1676 was a year of extremes.
Scientists like Ole Romer and Anton van Leeuwenhoek were measuring the speed of light and fixing it at three-hundred thousand kilometres per second, and describing a microorganism for the first time, pushing the scientific envelope further than it had ever been. And at the same time, a Benedictine nun in Sicily was receiving messages from the Devil himself, in the form of an inky ethereal communiqué.
Sister Maria Crocifissa della Concezione’s message, received while she lay on the stone-slab floor of her shadowy cell, was apparently created by the Devil, who determined that a tangled combination of Greek, Latin, Runic, and Arabic characters would be the perfect language form in which to conjure his dismal message on paper and on the nun herself, suggesting that Satan was linguistically-blessed and fond of a conundrum, or that Sister Maria was good at languages but not entirely well.
Either way, the piece remained indecipherable for centuries, so that no inkling of the inking or gobbledygook on her garbs, or hogwash on the habit which was her habit to inhabit could be found. They may have had more luck with the pellet with the poison and the flagon with the dragon, or the vessel with the pestle with the brew that is true.
It was not the first or last time that a piece of ‘writing’ has been deemed indecipherable, of course.
Sir Arthur Evans, an archaeologist with a love of a good bargain, bought a stone that contained two distinct inscriptions in a flea market, in 1893. That a renowned archaeologist finds one of his greatest pieces on a market stall one Sunday, after a cream tea and a ride in the Rover, is ironic. One of those inscriptions, what he called Linear A, has still not been understood.
The letter, which Sister Maria grasped in her indigo-stained fingers when she was found, having not come to the refectory for prayer and meditation and a bowl of wholesome gruel, was just fourteen incomprehensible lines long. She said, once she’d been lifted up from the cold floor, that the letter had been written by the Devil himself, in his vain but gallant hope or turning her away from an imagined good, or god, to an imagined evil, or devil. The letter, among other blasphemous moments of sensible clarity, described the holy trinity of God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit as ‘dead weights’, which we now know thanks to an algorithm that managed to work out what the message said.
That algorithm wasn’t available to a group of lumberjacks who, amid the blossoming new jazz scene and risqué social conventions of the Roaring Twenties, stumbled across a Bulgarian cliff with odd marks carved upon it. Local archeologists and amateur linguistic sleuths investigated, but no decryption of the writing could be achieved, and so copies of the text were sent to experts around the world. Unfortunately for one scholar, whose communication was intercepted by the authorities and taken to be some elaborate coded message of espionage or rebellion, execution followed.
Even as his poor mother grieved at his funeral, placing grave goods at his feet and head, and turning his body in a roughly east to west alignment, linguists couldn’t decide whether the text that had got him killed was written in Thracian, Celtic, Sarmato-Alanian, or Slavic, and to this day no-one ever has.
The algorithm, which is the result of an diligently-inputted combination of syllables, graphisms, symbols, and vowels, and their relative order, produced a ‘refined decryption’ process for the message. It found that the text is, in essence, a rant against what Sister Maria was condemned to, a life of piety and promised salvation.
In one passage she says - sorry, the Devil says - that ‘God thinks he can free mortals .. the system works for no one .. perhaps now, Styx [the river of hate in Rom