The Festival of Bones: Mythworld Book One (16 page)

Galen looked up from his umpteenth cup of coffee with a resigned expression. Sighing, he put the cup on the table and leaned in towards the historian. “Actually, I did have plans. I had a meeting at ten, and another at ten forty-five.”

“Uh, were they about anything interesting?”

The laser beams from Galen’s eyes sliced the olive branch into shards, then set them on fire. “Yes, they were. The first one was a meeting with the Senate and the Rector, during which, among other things, I intended to make an argument in favor of retaining you in your position. The second one was a meeting with the Administrative Director regarding the budgets for the summer schedule, which included, among other things, the funding for your department. Any
other
questions?”

Michael shook his head vigorously. “No, I think I’m just about done for, thanks.”

* * *

At five minutes of twelve, Jude walked through the door of Cafe Central. “Greetings and salivations, gentlemen.”

He looked pressed, freshly scrubbed, and not a bit worn, in direct contrast to the two professors, who looked as if they’d been purchasing repeated beatings instead of coffee. He also was carrying a newspaper, but nothing else which even remotely resembled a manuscript.

“Oh, dear,” said Michael. “I’m sorry, Galen.”

Galen shrugged. “Forget it. I’m beginning to think it was all just a bad dream, anyway.” He rubbed his head, groaning, then waved at Jude. “Go away. Go away, little drink-specter. Go haunt someone else with your tall tales, and your lost books, and your magic monks. I am through with this business.”

Jude sat and waved at a waiter. “Whatever you say,” he said with that broad smile of his. “At least you’ll still have your academic career to fall back on,” he finished, throwing the paper to the table.

Galen was preparing to leave when his eyes fell on the headline. His brow furrowed, and he sat, scanning the text then the headline again before looking up at Jude. The wan look in his eyes had suddenly been replaced by an anxious gleam.

“Is this true?” he demanded of Jude. “Is Vohlmann dead?”

“‘All the news that’s fit to print’, and all that. Yes, I expect it is,” said Jude. “Two down and two to go, eh Galen?”

The musician, who was a professor, who suddenly remembered he was a Vice-Rector at the University of Vienna, was no longer listening. He grabbed up his cape, spun on his heel, and vanished out the door.

“Sacher torte, Professor Langbein?” Jude asked as the waiter delivered a steaming platter of the rich pastry to the table. “It’s the best in Vienna.”

“What was that all about?” Michael asked. “Who is Vohlmann?”

“You really do stay in your own little world, don’t you professor?” Jude said. “Vohlmann was the octogenarian Vice-Rector at the University. Heart attack, apparently.”

“Wow,” said Michael. “That means there are only two Vice-Rectors active, what with the other one going bonkers and all.”

“Indeed,” said Jude, sipping at his coffee, “and one of those is a pencil-pusher without a pencil. Galen’s plate just became much bigger.”

“You know,” Michael said thoughtfully, “the new administrative term starts next year—wouldn’t that be something if Galen became Rector? I bet he could make all sorts of things happen if he were in a position like that.”

“Yes,” said Jude. “That would be something.”

“Say,” said Michael, “about the manuscript …”

Jude raised his hands in a plaintive gesture. “We must trust the universe, Michael. The manuscript is not lost—we just don’t have it in front of us.”

“Uh-huh,” Michael groaned. “That’s going to make my departmental feasibility study a lot more complicated than I’d hoped. I don’t suppose you have any more of those Tibetan books secreted away somewhere, do you?”

“Sure,” said Jude. “Hundreds. Thousands, even. What’s your preference?”

“Never mind,” said Michael. “I should’ve known that it was a once in a lifetime lightning-in-a-bottle find. I hope you can forgive me for losing it.”

“Mistakes happen. But I don’t think we’ve seen the last of the
Prime Edda
.”

He jumped up, leaving some cash on the table. “I have to go. Lectures, you know. But Michael,” he said before he walked out with his leftover Sacher torte, “if you need me, for any reason, please come to me at the University, or here.”

Jude placed a small plum-colored card on the table. “Remember, Michael—everything you need is around you. You just have to know how to see it.”

“I’ll remember that. Shake?”

“Certainly.”

They shook hands, and then, for the second time that morning, Jude was gone.

Michael rubbed his eyes, drained his cup, and stood to leave—then remembered the notecard. He picked it up and glanced at it before putting it in his pocket. Then, with a start, he whipped it out again and stared at the writing on it, disbelieving.

The address written on the paper in Michael’s hand was one he was already familiar with. He knew it, because he had been there before—as a matter of fact, he had spent almost every night there for the better part of two decades.

The house Jude lived in was the villa Michael had owned with Elena, the house where, not a year past, she had died.

Walking out of the cafe, Michael was approached by a beggar who asked him for change. He gave him the toothpaste and went home.

***

CHAPTER EIGHT
The Palimpsest

A full week passed, and the events of the Monday-to-end-all-Mondays passed into the ether. Michael never saw Jude or Galen at the University—the circles they ran in, it seemed, were simply too diverse. Twice, though, Michael woke from a troubled sleep, convinced he had been holding the missing manuscript in his hands—and he had taken an extreme dislike to absinthe.

Of the students who had become so threatening and feral, there was no sign—simply a few holes in the seating arrangement. All in all, it was as normal a week as anyone could reasonably expect. Then, on Wednesday, as he was packing his briefcase to go to the University, someone slipped a plum-colored notecard under his door.

“Oh
no
,” said Michael. “Here we go
again
.”

* * *

“You asked us to come,” said Galen, pacing back and forth in front of the expanse of windows that Michael had replaced, Elena had painted, and Jude now owned, “and we have come. But do not test my patience …
Jude
.”

Poor Galen
, thought Michael
. It’s so much harder to exert one’s authority over someone who doesn’t have a last name.

Sitting comfortably in an overstuffed chair that Michael and Elena had bought in Stuttgart, Jude made calming motions with his hands. “I understand your frustrations, Professor Gunnar-Galen,” he said, deliberately not stressing his formal means of address, knowing that Galen would notice the deliberate non-stressing, “but I think that in a very few minutes, you will find the trip has been well worth your time.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Galen. “I’ve had time to think about what you’ve told me, and I’m not certain you’re as valuable an asset to the University as you might think.”

“And why is that?”

“Why do you think?” Galen retorted. “You drilled holes in students skulls, for God’s sake—that
alone
should get you an administrative review. And that absurd story you told us …” He shook his head. “It must have been the alcohol. There’s no other way to explain why I gave your story as much credibility as I did.”

“There was the manuscript,” Jude said blithely. “Did you believe in
that
?”

Galen shot a sideways glance at Michael. “I … wanted to. But there’s little point in worrying about it now, isn’t there? It’s gone.”

“Tch,” Jude clucked. “I thought I’d made myself clearer than that. Nothing is ever truly lost—only our interpretation of reality changes.”

“Well, the interpretation I’d like to have right now is that that cursed book is here in front of me,” said Galen.

“I’m impressed,” said Jude. “That was very close. Actually, it’s in the kitchen.”

Galen looked to Michael, who had already begun to move towards the kitchen where he and Elena put the oversized hutch to cover the lousy wallpaper, but before he reached it, the door swung open and clattered against the wall.

Ah, me
, thought Michael—
Elena always said that I should put a doorstop there
.

In front of him, standing in the doorway like two of the Shadow’s seedier accomplices, stood the bearded twin countenances of Rutland and Burlington. The first thing Michael noticed was that the swarthy twins were sporting matching and quite uncommon grins. The second thing he noticed was that they were holding between the two of them a shallow box, and in the box …

… was the
Palimpsest
.

“See?” said Jude.

“Thank God,” said Galen.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Michael. “Excuse my French.”

* * *

Michael, Jude, and Galen examined the manuscript at the Vice-Rector’s sterile, serene office at the University. The room was wide, and had a nice view of one of the courtyards, but it was sparsely furnished. There were several bookshelves neatly piled with musical tomes and treatises; a piano rested in one corner; and on the sleek black oriental desk, a bust of Wagner.

Jude carefully unwrapped the parcel they secreted down from his home in the Wienerwald, and the three men stood to catalogue the damage.

Several pages were completely missing; a few even looked as if they’d been chewed on—which Michael suspected might correlate with any recent cases of arsenic poisoning around the University—but the manuscript was generally intact and undamaged.

“Excellent,” said Galen. “You can begin working on the translations right away.”

“Ah, it may not be that easy. I’ve got some … procedural problems to work through, first.”

Galen knew what Michael was speaking of—the notification of departments which were scheduled to be cut had been issued that morning, and the Department of Ancient Literature and Historical Studies was at the top of the list.

“What do you need, Langbein? What do you need to translate this manuscript?”

Michael chewed on his thumb while he ran through some estimates in his head. Finally, he looked down at the document, then at Galen. “It’s actually three translations—the Sturluson, the Wagner, and whatever the Palimpsest consists of. Four months—possibly six. I may also need a place to work—and given the delicate nature of the Palimpsest, I’m certain to need a good laboratory.”

Galen thought that over. It was much longer than he’d hoped for, but then this was Michael’s specialization, not his. However, if Michael could do it within five months, then the timing would be perfect for an announcement of the discovery at Bayreuth—and that, if nothing else, should secure Galen’s appointment to the office of Rector, while simultaneously linking his name irrevocably to the Wagner Festival. And the only price would be funding Michael’s department through the summer term. It was a small enough price to pay.

Galen stood and offered his hand to Michael. “Professor Langbein, you will have your funding—on the conditions that you complete your work within five months, and that from this point on, the translation of the
Edda
is your department’s sole concern. Are we agreed?”

Michael hesitated, then took Galen’s hand and shook it once, then again. “I … I don’t know what to say. But, do you have the authority to clear all of this?”

“Not yet,” said Galen, “but I will.”

* * *

Thursday morning, two-hundred and eighteen assorted students, shopkeepers, and the odd hangers-on declared themselves to be a new race of hyper-developed humans, signified by the holes in their skulls and a propensity for running in packs. They called themselves the Gage, and they installed themselves more or less permanently at Rutland and Burlington’s, where two former department heads and a former professor of the University were staging an ongoing show involving the channeling of Atlantean Mages and old Marx Brothers routines. Sales figures for snack cakes, toothpaste, and spiked creme soda rose significantly in the weeks that followed.

* * *

Friday morning, following the memorial services for Vohlmann, the Vice-Rector who had died the week previous, nothing happened.

* * *

Saturday morning, an emergency session of the Senate was convened, and one of the remaining Vice-Rectors proposed the continued funding of the Department of Ancient Literature and Historical Studies for a period of six months, hinting that the Department head was beginning a project which would result in a great deal of prestige for the University. On the argument that it was fiscally safer to fund a single project for six months rather than continue to allow Langbein to operate as a loose cannon for the two months it would take to dismiss him, the proposal was overwhelmingly approved.

* * *

Sunday morning, Michael moved into his offices at the University and got to work. He disconnected the phone, put locks on the doors, and created a secret knock which he revealed only to his three assistants and the pizza delivery guy. It was going to be a long summer.

* * *

Thirteen Mondays later, Michael plugged the phone back in and called Galen, who was furious.

“Where in Hades’ flames have
you
been?”

“Where do you think? I’ve been
working
. Grab a bottle of champagne and meet me at Jude’s. The translations are finished.”

* * *

“It seems I chose wisely,” said Jude, toasting Michael and Galen in the front room of his villa. “It’s quite an accomplishment, Professor Langbein.”

“Thanks,” Michael said, settling into a chair near the windows.

Galen remained standing, and Jude took his usual spot in the large chair facing Michael. Between them on a low-slung table was the manuscript, and a six-inch stack of notes—Michael’s translations.

“Can we get on with this?” Galen grumbled. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, and I’ve put myself on the line to let you do it. I want to know if it’s been worth the time and trouble.”

Michael smiled as he set down his champagne and reached for his notes. “Trust me,” he said, his grin growing into a full Cheshire, “it’s worth it.”

“Let’s start with the obvious heart of the manuscript—the
Edda
itself,” Michael began. “The Old Norse poetry spans a broad age, but hardly any of it is preserved except in Icelandic manuscripts written in the thirteenth and later centuries. It falls broadly into two classes, called the ‘Eddaic’ and the ‘Scaldic’.

“The modern usages are pretty imprecise, but generally the difference between the Scaldic and the Eddaic is one of form. While the Eddaic lays are in free, rhythmical metres, in the Scaldic poetry every syllable is counted and measured. There is also a difference in substance—the Eddaic poetry is all anonymous, telling of gods and of hero who lived in a distant past, whereas most of the Scaldic poetry is ascribed to named authors. The subjects of Scaldic poetry are also not myth or legend, but rather contemporary history.

“Eddaic poetry owes its name to an unpretentious manuscript, commonly known as the ‘
Elder
’ or ‘
Poetic Edda
’, in which most of the poems of this class are preserved. It was written in Iceland in the later decades of the thirteenth century, but it derives from one or more lost manuscripts written earlier in that century, which are what I believe formed the basis of the text of the
Prime Edda
.”

“But,” Galen interrupted, “the name ‘
Edda
’ did not originally belong to that book—it referred to Sturluson’s
Edda
, and was transferred erroneously to the other one.”

“Yes—Saemund’s
Edda
was not really Eddaic at all,” Michael agreed, tapping the manuscript on the table, “but that’s what makes this volume so odd—it mixes
both
forms.”

“Inconclusive,” said Galen. “That could be just another instance of material being stewed together long after the fact. Why is the form so important, anyway?”

“Because,” Michael answered, trying to keep his temper, “the form is the only marker we have to attempt authenticating time, place, and author—and those
must
be established. Otherwise, there is no reason to see the manuscript as anything more historical than
Bullfinch’s Mythology
. May I continue?”

“Please,” said Galen, appearing properly chastened.

“Content-wise, the Eddaic poetry is chiefly of two kinds: mythical and heroic. The one kind describes the world of the gods, and the other that of legendary heroes.”

“Like Sigfried,” said Galen.

“Yes,” Michael replied, “although sometimes the two are mixed. The poems about the gods vary—some of them are adventure stories, which are similar to the heroic lays. Others are didactic, describing the mysteries of the universe and the origins and fates of the gods.

“The most renowned of the divine poems is the
Voluspa
. As presented, it is spoken by a
sibyl
—a prophetess—born before the world began. She addresses both men and gods, but Odin in particular, and tells about the primeval chaos and the giants born there, and about the beginning of the world of men. She describes the age of the youthful, innocent gods, the trials they endure, and finally, the corruption and impending doom in the Ragnarok.”

“And it’s importance here is what?” Galen asked.

“Although the subject of the
Voluspa
is pagan, no one can deny that it is deeply influenced by Christian symbols, and particularly in the description of the Ragnarok. This had led historians to the conclusion that it was composed about the beginning of the eleventh century, when men were turning from the old religion to the new.”

“And you disagree?”

“I do now,” said Michael. “There is a version of the Voluspa here, but it is fragmented, and less deferential to the gods’ role in the scheme of things than other versions.”

“And this makes you more certain of its authenticity?” Galen said in surprise.

“Its authenticity, no—its age, definitely. The
Voluspa
has traditionally had a logical unity lacking in many poems of the
Edda
, and therefore must be ascribed to an individual who did not necessarily express the popular view. The version here doesn’t, and is therefore more likely to be assimilated from several sources—which makes it a probable precursor to the other ones.”

“And how do you know this one isn’t just a fragmented retelling of the known versions?”

“Because all of the Christian influences are missing,” said Michael excitedly. “If it were written later, they’d still be in it, but they’re not.”

“Impressive,” said Jude.

“Indeed,” said Michael, relaxing for the first time.

Galen should never have doubted—Michael was better than he’d thought. He suspected that the next time the Senate discussed funding for the Department of Ancient Literature and Historical studies, the outcome would be rather different than anyone expected. “Please,” he said, refilling his glass with champagne, “continue.”

“Thanks,” said Michael. “Now, two of the didactic poems, the
Grimnismal
and the
Vafthrudismal
are especially valuable as sources of myth—both of them are presented in frames, and Odin appears, but in disguise. Valhalla is also described in two passages of the
Grimnismal
—the only detailed account of it found anywhere in early poetry.

“In the frames, Odin spoke of rivers flowing through the worlds of gods, men and the dead, and of the world tree Yggdrasill. He spoke of the formation of the world out of the flesh, blood and bones of the giant Ymir, and …” He paused, a queer expression twisting his features.