Memoranda (8 page)

“We made it,” I said, leaning back against the wall.

“Yes,” he said, catching his breath, “but now they know where we are.”

I dried off and was given an old suit of Below's to wear. The fit was unsettling in its perfection. In the room that had served father and son as a kitchen, Misrix made me a salad. I sat down at the table with my bowl of food and bread. The demon sat across from me with a cup of real shudder. I asked him if he could make me a cup, and he pushed his across the table to me. Then I asked him for a cigarette. Again he accommodated me, and together we smoked. The taste of the shudder almost brought tears to my eyes. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the scrap of paper I had taken from the lab. Spreading it out with one hand on the table, I took a quick look at the symbols and handed it to him.

The demon blew smoke and brought the scrap in line with his spectacles. “This is what I was looking for,” he said. “This is a torn corner from a handwritten book—the only book my father always kept nearby. It was written by his mentor, Scarfinati, and it described the secrets of an ingenious memory system. Now the werewolves have it, and Greta is quite capable of reading.”

“Below had mentioned it to me once in the old days, but my recollection is vague,” I said.

“Father would talk to me about it at great length. The idea of it is this …” and as he paused to inhale I could see that he relished the role of teacher. “The adept creates a palace in his memory. He envisions this palace with a clear mind and total concentration. Once it takes root in his memory, he fills it with objects—a vase of yellow roses, a mirror, a white fruit. Each of the objects he places around the palace stands for something he wants to be able to remember. For instance, the vase of flowers might represent a concept like a mathematical formula. If the adept wishes to regain that formula, he travels through the memory palace, and upon seeing the vase, instantly remembers it.”

“Everything in the palace is symbolic,” I said.

He nodded. “My father designed the Well-Built City with this method. Once it was rebuilt in coral and steel, every portion of the architecture was, for him, the physical representation of a concept, a theory, an experience worth remembering. Out there,” he said, pointing behind him, “those ruins are the devastation of his memory. Every now and then, as we wandered among them he would come across a broken gargoyle or a fallen column, and I could tell he was momentarily recovering a lost fragment of himself. He found a piece of a pressed-tin ceiling that held the likeness of a pelican, and this made him weep.”

“The white fruit exploded that memory palace from his mind, and, through some strange property, also destroyed its representation in the real world.”

“I love to think of that white fruit,” said the demon with a smile.

I stubbed out my cigarette and cut into the salad as if it were a steak.

“He's built another one,” said Misrix.

“Another what?” I asked.

“Another palace. He's built one in his mind. It is magnificent, and in addition to the objects carrying symbolic meaning there are even people in this one who stand for certain ideas.”

“How do you know?”

“I've been there,” he said.

8

We stood next to Below's bed, staring down at him. The candle's glow illuminated his head, and its dance created the illusion that he was about to awaken.

“It's all in there,” said Misrix, pointing.

“In his memory?”

The demon nodded. “I can put you in there,” he said.

“How does that work?” I asked.

“You felt it in the cistern when we were hiding from the explosion. I put my hand on top of your head.”

“It was like a dreaming wind,” I said.

“I can put a hand upon your head and the other upon Father's, and you can travel through me into him. You will appear in his new memory palace in your present form. It will have all the reality of this world,” said the demon.

“All the reality of this world?” I said, and laughed.

“The antidote is there,” he said.

“I have been trying to forget about the antidote,” I told him.

“It's there in a symbolic form in the memory palace.”

“Maybe I could find it.”

“But how would you be certain you have found it? You don't know the symbolic meanings of the objects. How do you decipher the secret language that is the center of that world?” said Misrix.

“What about you? Why don't you just enter into his memory? It would seem more direct that way,” I said.

“I was there once,” said the demon, “and because I appeared in my form, the inhabitants of the place were frightened of me and tried to kill me. I was forced to flee after only a short time. I know in my deepest self that if you were to go in there and some tragedy were to befall you, you would also die, here, in this world.”

“There's a solid recommendation,” I said.

“Yes, but you look like the other inhabitants. You could use your intelligence to decipher the symbolic system,” said Misrix, putting his hand on my shoulder.

“But that could take forever.”

“In the world of the memory palace time runs at a different pace. Seconds here are minutes there,” he said.

“What did you see when you were there?” I asked.

“A small island that floats among the clouds a mile above a silver ocean of liquid mercury.”

“He's really basting the shank with this one,” I said.

“He's limited only by the boundaries of his imagination,” said the demon. “On the island there is a tower called the Panopticon. It sits at the center of everything and from a series of portals issues a flying female head with streaming hair and bright, searching eyes. It moves through the village at the base of the tower, watching the lives of the inhabitants. When I was there, I was chased by it. It bit my back and neck.”

“Very appealing,” I said.

“For the antidote, I would guess you would have to get inside the tower, but there is no telling where he has hidden it.”

“It could be an ant I unknowingly step on while hurrying after a clue,” I said.

“Possibly,” he said. “But remember, Father has to be able to readily find the object in order for the memory system to be worth his while. Now, would you like to take a journey?”

“I'd thought I already had,” I said.

“You must go farther.”

Given I was able to elude the werewolves, I could return empty-handed to a sleeping Wenau, or I could enter into a world whose atomic structure was Below and grope for the antidote. I told Misrix that I needed to take a short walk in order to clear my head. He said that he would need a few minutes to get two chairs set up.

I left Below's room and walked down the hallway. My thoughts were still adrift, and I kept returning to the image of the demon standing beside the remains of the false paradise. There was only one thing I could do to increase my chances. When I came to Misrix's door, I found it open and went in.

As I passed countless rows of objects in the Museum of the Ruins, memories went off behind my eyes like strings of firecrackers. Misrix had told me that all of his artifacts should add up to a love story, but I was beginning to think he had missed the mark. Instead, I foresaw peril and strangeness without resolution. For that reason, I took the white fruit.

It felt almost like a ball of smooth flesh in my hand. The aroma of Paradise swirled around me, and my mouth began to water. I tried to think noble thoughts, knowing the fruit's disposition to reward and punish. The taste was sweet dripping energy, and I felt it in my blood. I couldn't stop eating it. The salad Misrix had served me had left me hungry, but now I felt as if I would never have to eat again. Upon taking the last bite, I saw the mental image of my neighbors in Wenau before it flapped once and folded into a green veil as the demon's hand touched down upon my shoulder.

“Misrix,” I said, turning quickly.

“What have you done, Cley?”

I held the core of the fruit out to him, and said, “You see, the story isn't over yet.”

He shook his head sadly and took the core out of my hand. “I have the chairs ready,” he said, bringing the remains of the fruit to his nose. He breathed deeply.

“
That's
Paradise,” I said.

Back in Below's room, we sat in our respective chairs. Misrix had been kind enough to also bring me a foot bench, so that I would be comfortable. The demon sat next to Below, within arm's reach of the Master's head. I sat last in line, in the shadows, waiting to feel the effects of the fruit of paradise. There was no sensation except fear.

“Sit back and close your eyes, Cley,” he said.

I took a last look at him in the wavering candlelight, and he smiled at me, but this did little to relieve the doubt I was feeling. I finally closed my eyes and rested back in the chair, putting my feet up.

“You will feel my hand upon your head,” said Misrix, “and then you will feel the dreaming wind you spoke of. If all goes well, you will go where I direct you.”

I pictured him laying one of his enormous hands upon Below's bald scalp. Then I felt him drape one gently over my own head.

“Think of it this way, Cley. To decipher the symbols, you need only read the Physiognomy of Father's memory,” he said. “Hold on tight. While you were eating the fruit, I indulged in the beauty.” His laughter became a strong breeze behind my eyes, which grew into a twister of dreams that lifted upward, taking me with it.

I found myself draped across the demon's arms, flying through a starlit sky. It was freezing cold but everything was perfectly clear.

“Look, Cley,” he said, “we are passing over the Beyond.”

“Am I in your memory now?” I asked, looking down. We passed low over the top of the forest, and it seemed to stretch forever in all directions. An occasional scream vaulted up from beneath the trees, barely audible above the constant beating of his wings.

“Yes,” he said.

We flew on through the night for quite some time, and I was just becoming accustomed to the strange experience when I heard Misrix groan. His face was quite close to mine, and I could hear that his breathing had become labored.

“Cley,” he said.

“Are you all right?” I asked, feeling his grip on my legs loosen slightly.

“I'm having a bad reaction to the beauty.”

With this, he began to shiver and suddenly moved the arm behind my back to clutch at his chest. I reached up and grabbed on to his right horn like a stirrup.

“Let go of me,” he yelled. “I can't see.”

“Do you have me?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, and although his grip was again firm, I could tell that we were losing altitude.

“I've got to land,” he said.

“In the forest?” I asked.

“We'll head for the Palishize.”

By the time the dripping mounds of the ancient city came into view, the demon's hooves were clipping branches from the tops of trees. I caught only a glimpse of the ocean beneath a newly risen moon, before he dived through a clearing and landed at the entrance to a place I had visited in my dreams.

Misrix had his arms wrapped around himself, fangs chattering like icicles. “It was foolish to have taken the beauty before attempting this,” he said.

“I have practiced such foolishness,” I said, distracted by the height of the crude mud walls that surrounded the city.

“Cley, you've got to wait in there for me,” he said.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I'm going to leave you in my memory here for a short time, while I return and have a cup of shudder to offset the beauty.”

“Out of the question,” I said.

“You'll be safer in there,” he said, pointing through the entrance. “I'll hurry.”

“It's dark out,” I said.

“Go, quickly,” he said, still pointing, “there are demons about.”

I stared down the shell-cobbled path that led inside and split around the melting sand castles. The moon revealed peaks riddled with crude openings. When I turned back, Misrix was gone.

The Palishize was deathly quiet, even the wind made no sound there. I ran as lightly as I could, for each footfall echoed like a gunshot. I did not want to get lost in the winding maze of the structures, but I wanted less for the demons to find me.

When I had to stop running, I chose one of the holes punched as if by a giant finger into the base of the closest mound. Inside the shadows of the tunnel, I felt somewhat safer. As soon as my breathing returned to normal, I began listening.

I don't think I moved for a full five minutes, but then I heard a sound in the distance, and my head turned sharply to the right. It was the merest echo of a footstep. This was followed by another and another, each growing more distinct as did the beating of my heart. Then a voice shouted something. I moved closer to the opening in order to hear more clearly. “Perhaps, it is Misrix,” I thought.

“Cley,” the voice called, but I knew it wasn't the demon.

A shadowy figure strode in front of the opening where I hid, and I moved back farther into the dark. From his outline, I could tell he was wearing a broad-brimmed hat. He turned in a way that told me he knew I was in the tunnel.

“Cley, I know you are in there. Come out and say hello to an old friend.”

Though I could not place it, the voice was familiar to me. I walked forward and stepped clear of the opening.

“Come here, Cley. It's good to see you,” he said.

“Who are you?” I asked, trying to catch a glimpse of the face.

“It's me, Bataldo,” he said.

It was Bataldo's voice, and I remembered that he would sometimes wear a broad-brimmed hat. “Is it really you?” I asked.

He took a step forward, and now I could see that it was the rotund mayor of Anamasobia, himself, smiling fruitlessly as always. I walked cautiously toward him, and he laughed and put his hand out to shake.