Mythworld: Invisible Moon

by James A. Owen

  As bad as things in Silvertown seemed to be, it had never occurred to them—either of them—that it would be worse—could be worse—anywhere else.

  Thus engrossed in their shock, neither of them noticed when the Chief approached, until he was immediately behind them.

  “Do you have a story?”

  Startled, they both jumped and spun about. The creature that spoke was a man, or at least, had been one, once. He was hunchbacked, and dressed in rags tied around his limbs; he also seemed to be smeared with ink, and with what smelled like excrement. He spoke again, hands wringing.

  “Do you have a story?”

  Hjerald started to speak, then choked, and looked at Meredith, gripping her hand tightly. “Reedy,” he murmured slowly, “it’s Mr. Janes.”

  “Chief!” screamed the grubby spectre, waving his arms madly, “I am Chief! Do you deny it? Do you deny it?”

  “No,” said Hjerald placatingly, “Not at all. You’re the Chief—you are the man.”

  “I am the man,” repeated Mr. Janes, stabbing his thumbs at his chest. “I am Chief. Do not deny it. Do not deny it.”

  He looked at them again, his expression hopeful once more. “Do you have a story?”

  “Ah, actually Chief, we came here looking for one,” said Hjerald.

  “Ah,” sighed Mr. Janes, shaking his head sadly. “No stories. No more stories. No presses, no paper, no Sun. The Sun is gone.”

  “Darn,” said Hjerald running a hand through his hair and turning to Meredith. “I was hoping to find something here which would connect us to Germany, but I guess Zen inclinations don’t work as well in the middle of an apocalypse.”

  Mr. Janes had been listening to this exchange like an anxious rodent, all twitchy hands and darting eyes—but now he looked curiously at Hjerald, and a strange demeanor overcame him.

  “Germany?” he asked. “Is this for a story?”

  “Yes,” Hjerald said, seizing on the momentary calm he saw in the Chief’s eyes. “It’s for a very important story—the one you assigned us both to, and we’re going to sign all-inclusive vouchers … Ow!”—Meredith elbowed him sharply in the ribs—“… Sorry. Ah, I mean, yes—it’s for a very important story. Do you know something about Germany?”

  “Maybe,” Mr. Janes said, rubbing his chin in a gesture which was heartbreakingly familiar. “Not Germany, exactly, but before the feeding yesterday …”—neither one of them was about to interrupt to ask what the feeding was—“… a parcel came in from Austria, and it was addressed to you,” he finished, pointing to Meredith.

  “Can we see it?”

  “Okay, sure. I am Chief.”

  Mr. Janes led them through the tangle of debris to his office, where in complete defiance of the chaos around them they discovered an eye within the storm. With the exception of the occasional dark smear on the shelves and walls, the office looked just as they had left it a few days before.

  “Holy cow,” said Hjerald.

  “Am I not Chief?” Mr. Janes said proudly, puffing out his chest.

  “You sure are,” Meredith said in honest admiration. End of the world, Ottawa in ruins, and their Editor still manages to keep an orderly office. No wonder the owners of the paper gave him stock options.

  He rummaged around on the desktop a few moments before locating the plain manila envelope, which he handed to Meredith.

  She looked at the return address, then gasped in shock.

  It was Michael’s.

  Her stepfather had sent this thin package to her, and according to the postmark, he did so the morning of the day he died.

  Peering over her shoulder, Hjerald emitted a long, low, whistle. “Man,” he said, “score again for the Zen team—zero to zero, love all.”

  Having delivered the package, the Chief had sunk behind the desk and had again withdrawn into his pseudo-aware trance. He was muttering to something himself over and over.

  Tearing herself away from Michael’s package, which a quick unspoken agreement with Hjerald established was better opened away from the Sun and in a more secure location, Meredith knelt and looked into the mad Editor’s eyes. “Mr. Janes? What are you saying?”

  He looked at her, and perhaps because of the compassion which he saw in her face, he calmed down and said it again, the mantra to which his sanity clung: “The Sun is gone.”

  “Which Sun, Mr. … Chief?”

  “All Sun,” he replied, spreading his arms. “The Sun is dark, and the stories have gone. Only one paper is left, and no one writes the stories but the Chief. No one prints the stories but the Chief.”

  “Prints? Do any of the presses still work?”

  He grinned and pointed at the far side of the City room, where the antique letterpress, which was operated by hand, and had been on display in the lobby, sat, ink dripping.

  “But,” said Hjerald, “the paper is in huge rolls—where did you …”

  “Everyone helped,” said the Chief plainly. “Everyone helped the Chief make the paper, I made the stories, and the paper, and we put the Sun to bed.”

  He pointed through the glass doors at the far end of the offices, to something in the next room.

  There, hanging from lines strung across the width of the City Room, were dozens of sheets of parchment, all covered with drying black ink. The pages at the far end of the room, which passed out of range of the lamps and was swallowed in darkness, had a faint glow, which, Meredith realized is as it should be: human skin is slightly phosphorescent.

  “The Sun,” said Mr. Janes with finality, “is done.”

  O O O

  Meredith didn’t know how Hjerald managed to do it, but he convinced Mr. Janes to come with them. Perhaps it was out of loyalty—more likely, he felt sorry for what had become of the great bear of a newspaperman. She had no idea how Silvertown would accept a feces-covered editor who had apparently used his own staff’s skin for paper, but then again, he couldn’t be any worse than some of the other monsters walking the streets …

  … Or gliding on them.

  They were scarcely a block from the Sun’s offices when the wheezing sound they’d heard earlier became suddenly much louder, and much, much closer.

  Of all of Canada’s dubious accomplishments, the country had two things going for them that a lot of other industrialized countries had managed to screw up: Socialized Medicine, and Public Transportation.

  Given the apparent state of the world, Meredith figured that they’d probably heard the last of Socialized Medicine; Public Transportation, though, was another matter; as they watched, two extended-length buses approached from different directions, exhaust wheezing mightily, jaws filled with row after row of razor-sharp teeth, gaping.

  “Hey, Reedy?” said Hjerald, “I think I know what happened to all the people …”

  “Shut up, Hjerald,” Meredith said. “Run, Hjerald.”

  Skidding, they cornered the park’s borders, Mr. Janes in tow, just as three more buses began to converge. Leaping onto Honda, Hjerald started kicking madly, then stopped, nose wrinkling. “Man,” he said, “he really stinks. Maybe we should try to wash …”

  “Hjerald! Start the freaking horse!”

  “Okay, okay––Geez,” said Hjerald, Kicking at the horse. “Uh-oh—it’s not working!”

  Meredith turned and looked behind her where all five of the buses had jumped the curb and were winding their way through the trees, jaws agape and slathering.

  “The ears, Hjerald—crank the ears!”

  Hjerald slapped himself on the forehead and gave Honda’s ears a vicious twist. Immediately he leapt to life and plowed out of the park, turf spitting behind him, just as the first bus snapped its teeth where they’d been a moment before.

  Turning down a street to the freeway entrance, they found themselves blocked by yet another of the freakish machines. “Hang on,” shouted Hjerald. He gunned the horse and rocketed off the road and down a block of concrete steps onto a mezzanine area between the buildings. Crossing quickly, he ramped
up the steps on the other side, then circled around the block—which put them behind the buses, who were all facing the wrong way. By the time the pursuing behemoths caught their scent again, they were heading up the freeway onramp and had a good mile lead on the closest one.

  “All right,” said Hjerald, “if we can keep this lead until we get to the boat, we should have enough time to shove off and get out onto the river.”

  As it turned out, keeping the lead wasn’t necessary; after about six miles, all of the buses began to drop away, then disappeared completely. Hjerald and Meredith looked at each other in relieved confusion.

  Mr. Janes, as if in answer to their unasked question, filled in the blank: “Charter. City Charter. No Public Buses outside city limits. No city, no bus, no charter, no lunch.”

  “God bless Canada,” said Hjerald.

  O O O

  When they got to the boat, Hjerald gave Honda a friendly hug and the sandwiches from their packs which they’d left there. The horse farted happily and wandered away, munching. They waited a little while, as another one of the burning barges was passing in the distance, then bundled Mr. Janes into the boat and pushed off for home.

  The trip back was as uneventful as the first had been. After turning Mr. Janes over to Fuji and Delna, who clucked her tongue sadly and began to lick him sympathetically as they led him away to a room, leaving out only the package from Meredith’s stepfather, which they had decided they’d rather examine privately, Hjerald and Meredith related their grand adventure to everyone at Soame’s as they warmed themselves in front of the fireplace and sipped hot lemonade.

  “My God,” said June, shaking his head. “You should not have gone by yourselves, Meredith and Weird Harold—next time …”

  “There won’t be a next time,” Hjerald interjected. “There’s nothing there. Nothing worth going back for, at any rate.”

  Somberly, they all sat, thinking. No one had a response, not after the story Meredith and Hjerald told, and the appearance of Mr. Janes.

  Suddenly, Vernal spoke up. “It’s too bad you didn’t think to grab the printing press, or at least the paper,” he said glumly. “I really miss reading the paper.”

  “Me too,” said Eddie.

  “You guys,” Hjerald said, astonished, “didn’t you listen? Not that I could have gotten the press in the boat anyway, but the paper at the Sun was printed on skin—human skin.”

  “He’s right,” admonished the Mayor. “If that fellow could only get one edition out of everyone in his offices, how long do you think we could keep it up in a town like Silvertown?”

  Everyone nodded in agreement and sipped their drinks.

  O O O

  When the townspeople had gone to their homes for the night, Meredith and Hjerald revealed the existence of Michael’s parcel to June and Fuji, and together they retreated to the library to examine it.

  An assortment of lamps which Glen had provided lit the library brightly, and with little ceremony Hjerald removed the largish envelope from his duffel and handed it to Meredith. She slid her finger under a flap and slit open one end of the envelope. There was only one item inside—an ancient, greenish-stained sheet of parchment, on which was printed a number of odd symbols, and which had a scumbling of writing that Meredith vaguely recognized as German in the margins.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Fuji, reaching a tentative hand to touch the fragile sheet.

  “It’s very old,” said June.

  “It’s exactly what I should have expected,” Meredith said ruefully. “It figures that after not speaking for several years, a parchment would be Michael’s idea of a peace offering. It’s probably from the Egyptian Book of the Dead, or something.”

  “Tibetan.”

  They turned to look at Hjerald, who had taken a step back when Meredith opened the envelope, and was now standing a few feet away, shivering. He was white as death.

  “Hjerald?” Meredith said, looking from him to the sheet then back again. “You know something about this, don’t you?”

  “It’s Tibetan,” Hjerald said again, his voice a faint whisper. “And yes, I have seen it before, but it can’t be the same … I mean, it’s not possible …” he finished, head shaking slowly.

  “The writing in the margins appears German,” Fuji remarked, “but I don’t know enough to read it.”

  “I can give you a hand with that,” Meredith said, a careful eye still focused on Hjerald. She stepped back to the table and looked at the sheet, then leaned closer and bit her lip. “Mmm,” she mused, “I can just make it out … Something about … Oh my,” she breathed. “Oh my God.”

  “It’s Wagner, isn’t it?”

  Hjerald had regained his composure and moved to Meredith’s side where he stood looking at the parchment with a rueful expression.

  “Yes, it is,” said Meredith in surprise. “How did you know?”

  “Because I’ve seen this parchment before. It’s part of a Tibetan book—the title page, actually—and the annotations are original translations of some of the content, which were, as you’ve noticed, written by Richard Wagner.”

  “How do you know it’s Tibetan?” Fuji asked. “The writing looks Norwegian to me.”

  “It’s Icelandic—the block-printing process which made the book is Tibetan,” said Hjerald.

  “How do you know this?” June asked.

  “Because,” said Hjerald, “I met one of the people who made it.”

  “Impossible,” Fuji said. “This parchment must be hundreds of years old.”

  “Maybe thousands,” Hjerald admitted.

  “Where did you see this, Hjerald?” Meredith asked.

  “I can’t say—I mean, I really can’t,” said Hjerald. “I gave my word I wouldn’t—I’ve only said as much as I have because this parchment is absolutely what I think it is, and for it to be here is not a good sign.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because,” Hjerald said, standing over a lamp so that his eyes were encased in shadow, “for it to have left Tibet means it left in one of only two possible ways, and the possibility of either one scares the dickens out of me.”

  “Why, Hjerald?” Meredith pressed. “What happened to you in Tibet? Where did you see the book this page came from?”

  He sat for a long moment, eyes closed, before responding. “I’m sorry, I really wish I could say more—but I gave my word about everything that I experienced in Tibet. However, the second possibility is the one which worries me.”

  “The second possibility?” June questioned.

  “The other way this could have gotten here,” said Hjerald. “It was someone I met in Tibet, who is likely the smartest man I ever met. He knew about it, too, and if he’s involved in all of this, then maybe this really is the end of the world.”

  “But the parchment came from Michael,” said Meredith. “What would this ‘player on the other side’ have to do with him, or with the madness going on outside?”

  “Do you remember before we went to Ottawa how I told you Shingo and I found a box which had come from the University of Vienna?”

  “Yes. The box of Schubert which came from the Mathematics department.”

  “Exactly. Read farther down the parchment and tell me if any name jumps out at you.”

  Meredith gave Hjerald an odd look, then did as he asked while he brought an even more bewildered June and Fuji—who knew nothing about the box from the refuse pile—up to date. It was scarcely a minute before her head snapped up again in bewilderment.

  “Liszt? Franz Liszt worked on this before Wagner?”

  “They were well known to be friends,” put in Fuji. “It’s not too surprising that they’d have shared an interest in many things.”

  “What does Liszt have to do with Schubert?” June asked.

  “Probably nothing,” said Hjerald, “but in the Zen way of things, everything, and this situation is feeling very, very Zen.”

  “How so?”

  “Zen is all about making connect
ions which most people don’t see,” said Hjerald, explaining. “The person I met in Tibet was a mathematician; the box came from the University of Vienna’s Department of Mathematics. Michael Langbein taught at that University, and was murdered by its Rector while both were interrupting a performance of Wagner’s Ring Cycle. Michael sent this parchment, which has annotations by Wagner, to Meredith; and Michael’s specialty was documents in Ancient Icelandic. This particular sheet was also written on by a prominent composer, as were most of the materials in the box Shingo found—which makes me wonder if there’s some aspect to all of this which is related to music. I also suspect that if we were able to check the faculty of the University of Vienna’s Mathematics department, we’d find our ‘player on the other side’ in residence there.”

  “But where does this Tibetan-Icelandic parchment come in, other than the Wagner notes?” June asked.

  “It’s here at the bottom,” said Meredith, who had continued reading, and was now trembling so badly that she had to sit down. “It cuts off, so I don’t know where Liszt was going with the interpretation, but he and Wagner were attempting to translate the book this came from, and it … It …” She broke off and looked at the parchment, stunned.

  Hjerald filled in the silence. “What it says is that the writing they were translating they believed was written by Snorri Sturluson, and that this text, which they called ‘The Prime Edda’, is the earliest copy of his works to survive. Wagner was trying to write a historically-perfect version of the Ring.”

  Fuji and June were properly humbled by this. Meredith still seemed as in a daze.

  “If Michael Langbein believed this sheet to be real, as I do,” Hjerald finished somberly, “then he’d have given his life to catch just a glimpse of the rest of it.”

  “Perhaps he did,” came a voice from the darkness around them, “and if that is so, then it is indeed a terrible loss.”

  Meredith stood as Shingo emerged from the stacks with a box of papers underneath one arm and an oddly arrested smile on his lips. He stepped forward and kissed Meredith lightly, then turned to sit at the table.

  “How long have you been here?” June asked. “If we’d known you were here …”