Antioch

  Michael scraped at it and then stood back for moment. Saints weren’t buried in stone. Unless the ways had changed, it should have been a coffin made of pine and it should have rotted away long ago. Even the caligan and sleeve would have been nothing more than rust after two hundred years in the ground. He returned to digging and scraping, searching for the edges of what he’d found.

  ***

  Andalynn and Harold returned two hours later, after one of those long talks over coffee that so often turns compatible personalities into thick companions. They were still in lively discourse as they approached Ezekiel’s marker.

  Harold chuckled at her. “You’re a disturbing person.”

  Andalynn smirked. “Do you think so? I consider myself a free spirit.”

  It seemed from a distance that Michael was no longer there. He could not be so deep in the hole that none of him showed. Andalynn wondered if they had lost track of time and if he was already back in the church. As they got closer, the gooseflesh started to rise. At fifty yards she shouted, “Michael!” There was no answer. She stopped and looked around, feeling exposed.

  Harold said, “Is something wrong?”

  “I should not have called out.”

  “He’s most likely back inside, wouldn’t you say?”

  Andalynn’s jaw clenched and she nodded.

  Harold rubbed his arms from the cold. “Perhaps we should go inside as well.”

  So, they did and Michael wasn’t there. Andalynn drew her pistol and pointed it at the door. They were in danger, she knew it. Overreaction was impossible. If Michael was not at the church, everyone was in danger, and if a bauran walked through that door, it could kill both of them.

  She said, “Stay here. Lock yourself in the library.”

  Harold said, “Not likely,” and grabbed up his broadsword and shield.

  Andalynn ran outside with Harold on her heels. They were far away from the church before she stopped, far away from anything concealing. She would not let one surprise her around a corner.

  She said, “They do not make any sound. They just come. You have to watch every second, everywhere around you.” Harold followed her lead, keeping his eyes open.

  Andalynn could think of no other explanation; Michael must have answered a signal bell. They would have heard the wall’s bell from Betheford’s, she had before. The eastern bell was even closer. But, she might not have heard the western or the southern - and the southern bell was the most ominous of them all. That would be the one that rang when the remnants of Meroe and Breahg and every other settlement sacrificed south of the Circle’s arc finally marched on Antioch.

  And, when that army of the dead came, it would be old. Andalynn remembered Ditch saying, I hate the fast ones, man. They’re like, spiders, or somethin, you know? Hard to hit. It was accurate. She hated to think of them.

  But no, she had not heard the church bell. Michael would have rung out with that before answering any of the others. Out of frustration she shouted, “Michael!” No answer. “Michael!” No answer. It was infuriating. Every time she called for him, she told the bauran where she was.

  Harold said, “Let’s check the marker again, just to be sure.”

  They ran to it. As they got closer, what seemed to be a second headstone was jutting up out of the excavation. It was actually a massive, four hundred pound slab, tilted up out of that hole like a lid. Its cold, gray seat, streaked with earth, framed a rectangular pit in the foot of the grave. They couldn’t see the bottom.

  Andalynn yelled into it, “Michael!” and jerked to look around, still expecting silent stalkers at any moment, so haunted for her was the churchyard’s white desolation. Her heart beat like a bird’s wings in her chest.

  Harold peered into the darkness. “My goodness. He must be down there.”

  “Michael!”

  Before she could call a third time, Michael’s face appeared in the light of a candle twenty-five feet down. “I’m here! Is everything alright?” His voice was faint and far away.

  Aftershocks of anger and fear rippled through Andalynn’s body. She could only walk through the graveyard in the mornings because she knew Michael was in the church. When she didn’t know where he was, there was no more terrifying place in the world. She put a trembling hand over her face and said through gritted teeth, “Yes. Everything is fine.”

  Michael called up again, “What? There’s a ladder! Come see what I’ve discovered!”

  Andalynn shoved her revolver into its holster. She would not yell up and down the depth of that hole with him. She would go down there and tell him exactly how irresponsible it was for him to be out of earshot for so long. Her boots clanked on the wrought iron ladder as she descended. Harold followed, his shield on his back.

  She harangued Michael as she went. “You cannot hear anything down here, Michael. We have been calling for you. What if there had been an emergency?”

  He waited for them with his candle, disappointed in himself. “Ah, quite right, of course. I must have lost track of time. Has something happened?”

  She reached the floor and dusted her hands, snapping her words at him. “No. Fortunately. What is this, a burial chamber?” The air did not move at all down there and tasted stale and dry. What they said stayed alive in a sepulchral echo.

  Michael said, “I found this,” and handed her a very old book.

  She opened it, thinking, wonderful, more sacred script. “I cannot read this. What is it?”

  “Ezekiel’s hand.”

  She held it up and reexamined the telling strokes. Then, as her vision adjusted, she saw shapes over Michael’s shoulder. He moved toward them, revealing rows upon rows of ancient bookcases. Flat columns, filled with literature from the stone floor to the stone ceiling, planed into the darkness of a room that neither the depth nor the width of which could she determine by the candle’s light.

  Michael said, “Every one of them so far. See?” He took down another tome at random and brought it to her. Therein was Ezekiel’s hand.

  Harold whistled.

  Andalynn’s mouth fell open. “Unprecedented. What kind of information do they contain?”

  Michael gestured helplessly at the shelves. “Where should I start? There must be thousands of them. That first one I gave you is page after page of the emotional impact an apple had on him, as far as I can tell.”

  Andalynn squinted at him. “An apple?”

  Michael nodded like Ezekiel must have been insane. “It is explicit, to say the least.”

  Harold said, “It must have been some apple.”

  Michael looked sideways at him and then turned back to the books. “I might have to read a few of these just to put them in some sort of context. Ah, I’ve no idea how they’re organized…”

  They stood in speechless appraisal of the discovery. Michael carefully replaced the books and then took down another. Opening it and skimming a page, he feared he could devote every day of his life to reading, from sunrise to sunset, and never finish what Ezekiel’s tomb contained.

  Michael said, “I think this is the library. When he told us to open the library, I think this is what he meant. And I’m the only one who can read it.”

  Andalynn had seen enough. “Collect a few of them for investigation. We are deaf in this hole.” Michael agreed and picked the first five off the top shelf farthest to his left, hoping that was where they started.

  As they climbed out, Harold offered, “If you want some help with it, I wouldn’t mind learning this script of yours.” Michael frowned at him.

  26 The Second Pendulum

  This one’s full of more off-hand references to the second pendulum again. Whatever does that mean?

  I don’t know, something about riin’s tendency to ebb and flow, I suppose. Oversea, the sailors used pendulums in machines to tell the time. Ah well, I think I’m done for the evening.

  You go ahead. I’ll take notes if I find anything on my own.

  Thanks, I’m sure she’s got dinner on the tab
le already.

  I’m sure mine does too. See you tomorrow. Oh, hang on... This is interesting. Here, before you go, listen to this:

  “Emotional paths have such complex and dynamic arcs because they are further removed from the source and do not possess the pure force of instinctual paths, which are, of course, forbidden.”

  ..Well, well, what do you make of that?”

  Let me see that one!

  ***

  An old man, dark-skinned and topped with tight, white curls, walked the busiest avenue of a city about to die, mindless of the thousands of passersby. Dapper, horse-drawn buggies cruised the lane off the walk and the populace surrounded him with pocket watches, parasols and petticoats, fine suits, top hats and bustles. He wore plainer clothes and carried a brown paper bag.

  He stop-started through the revolving doors of Main Street’s most expensive hotel, La Fleur du Sud, where he and his wife had been staying for a week, a lavish extravagance in celebration of their thirtieth anniversary. Every surface inside seemed to be cream colored within a gilded lilt. The front clerk greeted him with her pretty smile and waved. The bellhop drew back the elevator door like an accordion. Its brass matched the buttons on his red velvet uniform.

  The bellhop’s nametag read Beauchamp. He’d come in early for a double into the night shift. “Welcome back, sir! Did you find what you were looking for downtown?”

  The old man thought, he looks more like a Richie or a Timmy, but, in fairness, no one really looks like a Beauchamp, do they? “Why yes, I did, right here in this bag. Thank you for inquiring after me, young man.”

  “Very good, sir. It’s too bad about our paper here.”

  Don’t patronize me, Beauchamp... “Yes, it is unfortunate. But, we all do the best we can...” I could turn you inside out like a baked yam, boy.

  “Happy anniversary, sir!”

  And then up to room nine-ten. Its interior, crowded with finery and everything sculpted or draped, looked more like a still-life than a living space. Elizabeth, his wife, adored it. She was out with her - cringe - relatives, preparing for the - cringe - party and would be back later on. Right then he was alone. He sat down at a writing desk, so decoratively carved that it should rather be called an escritoire, and from his paper bag removed a bottle of ink and a sheaf of paper.

  They were special examples of those items. The paper had to last as a book and had to flip from his thumb, just so. His work required longevity. This isn’t just something to be scribbled on hotel stationary and then forgotten, thank you very much, Beauchamp. The ink was rare. Modern inks faded after only a few decades and would therefore never do.

  He tapped his pen in the well and at the top of the first leaf wrote, “Dear Diary.” Then he hunched over, laughing. He’d wanted to do that for years. He chuckled and smiled to himself for a while before putting the pen to paper again.

  Eleven hundred and fifty-nine, September thirty-first: Seven o’clock in the evening

  I’m remembering seeing Elizabeth’s “doctor,” Jones. I called him Mr. Jones on purpose, expecting him to correct me. He didn’t. Good for him. I think it was in the paper later that he’d beaten his wife with a poker. Or, it might have been that I’d heard someone had beaten him at poker. I really can’t remember. I answered his questions as truthfully as I could at the time. He diagnosed me with depression and suggested that I keep, of all things, a diary! Every time I think of that man, it makes me laugh. It makes me laugh to think anyone could imagine themselves qualified to recommend that I keep a diary. Still, since it does make me laugh so, perhaps he had an ancillary effect on my temper’s improvement. The man might be a genius.

  I still can’t stand the sight of anyone other than her, though. And, her family is particularly base. I don’t know how someone like Elizabeth could have come from people like them. They won’t stay away from us, either! Would that they were dismembered. She’s been making an effort so I don’t have to see them too often but the more time I spend away from them the more I want and the worse it is when I am forced into their company again.

  Oh, they’re not evil people, of course. They’re just people. Their every word makes me cringe. They suggest meaning with a language their mouths don’t deserve to form. Every movement and every breath. I wouldn’t destroy them like paper nests, like bug houses to disintegrate, their flesh falling away from their skeletons while they gape at themselves in horror. No, if they were collectively helpless and I could ignore the opportunity to aid them, I suppose I would not even do that, because they mean so much to her. But, if I could live with Elizabeth in a world with no one else, oh, that would be paradise, such everlasting beauty is in her spirit. That, for her, however, would be hell. And, without her happiness, what would be the point of anything? Perhaps I’ve never been fit to live in this world, for which Elizabeth’s family seems so perfectly designed, hagfish in the slime.

  Fwah! All things considered, these last thirty years seem to have had a profound effect on me. It’s so odd that I’d need to experience them in order to come to this night, but it’s true. It really is true. I’m actually afraid of the evening at hand. That’s quite encouraging!

  Elizabeth remarked that I seemed more tolerant today. I honestly love her. Success! How can I hate everyone as much as I do if I can have this boundless love for her? That’s dishonest, I don’t hate everyone, of course. I’d feel terrible if those rare friends of mine thought that, or the children. Perhaps I hate myself.

  What part of me is it that chooses what I want? Why do I want things that make others unhappy? Why do I want others to be happy? Why can’t I simply be comfortable with their disappointment or their violent deaths and seek my own happiness? Elizabeth’s sister is like that. She’s vile, bouncing along without any concern for the displeasure she creates in others. In that way, she’s stronger than I am. Her carelessness brings her happiness. My honor brings me misery.

  Oh pish posh, enough of this, poor me and my poor honor, Elizabeth’s sister flayed and screaming, all things coming into their own and so! Currently I am excited, afraid and expectant. That pretty little clerk waved at me a moment ago on my way in. What a disgusting display! She most likely despises her occupation and would prefer that no one came in at all. How dare she lie to me with her smile? And that damned bellboy is an idiot. I am angry and murderous…

  The door ka-chunked and rattled and then opened. Elizabeth came bustling in, out of breath, arms full of packages and bags, and a smile in her voice. “Help!”

  She was sixty-five years old, and looked so. She was natural. Her hair was pulled back into a bun of black and gray springs and her deep, brown eyes were lined from experience. She wasn’t a youthful sixty-five but she’d been strong and healthy for the last thirty.

  He laughed and went to her, leaving his work on the table. “Lizzy! Here, give me some of those. You’ll hurt yourself.” He lifted them from her until she could move like a person again.

  There was someone else in the hall with even more items on a cart - Beauchamp... He wheeled them in and unloaded them. The old man gave him a large, meaningless tip - Currency…

  “Thank you, sir! That’s very generous of you!”

  “You’re worth every penny, young man.”

  Elizabeth beamed at her husband. “The big day’s tomorrow! I can hardly wait! Everything’s going to be perfect. Oh, never tell me where you got the money!”

  He smiled and closed the door. “Alright.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Tell me right this instant where you got the money.”

  He laughed. “I’ve told you, it’s a surprise.” He sat down on the bed and started looking through the bags. “Let’s have a good night, tonight. I’ll need it to face the hagfish tomorrow.”

  “G’oh! I hate it when you call them that. That’s my family. Can’t you just call them the in-laws like a normal person?”

  There’s sure to be a box of sweets in one of these... “I’ll call them whatever word you like, but whatever word you li
ke will taste of hagfish.”

  “You’re awful.” She saw his paper on the table and picked it up. At first glance she thought he’d been writing something. On closer inspection she was perplexed. “What are these symbols, Zeke? Did you write this?”

  “What’s that? Oh, yes, it’s art. I’ve decided to throw it all away and become an artist. This hotel’s inspired me.”

  She frowned at him. “You’re such a liar. This isn’t Continental. It’s strange looking… cultish. Tell me what it is.”

  “Do you know, I think it might just be the sacred script of an ancient cult?”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m not joking, now you tell me what this is.” She knew her Zeke didn’t study obscure, foreign languages. He was a common, hard-working man, not a scholar.

  He cleared a space for her on the bed and patted it. “Come sit next to me, my dear.” She did and he kissed her - oh, soaring joy of love! Success! “I’ll tell you about everything tomorrow. Not only the secret of our newfound wealth, but another secret or two that will surprise you.”

  Elizabeth paused, staring at him. “Zeke, I’m… I don’t like this. We don’t keep secrets from each other. The money’s one thing, but this writing, and you not telling me, this isn’t right. It’s frightening.”

  It was in his old, familiar face: how could you possibly be frightened of me? “Trust me, Lizzy.”

  She relaxed. Of course she trusted him. They’d been through everything together. “You didn’t need to do any of this, you know. You could have just gotten me flowers. I like flowers.”

  So beautiful… “What I’m going to share with you tomorrow will be better than flowers. I promise.”

  She loved him too. She always had. They sat on the bed together, talking and laughing about their plans and the celebration and how he didn’t really want to go to the party, but how he’d do it just for her. He liked to keep secrets with the truth. A few times that evening, she tried to trick him into revealing something about their sudden, outrageous fortune. It made him smile. She couldn’t have known how good Ezekiel was at keeping secrets. He even taught her the script for the word “love” and had her write it in the book, without really revealing anything at all.