The Festival of Bones: Mythworld Book One (14 page)

“So what is this we saw?” asked Galen. “The faint hatching across the sheets?”

“It’s a
Palimpsest
—which means that other texts have been written on the surface, then erased. Usually, we use a special solution to bring them up without damaging the paper, but in this case, the toxicity of the absinthe did the trick just fine.”

“Well, it’s lucky you aren’t a scotch man,” said Jude.

“But the writing,” Galen pressed. “What is it?”

“Runes—
ancient
runes; offhand, I’d guess probably several hundred years older than the Icelandic writing of the
Eddaic
runes which were printed on top. But that’s not the amazing part.”

He paused, perhaps more out of his own disbelief than for dramatic purposes.

“I’ll have to verify this at the University,” he said, his voice cracking. “But the first lines refer to its being something called the Book of Alberich. Do you understand what this could be? Not a poetic cycle, or a mythologized history. This could be an accounting, perhaps only once or twice removed, of the actual father of Hagen—the very instigator of everything in the
Prose
Edda
, the
Nibelunglied
, and … Wagner’s
Ring
.”

He took a breath to continue, then stopped and stood, looking out the window.

“Michael?” said Jude, “what is it?”

Wordless, Michael carefully set the still dripping sheet of parchment between the leaves of a spare
Pennyroyal Caxton Bible
, then placed the huge book on the crowded shelves to the right of the couch. He then moved slowly around the couch where he snapped off the switch on the tall lamp and waved them both to the open windows, before nodding down at the street. “We have company.”

Filling the sidewalks in front of the building and spilling over into the street, several hundred men and women of all shape and size stood motionless; every few seconds, another joined their number at the edge of the throng. Most of the silent figures wore bandages of some sort across their foreheads, and even in the faint illumination of the street lamps, Michael could see on many of them the dark stains of blood which had seeped into the fabric. Standing there, the motion of breathing causing a gentle swaying in the crowd, they seemed spectral, as if a bloodied platoon of Yankee soldiers had been straggling for home and overshot by several thousand miles.

They were all, to the last man, staring at Michael’s windows.

“Do you suppose they’re fans of yours?” Michael asked wryly, looking at Jude.

“What makes you ask that?”

Michael dipped his head at the front of the group below. “Because the last time I saw that fellow, he had eighteen inches of iron sticking out of his forehead, and you were the one who had just put it there.”

It was the stout heckler from the nightclub, his head now bandaged in a fashion similar to the others. His expression was stony, and gave no indication that he recognized any of them from earlier in the evening.

Galen’s eyes narrowed. “Trepanning. Trepanning. That’s what you did to him in the club,” he said grasping Jude by the shoulder, an accusing note in his voice. “I recognize some of them—they’re students at the University. Were you responsible for the incidents earlier in the week? Was that
your
doing, Jude?”

Before he could answer, the midnight calm was split by a piercing howl. One of the ghostly throng had tipped back his head and had erupted in a sound which shook the windows of Michael’s apartment. Then, one by one, the others in the street added their voices to the primal outpouring, until it seemed as if the building itself was going to come down around the academics watching from the windows above.

An instant later, they realized that the building would not, in fact, come down.

Instead, the howling students with the holes in their heads were scaling the walls.

Both Michael and Galen turned to Jude for an explanation, only to find him already at the door, the Palimpsest firmly tucked under one arm. “Well?” he said with finality, “I think we’d best repair elsewhere, don’t you?”

Jude was at the end of the hall when Galen hit the door, just as the first of the still-howling students breached the windows. Michael was last out. He didn’t lock the door.

***

CHAPTER SEVEN
The Church of Phineas Gage

If any religion can be said to be integral to the day-to-day workings of Vienna, it would be a religion based on the consumption of coffee, and its temples, the coffeehouses. Granted, there are coffee-consuming cultures all over the world, and places where it is done in greater quantity—perhaps even places where it is more integral to the general harmony, like Seattle, or research stations in Antarctica—but the one thing Vienna held as its catechism was that if you’re going to drink coffee, you must do it in style.

The first aspect considered when opening a Vienna coffeehouse is
atmosphere
; it must look as if the facility has been in continuous operation since Napoleon’s occupation at the latest, and once the doors were opened, the owners would never admit to the contrary. The preferred decor is Comfortable Decrepitude; the preferred clientele, literate. In the Viennese coffeehouse culture of the 19th-century, the writers, artists, and poets of Vienna, and sometimes of Europe, hung out in coffee shops when they got tired of the poorly-heated apartments—which was probably the same reason Kafka came to the city from Prague—and wrote, painted, and poeticized themselves into the wee hours of the night. Trotsky and Lenin played chess in coffeehouses, and Freud—well, he was playing a different game
altogether
.

On Tuesday morning, sitting at the Cafe Central, Michael and Galen were not writing, drawing, composing poetry, lamenting failed revolutions, or looking lewdly at other peoples’ cigars, but were instead spotting one another in a marathon to consume as much caffeine as was humanly possible before their heads exploded.

Galen sat slumped in his seat, occasionally glowering at Michael, who was making every effort to maintain a cheerful facade, even though his face felt like it was carved from granite. They had been sitting at the cafe for almost an hour and were beginning their fifth pot of coffee before one of them spoke.

“What was that …
poison
, you served us last night, Langbein?” Galen rasped. “I feel like I was hit by a train.”

“Absinthe,” said Michael wearily. “It’s a very intellectual drink.”

Galen responded with a venomous look which suggested to Michael that cheerful would not be the currency of the day. Michael had hoped for a better beginning to the morning—after the events of the evening before, and the John Woo movie they endured for the rest of the night, which for them had only ended a few hours earlier, a nice breakfast would’ve been a good sign that God did not indeed hate him. As it was, he couldn’t be certain just exactly how God felt about him, as opposed to Galen, whom Michael was sure was now ranking him somewhere between tax attorneys and child molesters.

As if to echo Michel’s thoughts, Galen cleared his throat. “What time is it, Langbein? You didn’t lose your watch, too, did you?”

“Ah, no,” said Michael placidly, pulling his watch from his pocket. “It’s ten-thirty two.”

“Holy Hades,” said Galen. “Where the devil is Jude?”

“Hey,” said Michael as he replaced the watch. “I’ve still got the toothpaste in my pocket. At least the night wasn’t a total waste.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Galen.

* * *

Getting out of the building Michael’s apartment was in was not a problem. Getting to a street where they would not be hemmed in by their pursuers was.

Slipping out the back entrance, Jude hit the ground first, followed closely by Galen, and then Michael, who quickly outstripped the others. His long legs taking huge strides, he pointed them to Grillparzerstrasse, which ran just south of the University and towards the Rathauspark.

Jude, breathing heavily but running with a smooth, effortless gait, drew alongside Michael. “What are you thinking?”

“The park,” Michael puffed back. “There are a lot of trees and shrubs scattered throughout the lawns. We might be able to hide there.”

The sky was black—no moon, and an overcast sky offered a degree of additional cover. Not pausing, Jude nodded and waved to Galen, several paces behind.

The park was divided by a wide square, making the sections fairly symmetrical. “Which section?” Jude asked, “Parliament, or University?”

“Parliament.”

Moving swiftly, the three fugitive scholars ran down the avenue and into the park, where they paused momentarily to reassess their situation. In the darkness behind them, they could hear the sounds of their pursuers: two hundred students with holes in their heads and a sudden penchant for howling and climbing buildings. Around them was the early Viennese morning, which was oddly subdued and quiet, even for four o’clock in the morning. And ahead of them they hoped to find some sort of refuge—though none of them was certain where their flight was ultimately leading.

Michael looked around at the shrubbery, and his heart sank. The lighting within the park was substantial enough that it would be unlikely they could avoid detection for any period of time—especially given the numbers of their pursuers.

In the near distance, they could see the howling group split, many of them heading towards the Ringstrasse—which meant that they were not in imminent peril, but were also cut off from any possible refuge or aid they might have found at the University.

“Michael?” Jude whispered questioningly.

“This way,” he said, breaking into a run.

“God in Heaven,” Galen puffed, having only just caught up.

Michael headed east, past the Burgtheater and into the burgeoning rose gardens of the Volkesgarten. Behind them, they could hear the sound of howling as the throng tracking them entered the Rathauspark.

“Where the devil are you leading us, Langbein?” Galen rasped.

“Across here,” Michael said, pointing to the plaza ahead. “I have an idea.”

Still running easily enough that the others appeared to be caught up in his wake, Michael recalled a cautionary tale an old Belgian had once told him: it takes both a carrot and a stick to move a mule with any haste, and you must use them both, because neither you nor the mule will ever know which one is making it move.

He looked back at the young mathematician who was keeping pace with little effort, and the musician, who was straining not to fall behind, and wondered just what it was that made them run. Was it for the carrot—the enigmatic manuscript which Jude clutched tightly under his arm? Or was it the metaphoric stick which was roaring down the street behind them promising all kinds of harm to life and limb?

Pushing past the rosebushes, the trio moved directly to Michael’s destination—the Hofburg complex, the former Imperial Palace of the Habsburgs. Galen shot a curious glance at Jude, who shrugged and kept his speed. They continued running past the soaring baroque buildings until they reached the entrance to the Nationalbibliothek—the National Library—where Michael fumbled around in his pockets for his keys.

Wheezing, Galen leaned against the archway next to the door and looked on in astonishment. “You have a key to the National Library? How on earth did you manage that?”

Michael grinned. “I have my sources,” he said, releasing the lock and opening the doors with a flourish.

Together they bolted through and closed the doors, and just in time—seconds later several dozen trepanned students swarmed through the plaza. “Let’s move deeper while we can,” said Jude.

Walking through the darkened rooms, Michael led them to the Augustine reading room and turned on a table lamp.

“Well,” said Jude. “If you meant to impress me, I’d say you succeeded.”

The Augustine reading room was opened in 1906, and the plan behind it was simple—to design and construct a reading room whose atmosphere could hold its own against the holdings of the library; and as the library contained imperial and scholarly collections from as early as 1368, including Egyptian papyrus, the famed
Wenceslas’ Bible
, and Maria of Burgundy’s personal
Book of Hours
, it was no small challenge.

The Viennese, however, like a challenge, and the result was the single most wonkingly baroque reading room in all of Europe. All dark woods and flamboyant design, the scrollwork had scrollwork; the curves had curves; and the symmetries were infinite. It was quite possibly the only room in Austria where an illuminated manuscript from a Gutenberg Bible would look bland and colorless.

Michael beamed at the looks on his companions’ faces. “I like to come in here and unwind,” he said smugly, “and now we’ve arrived, I suddenly can’t think of a more appropriate place to have the
Edda
.”

“You’re very right,” said Jude, handing him the parcel. “This is a very apropos place—if we weren’t fleeing for our lives, that is.”

“We ought to be all right for a little while,” said Michael as he sat the manuscript on one of the broad tables. “At least while we decide what to do.”

Galen sagged into a chair and glared at Jude. “What was that about, Jude? That man in the street was the same man you …
impaled
, at your performance—now, suddenly, he’s howling like a banshee and a hundred students have joined him in the apparent quest to rend us limb from limb. Is there anything you’d like to tell us?”

“Sure,” said Jude. “Guilty as charged.”

Galen looked at Michael who looked back at Galen, and then both of them looked at Jude, who was examining an engraved wooden plaque which was set on another engraved wooden plaque. He felt their boggled stares and turned his head, eyebrows arched in surprise. “What? You’ve never done research outside your field?”

“
Research
?” Galen sputtered. “You drilled holes into students
heads
! Is that even
legal
?”

“Yes,” said Jude, “if I have consent, which they freely gave.”

“Enter freely, and of your own will,” Michael quoted wryly.

“What, you think I’m some sort of reverse vampire?” Jude asked, irritated. “It was legitimate research. I …”

Before he could continue, the lights snapped out. From down the long hall, they could hear a pounding at the doors, and a moment later, a howl split the silence of the library.

“I think our break is over, gentlemen,” said Jude. “Michael?”

“Follow me,” Michael said. “I think we can get out this way.”

Feeling their way in the dark, the three moved quickly as a splintering sound announced the students’ entry into the complex. Finding an exit, Michael scanned the area for intruders, but finding it clear led the others out of the library and into the smaller cluster of buildings around the Burggarten.

“What do you think?” he whispered. “I don’t know which way to go.”

“In here,” said Jude, forcing a lock on a building surrounded by arching glass frames, “and quickly—I hear them coming.”

Ignoring the minor vandalism, Galen and Michael stepped past Jude and into a large room filled with flora. There was a faint glow from the lights in the gardens around them coming through the glass, and there was an odd humming sound, like the subtle noises of a fluorescent lamp.

“Where are we?” Galen asked.

“Here,” said Michael, feeling around on the walls, “maybe this will help.”

He flipped the switch, and a dozen globes blazed to life. Just as suddenly, the humming became a cacophony of wings as a thousand butterflies greeted the sudden electric dawn with a whirlwind of flight.

They were in the famous Butterfly house of the Kaiser’s former private garden, and the sudden change from blackness to light and exploding color was staggering. Whorls of fluttering creatures no bigger than Michael’s thumb streamed past his face, and a massive moth lit on Jude’s head. A grouping of monarchs was threatening to envelop Galen, and all around them the plants were moving with a borrowed life of humming insects. It was an extraordinary sight.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Michael said, holding up his finger for a Costa Rican green. “Have you ever seen the
like
?”

“Yes, yes it is beautiful,” said Jude, not impatiently, “but I’d really rather that you hadn’t turned on the lights.”

In response, the lights suddenly cut out, and the butterflies’ vibrations fell to a hush. Michael bit his lip, thinking—was it darker that it had been when they entered?

“Cursed, cursed luck,” said Galen. “Look up.”

Where the soft glow of the garden lamps had come through the windows, there was a writhing blackness, cutting off the light.

The student mob had scaled the walls and was covering the building. They were surrounded.

* * *

“Where are you going?” Galen said in disbelief. “Are you
insane
?”

Jude had moved to a maintenance bay at the rear of the building and had begun scaling a ladder. He was heading for a trapdoor which led to the roof.

“No,” Jude replied without turning. “I don’t think I am insane—but I do think we’ll have a better chance of escaping if we’re not surrounded on all sides.”

Michael and Galen looked at each other and realized the young man may have a valid point—better to fight in open air than in a pressure cooker. Together, they made a dash for the ladder just as three burly students broke through the door and the sounds of a struggle echoed from above.

When they pulled themselves onto the roof, they found Jude already climbing down the far side, and nearly two dozen unconscious men and women scattered between them.

“What in Hades…?” Galen said.

“You don’t think all I learned in Tibet was how to print books, do you?” Jude asked as he disappeared below the roofline.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Michael.

* * *

There were more scuffles with the howlers between the Burggarten and the Ringstrasse, but Jude handily dispatched them with a minimum of fuss.

“Gosh,” said Michael, running hard, “I hope I never tick him off.”

“Same here,” said Galen.

“Here, quickly!” said Jude, waving. It was one of the late running Night Buses just ahead, making its last circuit north to Kartnerstrasse. With a burst of speed, Michael dashed forward and caught the bus just as it was pulling into the street. Stopping, the driver waited until Jude, and finally Galen could catch up and climb aboard.

“Good call,” Galen wheezed. “How did you get him to wait, Langbein?”