The Keepers of the Library (16 page)

The Lightburns listened with rapt attention to Brother Bartholomew as he described an uninterrupted chain of mute scribes stretching from the olden days until Clarissa’s last day on Vectis. He told them they lived their entire lives in an underground cavern dug into the bedrock of the Isle of Vectis, where they diligently recorded names of those who would be born—
Natus
—and those who would die—
Mors
—for centuries into the future, names entered in English, Frankish, Moorish, Hebrew, Chinese, and all manner of foreign characters. The scribes worked as if they were of one mind and one hand. They never duplicated the work of another, but all their efforts proved to be a seamless stream, centuries of labor that had yielded a vast library of books encompassing the years 777 through the ninth day of February 2027. And Bartholomew told them that he himself had lived his own life in service, mostly underground, as the monk charged with the operation of the holy scriptorium.

He told them that Clarissa was also one in a long
line of special servants to the Order of the Names, healthy and pious girls who were selected to bear the next generation of scribes.

“But you were a unique girl, were you not?” Bartholomew said. His words carried no venom, and Clarissa was relieved she was not to be castigated. “Perhaps your fiery nature was the reason that Titus the Venerable rose to the occasion. You would become the only girl who ever fled before delivering your issuance. And your action, dear girl, alas proved to be the end of the Library.”

He told them of the horrific events of that ninth of January in the year 1297, when all at once the scribes to a man and boy seized their quills and thrust them into their eyes, deeply into their brains, effecting a most-horrible death on the tables and floor of their scriptorium. And he told them how he had gone from desk to desk collecting the last pages each one had writ and upon each finding the same words:
Finis Dierum
, End of Days. They were all working on names for the ninth of February 2027, a day far, far in the future.

“Is that th’ day th’ world’ll end, Father?” Charles Lightburn asked.

“That was the opinion of myself and my learned colleagues. Until we learned that Clarissa had fled with her baby. That cast doubt. Baldwin, our abbot, did not alter his belief that they had borne witness to the day of destruction, but our Prior Felix and I wondered otherwise. Perhaps they were not notating the End of Days of mankind but that the end of their days, as the chain of scribes born to Vectis had been broken by Clarissa’s actions.”

Clarissa began to sob in heartfelt lamentation. “No, my sweet girl, do not cry,” Bartholomew urged her. “You could not know. And if we have learned
only one thing in the Order of the Names, it is that everything happens because God wishes it so.”

“What happened next?” Clarissa’s father asked.

“Baldwin ordered Felix to destroy the Library by fire because he expressed the opinion that mankind was not prepared to know its secrets. But Felix was not of the same mind. He razed the chapel that stood above the underground chambers but took care not to set torch to the books themselves. My personal belief is that the Library has survived though I cannot be sure. In the months and years that followed the calamity, the spirit of Vectis Abbey weakened, and some monks and sisters left the isle for other monasteries. I, for one, harbored a notion that grew inside me like the baby that grew inside of you, Clarissa. I am old, very old, and have little enough time left, but I had to know. I had to know! Did you survive? Did your baby survive? Did the Library carry on? Before I was too weak to hope to mount a journey such as the one I have accomplished, I resolved to leave my island sanctuary, my dear Vectis Abbey, and follow your route to your home to see if you and your son were alive. And here I am. In the warm bosom of your family, knowing that God had guided me here with a purpose.”

“What purpose?” Clarissa asked.

“To honor the will of God, good people,” Bartholomew said with tears in his eyes. “To plead with you to help me to continue God’s work. To perpetuate the Order of the Names. To let the Library continue!”

B
artholomew lived for two more years. During his days in Pinn, he taught the Lightburns many things.

He taught them how to make ink from lamp black
mixed with gum. He taught them how to fashion quills from goose feathers. He taught them the art of making parchment by liming and stretching sheepskin. He taught them how to bind a book. And he taught them how to quarry away at the limestone below their dwelling to make a secret chamber to house a scriptorium.

And before he died in Clarissa’s arms, gasping and hot with pneumonia, Bartholomew witnessed the completion of Adam’s first thick book, spanning the ninth of February 2027 to the tenth of February 2027, filled with strange-sounding and often indecipherable names of people who would not come to be born or die for over seven hundred years.

H
aven and Cacia leaned against a limestone
wall, watching Will and Phillip. The boy had just awoken and was hungry. He scarfed down his breakfast but Will had no appetite. It had been tough watching Phillip sleep through the night. He’d nodded off after their meal before Will could extract any info from him. But he let him rest. He figured he’d get the facts soon enough, and that time had come.

“Did you sleep?” Cacia asked.

“I heard a lot of snoring from the other room,” Will said. “Who else is down here?”

Cacia ignored the question. “I can get ya more food, Phillip,” she said.

“No, I’m fine.”

“And you, Will? Are ya sure you’ll have nothing?”

Will smiled at her. “In the unlikely event we’re here for supper, I’ll reconsider.”

“Right then,” she said. “I promised we’d tell you th’ score, so let’s get t’ it. Haven, you can tell ‘im why ya contacted Phillip.”

The girl was far too shy to look Will in the face. Instead, she talked into the floor. “I thought …” Her voice trailed off. “No, I knew Phillip was th’ only one
who could help me. Not only me. Our teacher had us read his essay, th’ one that won that award. There’s been all sorts of stuff about th’ Horizon. It’s been horrible like around ‘ere. There’ve been kids all depressed and such. A girl in Kirkby Stephen one class ahead a me hung herself, and two boys in Kendal did th’ same. On Socco, ever’one’s going barmy about it. They’re all scared what’s going t’ happen next February. I couldn’t just sit ‘ere and do nowt about it.”

The girl was crying now. Will was struck by the emphatic way the girl had said, “I knew.” “How did you think Phillip could help?” he asked.

“He’s Will Piper’s son, in’ he? You were th’ one who found out everything about th’ Library, weren’t ya? You know what t’ do in these situations.”

“What kinds of situations are we talking about?” Will asked.

Cacia said, “It’s time t’ show ya something. If I undo your handcuffs, I need ya t’ promise me you won’t hurt us or try t’ run.”

“I can promise you I won’t hurt you,” Will answered.

“Look,” Cacia said sharply. “I can get Kheelan down here t’ mind you with his shotgun, but I’d rather not have ‘im with us. It’ll …” she paused, “… limit th’ experience. Besides, the men are all outside and you’d be caught straight out.”

Will nodded. “Okay, you’ve got my word. How about you, Phillip, you in?”

“I’d rather make love than war. Besides, I want to take the guided tour.”

Will chuckled and held up his wrist for Cacia’s key.

Despite his pledge, Will thought about grabbing Phillip and making a run for it. They’d head to the storeroom, dash up the stairs, exit the hangar, and hoof it as fast as they could through the field and to
the road, where they’d try to flag down a car. But a lot could go wrong, and with the Lightburns prowling the farm, the odds weren’t good. He’d have tried it if he were on his own but he couldn’t risk Phillip’s getting hurt. Besides, he was curious as hell, so he obediently followed Cacia through the nearest door.

There was another small room which didn’t seem to have any particular function other than to provide access to three other doors. It was lit by a single hanging bulb.

Cacia pointed to one of the three closed doors. “Would either of you like t’ use th’ loo?”

Phillip went first, and when he was done, Will pushed the door open.

It was closet-sized, carved from the limestone, a smelly dead end. There was a water pipe coming from above, which plunged through a drilled hole and into an old, rust-stained porcelain sink. The toilet flushed, so he figured it emptied into a cistern. As a way out, it was going to be a nonstarter, but one thing was sure: whatever was going on here was a serious, long-term operation.

Back in the anteroom, Will pointed at one of the two other doors. “This one?” he said.

“No,” Cacia said. “Later. This one first.”

Will said to Phillip, “Been through there yet?”

The boy answered, “Nope. But Haven told me about it.”

Cacia opened it and sent Haven into the pitch-blackness to switch on lights. Before he could see, Will smelled it. A muscular sweet aroma of leather and mold, a scent of antiquity. In the instant before the lights flashed on, he was certain what it was and then, in the sickly yellow incandescence, his eyes confirmed what he already knew.

It was a library.

He simply said, “Jesus,” and took a few steps inside.

Phillip’s reaction was more prosaic. “Holy shit!”

The limestone chamber was cavernous and cool, the temperature of a wine cellar. There was a central corridor that carried through, straight as an arrow, as far as he could see. On either side were wooden bookcases standing floor to ceiling, each some five meters tall. The width of the chamber was easier to fathom than the length, about fifty-sixty meters, precisely bifurcated by the corridor.

The bookcases nearest them were barren, and as father and son silently followed mother and daughter into the chamber, it was clear there were enough empty shelves for thousands upon thousands of books.

“Room to grow,” Will said.

Haven didn’t seem surprised that Will understood the situation. “When it’s full, I’ll be long gone,” she said. “So will Cacia. It’ll be someone else’s burden.”

Phillip sprang ahead like an eager puppy and Cacia caught up with him. He made his way to the first full bookcase. By the time Will arrived, the boy had wriggled one of the books from a shelf.

It was thick and heavy, bound in fresh leather with the strong smell of a new pair of shoes, not the fusty scent of the ambient air. The spine had a hand-tooled number: 2566.

“That’s a date, isn’t it?” Phillip asked.

Haven said, “Aye.”

Phillip opened the book to a random middle page while Will looked over his shoulder.

On the page were two columns of names, about a hundred per row. Names handwritten in black ballpoint ink. Will picked out ones in English, Spanish, Chinese, Portuguese. Beside each was the date 24 August 2566 and the word
Natus
or
Mors
.

“Still using Latin,” Will said.

“We don’t know why,” Cacia said. “There’s lots we don’t know.”

“You’re not using parchment,” he said wryly.

“Hardly,” she said. “Copy paper from Asda. But at least we go all out on th’ bindings. Good Yorkshire sheep hide.”

Will shook his head. “A second Library. A second goddamned Library. There’s no Horizon, is there?”

“That’s why I had t’ contact Phillip,” Haven said. “The world needed t’ know! Before more people did themselves harm.”

Cacia sighed. “The world didn’t need t’ know anything, Haven. It wasn’t our duty t’ let ’em know. Our only duty’s t’ th’ Library.”

“Where are the books for 2027?” Will asked.

Cacia waved her hand down the corridor. “All the way down that end.”

“Does it start on February 9, 2027?” Phillip asked.

“It does.”

Will shook his head in wonder. “Why here? Why Yorkshire?”

Phillip slid the book back into the case and started walking toward the rear of the chamber the others following along.

“There’s nothing written, only what’s been passed down by word of mouth within our family, and who knows what’s true and what isn’t. But it’s said that a girl, a Lightburn she was, was on th’ Isle of Wight, at Vectis Abbey, in th’ late thirteenth century. She was made pregnant and she fled t’ her home ‘ere in th’ Dales. It’s said her name was Clarissa but in truth, there’s no way t’ know. It’s said too that ‘er baby’s name was Adam. The Lightburns of old recognized their responsibility to serve th’ Library. We recognize that responsibility today, don’t we Haven?”

The girl muttered “aye” under her breath.

“So the notation at Vectis—End of Days—meant something else,” Will said.

“End of the days at Vectis, I suppose. Back then, Clarissa must’ve been a willful girl who brought ruin t’ th’ abbey. I only hope my Haven hasn’t through her willfulness done th’ same t’ us.”

The girl began to weep, then something made her abruptly stop. Phillip had taken her hand and was holding it tightly.

Cacia ignored the boy’s advance at first. “For over seven hundred years, we Lightburns have been librarians. This is what we do. It’s why we’re on this earth. There are many books here, maybe a million, maybe more. We never counted ’em. We don’t read ’em. We keep ’em. These books come from God, and we are God-fearing people. We never knew exactly how we figured into th’ bigger picture until you exposed th’ business at Area 51. It was all we talked about back then. We appreciated knowin’.”

“Glad I could help,” Will said.

“Come on, you two,” Cacia called after the boy and girl. “Haven, it’s time t’ show ’em what’s behind th’ other door.”

Y
i Biao was in a dark mood
. He sat alone in his study at his official residence in Zhongnanhai, close to the Forbidden City. General Secretary Wen’s house was a stone’s throw away within the heavily guarded compound, but it wasn’t as if they were in and out of each other’s places for tea and cakes. Even
he
had trouble gaining access to the old man these days.

His study was lined with mostly Chinese books, the collection of a lifetime. Though he had personally led the effort to modernize and ban physical books in schools and universities in favor of e-books, he still enjoyed the pleasure of holding a hefty traditional book, though the new biography of Hu Jintao, the General Secretary whose term had ended some fifteen years earlier, lay unopened on his lap.

He took a long sip of Southern Comfort and waited for the sweet, numbing sensation to travel from tongue to brain. He’d acquired the taste when he was China’s Ambassador to the United Nations, and now he had it imported by the case. He took another syrupy sip for good measure and let his shoulders go lax in the armchair. His wife was out at a dinner with friends so he had the house to himself.
He laughed at the thought. Himself meant him and a live-in staff of six. He called for his aide, an earnest young man, and asked him to instruct the maid to run a hot bath and to summon his masseuse. He aimed to drink, soak, and massage the tension from his body and mind.

His meeting earlier in the day with Wen had gone poorly. Yi thought he had laid out a compelling case for immediate action, but Wen proved to be an immovable object.

The old man had listened carefully while puffing on one Red Pagoda Hill cigarette after another. How he escaped lung cancer, Yi would never know. It had always irritated him no end that the CIA knew Wen’s date of death or whether he was BTH, but that information was unknown to him. It was galling beyond belief.

“Look,” Wen had said when Yi was done with his recommendations, “we’ve made some strong responses already. We’ve recalled our ambassador. We’ve initiated a series of war games near Taiwan. Don’t you think we should wait and see how these actions mature?”

“General Secretary,” Yi had said, “don’t you believe that sending these warning postcards to our Ambassador and his staff in Washington was the last straw? An intolerable humiliation. It is not only me. Other members of the Politburo see it the same way.”

“I don’t like the concept of last straws,” Wen had spat. “There is always one more straw to be found. And don’t forget, the Americans are vigorously denying their role in the affair. What proof do we have?”

“Of course they are hiding behind denials,” Yi had asserted. “General Bo has told me he is 99 percent certain the postcards originated from Groom Lake agents.”

“Ah, 99 percent,” Wen had said with a sneer, showing his yellowing teeth. I will not take our nation to war based on anything less than 100 percent.”

“If we attack Taiwan aggressively with surgical strikes to limit civilian casualties, I do not believe that the United States will intervene,” Yi had said evenly. “I believe the island will be reunified within hours, and the only thing America will do will be to shout and impotently stamp its feet at the United Nations.”

“No!” Wen had shouted. “You must bring me 100-percent proof—documentation that I can see with my own eyes—that the US government intended to threaten us with these stupid letters! You bring me something like that before I will authorize any of the radical suggestions you have made this afternoon. This meeting is over, Vice Chairman. Tread carefully. I had not considered the future leader of China to be so rash.”

Yi finished his drink. His masseuse had arrived, and he had to change into his robe. In the morning he’d see General Bo again. Hopefully, the crafty fellow had something else up his sleeve.

We are close to the tipping point, he thought, treading slightly unsteadily on his slippered feet. So close! I need one more provocation to persuade Wen to seize the moment and capture our rightful place in history! I don’t care if it comes from luck or skill, I need one more thing!