The Keepers of the Library

by Glenn Cooper

  An hour later, Will was the only one awake. Phillip had dozed off again, and Annie, with the benefit of several shots of whiskey to help her through the pellet extractions, had passed out. Will strained to hear some signs from aboveground that the police had arrived, but he could hear nothing.

  With a slice of time on his hands and his curiosity unabated, he reached under his mattress for the Franklin journal and began to read again.

  Chapter 21

  Nothing I had ever experienced could have prepared me for the Sights I encountered that fateful Night. By the Light of Abigail’s Lantern, a strange Universe was illuminated. I felt as if I had found Aladdin’s Cave though the Riches within were far greater than a Hoard of Gold, Silver, and Jewels. For an old Printer such as Myself, a Man who had made his Fortune producing Manuscripts, it was the ultimate Joy finding the greatest Treasure known to Man within the Covers of finely bound Books.

  With both feet on hard ground, Benjamin Franklin found himself surrounded by thick leather books and the sweet, musty aroma of the animal skins that had gone into creating them. Abigail was beside him, holding her lantern high.

  “See, I told you,” she said proudly. “I told you so.”

  “You told me I would find some proof that God exists, child, and all I see is a great subterranean library.”

  “It’s nae an ordinary library, Mr. Franklin. Pick a book. Look inside.”

  He reached randomly for one at eye level and wriggled it off its shelf. On the tooled binding was a date: 1324. He opened it and the spine cracked as if it was the first time the pages had been parted. Realizing he lacked his reading glasses, he handed Abigail the book and fumbled for his spectacle case. Once the wire rims were in place, he reclaimed the book and scanned the page.

  “It appears to be a registry of sorts. Names and dates. Curious sort of registry though. All manner of foreign names, not the mix of souls I’d imagine in these parts in the fourteenth century. Why would Chinese, Arabs, and Portuguese be on the Isle of Wight of all places?”

  “Look at th’ dates, Mr. Franklin,” the girl urged.

  “Ah, natus and mors, mors and natus, over and over. These are birth dates and death dates. I still don’t see the larger purpose, nor do I understand the nature of the population recorded.”

  “I’ll show you then,” Abigail said. “Come with me.”

  Franklin slid the book back into its place and by the light of her lantern, she led him past case after case of identical leather books and at the center of the vast underground chamber they discovered a central corridor running like an arrow down the long axis. They made a left turn, but the girl saw that the dates on the book spines were going the wrong way, so she reversed direction, pulling the bewildered old man by the sleeve.

  “Where are we going?” Franklin asked.

  “To 1774.”

  “How, may I ask are there books dated 1774 when we are presently in 1774? Clearly this chamber has been sealed for some significant time.”

  All she said was, “You’ll see.”

  “This place is foxing me,” he said. Her lantern illuminated only twenty feet or so ahead of her. If there was an end to the corridor, he could not see it, and his weariness and bewilderment made his legs heavy and caused his feet to shuffle against the stones.

  The dates were running ever closer to the present. Franklin was tempted time and again to take a book down and examine it but Abigail was moving ahead smartly and he wasn’t keen on being left behind. But suddenly, while noting the date 1581 on the spines nearest to him he shouted at Abigail to halt. In the periphery of his vision, he saw something on the ground.

  “Come here!”

  Before she arrived, he held his lantern high and headed down the narrow row. There was a heap of cloth on the ground, a mass of brown-and-black material. He drew closer, then gasped sharply at the realization the mass was a clothed skeleton lying on its back.

  The skull had adherent patches of leathery flesh and dark hair. A flat black cap lay beside it. Franklin knelt with the curiosity of a coroner and pointed out to the petrified girl that the back of the skull had been caved in, and that the stones underneath it were rust-stained with ancient blood. The skeleton’s clothing was black—a padded, high-collared doublet, knee breeches, hose hanging loose on long bones, leather boots. The body lay on top of a long, black cloak, fur-trimmed at the collar.

  “I’d say from the manner of his attire this gentleman drew his breath during the reign of Queen Elizabeth.”

  “When was that?” the girl asked.

  “Look at the dates of the nearest books,” Franklin said. “I’ll venture he was interested in his present day much the same as we seem drawn to our present day. And he got his head staved in for his trouble. Do you still think we should gaze on books dated 1774?” he asked.

  “We must if you’re t’ understand this place,” Abigail persisted.

  “Very well, we’ll leave this gent to his repose. I fear him not. It’s live ones who give me pause.”

  They carried on down the central corridor past books dated from the seventeenth century and into the eighteenth century. The closer they got to 1774, the greater Franklin’s sense of apprehension. What was this place? What was it this girl intended to show him?

  Finally, Franklin saw the first of the books with a 1774 date, but Abigail was still going deeper into the chamber.

  “But here!” he called out. “Here is 1774!”

  “We’re almost there,” she replied.

  He followed her lead. At the first glimpse of a volume with a 1775 date, she backtracked, then plunged into the racks of books.

  “Raise your lantern for me,” she said.

  She grabbed a book down, looked at a page, put it back, then moved a few feet and grabbed another.

  “What are you looking for?” he asked impatiently.

  “Tell me the date your wife passed on.”

  Franklin nearly dropped his lantern. “Why in heavens do you wish to know this?”

  “Please. Just tell me.”

  “The nineteenth of December.”

  “What was her given name at birth?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “Just tell me!”

  “Her name was Deborah Read.”

  “Spell it out for me.”

  “R-E-A-D. Really, child, this is ridiculous!”

  After a few minutes of searching through bookcases her countenance changed from anxious to triumphant.

  “Here, Mr. Franklin. Look at this!”

  The page was crowded with names, but all of them seemed to disappear when he saw the name of Deborah Read written in a tight, quill-dipped scrawl.

  Next to her name was written: MORS 19 December 1774.

  Franklin’s head was in a spin. He felt his knees weakening and he had to prop himself against one of the heavy bookcases.

  “Do you understand now?” the girl asked.

  He struggled to speak. “How is this possible?”

  “The hands of them that wrote these books were guided by God. That’s how.”

  “I simply cannot believe it. This is impossible.”

  “I’ll show you more then,” she said. “What date were you born?”

  “Seventeenth of January, 1706.”

  “Let’s find you then.”

  They reversed direction and ten minutes later Franklin was staring at his own name.

  Benjamin Franklin Natus 17 January 1706

  There was no place to sit, so he simply sat down upon the stone floor and beckoned Abigail to join him there.

  “You must tell me everything. I have so many questions I scarce know where to begin. How did you know this library was here?”

  “The knowledge of th’ Library of Vectis has passed down within my family. I was certain it was so, but I was scared I wouldn’t be able t’ find it.”

  His face was reddening, and questions tumbled out in rapid fire. “Why does your family know of this place? What do you kno
w about the men who wrote these books? How much of the future is foretold? Why . . .”

  She cut him short. “Please, Mr. Franklin, rest yourself, or you’ll be ill. I will tell you everything I know.”

  When Abigail was done imparting the oral history she had been raised upon, Franklin appeared exhausted. He had taken his ubiquitous notebook and drafting pencil from his pocket and jotted down some notes while she spoke. By the time he put the pencil down, he had written words like Vectis Abbey, monks, Order of the Names, writers, ginger hair, Clarissa Lightburn, Pinn.

  He looked up wearily. “I have spent my life exploring that natural world which God has created. I have always had the utmost admiration for the work of our Creator, but now I see with utmost clarity that He firmly holds the reins to the fundamental elements of our destiny. It is truly awe-inspiring.”

  Abigail nodded in agreement.

  “And you are telling me, dear girl, that this library enterprise continues unabated at your homestead in Yorkshire?” Franklin asked.

  “Aye,” she said. “That’s why I left.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  “It was my time to bear one of ’em.”

  Franklin suddenly looked avuncular. “Ah, I see. But yet you wish to return.”

  “I shouldn’t have run away,” Abigail said. “I’ve seen a lot worse and done a lot worse in my time in th’ baron’s employ, down in th’ caves like.”

  “I do understand.” He stood and hobbled a few steps on his gouty foot. “Abigail, my time is short in England, but I will take you to Yorkshire. I will hire the finest carriage and the swiftest team of horses. The scientist in me cannot resist seeing these creatures in the flesh. But there is something we must do here first.”

  She looked very happy. “What?”

  “How far into the future does this library go?”

  “Ours begins in the year 2027, so I reckon up to then.”

  “My God!” Franklin exclaimed. “So enormously distant. It’s quite overwhelming. My horizon of interest is far more modest. I only need to peer into the near future.”

  With that he began to write upon a fresh page of his notebook, then tore it out.

  “Listen, Abigail, there are important doings in America. My fellows are fixing for a war with England. Soon they’ll have their second Continental Congress in Philadelphia, and I hope to be there cheek by jowl. They’ll be looking to me for counsel. Do we keep talking, or do we start fighting? Can we win, or will we certainly lose? I’ve a notion to help increase my wisdom considerably. On this paper is a list of the greatest statesmen in America. Though the task vexes me no end, knowing their dates of death will tell me much.”

  He showed her what he had written on the page:

  John Adams

  Thomas Jefferson

  George Washington

  Alexander Hamilton

  John Jay

  James Madison

  Then he told her to take it.

  “Let’s work as fast as we can. We’ll start at the present and wend our way into the future. We’ll divide the labor. I will look for the dates of demise of these gentlemen for 1775 and the subsequent odd years. You’ll do the same for 1776 and the even years. You see? If you find one of the names call me over immediately.”

  She needed more explaining, but once she understood the concept, they parted ways, and both of them began to pull down books.

  Hours passed. In the darkness of the chamber, Franklin had no way of knowing that the night had long slipped away. Immersed in his task, he lost track of all his senses save the visual as he scanned an endless sea of souls for the names of interest.

  One by one they appeared to him and Abigail until Franklin called the girl over and declared an end to the exercise, only one name undiscovered.

  “Our job is well enough done,” Franklin said. “All but Madison. You have found three, I have found two, and I have my answer.”

  “I found one more,” she said, looking at the floor.

  “You found Madison after all?” he asked.

  “Nae. I found you.”

  Franklin sighed heavily. “I do not wish to know.” There was a long, awkward silence until he added, “Is it soon?”

  “It is not soon.”

  “Well, that’s good, as I have much to do before my eternal sleep. So here’s what we have: Washington—14 December, 1799, Hamilton—12 July, 1804, Adams and Jefferson—both incredibly on the same day—4 July, 1826, Jay—17 May, 1829. Madison, God bless his soul, outlives them all if we haven’t missed him. Do you know what this means, Abigail?”

  She shook her head.

  “If there’s a war coming, these men, our finest leaders, our generals, will not perish in the conflict; nor will they hang from a British yardarm. They will live fine, long lives. It means, Abigail, that if there is a fight with the English, then we will win! So I will tell this to my fellows in arms: let there be war!”

  Chapter 22

  When Annie began to stir, Will hastily shoved the journal under the mattress. He hardly had time to process what he had read. Years earlier, he’d been astonished to find that the Library had influenced the likes of John Calvin and Nostradamus and even William Shakespeare. Now he’d learned that it had played a role in the American Revolutionary War! The revelation made him giddy but Annie’s dry-throated voice brought him back to the moment.

  “What time is it?” she asked, reaching with her free arm for the water bottle by her cot.

  “Nearly seven. How’s your leg?”

  “Sore. Do you think Melrose got picked up?”

  “Hope so, but I don’t think his eye’s going to be saved.”

  “I shouldn’t say something so horrid, but I rather think a patch will suit him.”

  Phillip sniggered.

  “You’re up too,” Will said. “How’re you doing?”

  “I need to take a leak,” the boy said sullenly.

  “You can use the pee bottle,” Will suggested.

  “I’m not going to use it with her here!” Phillip protested.

  “Do you think the police have arrived yet?” Annie asked.

  He shrugged. “There’d better be more than Community Patrol Officer Wilson. He wasn’t even armed, was he?”

  “We are capable of mounting the appropriate response to hostage situations, Will,” Annie said defensively. “You have a dim view of our capabilities in this country.”

  “Well, let’s just hope they can take down a few farmers with shotguns.”

  Phillip decided to shout at the top of his lungs, “I need to pee!”

  Seconds later, Cacia came through the anteroom door with her son, Andrew.

  “That’s how you get things done around here,” Phillip said.

  Cacia organized bathroom breaks for all of them, and when everyone was rechained to their bunks, Andrew left her alone with them.

  Cacia sat down wearily on one of the empty beds.

  “So what’s going on up there?” Will asked.

  “We have quite a bit of company, I’d say,” Cacia replied with a breathy sigh. “All th’ police lights have turned th’ sky blue. It’s quite lovely in a way.”

  “You must surrender,” Annie said, sounding tough and obviously drawing on some kind of hostage training she’d done earlier in her career.

  “Must I?” Cacia said. She turned her back on Annie, and said to Will, “I wish none of this’d happened.”

  “Meant to be,” Will said. “That’s the funny thing about fate, but I don’t need to tell you that.”

  She nodded gravely.

  “Has a negotiator contacted you?” Will asked.

  “By phone. A pleasant-sounding man—I took the first call. He asked if you and Phillip were here, but Daniel wouldn’t let me say.”

  “They’re going to want something from you. A gesture to start things off right. Why don’t you send Phillip out?”

  “Daniel won’t have it. He’s stuck in. He’s a stubborn man. I’ve always liked that i
n ’im.”

  “Then give them Annie.”

  “Also nae.”

  “What then?” Will asked. “How does Daniel think this’ll end?”

  “He doesn’t know, does he?”

  “But you do.”

  A single tear left her eye for her cheek. “Come and walk with me, Will,” she said.

  He held up his wrist, and she unlocked the cuff. In the anteroom, she asked if he wanted to stroll the Library.

  “Could we sit with the writers without disturbing them?” he asked.

  She said that would be all right. “Very little distracts ’em from their task.”

  They entered the writers’ room, and the savants hardly looked up. Haven was there reading a schoolbook. Cacia told her she could go upstairs but warned her to stay away from the windows and keep her curtains closed.

  “Are the police still there?” the girl asked.

  Her mother nodded.

  “Can I sit with Phillip?”

  “If you’re good,” Cacia said. “Please don’t take off his chain. It’s for his own protection.”

  “Is that other woman still there?”

  “Her name’s Annie,” Will said. “She’s a good enough egg. She’s scared too.”

  Will and Cacia sat at the front of the room watching the writers in silence. Will felt like one of two classroom teachers proctoring an examination as their students scribbled onto copybooks.

  The seven writers had a look of utter concentration on their pale faces. Heads down, they moved their pens across the page without a sound. Will imagined that in centuries past the noise of the quills against parchment would have been cacophonous, but the only thing breaking the quiet was the occasional rustle of a page being turned. If they had to search their minds for what they would write next, it was not apparent. There was no turning of heads to the ceiling for inspiration, no sighs or utterances. They were efficient, well-oiled machines.

  Will noticed that the oldest writer, a grizzled man with a wispy reddish beard, was drooling onto his blue shirt without seeming to take any note of it. Cacia rose to tend to him. There was a towel hanging from a peg at his station, and Cacia used it to wipe his face and shirt carefully and tenderly. A drop of saliva had found its way to his page, and Cacia blotted it.