The Divinity Student (4 page)

Finally after an eternity of struggling, vapor closes around him like curtains of water, boding rest—he’s been holding his breath, now he lets it out in humid air and breaks through. The cloud comes up beneath to support him and he falls to his knees, disgorges clear, sweet gelatin from the exertion of flying.

Spectral light on a cloud landscape, a thunderhead in the distance is the highest peak in a chain of mountains from the south, wispy cloud trees stand frozen along streams of mist. Atop a nearby hill, Mr Woodwind lies sleeping wrapped in white blankets, a white garland on his brow. Miss Woodwind emerges from beneath a tree. As she draws near the breeze brings him the smell of her perfume.

“He’s sleeping,” she says softly and raises her eyebrows at him. The moon emerges and her face blurs as she comes closer, hair framing a glowing indistinct face. Her hair pats her brow in a light breeze that bathes him in her milky breath.

The snorter, whose name is Householder, and the giggler, whose name is Blandings, squat in one corner of the office, shoes in hand, bashing clumsily at a rat. They’ve been hunting rats all day, joking with each other and drinking. Ollimer had shivered when the Divinity Student arrived; he still pores over his notes without looking up, the top of his red head jerking back and forth, from his notebook to his lexicon and back again. Householder hits on a new game, filling his mouth with ink and spraying it on the walls for fun. The giggler’s running for his bottle when Miss Woodwind wafts into the office. She cocks a finger at Householder and smiles. He pats the giggler on the back and sets his ink bottle on his desk, following her out; as he reaches the door he turns once to grin back into the office, his teeth stained with ink. The giggler returns to his seat, smiling and shaking his head. The day passes.

The Divinity Student finishes his work and leaves the office twenty minutes later. He hasn’t gotten down the block before Ollimer catches up with him, peering over his shoulder.

“We were interrupted yesterday. I need to talk with you.”

The Divinity Student keeps going, doesn’t look at him.

“I’ve been reproaching myself ever since we parted. I ought to have warned you about the cars the minute you told me you were a Divinity Student.”

“Why didn’t you? Did you think it better to let me learn by example?”

“No! I assumed that you’d know about them, or that you might have been briefed about them before you came here.”

“Why did you assume that?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve said I ought to have warned you.” He touched the Divinity Student’s sleeve with a plaintive look.

“Won’t you listen to me now?”

The Divinity Student keeps walking with his head down, and nods after a moment. He blinks, as if noticing Ollimer for the first time.

Ollimer puts his hands in his pockets.

“ . . . I’ve never met a Seminarian before. It must be exciting! Do you have any
special
knowledge?”

A crash shatters along the alley walls, Ollimer starts and whirls, but it’s only a delivery boy—tripped and broke a vase. Ollimer is about to dismiss it, then he turns slowly to face the Divinity Student.

“You didn’t have anything to do with that, did you?” he asks, pointing at the boy gathering glass behind him.

“Coincidence,” is all the Divinity Student says shrugging, turning, walking towards the plaza. They go together, neither speak.

The plaza is empty, voices are faintly audible in a distant sussuration from its borders, the babble of the fountain laughing across polished black pavement, their footfalls and the wind tugging at their coats, the only sounds.

Ollimer steps out in front of him. “Listen, come with me to my aunt’s house—I want you to see something.”

“We’re due back.”

“Woodwind won’t care—please.”

They cross the plaza and thread their way through the vendors on Glass Street, duck into a side passage too narrow for them both to walk abreast.

“There’ll be no cars here,” Ollimer tosses over his shoulder.

Moving fast now, at a slow jog, the Divinity Student wonders if Ollimer isn’t planning something. The walls are smooth, with no doors or windows above, the sky is a dim, narrow beam. Ollimer moves rapidly, kicking newspapers. The passage gradually slopes downwards, finally into a sooty black aperture . . . a stale, bitter smell trails out of it in gritty, gray threads, leaving a sterile taste in his mouth. Ollimer vanishes in shadow below, and he follows with caution.

The tunnel is short, light from the far end only a few yards away, a squat vertical shaft with an iron ladder stapled to a brick wall.

“After you,” Ollimer graciously indicates the rungs. He’s more buoyant here in his element.

The Divinity Student doesn’t trust him. “I insist,” he says, holding out his hand.

Ollimer nimbly scales the ladder and the Divinity Student follows behind him.

They emerge in a vacant lot bordered by a rough plank fence, anonymous buildings visible beyond, a scorched brick house at their backs, fronted by a rickety flight of steps, a spidery web of light playing over the scarred bricks. Ollimer watches the Divinity Student’s face a moment, then nods and makes for the stairs. They ascend past stagnant-water windows, mostly empty rooms save for one on the third floor, where a dark-haired woman is ironing. The uppermost landing opens on a bright yellow door. Ollimer takes out his heavy key ring and unlocks it.

The Divinity Student steps into a small well-lit room with gold wallpaper and huge potted plants. Plush red furniture and shining mahogany wood, Persian rugs and aging photographs on the walls—it’s like a dollhouse.

Ollimer’s aunt Marigold is staring at the hearth, her smooth face and fine white hair flicker orange and gold in the firelight over a clean print dress and cameo brooch.

She turns a listless eye on him.

“This is a friend of mine, from the office—he’s a Divinity Student!”

She is waving distractedly at the sideboard. “John . . . ” Her voice is toneless and far away, “ . . . my needle, John . . . ”

Ollimer turns to the sideboard and brings her the needle and a small perfume bottle half-filled with clear liquid. She takes them with a lugubrious air and begins drawing the fluid into the syringe.

Ollimer cordially indicates a seat.

The Divinity Student takes the offered chair, while Ollimer busies himself with a tea tray. Eventually, they come to be sitting opposite each other, the tray between them, Ollimer leaning into the rising steam.

“Now I’ll tell you about the Catalog!” he says with relish. “You being from the Seminary, you’ll understand how important this is!”

“I’m listening.”

“All right. I’m not certain who else knows about the Catalog, but I can assure you, there’s none who knows more about it than me. I obviously can’t discuss how I came to know about it, but rest assured it’s absolutely genuine.

“What I’m talking about is a Catalog of unknown words—they’re secret words, ghost-words, and completely new. I’m not at liberty to tell you who compiled it, or for what purpose, but I’ve been authorized to offer you some access to it.”

The Divinity Student leans forward, his coat billowing around him in the chair. He stares at Ollimer.

Ollimer’s aunt sighs over the thrumming of the fire.

“So where is it? Who has it?” he asks.

“ . . . You must understand, what’s essential is to maintain the spirit of the thing, maintaining the spirit of the Catalog through practice . . . ”

“That doesn’t answer my question. You don’t have it.”

“Me? Oh, no, naturally not.”

“Who does?”

Ollimer hesitates. With slow and deliberate motion, the Divinity Student produces his old black leather Seminary Edition of the Holy Book and holds it up between them. Ollimer’s eyes flick between his face and the book.

“Don’t forget who I am.”

Ollimer looks at the book, his face pinched.

“No more games—tell me.” He lowers the book and Ollimer wavers back into his chair.

“The Catalog was destroyed . . . a few years ago . . . ” he says hoarsely, suddenly unable to lie.

“Then what am I doing here?! Who cares?!”

“Please, don’t be angry with me, I’m not strong enough for that!”

Tears shine in the corner of Ollimer’s eyes. He wrings his hands plaintively.

“I’m sorry—they tell me so little, I really know next to nothing about it!”

“Are they from the Seminary?”

“I don’t know—one of them seems to be a priest.”

The Divinity Student is silent. In the dim light of the parlor his face glows faintly.

“They must have given you a fragment to show me,” he says finally.

Ollimer nods, blinking. “Yes, I don’t know anything about it, actually. I’ve had it for years—you’re not the first, just the most qualified—”

“How am I qualified?” The Divinity Student’s face flares white, his voice is dry and spare.

“I don’t know. It’s all something very learned, I don’t understand it, I don’t have the education. Do you know what they mean? Is it that you know Greek, something like that?”

“ . . . What did they tell you to do?”

“To show you the fragment, that’s all. They say things are still falling into place; they’re waiting before they tell you anything more. Everything’s a secret with them, no one knows more than they need to—they’re afraid of the
cars.
The cars are on to you already, they suspect you, you’ll have to be careful. I’m sorry if I’m talking a lot! I don’t want to waste your time!”

Ollimer stands up.

“I feel such a strong desire to confide in you!” He says in an embarrassed, half-laughing gasp. “I suppose I’m a bit in awe of you. We’d better go into my room,” Ollimer glances at his nodding aunt.

The Divinity Student follows him down a tiny hallway to a boxy bedroom. Ollimer kneels on the floor and produces, from under his bed, a small tin chest with a padlock; he opens it and moves over to his desk. The light from the lamp shines up on his face, making it strange.

“Here.”

He opens a leather wallet and gingerly draws out a scrap of paper. The Divinity Student accepts it from him and sits down to read it. It is half of a sheet of notebook paper, with one corner torn off, taking with it most of the first word. All that is left are the last three letters,—
nia,
and the definition:

In the middle of the night, a beautiful young woman was wakened from a deep sleep, in an empty house, by a sharp pounding on her bedroom door. Upon opening the door, she saw only the empty hallway, no one anywhere along its length, or anywhere in the house. She went back to her room and shut the door behind her, but she had not taken her hand from the doorknob when the pounding sounded again even louder, nearly knocking her over. She immediately flung the door open, and again saw no one—except for a black and white spider hanging from a thread directly in front of the door.

The Divinity Student looks at Ollimer.

Ollimer had watched him reading.

“You see? I-it’s a word that can only be defined by a story. The word doesn’t represent that sequence of events—but rather it names what that sequence
suggests.
”

“Is that what you were told to say?”

Ollimer doesn’t answer.

“The page is torn, what was the word?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry, that’s all there is.”

The Divinity Student gives the fragment back and stands up, pacing over to the other side of the room while Ollimer replaces everything as it had been.

“Have you told me everything?”

“Yes—they just want you to think about it. Are you interested?”

The Divinity Student is thinking.

The next day, a gray little clerk shuffles into the office and beckons to the Divinity Student. The others give him peculiar looks as he leaves the room, wending his way out back to the library, where Mr Woodwind crouches over an ancient book with a miniature knife, scraping ink samples from illuminated characters. He gathers the flakes of dried ink on the edge of the blade and deposits them in glass dishes filled with different solitions, watching them react and change color. The rest he heats on a small metal pan until they glow in the flame and combust.

Eventually, Woodwind notices him. “You, you’re from the Seminary? I need you to take these to the high priest of San Veneficio. His office is in the Orpheum.” Woodwind withdraws a black satchel from under the table and thrusts it at him. The Divinity Student has no more than touched the handle before Woodwind turns his back and goes back to his scrapings.

Outside, the air is warm and close and still, rich with orchard smells, and, looking down, he can see the heat boil all around him, rising in curling threads, shimmering around his shadow on the pavement. Above, the sky is empty: a fathomless, midnight blue color, some dark birds circling. The streets are unusually empty, and no cars watch him go, making his way down to Calavera Street in the center of town. He can see the Orpheum approaching over the rooftops, coruscating in the hot air. It’s a palace and a theater, with screens and stages; inside, cool night air coils in deep purple velvets and muted blue satins of curtains and chairs, mingling with the clean smell of water tossed from a few small stone fountains, and sometimes spiced with a faint warm breath off of someone drifting in from the frying street to press his face against cool stone and sit on cool plush seats. Like a gem set in the middle of town, the first public building in San Veneficio, the Orpheum rests today as it always has at the midpoint of Calavera Street, surrounded by peppery-smelling trees, some with reddish-black leaves, others adorned only with blue flowers, petrified now like coral in the light. The Divinity Student looks at the Orpheum with difficulty, so much of it is lost in white smears of reflected light from the polished marble and the huge dome, carved from a single vast piece of green jade. Blinking in the searing light, he can see the statues hiding in alcoves, heavy basalt pillars supporting the facade: Orpheus soberly in the center—on his right, a smaller image where he enchants the animals and all of nature with his playing, and on his left, his head sings, drifting on river foam.