My first post!

I’m Beth Satyre, and I’m now a web logger! I’ve never done anything like this before, so bear with me!

For my sons, my aunt, and any Satyres who are still around and yet to come, I’ve decided to bring together all the materials left to me from my mom Norma, and everything else I can find, and build a family tree.

There’s a lot to go through, so I don’t know how long it will take. But as my pal Judy pointed out, I have plenty of time on my hands, and I already feel much more excited than sitting around watching HGTV!

Special thanks to my old friend Peter, who helped me get the site set up. I'll be seeing you again soon Peter, as I have a lot of trips to the library in store!

I got everything out of the storage shed across town yesterday, and today I finished bringing down boxes from the attic. The first box I opened, I found several old shoeboxes of old papers. My mother kept everything. Receipts, recipes, and (thankfully) her parents’ letters.

One from 1947, my grandfather writing from a hospital after the war. He signed it “Yours always, Sam.” He was never much of a talker when I knew him. Hard to imagine him young and in love. Funny how people leave ghosts in paper.

Talked to my older son today. He’s in Seattle now. Said the rain hasn’t stopped in three weeks, but he likes his job. He teased me for starting a blog, said, “Next you’ll be on Twitter, Mom.”

My younger one’s still in college, still eating ramen and calling only when he needs laundry advice. Some things never change.

I miss them both so much. Sometimes I catch myself setting two extra plates at dinner.

Took the opportunity to go through and organize important documents; birth certificates, etc. Finding my own brought back a flood of emotions. Born 1961, named after my grandma Elizabeth. Lot of life lived, but still plenty more to go.

Found my parents’ wedding photo. 1959. Dad looks so handsome in his ill-fitting suit. Mom’s eyes are soft but serious. Grandma looking so proud.

I can still picture Grandma’s kitchen. Brown linoleum floor, red checkered curtains. She always had a pot of coffee going.

She used to tell me we came from “old adventuring stock.” I thought she meant cowboys. Maybe she just meant stubborn. Wish I could ask her now.

I got to the box of Jim’s stuff. It wasn’t labeled, so I knew it would happen sooner or later. I set it aside, maybe I'll come back to it someday.

I made my first trip back to the library. Peter was working at the desk as always. I think he was impressed that I've been keeping the site updated without calling him for help. So am I, to be honest!

They have a whole genealogy section tucked in the back. Spent two hours with my nose in census records. The names blur together, but when I found “Satyre” in the 1910 records, my chest tightened. Proof that we were here.

It’s a little addicting.

I wish the boys were interested in learning about their family’s history, but I didn’t really expect them to be. But maybe someday they’ll want to learn, and this will be here for them.

Tonight I tried to print out some of the census records I found on the internet. My old printer chewed the paper and spit it back like a dog with homework. So now there’s half a page of “SATY—” crumpled up on my desk.

That made me cry. Isn’t that ridiculous? Sometimes when I’m alone, the smallest things feel heavier.

Back to the library today. I told Peter about my printer misadventure, and he helped me find (and work) the library’s computer room. It has a printer, and a document scanner. It’s kind of a sad little room, with a single fluorescent light in the middle of the ceiling. It reminds me of the laundromat in my son’s dorm. The printer and scanner even take quarters to work, just like the laundry machines. At least it has a window.

I finally got my census records printed, and I think tomorrow I’ll start bringing in some of the stuff from home and scanning it in.

Called my aunt. She’s the last one left from my dad’s side. She told me stories I’d never heard before—like how my grandfather once tried to build a ham radio out of spare tractor parts.

I got a few more leads from her, which I’ll follow up on when I go back to the library.

Tracked down a newspaper clipping about Great-Uncle Frank. Apparently he ran for city council in 1938, on a platform of “less corruption, more sidewalks.” He lost.

The article said he was “colorful.” My aunt said he was “a drunk.” Truth is probably somewhere in between.

I think I’m all done with the 20th century. Soon we go back to jolly old England!

I had strange, vivid dreams last night. A ticking sound, and a low, soaring sound of bells ringing out over a desolate countryside. I woke up feeling like I was late for work. Remembering I was retired didn’t do much to help.

I might need to clear my head a bit.

First Valentine’s Day alone in 28 years. No roses on the counter, no champagne flutes. Just me and leftover lasagna.

I’ll get back to the project tomorrow. Looking backward feels easier than looking forward sometimes.

I’ve found something I never expected to find. We have a celebrity in the family!

I found him with Peter's help. His name was William Satyre. He’s definitely our ancestor, about seven generations before we came to America.

Peter ran a search for me in something called WorldCat. Basically a huge catalogue of everything serious libraries have. That’s where the first breadcrumb surfaced: a 19th-century index of pamphlets, which listed “The Relation of W. Satyre, Gent., concerning a voyage beyond the Azores.”

Once I had that clue, I chased down related abstracts and compilations from the same era and found this passage:

“The Relacion of Mr. W. Satyre, Gent. being newly retourned from ye West Ocean, after greate losse & perill, his shippe foundred upon a banke of Rocke, he yet escap’d unto a certaine Iland beyond the Azores. The People (as he saith) decay’d not in Flesh, but retain’d their prime in perpetuitie. He term’d it the Iland of Ever-Youth. He further reporteth that he abode there for the space of a Yeere full, finding a Cittie of great wonder, & a Castle of stone taller than any he had seen in Christendom, whose Towres did strike the Cloudes. The place was ruled by a King most Magnificent, of noble bearing & dread countenance, whose presence did so worke upon him that he felt as one Enchanted. Yet this King, discerning him a Stranger of Curiositie, did grant him Licence to depart, albeit most other Mariners (he hinted) would not be suffer’d to leave againe. This Relacion being utter’d before a company of learned Men in London, was receiv’d wth greate Doubte, and likened unto the Fables of Bimini or of Brasil.”

Other scraps confirm the story. Tiny mentions in later collections, one in Purchas His Pilgrimes (1625) that dismisses him in a single line: “Satyre, W. his vaunt of an Iland of perpetuall youth, not credited.” He had brought back some things he claimed to be from the island, mundane things like a dagger and some playing cards. He had no patron, and was unable to find funding for a second voyage. He died in his early forties, after fathering a son (also William), who carried on the line.

A famous swashbuckling explorer, can you believe it?

I couldn’t stop thinking about William last night. His description was so....haunting. I feel as if I’ve seen that place myself. The city of great wonder, the castle of stone taller than any in Christendom, whose towers did strike the clouds.

Spent the afternoon at Judy’s house. She made chicken salad and insisted we drink iced tea even though it’s cold out.

I told her about William. She got a real kick out of it. She couldn’t believe this simple family tree project had uncovered something so interesting. I think she’ll be researching her ancestry too now!

She asked me what I’ll do next, now that the project is over. I wasn’t sure what to say. Over? It feels like it’s just getting started.

I’ve inherited William’s quest, in some way. I feel...called.

I had strange dreams again last night.

This time I was sitting across from a man. Everyone in the village was afraid of him. But I wasn’t. I just felt sorry.

I laid out cards with trembling, wrinkled hands. Tarot cards. I remember hoping that he’d see the truth in the cards, and choose a different path. But somehow knowing he wouldn’t.

When I woke up, I wasn’t really sure if I felt like the old woman, or the cold man on the wrong path.

If I’m going to learn more about William and his island of ever-youth, I need a new approach.

For weeks, I’ve been going through hundreds and hundreds of websites all over the internet. I haven’t updated much, because I haven’t found anything really. But I’ve felt like I’m getting closer. Certain patterns keep coming up, certain ideas keep repeating.

Tonight, I’ve been going through forum pages on the Phantom Islands message board. It’s some pretty crazy, crackpot stuff on there. I had no idea there were so many people out there who believe Atlantis is real. I’ve been scrolling, and scrolling. And I swear, I was about to give up. I’ve had enough of reading the words of these strange, often vile people.

And then there it was, mixed in between more threads about Edgar Cayce and Heinrich Himmler: “Has anyone heard of William Sartyre”?

I swear, I felt time stop. My heart, my eyes, my hands, everything went cold.

Sartyre. Another misspelling! I realize now, I should have typed a few common misspellings into Google too, not just on WorldCat—I would have found this weeks ago.

The post was by someone named pietro9182. They say they found a book at their local library in Albuquerque called “Seafaring Tales” from 1934. They say they’ve never been able to find another copy anywhere. I searched for it on Google and found nothing either. I would believe it’s fake, except this person scanned every page, and a picture can’t lie.

And right there, on page 97, Chapter 5: William Sartyre. The entry described his voyage: a shipwreck, a strange island, another fountain of youth story. And, I read with a gasp, it mentioned that the book contained a map drawn by William himself.

Except… the page with the map had been torn out. In the scans, you can see a few shreds left from where it once was. I stared at that jagged tear on the scan until my eyes hurt. I wanted to reach through the screen and pull the map back out.

I printed each image out, that way they’re preserved on paper, safe and sound. And I looked over them, again and again. And then I finally noticed: on the first scanned page, just inside the cover, the library’s old borrowing card was still tucked in. Names scribbled in pencil, dates from decades ago. Only one name was visible above the top of the pouch: Robert Marten. 1973. I recognized that name. My stomach did a slow roll as I tried to remember. And then it hit me.

I dug back through the piles of photocopies from the library, the ones I’d made of William’s mentions in those brittle journals. The census books. All the borrowing cards and checkout records I have. And there it was. The same name. Again. And again.

Every book I’ve touched in this search, right there in the same meticulous pencil, is “Robert Marten, 1973.” How was he checking out books both from my library and in Albuquerque? And why?

Tomorrow, I’m going back to the library. I’m going to ask Peter about Robert Marten. Whoever he was, he was much more obsessed with William than I am. And I’m almost positive he’s the one who tore out that page.

I can hardly believe what we found.

When I got to the library, Peter was at the desk, right where I hoped he’d be. I showed him the cards, “Robert Marten, 1973,” whispering like I was in a spy movie. And to my relief, his face did exactly what mine had done: he blinked hard, leaned forward, and said, “Well, that’s…strange.”

I was worried he’d laugh, or think I’d gone crazy. Instead, he was just as curious as I was. What a relief!

I asked if he could check Robert Marten’s library record. He frowned, obviously about to explain to me that he was definitely not allowed to share private information about library patrons with complete strangers like me. But before he spoke, I...well, I’m still not sure what came over me. I felt like I just opened up my chest and poured my desperation into him through my eyes. It seemed to make an impact. He sighed, looked around cautiously, and whispered, “Alright, but only because I want to know too.” I hadn’t felt so happy in a long time.

He disappeared into the back, came out with a battered old card box. Ran his finger down, muttering. Then he stopped. Pulled one out. Held it up like a winning lottery ticket.

Robert Marten. Local address, Sycamore Drive. Registered 1968.

We immediately went to the microfiche machine. 1970 — “Local Engineer Honored For NASA Work.” 1971 — “Apollo Engineer Helps Scout Troop Build Computer.” There were pictures of him, the friendliest looking man you could imagine. He went by “Bob,” and was unmarried. There’s a photo of his garage, strange contraptions everywhere, with Bob pointing and the kids looking on in amazement.

But then, he showed up again in 1973. “Engineer Arrested After Reckless Driving Incident.” He’d been stopped tearing through downtown, nearly clipping a fruit stand. The quote from the officer: “Mr. Marten claimed he was being pursued by men in a van.”

Bob himself told the reporter, “They were in a black van, marked with a winged shield. They follow me everywhere.” The police assumed he’d had a breakdown.

And then — the last item. Just a grainy photo from 1974, tucked into the classifieds. “Estate Sale, Entire Contents, Robert Marten Residence.” The same garage, but now mostly empty, with piles of boxes stacked into the driveway. But what caught me was the background. In the black-and-white photo of his front yard, tables stacked with lamps and end tables, you can see it. Parked at the curb.

A black van. Logo of a winged shield.

Peter and I both leaned in until our heads nearly touched the screen. He whispered, “Do you see that?”

I nodded, my heart hammering.

I had more strange dreams last night, but gratefully I couldn’t remember them. I woke up eager to have another look at the photocopies from the library. Something about the garage...

...the picture of Bob with the scouts. He’s working with them on his strange looking tube machines. The garage is a mess. All over the walls are pinned papers. There’s charts, there’s diagrams, there’s...

I’m sure of it. It’s so small and blurry in the photo, but I can tell it’s a map of an odd piece of land, like a peninsula. And I can see that it’s the same shape as the Seafaring Tales book, and the left edge is jagged in the same pattern. It’s the torn out page. It’s the map.

And on it...are markings. Lines. Meeting up at a central point. Like a treasure map.

But there's just no way to make it out.

I spent the whole morning staring at the photo until my eyes got sore. Then I looked at the photo of the garage from the estate sale. That ominous van parked there was real, no doubt about it. But then I finally noticed something else. I brought the two photos side by side, and yes, there was another detail.

In the scouts photo, the map is pinned to the wall, in a small recessed panel. Just under an air vent, there’s a depression in the wall, like a cubby. That’s where it’s pinned, along with several other charts and diagrams.

In the estate sale photo, that cubby is gone. It’s just a flat wall.

Bob’s an engineer. I think I know what I’m looking at.

Sycamore Drive is still a quiet suburban street, just as it was when Bob lived here. The garage door was open. I knocked on the door to his house, no idea what to expect.

A woman answered the door, with a baby in her arms. When she asked who I was, I told her my name was Beth Marten, granddaughter of Robert Marten who lived here in the 70s. She hesitated, but I could tell it wasn’t out of distrust, but rather just annoyance. The baby was fussing. Without thinking, I reached out, adjusted the blanket slipping off her shoulder, and made a soft cooing noise. The baby blinked, settled. The tired mother seemed grateful, and invited me in.

She told me her name was Linda. I told her about my family tree project, and how it’s gotten me nostalgic for my family. I told her I hadn’t been here since I was a little girl, and I just wanted to have a quick look around the house if that was OK. Especially the garage, where we used to play with Grampa’s science stuff.

Linda, if you ever read this someday for some reason, please accept my apology for lying to you. But I’m so grateful you let me in.

She told me to take all the time I needed to reminisce, and she went back inside. The garage was full of stuff, as garages tend to be. But the section of wall I wanted to see was only half obscured by some shelves. As I got close, and I knew what I was looking for, I could instantly make out the tiniest seam in the wall. It was there! And behind it...well, first I needed to open it.

I took the photos out of my pocket. Desperately searched for a clue. The only thing in common between the two was the air vent right above it. I looked up, at the real thing in front of me. It was a fan housing, meant to vent air from the garage outside. It looks like it hasn’t been used in a long time. I tapped the corner of the grille, and it felt real enough. Pressing my luck, I took out my keys and unscrewed two of the screws, allowing it to hinge open with a rusty creak. A fan, lots of dust and cruft. Nothing else. I stuck my fingers in, ran them around the inside edge, and...then I felt something. A small button. I pressed it and, my heart leapt out of my chest as with a small whisper, the panel slid back and to the side, revealing the cubby. Just like in the picture. Only...only...there was no map! All of the papers that were pinned to the walls in the photo, were gone. But there was a cardboard box here. I didn’t have time to look through it here, so I grabbed it as quickly as I could, hit the button again which closed the panel, replaced the grille, ran out the open garage door, threw the box in my car, and drove away.

As I was about halfway home, I caught a glimpse of a black van a few cars back. Just as I saw it, it turned off onto a side road. I didn’t see anything else the rest of the way home.

When I finally got here, I was so shaken. I brought the box inside, and I have it with me right now, next to me on the floor. I won’t let it out of my sight. But I can’t bear to open it yet. I need to calm down.

I might watch some HGTV.

There’s no map. Not only that, there’s barely anything in English. It’s mostly in German, or something. I feel like crying again, but no tears come.

There’s no end of pages. Print-outs, notepads, diagrams. It’ll take me a long time to go through it all and understand it, much less scan it or transcribe it. I’m being careful to leave it all in the arrangement I found it in; maybe there’s something significant about the order. Like maybe, hopefully, this box contained most of this stuff at the bottom of that cubby, and only at the last minute when Bob brought everything down off the walls, he tossed them into this box. Which would mean the things Bob thought as the most important, are these loose sheets on top. Many of them have pin holes in them, so it stands to reason. That would narrow down what’s important here dramatically.

I’ll bring this in to the library on Monday and see what Peter thinks of it.

I dreamed again.

I was William. On the island of ever-youth. My hands were bloody. A man lay dead at my feet. In the distance, a bell tower tolled, over and over.

I woke up at 8 PM. I had slept all day. And yet I felt…alive.

Tomorrow is Monday, and I need to get to the library. I’ll try to drink some Chamomile tea and not stay up all night.

It’s been 2 days since last update, because I have not been home since then. I'm exhausted, and I'll try my best to remember everything and write it down.

Yesterday morning, I got to the library at opening time. I showed Peter the box, and I could tell how worried he was about me just going over to Bob's house, but also...obviously just as curious as I am.

I nodded. I held out the box. He reached out for it, and I let him take it. He kind of struggled a little with it. He made a comment about me being stronger than I look, but I think we both knew he was just covering his librarian physique with a joke.

We went to the computer room, and started to go through the box. I told him everything, including my feeling that the materials on top were likely the most important ones. He agreed, and we carefully set those aside, and tried to keep the rest organized by layer as best we could.

It took a few hours in all, but we got several things digitized. Peter was kind enough to make an 'archives' folder on this site, and we'll keep things there for the time being. This is what we went through today, as best as I can remember:

• A printout of pages and pages of letters and numbers. Peter kept calling it the 'hex dump,' which I gather is a way of writing that computers can understand. I wasn't sure why this would be important, but Peter seemed sure we should preserve it. Peter was able to use the scanner to convert the print-outs to a single text file for storage. This took most of our time, there was a lot here.
• A pamphlet for a Dutch museum. It was so faded it wouldn't scan, but we looked it up online. We archived the website we found, what little we could anyway. It's name is a Dutch word I don't remember right now, my head is so fuzzy. But it reminded me of the word the Vikings use for end of the world.
• Some typed pages, in what we're guessing is Dutch. They look like journals to us, but we can't be sure. We found 5 in all, and we scanned them to text files and numbered them in what looked like chronological order.
• A page of strange diagrams, that look like some kind of electronic schematic. We archived the scan of this page.

We were just starting to get into a good rhythm, but it was getting pretty late. I was holding a small piece of paper in my hand with an underlined code of some kind. I recognized the word 'star,' but the rest was gibberish. And under that were a pair of letters and degrees. I was about to bring it to the scanner when I yanwed heavily and my eyes went blurry for a moment. Peter and I looked at each other and silently agreed it was time to stop for the night. We looked at all the papers strewn throughout the room, and I started to gather them up. But Peter said it'd be ok to leave them there, since he's getting ready to lock up for the night anyway, and we can just pick up where we left off in the morning. I said that was okay with me, and I gave him a hug before saying goodnight.

I was about halfway home when I saw the van. I really, truly thought I was just hallucinating, I was so worked up. It’s exactly what my racing mind would see. But it persisted. I tested it, slowing down to 10 miles below the speed limit. And with horror I watched it slow down and match my speed. I turned, it followed. And as it did, I saw the shield logo on the side. It was a golden yellow.

But then, it turned at the next left while I continued straight. I felt no relief, I know I saw that logo. I kept driving the wrong way from my house. I drove out of town. I got on the interstate. I drove all night, doing about three laps through town in different directions. I never felt the least bit tired, wired as I was, terrified as I was. Until finally the sky began to brighten, and I suddenly felt exhausted. I turned around and made my way back home, watching out for the van the whole way.

Now here I am in the early morning. Should I go to the police? Would they believe me? Surely they would. First I'll get to the library, it's about to open. I hope Peter is OK.

I'm back from the library.

Peter was waiting for me at the door, a pall on his face. Before I could tell him my story, he said he needed to show me something. He took me by the hand and led me inside, back to the computer room.

The door was open. It didn't look to have been forced, but it was just wide open. All of Bob's papers were gone.

I told Peter about what happened to me. He said he hadn't seen any vans, and not for lack of looking.

We called the police, to report the break in. They came to the library, and asked Peter many questions. Apparently the surveillance tape from the night was missing, and there was no evidence of a break in. They kept asking Peter if he was sure he'd locked up. He kept saying he was. They seemed skeptical, and not too interested in investigating further. They were gone an hour after they'd arrived.

At this point I was just too tired to keep going. I told Peter I'd come back tomrrow, and headed home. No one followed me.

I don't know what to say.

Well, it's all gone now. We still have what we archived, of course. Maybe I'll find someone who can speak Dutch. But, to be honest, I think I need a long break from this project.

I finally went back to the library yesterday, to see Peter. He seems to be taking it harder than I am. Before I left, he asked me to dinner. I called Judy when I got home, to tell her about it and ask what I should wear. What a strange, familiar old feeling.

This will probably be my last post for a while. For anyone who reads this, don't worry about me. I've found the connection to my past that I was looking for. I feel as if I've become a whole other person, and I don't feel so alone anymore.

I feel a whole new life beginning.

My memories are almost clear. Like I'm back in that room again, looking at those papers, holding them in my hands. Someday soon, I'll start a new archive, just as before. And help those who come next complete the quest.