by Nina Post
Noah’s eyes widened. “Wow, they were young when they created VZ.” He paused. “Do you think the creators were fomenting disorder in Paris when they weren’t building an oracle or creating a language?”
She laughed. “I don’t think so, no.”
“They didn’t know what the cause of the plague was, so how would they know to isolate themselves?”
“They were busy building the oracle,” she said. “See in the next section? They were making an augur to seek a cure. Plus, it was absolutely disgusting outside, so why would they want to go out there?”
“How did they get food?” Noah asked. “Maybe they trained a hawk to bring back voles and rabbits.”
“Why would they have hawks?”
“Didn’t everyone in the fourteenth century use trained hawks?”
She chuckled. “Not everybody.”
“That’s disappointing.”
A-dreden Drihten penance eke wreth
Þe cause at þes qualm a roune, wa for-heden Mercury’s soporiferous wand
Eke forgen an augur for þe leʒten a remedie
They wrote:
Fearing God’s penance and wrath
The cause of this pestilence a mystery, we forego sleep
And make an oracle in order to seek a cure
“Why did they fear God’s wrath?” Noah asked.
“They were scientists. At least that’s what I heard my father tell Gaelen. They must have valued deductive reasoning and logic, but they were Christian and didn’t know what the oracle would give them, or how it would send a message. What if a demon told them what the cure was? They were willing to risk their souls to know.”
Þe augur senten alarming metels
Vorþan wa mot teller of þes lok, þes sonde/cors
In-like Aruns eke Amphiaraus, tykel a þe sours
They wrote:
The oracle sent alarming visions/dreams
Therefore we must tell of this offering, this gift/curse
In the like manner of Aruns and Amphiaraus, uncertain of the source
“So the oracle didn’t tell them the cure,” Noah said.
“No — the plague kept recurring, but they thought it told them just about everything else, apparently.”
“And it showed them that the world wasn’t going to end,” Noah said. “That must have been … I can’t even imagine. To be so sure the world was ending, and then see the future. No wonder there are three books. I’m surprised there aren’t twenty.”
“You don’t know what they saw,” Cate protested. “And we won’t until we translate the books.”
Noah went to refill their coffees. “Why do they call their vision a gift-slash-curse?” he called out from the kitchen.
“Regardless of whether or not they actually had visions of the future — ”
“Oh ye of little faith.”
“It must have been a huge burden,” Cate said. “So on one hand, they didn’t find out a cure but knew that humanity would continue — ”
“So you do believe them!”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Cate said. “And on the other hand, they had to create a language to preserve the vision and try to warn future generations — in a way that required a lot of work. My point is, I can see how having these visions felt like both a gift and a curse.”
“That’s the problem with hand-built, jury-rigged oracles,” Noah said. “They never give you a straight answer.”
“From what I heard my father tell Gaelen, both of the VZ creators had the same vision. But I imagine they would have had trouble communicating to the other one what they saw. What they thought they saw.”
“I really want to find out what’s in those books,” Noah said, leaning toward her. “Don’t you?”
She nodded. “I do. I thought I left all of this behind me, but it’s kind of driving me crazy to not know. Whether it’s true or not.”
Helpen for an apert, haʒher moillier
Eke a makyere, Þeef a parchemyn
Wa enduren þurgh þe qualm
They wrote:
Helped by an expert, skillful woman
And a scribe, thief of parchment
We endure through the pestilence
“Helped?” Noah said. “Yeah right. Whoever this woman was, she probably did everything. They make it seem like she took dictation.”
“They say she’s expert and skillful. That doesn’t look to me like they’re diminishing her contributions.”
“Who was she? Do you know?”
“She was married to one of them. I think her name was Isabelle. They also worked with a scribe, who probably did take dictation,” she said, “and went out to get food.”
“Thief of parchment?” Noah said, raising a brow.
“The scribe might have stolen the parchment to make the books,” Cate said. “Vellum, real calfskin, was insanely expensive then. Thomas Lyr — our ancestor, and one of the creators of the language — was the eldest son of a wealthy family, but I doubt even he could have bought the kind of parchment they wanted.”
“Was Thomas Lyr’s family in logistics?” Noah asked, half-facetiously.
“They were, actually. Shipping.”
“Wait, shipping,” Noah said. “Isn’t that how the plague spread?”
“Yes, but they didn’t know that at the time.”
“So Thomas’s own family was at least partly responsible for the spread of the plague.”
“It’s possible,” Cate said.
Wa schapen a diʒel langage for þe berʒen oure metel
In þrië quayrs at bunden a-ʒefen þurgh þe kyns
Eke wa ascriven þes gyd in þe comune tonge
They wrote:
We created a secret language in order to preserve our vision
In three books of bound vellum to give through the generations
And we wrote this poem in the common tongue
“The common tongue?” Noah chuckled then drank some of his coffee. “That’s a good one.”
Æn digne I-coren at eche aþal wille sweren a solempne oathe
For-hilen þe quayrs for mennisscleʒʒc
Eke skirra at awke handes
One worthy steward from each family will swear a solemn oath
To protect the books for the sake of humanity
And keep them out of the wrong hands
“‘Wrong hands’ describes Gaelen to a T,” Noah said. “Worthy steward does not.” He pointed at her.
“What?”
“You are a worthy steward.”
“Noah, he told me I wasn’t a part …” she halted. It was hard to say it.
“I know what he said.”
“He chose Gaelen. Not to mention, he wrote me out of his will — ”
“You don’t know that.”
“Benjamin does,” Cate said.
“Benjamin was fired, wasn’t he? He wouldn’t have done the amendments to the will, if your father even followed through with that threat.”
“It doesn’t matter either way,” Cate said. “I wasn’t the steward. I was kicked out of the family. And I don’t want their money.”
“It’s the principle of it.”
“I don’t care if my father’s will was amended or not, and I don’t care which lawyer did it.”
“Okay, okay.” Noah held out his mug to her. “But you can be the unofficial steward of the Zaanics books. Someone from the — one of the Lyrs has to be.”
Otwynne aþals, Iren Elde remenants
Æn heh-fader, a Ulysses, an Inachus
Hie rixlien ilke King Minos for Æhte Esters
Two families (apart), Iron Age remnants
One patriarch, a Ulysses, an Inachus
He reigns like King Minos for eight Easters (years)
“Iron Age remnants,” Cate said. “I remember this well from one of the classes I took. Hesiod wrote about the Iron Age. It was the worst race of man, and made him despair for humanity. That must mean the families act horribly toward one another. I
hope they weren’t talking about our families.”
Noah laughed. “They could be. Or maybe just yours. And your father could be this first patriarch.”
“My father? Why? Because Ulysses abandoned his family in favor of his quest?”
Noah furrowed his brow. “Uh, yeah. Replace quest with ‘logistics empire.’” He looked at the screen again, typed. “And Inachus is …” he scrolled. “The father of Io. He lost her, and lamented that he didn’t know where she was or what she was doing.”
Cate had wondered many times over the past five years if her father missed her at all. If he even attempted to find her. If he ever wanted to see her or talk to her again. “That’s kind of a reach,” she said. “King Minos …. wealthy, obviously. Minos ruled for eight years. My father ran Lyr Logistics longer than eight years — ”
“Did he? As CEO?”
Cate sat back. “I’m not sure. Benjamin probably would know.”
Noah glanced back at the section. “Why Easters?”
“I think their year started on Easter.”
A weoli Crœsus turnen Caecilius Statius
Wrayed bie darke trecheries hie wille weet hisse eisful dwale
Wood-wroth, in þe wedereʒ þe i-led þe latiniers to þe Sibylline bokes
A rich Croesus turned Caecilius Statius
A Sennacherib, betrayed by dark treacheries he will realize his terrible error
Mad, in the weather which led the Romans to the Sibylline
“Crœsus. Your father, of course.”
“Right,” Cate said, “like there weren’t any wealthy old men in the previous centuries?”
“Uh, sure, but wait.” He pointed at the screen. “Caecilius Statius was a credulous old man in Epicleros. ‘Of an old fool one never made such sport as you have made of me this very day.’ Your father disowned you because he fell for your sisters’ empty flattery.”
Cate made an equivocal gesture. “Yes, but there was more to it than that. And your father was credulous enough to fall for Jude’s letter.”
“Touché,” Noah said. “And it’s possible that some of this hasn’t transpired yet. ‘Mad, in the weather which led the Romans to the Sibylline.’” He brought up a new web page. “A bad storm sent the Romans to their books of prophecy.”
“Quick bathroom break,” Cate said. “Then more coffee. I’m a little sleep-deprived lately.”
When she came back with a fresh refill, they focused on the poem again.
Atwynne Ȝiuer dehtren, a-way to crystallum Caïna
Bloundissen, ac wraye þin own blode for anwalde
Þey florischen þoru crueltee
They wrote:
Two greedy daughters, on their way to icy Caïna
Flatterers, but betray(ing) their own blood for power
They flourish through cruelty
Noah clapped his hands and jumped to his feet and pointed down at the table. “You can’t tell me they don’t mean your sisters.” Standing, he typed then read quickly. “It’s from Dante. Caïna is the icy outer ring of Cocytus in the Ninth Circle. That’s where people who murderously violated family bonds are punished. It’s your sisters all over. Betraying their own blood for power? They’ve probably only just gotten started.”
Cate met his eyes with a wry smile. “That does sound like them, doesn’t it?”
An other aþal, Tiresias-arixlye
One sone a hauk in a mew, an other besuiken eke banysshen
Both aþals wraked for þe senne of Paethon eke Icarus
A second family, Tiresias-ruled
One son a hawk in a mew, an other deceived and banished
Both families ruined by the sin of pride
“Tiresias was a soothsayer blinded by Hera,” Cate said, and wagged her fingers. “Juno, if you prefer. To compensate, Jupiter gave him the gift of prophecy.” She paused. “‘A second family.’ Yours?”
“You’d think they could be a tad more specific. But why couldn’t your family be second?”
She laughed, then looked up mew, though it seemed familiar. “The king’s hawks were kept in cages called the Mews.”
“That makes me think of Jude for some reason,” Noah said. “A hawk in a cage. But see?”
She laughed. “The king used trained hawks, not university students.”
Noah raised his hands. “As far as I’m concerned, Jude’s cage can stay closed. Nothing good can come from letting him out.”
Þe lodemanage, þe kuns
Banysshen, hetelifaste misdeparten
Actæon to-breidened
The leader/pilot, who learns
Banished, cruelly divided
Actaeon torn apart by his own pack of dogs
Noah leaned back and crossed his arms. “That kind of sounds like you, Cate.”
She made a face.
He shot forward and spread his arms in a gesture of disbelief. “Actaeon torn apart by his own pack of dogs? That’s what your family did to you. Your own pack turned on you.”
“At least they didn’t kill me.”
“I thought I was the always-look-on-the-bright-side one.”
Þes by-rad loode-sterre, welden of Þeues, eyen a briʒt chrysoprase
Psyche’s sistren a burðene, eke amansiened, heo-selfe reneged here nafn
To berʒen at eouwer dole eke greuaunces, drinken of Eunoë
This determined leader, ruler of thieves, eyes of bright green-gold, Psyche’s sisters a burden, and excommunicated, she herself cast off her name
To help your grief and grievances, drink of Eunoë
Noah didn’t say anything this time. He just fixed his eyes on hers, pointedly. Cate knew what color her own eyes were — green-gold. And they both know she had thieves working for her.
“Psyche’s sisters were spiteful,” she said, partly to appease him. At his look, she shrugged. “I took some mythology classes.” She glanced at the poem again. “I didn’t really cast off the Lyr name, though.”
“You haven’t been using it, though,” Noah said. “Right?”
“Right,” she said, reluctantly. He didn’t know she had passports and other IDs in completely different identities. Expensive as hell. That was just a fixed cost you had to deal with in her line of work.
“But you probably cast it off mentally,” he said. “After.”
That was a radical understatement. She completely lost any sense of who she was after the Zaanics ceremony. She stumbled into Europe by almost randomly choosing a flight to Belgium, after she left the hospital. She should have fled to Florence to let the art and the admiring men soothe her wounds. But she wasn’t thinking straight, hence, Belgium. Mort ran his import/export business out of Antwerp — something about a woman, of course, who left him before Cate was hired as his secretary. And she got the job without mentioning that her family ran a huge logistics concern that he would have heard of.
“Noah, this is absurd. This poem is not about me, or you. Don’t you think it’s a little pathologically self-absorbed to think it is?”
“Cate, it’s right there in front of you,” he said, frustrated. He made a gesture like he was dropping something from his hands over the paper. “Details, describing you specifically. Describing your family and how they’ve treated you, specifically. They are writing about you.”
“C’mon. I don’t have anything to do with this.”
“I think you play a role in this vision.”
“No I don’t, Noah.”
“You can’t know that,” she said.
“But I believe it.”
Belde or daungere
Kumelings, a secre secte, eke malengine
Ædmod friend, eke sectour, eke mayker’s kyn
He wrote:
Protection or power to harm
Strangers, a secret sect, and deceit
Humble/gentle friend, and executor of a will, and scribe’s descendant
“I have no idea what this means,” he said. “Though clearly, I am the humble or gentle friend.”
S
he laughed.
“Benjamin is the executor of a will,” he said. “Clear enough. But strangers, and the scribe’s descendant?” He raised his hands. “And a secret sect? Your guess is as good as mine. But deceit — I can’t help thinking of your sisters. And Jude. Okay, five more.”
Here Þew eke swinken mæi skirra þies tydinges
Þe here own kyn wroʒte
Mæi vertu ouercom malengine
He wrote:
Her virtue may prevent these events
Which her own kyn caused
May kindness/virtue conquer evil disposition/deceit
“Her virtue. If this is really referring to you — ” he started.
She squinted a warning.
“It probably means your honesty, your loyalty … your generous heart.”
“How very kind of you to say.” She hoped that didn’t make her sound like a raging slut if you went by the more archaic usage of virtuous, but hey, she was a thief. Not the most virtuous line of work.
“I don’t care what you do for a living,” Noah said, surprising her. “I mean, I care, but my point is, you’re a good person — ”
She rolled her eyes.
“No, I mean it. I’ve known you for a long time, and you’re a better person than virtually everyone I know. And that doesn’t really change. The poem says kindness, or virtue — you — conquering evil disposition or deceit.”
“I can barely conquer the cereal aisle.”
“You just need to win out over what they mention. I think you did that at the ceremony.”
“Yes, clearly I won that day.”
He smiled and shook his head.
She thought of her conversation with Benjamin when he called her in Istanbul. He suggested that she never knew her father in the first place. After spending too much time thinking about it (AKA the shock prod of pain she used way too often), she decided she would never know why her father felt threatened and insecure enough to go that far. But she didn’t think Benjamin was right. She did know her father. She knew his flaws and his fears, and he indulged in both.
“And compared to your sisters?” Noah said, making his point.