The Festival of Bones: Mythworld Book One (13 page)

“So you were allowed free access to the library, then?” Michael asked.

“We were allowed to examine the books we could reach from the doorway, when it was open, and under supervision,” said Jude. “Once we’d been exposed to the whole of the mystery, there was little point in trying to bar us from further studies—though I suspect my interests were tolerated because I was with a teacher-elect. Besides, as the library was one of the primary centers of the entire complex, and since they only traded with the outside once every several years, there was no real contest between spending time in that treasure trove and walking Kora around a mountain at twenty thousand feet.”

“I take it you hadn’t mastered the Zen Illusionist routine, yet,” said Michael, “else you’d have been zooming up and down the corridor on a regular basis.”

“Illusion is one thing—
magic
is another. There are practical reasons why anchorites need great quantities of time and isolation to do what they do.”

“There was no contact with the outside? None at all?” Galen asked.

“There were some instances of contact,” said Jude, “but they were few and far between—mostly because no pilgrim had ever set foot on the slopes of the holy mountain. The anchorites traded with certain of the local monks for barley and fish, and A occasionally performed a Kora or two, but other than that, we were completely isolated.”

“Back up,” said Michael, scowling. “You said the library was ‘one of’ the primary centers. What were the others?”

“There was only one more,” said Jude, “and I’ve already mentioned it. There were a number of passages which branched off of the main tunnels—there were four, incidentally, one under each shapje Buddha left around the mountain—rooms for sleeping, food storage, recreation …”

“Recreation?”

“Melvin was nuts for Ping-Pong. There were also many, many unexplored tunnels, but only two were of any import—the one which extended vertically which housed the library, and a circular tunnel which housed the bodies of the dead.”

“The dead teachers were interred
inside
the mountain?” Michael asked in surprise. “Is that actually a Buddhist practice?”

“No, but you forget that this group’s beliefs and practices originated long before Buddha existed—their adoption of the term ‘Zen’ simply put a name to things they were already doing. The chamber was a huge ring some ninety miles in circumference. This was what we saw through the open door on our arrival—the remains of teachers past.”

“So the precursors to the anchorites were Giants?”

Jude shrugged. “Who can say? We weren’t allowed to wander the chamber unescorted, and the others were disinclined to go there themselves. I can’t say I blame them—knowing where your mausoleum is different than taking a stroll through it after dinner.”

“How did you come to leave Meru?” Michael asked. “I don’t think I’d’ve been able to do it.”

“It wasn’t really a question of choice,” said Jude. “None of the disciples had died in the time we were there, and one scab would’ve been a strain on their routine, never mind two. It was decided that we would be allowed to leave, with the solemn promise never to reveal the location or even the existence of Meru.”

“Ah, aren’t you botching that up right now?” Michael asked.

“I would be,” said Jude, “if it hadn’t burned to ash the day we left, and there were any anchorites left alive with whom I could break my promise.”

“Oh, Christ,” breathed Michael. “What happened?”

“The unseen disciple, a former Celtic priestess whom the others called Z, protested at the thought that we were to be liberated. She believed that like the disciples, we should be expected to live our lives in service of Meru, which was too unorthodox for most of the others, particularly A, to swallow. As for us, I was not unhappy there, but had other work I wanted to proceed with which I could not pursue in the bowels of a mountain; and H—well, I think he mostly was interested in going for a cheeseburger and fries.”

“How did the fire start?”

“I can’t say for certain. All I know is that A and Z had some sort of an altercation, which ended in flames—the library doors, usually sealed, were standing open, and a stream of oil ran down the stacks and set the books alight. H was dashing to the fore of the conflagration, but there was nothing he could do. One of the U’s and H had already succumbed to the flames, and the smoke was rapidly filling the corridors. I ran—but before I did, I reached into the bookshelf closest to the doors, where the most recent volumes were kept, and grabbed blindly. What I emerged with was a burned arm, seared lungs, that manuscript, and my life.

“The corridor I exited opened at a shapje near a monastery on the western slopes of the mountain. There was no sign of H, or the anchorites, but the pilgrims and monks I could see were either prostrate or fleeing in terror—smoke was billowing from a hundred points along the mountain above them, and a man suddenly appears from beneath the footprint of the Buddha. It was a good enough sequence of omens for me to request—and be given—food, shelter, and transportation to New Delhi. I returned to England, then applied for several teaching positions. The one I accepted was here in Vienna. And that, as they say, is the end of my story—for the moment.”

That was as much a statement of finality as it was possible to make. All three were silent for a moment, then Galen spoke up. “The rhyme,” he said, tilting his chin at Jude. “How did it go?”

“What?”

“The nursery rhyme—the one from the million-year-old book. How did it go?”

Jude’s eyes narrowed—was Galen playing him? No—the question wasn’t one of doubt or spite, the mathematician decided. Galen was putting it together; he was seeing a pattern in the chaos, and that was exactly what Jude had hoped for; exactly what was needed.

“The rhyme was written in a tongue several languages removed from even G’s experience—but comparisons with other volumes gave a close approximation of what it was intended to express. I can’t duplicate it visually, but I can give you a phonetic recollection. If I remember correctly, it went something like this:

“Tigall, tigall, efram shine.
Divine long neetings have Y mine,
Vora endess sky and Ys,
Endess, endess, whiten tis,
Tigall, tigall, efram shine,
Y divine long neetings mine.”

Michael shook his head. “It’s beyond me. Do you recognize the meter, Galen?”

He did—in the adjacent chair, the musician had turned white. “My God,” he said slowly. “My God—it is a nursery rhyme.”

“Which one?” Michael asked. “I’m afraid I’m not up to date on my nursery rhymes.”

Galen looked out the window into the darkness of the night and, voice shaking, began to recite:

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are,
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
Now I know just what you are.

“That’s the one,” said Jude.

“Oh, dear,” said Michael.

* * *

Michael set his glass of absinthe on the low table and slid off of his chair onto the floor, where he lay arms akimbo. “Frankly, I don’t know what to think,” he said helplessly. “I thought I was prepared for just about anything, but I’ve never heard a story like you’ve just foisted on us told with a straight face.”

“I concur,” said Galen, rubbing wearily at his temples, “and I don’t think the mere effort of listening to a story has ever drained me so completely.”

“I understand,” said Jude, “although I’d like to think the lateness of the hour and the quantities of alcohol consumed have something to do with your state of being.”

“Blast,” Michael exclaimed, looking upside down at a mantel clock. “It’s after three in the morning—and we haven’t even taken a thorough look at the manuscript.”

Galen responded with an equally aggravated epithet. “I have two meetings before noon, neither of which I am prepared for, but I am loathe to leave this …
Book
, without a solid declaration of intentions. What do you propose?” he asked, turning away from the pages and towards Jude, who seemed neither fatigued nor distressed by the lateness of the hour.

“Gentlemen,” he said, rising from the couch for the first time since they had entered the apartment, “I was fully aware that the processes of verification and translation were not going to be instantaneous. When I invited you to my show, my intention was to prepare you for the story I had to tell, and perhaps for events to come …”
What those events might be,
Michael thought,
would be a good question for a day when his eyeballs were not preparing to fall from his head
.

“… And I am quite prepared to leave the
Prime Edda
with whichever one of you would be the most appropriate to have deal with it. After all, we are colleagues, are we not?”

Jude could see Galen trembling—he wanted to take hold of the document and infuse it into his bones, and his desire for it was barely controlled and more visible then he would have guessed. Galen was struggling between his need to possess, and his academic and logical understanding that overall, Professor Langbein was the better qualified. He was on the verge of speaking, his choice still unmade, when Michael ended Galen’s inner stalemate.

“Why don’t we just keep it in the secured section of the main Library?” he suggested. “That way, we would all have access to it whenever we can find the time.”

“Mmm,” said Galen, “I like the idea of mutually equitable access, but I must ask—haven’t there been security concerns with that very section recently?”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Michael insisted groggily. “I don’t even know what happened to the key, much less the strongbox, and no one is willing to let an untenured professor look at the security reports. You’re Administration,” he said, nodding to Galen, “can’t you look into it?”

“Of course,” Galen answered. “I had to ask. I’ll look into it tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” said Jude. “Shall we wrap up the pages again, then? I’m sure we’ll be meeting to examine it again soon, and we all have an early morning approaching.”

“Yeah,” said Michael, sitting up and reaching across the table. “I’ll just put the top sheet back on, and …”

Time stopped.

The next seconds stretched into infinity, as Jude, Galen, and Michael all witnessed events occurring over which they had no control, beginning with the infinitesimal brushing of Michael’s rolled-up sleeve against the half-filled glass of absinthe, which progressed to the tipping of said glass, followed by the green liquid’s newly airborne state, and ending with the ultimate conjoining of the alcohol with the single sheet of the manuscript which lay to the left of the stack.

With a shriek, Galen returned time to its normal flow. “Curse you, Langbein! What have you done? What have you done?”

“Oh, God, oh my God,” said Michael, his face ashen, “quick, Jude—pull the sheet away, we must …”

Jude stopped them, hand upraised. He was peering at the absinthe-stained portion of the document with an odd expression.

Michael sprang to the kitchen, then bounded back into the room bearing several dishcloths, which he proceeded to use to sop up the spilled drink. Jude, in the meantime, had taken the sheet—half of it covered in absinthe—and was holding it up to the lamp near the window, while Galen rewrapped and secured the rest of the manuscript on the writing desk near the door.

Michael was muttering to himself as he mopped the tabletop, a combination of self-directed fury and sleeplessness. “
Prime Edda 
… Oldest
Edda
document ever found … I soak it in alcohol…. Idiot, idiot, idiot …”

Galen moved to Jude’s side and looked at him queerly—the mathematician was not attempting to dry off the parchment, but was instead holding it near the broad lampshade and was examining it closely.

“What is it, Jude? What are you looking at?”

Jude motioned him closer. “Tell me, musician—what do you see? Is it a new reality, or just the ghost of an illusion?”

Galen stepped forward and leaned in closely. Gently gripping the fragile sheet, he looked towards the space where Jude indicated … Something. “Mmm,” he said with his favorite ruminating rumble, “I see what you’re seeing, but I can’t quite make it out. Michael?”

“What? Is it going to be all right? We really ought to get it into a cleaning bath right away …”

“Never mind that. Come have a look at this.”

Dropping the rags to the table, Michael hurried over to where the two men stood, an odd look on both their faces. As one, Galen and Jude pointed to where the liquid had stained the parchment, then stepped back. Michael looked at it, then drew a deep breath, furrowed his brow, and looked closer.

Taking the sheet from their hands, the historian strode from the room, then returned with a jewelers’ loupe fixed to his right eye. Turning on several more lamps, he laid the sheet down on the table and proceeded to scan the entire page an inch at a time.

After five minutes, Galen made as if to speak, but Jude’s light hand on his shoulder and a subtle shaking of the head indicated that they should let Langbein do his work—whatever they had seen, it had instantly and completely sobered the professor, and drawn from him an attention as fine as a laser.

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. Jude and Galen both sat on the couch, not willing to leave, and equally unwilling to disturb Michael’s examination. At twenty minutes, Galen was again starting to say something when Michael sat up, muttering, looked around, found the bottle of absinthe, and poured the remainder of its contents on the parchment.

Galen’s fingers clenched, and he looked at Jude in shock. “Tell me I didn’t just see that. Tell me he didn’t just destroy an irreplaceable document.”

“He didn’t just destroy an irreplaceable document.”

“How do you know?”

Jude shrugged. “I don’t. You just asked me to tell you that.”

“I didn’t just destroy an irreplaceable document,” said Michael. “We’ve discovered something extraordinary. Absolutely extraordinary.”

“Look here,” Michael said excitedly as the others crowded alongside him, kneeling. “The absinthe acted as a washing agent itself—it didn’t destroy the block-printing, or damage the annotations, but it did render the sheet semitransparent.”