A World Without Heroes (9 page)

Jason thumbed forward to an arbitrary page and read the following:

“How will you teach your children to fly?” I inquired of the mother. “I do not see how you could ever coax them into the air.”

“You do not understand because you are a man. Teaching a bird to fly is similar to teaching a man to swim. Can you swim?”

“Yes.”

“Were you frightened when you learned? Frightened you would sink?”

“Naturally.”

“So it is with teaching birds to fly. Except we fly better than you swim. The air is our element. We are as clumsy walking on land as you are swimming in water.”

Weird stuff. The handwriting looked familiar. He had a guess at who had authored the book. He leafed through the pages, hunting for clues.

Eventually he flipped to the inside of the back cover. On the otherwise blank page a single word had been scrawled:
Moondial.

Having never heard of a moondial, Jason hoped the term referred to the sundial out by the well.

As Jason closed the book, the white dog stared at him, head tilted, thick fur glossy. Could the dog know the library well enough to guide him to a destination?

“Hey, Feracles,” Jason said to the large dog in his special voice. “Will you take me to the atrium?”

The dog immediately padded out of the room. Jason followed skeptically, but sure enough, after zigzagging along a circuitous route, the dog brought him to the glass walls enclosing the garden.

Jason went out through a sliding door. Today was cloudier than the day before, but the sun was currently peeking through.

He crossed to the sundial, studying it closely. The stone pedestal was carved with a frowning sun on one side and a smiling moon on the other. The face of the sundial had ten symbols etched in a semicircular arc, each unique shape composed of fine golden lines. The ten symbols seemed suspicious considering the ten pegs in the grid of holes. None of the designs looked familiar, but he hoped the shapes would correspond with the symbols on the door.

Jason patted his pockets. Beneath his coveralls he wore his jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. He pulled out his wallet and keys. The wallet contained twenty-seven dollars, a student ID, a health insurance card, and an ATM card. The keys were to his house and the padlocks on his lockers at the zoo and at school. He wished his pockets had been stuffed with useful things.

“Think your master would loan me a pen and paper?” Jason asked the dog.

That night Jason did not snuff out his candle when he went to bed. Instead, he opened the journal the loremaster had given him, the new binding creaking. The first page was defaced by scribblings
he had made while getting accustomed to the quill. The next two pages showcased the most careful depictions he had been able to manage of the symbols on the sundial face.

Ten symbols would only represent the coordinates along one side of the grid. He had sought more clues at dinner, only to receive further reminders that the upper level was restricted. If the loremaster was playing mind games to pique his curiosity, the old guy was succeeding.

Jason did not think he needed another hint. He had a crazy idea to match a crazy place.

After waiting as long as his patience could endure, he gathered his writing gear and picked up the brass candleholder. Easing the door open, Jason peered out. All other lights had been extinguished. The library looked much more ominous in the wavering luminance of a single unprotected flame.

He crept down a short hall to the first of the shelves. A soft whine behind him nearly startled him into dropping the candle. The white dog nudged its nose against his leg.

“Take me to the atrium, Feracles,” Jason whispered. He followed slowly, cupping his hand to protect the feeble flame.

At the atrium he followed the dog outside and then slid the door shut. A hidden moon backlit a large cloud, fringing it with silver. He set his candle down carefully on the lip of the well and turned to inspect the moondial. The gold characters looked silver in the dim moonlight. Squinting closely, he discerned that the symbols were shaped differently from those he had copied during the day.

He impatiently watched the cloud migrate across the sky. One edge of the cloud gradually brightened as the opposite side dimmed. Then the nearly full moon appeared.

Bright silver characters shone in the lunar glow, as finely
traced as their daytime counterparts but completely distinct in form.

Jason began sketching the moonlit symbols, patiently dipping his quill, careful to capture every detail. Since the moonlit markings corresponded with the positions of the daylight symbols, he paired the symbols that occupied the same location as likely coordinates for inserting pegs into the grid of holes. Clouds covered the moon twice as he drew, forcing him to pause for lengthy intervals. At last, with the moon about to vanish behind clouds a third time, he completed the tenth symbol.

Jason went to the atrium door. “Here, Feracles,” he called softly. The dog jangled over to him. “Take me to the staircase. Take me to the upper level.”

The dog guided him across the garden to a different glass door. Jason slid the door open and followed the dog back into the convoluted passageways. After some time navigating through the gloom, they reached the foot of the stairwell. “Good boy.” Jason stooped and rubbed the back of the dog’s neck.

When he proceeded up the stairs, Feracles did not follow.

At the top Jason knelt by the door and scanned the symbols along the bottom of the columns of holes. He found one matching a moonlight symbol. Examining the designs beside the rows, he located one matching a symbol copied in the sunlight.

He gathered the ten pegs and began the process of matching each pair of symbols he had copied into his book with the corresponding symbols labeling the columns and rows. After finding each paired column and row, he traced the perpendicular lines of holes to the intersection and inserted a peg. Finding all ten intersections proved to be a tedious task. His eyes began to burn wearily as he triple-checked each coordinate to avoid making an error and having to repeat the entire process.

At last he inserted the final peg. The click was accompanied by a brief metallic tumbling inside the door. He grasped the handle; it turned, and the heavy door swung inward. “I sank your battleship,” Jason murmured.

A musty scent wafted from the open portal. Squinting into the darkness with his candle held aloft, he could see shadowy shelves lined with dusty books.

Jason went back down the stairs. “Here, Feracles,” he said. “Take me into the upper level.”

The dog whined and retreated several steps.

“Come on,” he repeated, bending down and patting one knee invitingly.

The dog snorted and shook its coat.

Jason returned to the ominous doorway. Now that the perforated door was open, his conviction wavered. The dog’s hesitation was more unsettling than all the warnings the loremaster had expressed. But no matter how creepy it seemed, any chance of finding a way home meant he had to try.

He stepped through the doorway, candlelight pushing back the darkness. His passage stirred up a low fog of dust. The ceiling was lower than below, but otherwise the upper level seemed arranged much like the lower. Except that most of the book spines were obscured beneath cobwebs and grime, making the titles and authors illegible. Maybe the upper level was forbidden because the loremaster was too lazy to clean it. Any respectable librarian would be ashamed.

Jason grabbed a couple of the nearest books and used them as doorstops. He wasn’t going to chance the door closing spontaneously.

He wound his way into the book-lined corridors. The long shelves were constructed with undulant curves, giving the dreary
passageways a warped, serpentine quality. The farther Jason traveled from the door, the more closely he cupped his hand around the flame. The silence was complete. He stepped softly, breathed quietly. Shadows jittered with the flickering of the tiny flame. The place was creepy, but nothing looked interesting enough to warrant the incredibly complicated lock on the door. He saw no treasure or weapons or intriguing artifacts. The knowledge in the books had to be what made this place off-limits.

His twisting path eventually led to a small reading area with a few tables and chairs. The furniture was sculpted of black stone. Armrests were carved with leering faces, and table legs took the form of fanged serpents. He wiped dusty cobwebs off the spine of a random book.
Subtleties of Manipulation.
The name “Damak” appeared at the base of the spine.

Setting his candle on a nearby table, Jason pulled out the book and opened to the introduction.

Manipulation is a quiet tool of majestic power. Artfully manufacturing desires in others to suit one’s own needs can be accomplished on an individual basis or on a worldwide scope. Clearly, a study of manipulation requires a profound understanding of the selfish motivators that drive men to action. Different motivators function best depending on the nature of the minds one seeks to dominate. Manifold motivators are available, including fear, the desire for wealth or respect or power, lust, duty, obedience, love, even altruism. Endless combinations may be employed to reduce the staunchest will to a malleable plaything. Learning to discover the appropriate mix of motivators for any given individual or group and mastering how to employ those motivators with a deft touch comprises the essence of manipulative studies.

The master manipulator lies as little as possible. He believes most, if not all, of what he professes. This quality makes him difficult to unmask. Once a subject realizes he is being manipulated, defenses are engaged and future machinations become exponentially more challenging. The most satisfying victories occur over adversaries who do not realize they have been conquered.

Jason closed the book.

He was beginning to understand why the upper level was restricted. A palpably dark feeling had come over him as soon as he began reading the introduction.

He brushed off a few more spines to reveal other titles.
Religion and Subjugation. Memoirs of a Lost Soul. The Unquenchable Thirst.

Nothing sounded very wholesome.

He surveyed the multitude of dingy volumes surrounding him. A few sinister books did not confirm that no useful information could be found here. After all, forbidden information was what he needed. Any of the nearby volumes might hold information about hippopotamus portals or contain hints about how he might get home. Didn’t a chance like that justify enduring a little creepiness? Probably. But not right now. Such an unsettled feeling had stolen over him that Jason decided to leave the upper level for the moment and return with a brighter light.

Raising his candle in a trembling hand, Jason tried to make his way back to the entrance. Eventually he realized the curving corridors had disoriented him. He should have left a trail of bread crumbs.

He attempted to double back to the reading area, but could not find that, either. Instead he came to a different open area,
where the only furnishing was a black pedestal surmounted by a huge book. A plush, dark carpet woven with imagery of cruel thorns covered the floor.

Jason crossed to the book. It had to be important to be situated all alone in such a grand fashion. As he drew nearer, he gasped. Shocked curiosity impelled him forward.

The book appeared to be bound in human skin. Upon close examination Jason observed that the fleshy covering had tiny pores, fine hairs like the ones on his arm, and light blue veins visible beneath the surface.

Aghast, he tentatively touched the surface, withdrawing his finger instantly. It was warm to the touch, with a yielding texture that suggested more thickness than he had expected. It felt alive.

Morbid fascination rooted him to the spot. What sort of book would be bound in living flesh? No writing appeared on the skin to suggest title or author. The publisher must not have owned a tattoo needle.

Rubbing his neck, Jason found the hair there standing upright. He glanced at the dim bookshelves at the edge of his candlelight. Beyond the light the blackness and silence seemed more oppressive than ever.