathing becoming more labored with each passing moment. He folds the letter and sets it back on the desk. After a minute, he reaches into his robe pocket and pulls out two small blue Egyptian scarabs. He holds them in his open palm and gazes at their delicate carving.
FURTWANGLER
(quietly to himself)
Farewell, little friends. I release you. I give you one final charge, to serve your next owner as faithfully as you have me.
Furtwangler places the two scarab stones on the desk near the box of manuscripts. He breathes deeply, closes his eyes and leans back in the chair once more. His head tips forward as if he were falling asleep. The fire crackles in the fireplace, and the shadows dance across the bookshelves.
The scene slowly dissolves into PROLOGUE, Scene 2.
PROLOGUE, Scene 2, INT. The study, two days later.
It is mid morning. The chair behind the desk is now empty. A fire is burning in the fireplace. The box of manuscripts is still on the desk. Visible outside through the window, a horse drawn hearse bearing a coffin enshrouded in flowers waits in the driveway.
Helena enters the study, bustling about and straightening the furniture. She comes up to the desk and sighs in disgust. She picks up the two little scarabs sitting loosely on the desk and drops them into a drawer. She then sweeps into her arms all the loose papers including the letter Dr. Furtwangler penned to his son. With no regard for what she is holding, she tosses the entire armful into the fire. She then busies herself tidying up the study once more. Only the box of manuscripts, like a lonely sentinel, remains on the desk.
Outside through the window, the hearse, followed by other carriages filled with mourners in black, rolls down the long driveway. The CLOP CLOP of the horses' hooves on the cobblestones and the GRATING NOISE of the iron rimmed hearse wheels on the stones pierce through the gentle morning breeze. As the hearse disappears from view, the scene slowly dissolves into ACT 1, Scene 1.
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