Read Mythworld: Invisible Moon Online
Authors: James A. Owen
Mythworld: Invisible Moon (10 page)
“Yes. The box of Schubert which came from the Mathematics department.”
“Exactly. Read farther down the parchment and tell me if any name jumps out at you.”
Meredith gave Hjerald an odd look, then did as he asked while he brought an even more bewildered June and Fuji—who knew nothing about the box from the refuse pile—up to date. It was scarcely a minute before her head snapped up again in bewilderment.
“Liszt? Franz Liszt worked on this before Wagner?”
“They were well known to be friends,” put in Fuji. “It’s not too surprising that they’d have shared an interest in many things.”
“What does Liszt have to do with Schubert?” June asked.
“Probably nothing,” said Hjerald, “but in the Zen way of things, everything, and this situation is feeling very, very Zen.”
“How so?”
“Zen is all about making connections which most people don’t see,” said Hjerald, explaining. “The person I met in Tibet was a mathematician; the box came from the University of Vienna’s Department of Mathematics. Michael Langbein taught at that University, and was murdered by its Rector while both were interrupting a performance of Wagner’s Ring Cycle. Michael sent this parchment, which has annotations by Wagner, to Meredith; and Michael’s specialty was documents in Ancient Icelandic. This particular sheet was also written on by a prominent composer, as were most of the materials in the box Shingo found—which makes me wonder if there’s some aspect to all of this which is related to music. I also suspect that if we were able to check the faculty of the University of Vienna’s Mathematics department, we’d find our ‘player on the other side’ in residence there.”
“But where does this Tibetan-Icelandic parchment come in, other than the Wagner notes?” June asked.
“It’s here at the bottom,” said Meredith, who had continued reading, and was now trembling so badly that she had to sit down. “It cuts off, so I don’t know where Liszt was going with the interpretation, but he and Wagner were attempting to translate the book this came from, and it … It …” She broke off and looked at the parchment, stunned.
Hjerald filled in the silence. “What it says is that the writing they were translating they believed was written by Snorri Sturluson, and that this text, which they called
‘The Prime Edda’
, is the earliest copy of his works to survive. Wagner was trying to write a historically-perfect version of the
Ring
.”
Fuji and June were properly humbled by this. Meredith still seemed as in a daze.
“If Michael Langbein believed this sheet to be real, as I do,” Hjerald finished somberly, “then he’d have given his life to catch just a glimpse of the rest of it.”
“Perhaps he did,” came a voice from the darkness around them, “and if that is so, then it is indeed a terrible loss.”
Meredith stood as Shingo emerged from the stacks with a box of papers underneath one arm and an oddly arrested smile on his lips. He stepped forward and kissed Meredith lightly, then turned to sit at the table.
“How long have you been here?” June asked. “If we’d known you were here …”
Shingo waved him off. “It’s okay—I was in one of the reading rooms. I needed some privacy to dig through this stuff,” he said, still looking strangely at Meredith.
“I want to go over some personal matters with my folks,” Shingo said, turning to Hjerald. “Can you see to it that Meredith gets home safely?”
“Sure,” said Hjerald, turning to Meredith. “Do you mind if I take this home?” he said, motioning to the parchment. “I’d like to examine it more closely.”
“Be my guest.”
“Thanks. Well, night all,” Hjerald said as he wrapped up the sheet and waved to his hosts. Fuji walked them out as June and Shingo began to talk in whispered tones, then returned after sending Meredith and Hjerald out with some of Delna’s hot lemonade.
They crunched along in the newly fallen snow in silence, until they were within sight of her house, then Hjerald turned to Meredith, concerned. “Reedy, I hope you don’t think I was trying to hide anything from you in there,” he said plaintively. “I mean, I want you to trust me.”
“I do trust you, Hjerald,” Meredith replied, taking his arm in reassurance. “I know you wouldn’t keep anything from us that would be harmful.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Then there’s nothing to worry about. I mean, in Zen, doesn’t everything zero out in the end, no harm no foul?”
Hjerald stopped and blinked at her before he answered. “Yes,” he finally said slowly, “but not everyone uses the same definition of zero.”
He gave her arm a squeeze then headed off down the street, the envelope with the parchment firmly wrapped in his bag.
Meredith watched until he disappeared, then instead of going into the house, decided to go for a walk. The snow was falling thickly now, but for some reason, she could barely feel the cold.
She cut across the center of town, then past the rodeo grounds and into a copse of pine trees which ringed the cemetery. Stepping over the ramshackle barbed-wire fence, she walked through the gravestones to the tall mound at the far side, where the cemetery bordered the cornfields beyond.
She looked at the mound for a moment, then walked around to the north side and blew the snow off of the simple marker before sitting underneath it where there was a lee in the soft night wind.
“Hi, Dad. I hope you don’t mind my stopping by.”
O O O
When Vasily Strugatski was killed, the Kawaminami’s took responsibility for his body, and all of the funeral arrangements—no one else knew how to get a hold of any of his family, or even if he had any family at all—and it was a reporter hanging around with the police—Hjerald—who had suggested a Viking funeral.
“It just seemed like a good idea at the time,” Hjerald had explained later.
June somehow knew of Meredith, but believed her to be living in London—by the time he tracked her down in Vienna, she had already seen Hjerald’s initial article about the murder, and by the time she got to Silvertown, Vasily’s body had already been cremated.
The cremation had been Hjerald’s suggestion as well, although the authorities went along for public health reasons more than because of Weird Harold’s off-road recommendations. There was also the matter of presentation—an open casket, or even a closed one was a bit of a queasy topic when everyone knew that the head was still missing. A quick, clean cremation and a service with a small tin of ash was much better public-relations-wise for the hapless police.
On arriving, Meredith asked Hjerald why he had taken such a personal interest, and why he had made the recommendations he did.
The first he explained as an easy part of his job—an odd story in his hometown was bound to keep his attention longer than if it had occurred in South America or somewhere in parts unknown. The second question he answered with a now-common refrain that was as much Hjerald as it was Zen: “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Reading on her own later, Meredith had discovered that Hjerald’s prodding did secret honor to her father—to the Vikings, cremation was an elaborate ceremony, reserved mainly for warlords, kings, and true heroes such as Beowulf. The body was prepared for burial by adorning it in the richest of garments, furs, armbands, and other jewelry. The weapons, shields, and drinking horns or goblets of the hero were also placed with the body, in the belief that the hero would require them in Valhalla.
The body would then be placed upon an outdoor bier, which would be ignited. During the funeral service, toasting ceremonies would be drunk in honor of the dead one; both laughter and tears were welcomed; stories would be told of his battle prowess and other legends of his feats. At the end, the ashes of the hero would be gathered and either scattered over the water—for a sea-faring people—or placed in an appropriate burial chamber of a mound called a howe, which was what had been done for Vasily.
The Vikings also believed that if one visited the howe of one’s ancestors, one’s fate could be revealed by communing with them. This was not a form of necromancy; rather, it was similar to divination or meditation. It was also believed that if one sat upon a burial howe for an entire night without going insane, one would be gifted with bardic talent; the ability to compose and perform sagas and poetic songs.
Meredith discovered later that Hjerald slept on Vasily’s mound every night for almost three weeks after the service, though whether the process turned him into a skald or actually drove him cuckoo was an even-odds bet.
Meredith had been to the cemetery a half-dozen times, but never really found any degree of comfort or inspiration there—less, now that this madness had erupted all around them. When the sole dilemma was solving her father’s murder, she was loose at ends as it was; when the apparent onset of Ragnarok was added, and elements such as the
Edda
page seemed to indicate a greater arc of wheels within wheels, then she felt as if her personal fears and insights were nothing but drops within the tempest.
She needed more reassurance than she could get here, tonight. She needed Shingo.
Standing and adjusting her scarf, Meredith leaned over and kissed the snow-dappled mound, then turned, and walked briskly out of the cemetery.
O O O
At the house, Meredith found Shingo waiting for her, sitting in the dark. The expression on his face was unreadable. Not looking at Meredith, he reached out an arm and drew her to his side. It was then she realized he’d been crying.
Meredith had seen him in all sorts of moods, seen him angry, seen even the petty emotions everyone lets out from time to time; but she had never seen him cry. Meredith moved closer and put her arm around his shoulders.
“What is it, Shingo?”
“I don’t really know what to say, Meredith. I want so badly to say it, but … I’m afraid. I’m afraid of what you’ll say.”
She held her voice steady, but inside, she felt a shadow, frigid, cross her soul.
“Is it about Hjerald?”
Shingo turned, abrupt, eyes alight with surprise. “What did Hjerald tell you?”
Meredith shrugged. “He mentioned some papers you found in the library archive, that’s all. He said you’d want to get together with everyone to discuss it, but that you two would like to dig a little further, first.”
He sat back, relieved. That apparently was not what he expected her to say, which was made shockingly obvious by the next thing he said.
“Man—you had me scared, there. Stupid of me—there’s no way Hjerald would’ve known I was going to ask you to marry me.”
“What?”
“I think you heard me—I want you to marry me, Meredith. I’ve wanted you to for a long time, and now I can finally ask.”
It’s funny,
Meredith thought—
you never think you can feel yourself going pale, but you do
. Still reeling from Shingo’s announcement, she deflected. “Why did you have to wait?”
“Because … It really doesn’t matter—not now. Everything’s changed, and I can ask you. I love you, Meredith. Marry me.”
Saying nothing, she simply embraced him tightly, feeling the wetness of his tears against her breast, and wondering why she didn’t think the changes he was referring to were those going on in the world around them …
… But something else altogether.
O O O
In her bedroom, away from the soft glow of the oil lamps throughout the house and the nearly opaque whiteness from the snow outside the window, they wrapped themselves in and around one another as they had done many times before; but, somehow, this time seemed different.
Shingo seemed …
Different
, there in the dark of her room, as if he’d …
Something
. Not gained weight, that’s not right … But gained …
Mass
?
Meredith held him and stroked his shoulders—and had to admit she was a bit disappointed. Normally, Shingo was a very conscientious lover, always making sure that she was completely taken care of, but tonight, he seemed preoccupied, anxious …
… And he had
spines
growing out of his back.
Meredith fought the urge to cry out and jerked her hands away in shock. Shingo, near sleep, only slid a little to her side and held her tighter. After a moment, his steady breathing told her he was asleep; only then did she dare bring her hands back to the long growths extending from her lover.
They began at the base of his skull and went down the length of his backbone, spreading outwards in curves like a second set of ribs. They were leathery, and those nearer his hips were longer than the stubble at the top of his neck. Terrifyingly, the spines above his buttocks seemed to be almost an inch thick, and over a foot long.
He shifted position, sliding his leg up across hers, and she withdrew her hand until she was sure he had fallen asleep. Gingerly, she then slid her hand back across him, just to see if perhaps she’d only imagined … They were still there. Wondering what her lover had become, Meredith felt him stir, a pleasant sleep-whisper escaping his lips as she stroked him.
Not wanting him to awaken at that point, she quickly shifted her hand upwards along the crease of his buttocks, and suddenly, Meredith’s breath caught in her throat. She reached around with her other hand and felt with all her fingers the growth at the base of Shingo’s spine, which stiffened at her touch, and twitched as if of its own accord.
Shingo was growing a
tail
.
***
Chapter Five
Freya’s Day
It wasn’t until the next morning that they realized the real freeze had finally begun to set in; it took several men nearly three hours to free Fujiko’s ice-laced body from the spot where she had been found, frozen to death.
The same spot in the nearby woods where Meredith’s father’s body had been found.
Next to Fuji was an ornate, short, Japanese sword, still sheathed. On her other side, a bundle of recently placed flowers was encased in clear arctic amber; in her hands, another handful of blooms, and a crumpled piece of paper. Eddie Wallace and Vernal Solomon struggled to free the paper, and inadvertently snapped off two of her fingers.
“Uh oh,” said Eddie.
“Exclusive,” sang out Mr. Janes, who had tagged along (actually, the mayor made him go everywhere with the group, so as to ensure no bootleg editions of the
Sun
were produced, which would thin their already drastically reduced population). “Local idiot fingers corpse—killer still at large.”
“Hee hee hee,” chuckled George Daves. “‘Fingers corpse’—that’s pretty good, Chief.”
“Oh, shut up,” said Eddie.
O O O
Shingo had left the house before Meredith woke up, and was nowhere to be found. June was at Soame’s, when they broke the news. He bowed his head, and bore it as stoically as everyone thought a Japanese man would. Without a word, he climbed the scaffolding into the dome and began to paint for the first time since the crisis began.
It was shortly after that Meredith realized the source of the water puddling underneath the scaffold was not a leak in the ceiling, but tears, silent and flowing from above, where God was touching the finger of his creations.
O O O
The funeral was quick, at June’s request, and of the only type they could manage—the ground was too frozen to even consider a proper burial, although Hjerald brought a measure of dignity to the dilemma by suggesting that rather than simply erecting some sort of tomb, they give Fujiko a more symbolically respectful service.
There was no historic evidence to suggest that the Vikings ever engaged in sea cremations where the body was placed on a vessel and then ignited as the boat sailed out to sea. Although such a practice could have been possible, it was unlikely that it was ever widely used, and seemed to have been more a modern theatrical invention than an actual practice of Viking culture—much like that of horns on their helmets, it worked for Hollywood, but not much for historical fact.
However, in the situation at hand, where the ground could not be broken with a pickaxe, and resources to erect a proper mausoleum were scarce, it seemed a more fitting solution than waiting, and more palatable than simply burning her.
Meredith wanted to wait for Shingo, but no one was sure where he was, or how long he’d be gone. They wrapped Fuji’s body in fabric, and the men built a raised platform that they placed on one of the small boats that were still moored along the river; placing her on the platform, the Mayor said a few words, and the three members of the Jennings band who were left (the flatbed truck they normally used had just that morning evolved into some sort of dark, medieval creature that resembled a cross between a slug and an armadillo, with mouths covering its entire body; they could still hear some of the instruments squeaking out sounds as it rolled around the town, chewing) played The Beatles’ “Michelle.” June, still silent, kissed his dead wife, and set the barge aflame. Drifting with the current, the burning vessel floated downriver, and in moments was out of sight, its existence marked only by the thick smoke that trailed behind it in the sky.
O O O
The memorial service had barely concluded when a now-familiar shriek split the air—the Watertown Express’ midday run. The train had continued to run, even though nothing else remotely mechanical did—unless you counted the cars which were thinning the population—but thus far, it had only been running at dusk, or late in the night, when no one could get a good look at it. This was about to change, as two thick columns of smoke could be seen in the near distance, and the steady thrum of the engine shook the ground beneath their feet as it approached.
From the river’s edge, the townspeople had an unobscured look at the engine as it approached, if it could still be called an engine, that is. The normally sleek lines of the massive diesel were flared outwards in several layers, and the cab was angled up and back. The steam was rising from two vents running along the sides of the head, which spread downwards in a broad enough swath that the wheels could not be seen. Hjerald suspected that if they were to lift the flaps, they might not find anything which at all resembled wheels, anyway, for he was certain that like the local cars and aircraft, the train was no longer mere machinery, but something living.
Everyone else in town came to the same conclusion when, as the train-thing pulled into Silvertown it slowed, then stopped …
… Then turned its head and looked at the group of mourners huddled by the river’s edge.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Oly.
“This is not possible,” George Daves said under his breath as the giant black head swung slowly from side to side, observing. “Monsters like this just don’t exist.”
“You want to tell
him
that,” Vernal Solomon said, tilting his head at the creature, “you go right ahead.”
“Never mind,” George replied.
No one else said anything; no one else could. Mel Gibson leaned against a tree and wiped his brow, even though it was below zero, and Eddie Wallace just smiled as the front of his slacks changed color from tan to darker tan.
The beast snorted, and a blast of hot steam enveloped the group. Then, to their astonishment, it spoke.
It was only a guttural growling at first, but then words began to form, and it articulated what seemed to be a request once, then again. When no one responded, the creature seemed to become irritated, and looked as if it might actually rise up off of the tracks when Hjerald stepped forward, arms upraised in a gesture that could be seen as a show of greeting or defiance.
Please God,
thought Meredith—
let it see it as a gesture of greeting.
Hjerald walked until he was scant feet from the beast’s head, then shouted something in a loud voice. The creature reared back as if surprised, and Hjerald shouted again.
The beast’s head took an odd tilt, as if it couldn’t decide whether to be offended or amused, then it snorted a shower of steam over the nervy journalist, lowered its head to the rails, and began to move.
In moments it picked up speed, and the sleek, layered body gave way to a succession of passenger cars, some of which were still occupied. Haggard, emaciated people sprang to life when they realized they could be seen, and they began pounding frantically on the windows. Up at the front, the dragon (which Hjerald decided was what it most seemed to be, even though that was a classification they’d already assigned to planes) let loose another of the piercing, screaming whistle blasts, and an undulation passed through the cars like the fluctuation of a bowel.
Meredith turned away in time to not see what the movement did to the passengers in the aisles of the cars. The others weren’t so quick nor lucky and fully half of them turned and vomited as the train passed out of sight.
Meredith walked over to Hjerald and grabbed his arm. “You understood him? You actually understood what he said?”
Hjerald, drained, plopped down in the snow, and scratched his head. “I took a wild guess. What it was saying sounded a lot like one of the passages in an old Norse children’s book Fuji had in the library. It had phonetic pronunciations and English subtitles, so I had a pretty good idea what it was saying.”
Meredith crouched down next to him, and the others, beginning to understand they’d just dodged a bullet, were approaching as well. “Well? What was it saying?”
“Basically, it was asking which ones of us it ought to eat. Asking is the polite thing to do you see,” he said, explaining.
“What did you tell it?” George asked.
“I, uh, I’m not too sure,” said Hjerald, “but what I think I said was ‘Go away, monster—behave.’”
“Man,” said George looking at Vernal, “we gotta write that one down.”
O O O
The snow was still falling, the flakes broad and dry, as the group of mourners made their way back into town. June walked apart from the rest of them, and the Mayor was preoccupied with chasing Mr. Janes around from tree to tree, convinced as he was that the woods were somehow speaking to him.
All things considered, Meredith half expected to hear them speaking, herself.
Some yards ahead, Hjerald waved her up to join him. She quickened her pace and caught up to where he was walking with Eddie and Vernal.
“Hey, guys—wait up.”
“Gee,” said Eddie, “your hair’s sure looking a mess, Meredith, and you look like you’re gaining weight.”
“At least she didn’t pee herself in front of the dragon,” said Vernal.
“Curse these tan pants,” said Eddie. “I’m just sayin’, even if it’s the end of the world, a girl outta make an effort to look good.”
“Shut up, Eddie,” said Vernal.
“Hm,” said Hjerald, “I can see why you get dates so often, Eddie.”
“What?” said Eddie. “I haven’t been on a date since ’91. I … Hey, what’s so funny?”
“Nothing, Eddie. Hjerald, did you want to ask me about something?”
“Sure. And by the way, I guess I hadn’t mentioned—it’s Herald, now—no silent ‘J’.”
“As in angels?”
“Hm. I hadn’t thought about that,” Herald said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Cool beans. Anyway, have you noticed—and this is nothing against Mrs. Kawaminami, mind you—that a lot of people are dying here, but we’re only giving funerals for a few?”
“Some people
are
better than others,” interjected Eddie, “that’s why. Didn’t you ever read
The Fountainhead
?”
“Shut up, Eddie,” said Vernal, dragging him away by his collar. “Sorry, Miss Strugatski.”
“I don’t know, Herald,” Meredith replied. “I guess everything’s been moving so quickly that I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Well, think about it. We hang that librarian, and …” He squinted into the distance, “… He seems to still be there, mostly; then we go for coffee. Mrs. K dies, and the whole town’s in mourning. Some people get eaten, and it’s gossip at Soame’s; others do, and it’s a tragic loss. I mean, something’s not
right
, here.”
“Herald,” Meredith asked, turning him to face her dead on, “answer me this honestly—do I seem to be …
Changing
, to you?”
Herald was quiet, mulling over a response. Finally, he spoke.
“Meredith, I think we’re
all
changing, every one of us. But I think we’re only changing into what we are, or maybe should’ve been, to begin with. I think what’s happening is that the facades of the world are being stripped away; what we saw last week was only an image. What we’re seeing now is the underlying reality.”
“Where’d you get that idea?”
“From the page of the
Prime Edda
Michael sent, actually,” said Herald. “I took a closer look at it—do you remember that it seemed to have an odd, greenish tint to it?”
“Sure,” Meredith replied, “but I thought that might be because of the extreme age of the piece—mold, or something.”
“It’s not mold. As far as I can tell, it was probably some kind of chemical, or alcohol—something which the parchment could be soaked in without destroying it.”
“And you think Michael did this?”
“I’m sure of it, because it turns out the sheet is also a
palimpsest
—a document which was written on, then erased, then written on again. This was done a lot in the days when writing materials were scarce, but in some cases, the original writing was never entirely obliterated—sometimes, the words can still be seen.”
“And you say that this
Edda
page is such a piece?”
“Yeah. I haven’t been able to do much by way of a translation, but it looks very similar to the Icelandic the
Edda
was written in, so it’s possibly an even older version than the one which was printed. I’ll work on it more later, but I’m just saying that it’s what got me thinking about appearances, and how things which seem normal on the surface might be hiding the truth of what they really are.”
He stopped, noticing that Meredith was distracted, and also upset. “Reedy? Are you all right?”
“So you don’t think I might be the one who’s responsible for all of those people who’ve gone missing? You don’t think it might all be my fault, and I just can’t remember it?”
“Naw,” he said, hugging her shyly with one arm. “I don’t think anything new is happening, here—have you ever wanted to kill anyone before?”
“Well, no, but …”
“Do you feel any different?”
“Not really, but …”
“There you go. If you’re noticing changes, Reedy, it’s only because those things were already inside you. If you can’t see yourself doing something, then I don’t think it’s likely you ever would. Some people seem to be changing in physical ways,”—he threw a glance over at Glen, swinging through the trees—“… some in their behavior, and some in both. But it’s kind of like hypnosis—you won’t do anything you wouldn’t normally do.”
“So you’re suggesting we’re all just becoming hyper-normal?”
“I’m just saying the masks are being stripped away. Monsters are still monsters—we can just see them now.”
“You’re pretty smart sometimes, you know that Herald?”
“Yeah.”
Meredith stopped, stopping him with her. “Wait—so how does your theory explain that,” she said, pointing at the manticore which had gotten frisky and was chasing the Jennings Band’s trombonist, Jonathan Wilson, down Solomon.
“Dang,” said Herald. “I don’t have the faintest idea how to explain any of that stuff with the cars.”
They watched as the manticore caught Jonathan and ran a sharpened claw down his back, opening the flesh. It then ripped out his spine, which it considered for a second before tossing it over its shoulder and proceeding to feed on the musician’s remains.