The Library at Mount Char Read online

  “Where were you?” David demanded, shaking Michael by the shoulders. He spoke in Pelapi, which bore no resemblance at all to English, or any other modern language. “You’ve been off playing in the woods, haven’t you? You finished up weeks ago! Don’t lie to me!”

  Michael was close to panic—his eyes rolled wildly, and he spoke in fits and starts, conjuring the words with great effort. “I was…uh-way.”

  “Uh-way? Uh-way? You mean away? Away where?”

  “I was with…with…the small things. Father said. Father said to study the ways of the humble and the small.”

  “Father wanted him to learn about mice,” Jennifer translated, calling over her shoulder, grunting at the weight of her rock. “How they move. Hiding and the like.”

  “Back to work!” David screamed at her. “You’re wasting daylight!”

  Jennifer plodded back to the pile and hoisted another rock, groaning under the load. David, six-foot-four and very muscular, tracked this with his eyes. Carolyn thought he smiled slightly. Then, turning back to Michael: “Gah. Mice, of all things.” He shook his head. “You know, I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but you might be even more useless than Carolyn.”

  Carolyn, safe in her hiding blind, made a rude gesture.

  Jennifer dropped another rock into the underbrush with a dry crash. She straightened up, panting, and wiped her forehead with a trembling hand.

  “Carolyn? What? I…not know…I…”

  “Stop talking,” David said. “So, let me get this straight—while the rest of us have been killing ourselves trying to find Father, you were off playing with a bunch of mice?”

  “Mice…yes. I thought—”

  A flat crack rang out across the clearing. Carolyn, who had long experience of David’s slaps, winced again. He leaned into that one.

  “I did not ask what you thought,” David said. “Animals don’t think. Isn’t that what you want to be, Michael? An animal? Come to that, isn’t it what you actually are?”

  “As you say,” Michael said softly.

  David’s back was to her, but Carolyn could picture his face clearly. He would be smiling, at least a bit. If the slap drew blood, perhaps he’ll be giving us a look at his dimples as well.

  “Just…shut up. You’re giving me a headache. Go help Jennifer or something.”

  One of Michael’s cougars rumbled. Michael interrupted it with a low yowl, and it went silent.

  Carolyn’s eyes narrowed. Behind David, she saw from the grasses on the western edge of the valley that the wind was shifting. In a moment the three of them would be downwind of her, rather than vice versa. In her time among the Americans Carolyn had gotten acclimated to the extent that their smells—Marlboro, Chanel, Vidal Sassoon—no longer made her eyes water, but Michael and David had not. With the wind coming from the west she would not stay hidden long.

  She took the risk of staring directly at their eyes—Isha had taught her that to do so was to invite notice, but sometimes it was unavoidable. Now she was hoping for them to be distracted by something north of her. Sure enough, after a moment Michael’s glance was drawn to a moth fluttering to a landing on the cairn. David and the cougars followed his gaze, as predators will do. Carolyn took advantage of the moment to slip back into the underbrush.

  She circled down the hill, south and east. When she was a quarter mile distant she doubled back, this time walking without any particular caution, and announced her arrival by purposefully cracking a dry twig underfoot.

  “Ah,” David said. “Carolyn. You’re louder and clumsier than ever. You’ll be a real American soon. I heard you blundering up all the way from the bottom of the hill. Come here.”

  Carolyn did as she was told.

  David peered into her eyes, brushed her cheek gently. His fingers were black with clotted blood. “In Father’s absence, each of us must be mindful of security. The burden of caution is upon us all. You do understand?”

  “Of cour—”

  Still stroking her cheek, he punched her in the solar plexus with his other hand. She had been expecting this—well, this or something like it—but still the air whooshed out of her lungs. She didn’t go to her knees, though. At least there’s that, she thought, savoring the coppery taste of her hate.

  David studied her for a moment with his killer’s eyes. Seeing no hint of rebellion, he nodded and turned away. “Go help them with the cairn.”

  She forced herself to draw a deep breath. A moment later the fog around the corners of her vision cleared. She walked over to Margaret’s cairn. Dry autumn grasses brushed against her bare legs. A truck roared by on Highway 78, the sound muffled by the trees. “Hello, Jen,” she said. “Hello, Michael. How long has she been dead?”

  Michael didn’t speak, but when he came near he gave her neck an affectionate sniff. She sniffed back, as was polite.

  “Hello, Carolyn,” Jennifer said.

  Jennifer dropped the stone she carried into the underbrush and wiped the sweat from her brow. “She’s been down since the last full moon.” Her eyes were very bloodshot. “So, that’s what? About two weeks now.”

  Actually, it was closer to four weeks. She’s stoned again, Carolyn thought, frowning a little. Then, more charitably, But who could blame her? She’s been alone with David. All she said was, “Wow. That’s quite a bit longer than usual. What’s she doing?”

  Jennifer gave her an odd look. “Looking for Father, of course. What did you think?”

  Carolyn shrugged. “You never know.” Just as Michael spent most of his time with animals, Margaret was most comfortable with the dead. “Any luck?”

  “We’ll see shortly,” Jennifer said, and looked pointedly at the pile of rock. Carolyn, taking the hint, walked over to the pile and hefted a medium-sized stone. They worked in silence with quick, practiced efficiency. With the three of them at it, it wasn’t long before the pile was gone, scattered throughout the surrounding underbrush. The ground beneath it had sunk only a little since the burial. It was still relatively soft. They squatted down on their knees and dug at it with their hands. Six inches down, the smell of Margaret’s body was thick. Carolyn, who hadn’t done this in some time, stifled a gag. She was careful to make sure David didn’t see. When the hole was about two feet deep she touched something squishy. “Got her,” she said.

  Michael helped brush away the dirt. Margaret was bloated, purple, rotting. The sockets of her eyes boiled with maggots. Jennifer hoisted herself out of the grave and went to gather her things. As soon as Margaret’s face and hands were uncovered, Carolyn and Michael wasted no time getting out of the pit.

  Jennifer took a little silver pipe out of her bag, lit it with a match, and took a deep hit. Then, with a sigh, she hopped down and began her work. Stoned or not, she was very gifted. A year ago Father had paid her the ultimate compliment, surrendering the white sash of healing to her. She, not Father, was now the master of her catalog. She was the only one of them he had honored in this way.

  This time the murder wound was a vertical trench in Margaret’s heart, precisely the width and depth of David’s knife. Jennifer straddled the corpse and laid her hand over the wound. She held it there for the span of three breaths. Carolyn watched this with interest, noting the stages at which Jennifer said mind, body, and spirit under her breath. Carolyn was careful to give no outward sign of what she was doing. Studying outside your catalog was—well, it wasn’t something you wanted to be caught at.

  Michael moved to the other side of the clearing, away from the smell, and wrestled with his cougars, smiling. He paid the rest of them no attention. Carolyn sat with her back against one of the bull’s bronze legs, close enough to watch as Jennifer worked. When Jennifer took her hand away the wound in Margaret’s chest was gone.

  Jennifer stood up in the grave. Carolyn guessed this was to get a bit of fresh air rather than for any clinical purpose. The stench was bad enough over where Carolyn was, but in the pit it would be overwhelming. Jennifer took a deep breath, then knelt aga
in. She furrowed her brow, brushed away most of the insects, then knelt and put her warm mouth over Margaret’s cold one. She held the embrace for three breaths, then drew back, gagging, and set about rubbing various lotions on Margaret’s skin. Interestingly, she applied the lotion in patterns, the glyphs of written Pelapi—first ambition, then perception, and finally regret.

  When that was done, Jennifer stood up and scrambled out of the grave. She started toward Carolyn and Michael, but after two steps her eyes widened. She cupped her hand over her mouth, bolted into the underbrush, and retched. When her stomach was empty she walked over to join Carolyn. Her steps were slower and shakier than before. A thin film of sweat glistened on her brow.

  “Bad?” Carolyn asked.

  By way of answer Jennifer turned her head and spat. She sat down close and laid her head on Carolyn’s shoulder for a moment. Then she fished out her little silver pipe—American, a gift from Carolyn—and fired it up again. Marijuana smoke, thick and sweet, filled the clearing. She offered it to Carolyn.

  “No thanks.”

  Jennifer shrugged, then took a second, deeper drag. The coal of the pipe flared in the polished bronze of the bull’s belly. “Sometimes I wonder…”

  “Wonder what?”

  “If we should bother. Looking for Father, I mean.”

  Carolyn drew back. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, I—” Jennifer sighed. “No. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s just…I wonder. Would it really be that much worse? If we just…let it go? Let the Duke, or whoever, take over?”

  “If the Duke repairs himself to the point where he can start feeding again, complex life will be history. It wouldn’t take long, either. Five years, probably. Maybe ten.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Jennifer fired up her pipe again. “So instead we have Father. The Duke…well, at least his way would be painless. Peaceful, even.”

  Carolyn made a sour face, then smiled. “Had a rough couple of weeks with David, did you?”

  “No, that isn’t—” Jennifer said. “Well, maybe. It actually was a pretty goddamn rough couple of weeks, now that you mention it. And where have you been, anyway? I could have used your help.”

  Carolyn patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry. Here, give me that.” Jennifer passed the pipe. She took a small puff.

  “Still, though,” Jennifer said. “Doesn’t it ever get to you? Serious question.”

  “What?”

  Jennifer waved her arm, a gesture that took in the grave, Garrison Oaks, the bull. “All of it.”

  Carolyn thought about it for a minute. “No. Not really. Not anymore.” She looked at Jennifer’s hair and picked a maggot out. It squirmed on the end of her finger. “It used to, but I adjusted.” She crushed the maggot. “You can adjust to almost anything.”

  “You can, maybe.” She took the pipe back. “I sometimes think the two of us are the only ones who are still sane.”

  It crossed Carolyn’s mind to pat Jennifer’s shoulder or hug her or something, but she decided against it. The conversation was already more touchy-feely than she was really comfortable with. Instead, by way of changing the subject, she nodded in the direction of the grave. “How long will it be before…?”

  “I’m not sure,” Jennifer said. “Probably a while. She’s never been down this long before.” She grimaced and spat again. “Blech.”

  “Here,” Carolyn said. “I brought you something.” She rummaged in her plastic shopping bag and pulled out a half-empty bottle of Listerine.

  Jennifer took the bottle. “What is it?”

  “Put some in your mouth and swish it around. Don’t swallow it. After a few seconds spit it out.”

  Jennifer looked at it, dubious, trying to decide if she were being made fun of.

  “Trust me,” Carolyn said.

  Jennifer hesitated for a moment, then took a sip. Her eyes went wide.

  “Swish it around,” Carolyn said and demonstrated by puffing out first her left cheek, then her right. Jennifer mimicked her. “Now, spit it out.” Jennifer did. “Better?”

  “Wow!” Jennifer said. “That’s—” She looked over her shoulder at David. He wasn’t looking, but she lowered her voice anyway. “That’s amazing. It usually takes me hours to get the taste out of my mouth!”

  “I know,” Carolyn said. “It’s an American thing. It’s called mouthwash.”

  Jennifer ran her fingers over the label for a moment, an expression of childlike wonder on her face. Then, with obvious reluctance, she held the bottle out to Carolyn.

  “No,” Carolyn said. “Keep it. I got it for you.”

  Jennifer didn’t say anything, but she smiled.

  “Are you done?”

  Jennifer nodded. “I think so. Margaret is set, at any rate. She’s heard the call.” She raised her voice. “David? Will there be anything else?”

  David’s back was to them. He was standing at the edge of the bluff, looking across Highway 78 to the entrance to Garrison Oaks. He waved his hand distractedly.

  Jennifer shrugged. “I guess that means I’m done.” She turned to Carolyn. “So, what do you think?”

  “I’m not sure,” Carolyn said. “If Father is out among the Americans, I can’t find him. Have you learned anything?”

  “Michael says he’s not among the beasts, living or dead.”

  “And the others?”

  Jennifer shrugged. “So far it’s just us three. They’ll be along presently.” She stretched out on the grass and rested her head on Carolyn’s lap. “Thank you for the—what did you call it?”

  “Listerine.”

  “Lis-ter-ine,” Jennifer said. “Thank you.” She closed her eyes.

  All that afternoon the other librarians filtered in, singly and in pairs. Some carried burdens. Alicia held the black candle, still burning as it had in the golden ruin at the end of time. Rachel and her phantom children whispered among themselves of the futures that would never be. The twins, Peter and Richard, watched intently as the librarians filled out the twelve points of the abbreviated circle, studying some deep order that everyone else was blind to. The sweat on their ebony skin glistened in the firelight.

  Finally, just before sunset, Margaret stretched a pale, trembling hand up into the light.

  “She’s back,” Jennifer said to no one in particular.

  David walked over to the grave, smiling. He reached down and took Margaret’s hand. With his help she rose on shaky legs, dirt raining down around her. David lifted her out of the grave. “Hello, my love!”

  She stood before him, no taller than his chest, and tilted her head back, smiling. David dusted off the worst of the dirt, then lifted her by the hips and kissed her, long and deep. Her small feet dangled limp six inches over the black earth. It occurred to Carolyn that she could not think what color garment Margaret had been buried in. It might have been ash-gray, or the bleached-out-flesh tones of a child’s doll left too long in the sun. Whatever color it actually was, it had blended well against Margaret herself. She is barely here anymore. All that’s really left of her is the smell.

  Margaret wobbled for a moment, then sat down in the pile of soft earth next to the grave. David tipped her a wink and ran his tongue along his teeth. Margaret giggled. Jennifer gagged again.

  David squatted down next to Margaret and ruffled her dusty black hair. “Well?” he called out to Richard and Peter and the rest, “What are you waiting for? Everyone’s here now. Take your places.”

  They were gathered into a rough circle. Carolyn watched David. He eyed the bull, uneasy, and in the end stood so that his back was to it. Even now, he doesn’t like looking at it. Not that she blamed him.

  “Very well,” he said. “You have all had your month. Who has answers for me?”

  No one spoke.

  “Margaret? Where is Father?”

  “I do not know,” she said. “He is not in the forgotten lands. He does not wander the outer darkness.”

  “So, he’s not dead, then.”

  “Perhaps
not.”

  “Perhaps? What does that mean?”

  Margaret was silent for a long moment. “If he died in the Library, it would be different.”

  “Different how? He wouldn’t go to the forgotten lands?”

  “No.”

  “What, then?”

  Margaret looked shifty. “I shouldn’t say.”

  David rubbed his temples. “Look, I’m not asking you to talk about your catalog, but…he’s been gone a long time. We have to consider all possibilities. Just in general terms, what would happen if he had died inside the Library? Would he—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Carolyn said, not quite shouting. Her face was red. “Father can’t be dead—not in the Library, and not anywhere bloody else!” The others muttered agreement. “He’s…he’s Father.”

  David’s face clouded, but he let it go. “Margaret? What do you think?”

  Margaret shrugged, not really interested. “Carolyn is probably right.”

  “Mmm.” He didn’t seem convinced. “Rachel? Where is Father?”

  “We do not know,” she said, spreading her hands out to indicate the silent ranks of ghost children arrayed behind her. “He is in no possible future that we can see.”

  “Alicia? What about the actual future? Is he there?”

  “No.” She ran her fingers through her dirty-blond hair, nervous. “I checked all the way to the heat death of normal space. Nothing.”