by Briana Snow
“Okay, this is going to have to go higher up…” she said, reaching down to lift the book very carefully out of the cabinet.
“Woah!” Penelope’s fingers twitched as something like an electric charge shot through them. For a crazy moment, she was certain that it had come from the book itself. As soon as her hands had proceeded to touch it, it had felt like something had passed between them—something that had set her pulse raising, and the hairs on the back of her head rose ever so slightly. “No—this is just ridiculous,” she shook her head, as the strip light overhead flickered.
Penelope paused, feeling the undeniable sensation of being watched, which was crazy, she knew, as she was several stories below ground, and the only person who ever came into this store room. But the sensation was still there, and still undeniable.
“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m just getting creeped out, that is all.” She bent back down to the grimoire in the open box, ready to put it out onto one of the steel framed and rubber-plated book trolleys to take it across to the specialist book laboratories. “We’ll see just what the Paper Chasers make of this!” she said, before noticing that a piece of paper had fallen from the inside cover—and this paper, although faded and spotted with the patina of age—was lined, and it had once been white.
Certainly not a renaissance era notepad, she thought, realizing that the note must have been placed inside the book by whomever might have handled it last. She hesitated for just a fraction of a second, wondering what would be the professional thing to do in such a circumstance. However, given that her current profession meant long hours staring at spreadsheets and database print outs, she decided that a bit of curiosity wouldn’t go amiss. She tugged at the paper, and read what it said.
“To Whomever Poor Unfortunate It May Concern,
If you are able—forget this book.
If you are willing—destroy it, or send it far, far away.
If you have this book in your hands, then I pity you. May god have mercy on all our souls.
Captain Henry Wattinger, New York, 1946.”
“Well, that is certainly odd.” Penelope frowned at the note. It wasn’t totally unusual to find memorabilia or ephemera caught within the pages of books. Often they might be bookmarks or photographs, occasional letters or bills from a bygone time, and left within the pages by some sentimental archivist.
But to find such a stark warning, the woman thought, her eyes suddenly lifting to peer down the stacks, certain that she had heard something out there.
“Nonsense.” She shook her head. “Clearly, nonsense.” She reached down to pick up the book, and—
Phzip! The lights flickered once more, at just the moment that her hands touched the pages, making the woman jump.
“No, this is clearly ridiculous! How could anyone be scared of a book!” She reached to the ochre and cream colored cover, and pulled it forcefully open.
Oh. Penelope’s mind had a moment to think, before the lights went out.
*
Luminaire Minus Clavem,
Or, in Vulgate Speech:
The Lesser Key: the Key Without Light
Being the first Act of III~
Welcome, Pilgrim, to the End of Days.
*
Penelope had a sensation of falling, and of complete darkness, through which poured dark and feathered things. She was not scared, exactly, but more disorientated by the sudden change, as the lights flickered and buzzed around her, the strip lights blurring and pinging back on.
“Miss Harp? Penelope?” A voice was saying, and Penelope realized that she was on the floor, and that her body ached. Have I been unconscious? she thought, as she opened groggy eyes to see Matthew Hopkins hovering nervously and ineffectually around her.
“Did I fall down?” she asked, raising a hand to her head and wondering why she felt so tired. She found herself still in the filing store room, in the exact same spot where she had been, with the exact same filing box open, and the exact same grimoire open on the trolley. It was as if nothing at all had happened—except she had apparently fainted.
“Uh yes, yes you must have done. It’s elevenses—well, it’s not, actually, it’s more like onesies, and when I realized you hadn’t signed out for lunch or a break I thought I’d better see how you are doing back here—to find you unconscious on the floor!” Hopkins offered her a handkerchief, which she wasn’t quite sure what good that would do.
“I feel fine, just tired…” She recalled half-spoken words, fragments of a language that burned the tongue…
“What is this?” Hopkins face lit up as he looked past her at the Luminaire manuscript. “This—this, this shouldn’t be here!” he said suddenly, excitedly, before turning to her. “Did you find this?”
Nice to know your concern for me isn’t that deep after all, Penelope sighed, getting up from her crouch on the floor and finding her legs unsteadily. “Yes, it was in 270b, and I was about to ask someone about it…”
“Well, no need for that! What a find—look, Renaissance-binding? No. Medieval perhaps?” Hopkins shuffled excitedly from foot to foot. “This has to be inspected in a secured atmosphere, clearly. Whatever was it doing back here—I think that is what happened—you must have been so overcome with the discovery…” Hopkins blabbered on, but Penelope only felt a little like he was missing the obvious.
“It’s a religious tract, of course. The Lesser Key,” she said, pointing to the open front page, with its clear writing and horrible depiction of an almost-lion head.
“The lesser what?” Hopkins said, casting a cursory look over the note, scoffing to himself, and slipping it back into the page.
“The Lesser Key—or The Key Without Light—it’s the first of a three-part tome.” Penelope read out the inscription to him. “With any luck we might even have the others…”
“How do you know what it is? I’ve never heard of it.” Hopkins looked at her strangely. “Maybe you hit your head when you fell.”
“But it says it right….” Penelope looked at the title page, with its clear ‘vulgate’ writing declaring the end of days, and her vision doubled, superimposed on itself like when seeing your own reflection over a pane of glass. The writing that was inside the book wasn’t in English, or Latin, or any other language that Penelope Harp had ever read. Aside from the first bit: ‘Luminaire Minus Clavem’ the rest was written in odd scrawls, dots, squiggles and bracketed marks that appeared to be more like the footprints left by deranged birds then any sort of language.
“Right there…” Penelope’s voice stumbled to a pause, as her vision flickered from the cryptic series of marks and clear written English, apparently seamlessly. “I, uh, I must have read about a book that matched this description somewhere.” She shook her head, feeling that something was very, very wrong indeed.
How long had I been unconscious? Penelope tried to count the hours from the time that she had come to work that morning, and match it up to the acres of boring cross-checking that she had performed. It was hopeless. It could have been eleven o’clock when she keeled over, or it could have been ten minutes ago, for all she knew.
“Oh, the team are going to be so excited about this! Do you know how rare it is to find a really old manuscript?” Hopkins chattered, carefully placing the book on its trolley. “Well, of course you do, you’re a librarian. Well done Penelope!”
“When do we start examining it?” Penelope said, a little relieved that, for all of the strangeness that was happening, at least she might be able to get to work on the most important find of her career.
“Uhm. Well,” Hopkins startled. “Well, that is usually the province of those working with the manuscripts directly, you understand, in the laboratories. You are in the storage section…” the man’s voice petered out, as Penelope flushed angrily.
Phzzt! The lights flickered unnaturally, for just a second.
“Hmm. We’ll have to get that seen to by someone.” Hopkins nodded at the malfunctioning light, now working perfectl
y well it seemed. “Either way, can you run this up to the laboratories for me—and then get yourself some lunch and a sit down.” Hopkins smiled obsequiously, and Penelope had to resist the urge to scream at him.
“Of course,” she said curtly, her blood boiling as she carefully pushed the trolley out of the cabinet and up to the first available laboratory, where the next Archivist in a white coat looked at her aghast for a second, before taking the trolley from her with haste.
“Don’t mention it,” Penelope grumbled, turning to head up to the main doors of the Special Manuscripts division, absolutely intending to take as long as she wanted for her lunch, given the way that they were treating her.
Not even allowed to work on my own discovery! she huffed as the doors hissed open and she made her exit. She didn’t feel entirely bad about it however, as she had, in the pocket of her jacket the folded-up piece of notepaper that had fallen from the pages of the Luminaire, and she intended to find out just what this Captain Henry Wattinger of New York, 1945, had been warning the future about.
Chapter IV
Penelope was sitting upstairs at the small café that had been allowed into the hallowed halls of the New York Public Library, surrounded by the quiet murmur of the researchers who came here, chinking coffee cups.
“He what!?” she almost shouted, causing a titter from around her. Even though this was a very public part of the library, somehow the universal decorum that was expected of any public library was still nodded to. She didn’t care, as she was reading an article on her smart-pad about none other than Captain Henry Wattinger, of New York.
“A sad end for war hero Captain Henry Wattinger, who led a squad deep into enemy territory to help liberate trapped monks inside fascist-occupied Italy during the second world war,” the news report read, and Penelope could see two contrasting pictures of the captain—one as a daring and dashing young officer, and the next as a man in ageing seventies—the article was some decades previous.
“Captain Henry Wattinger returned a war hero to his beloved home city of New York, but promptly fell out of public life, despite accruing massive personal wealth. Bad luck seemed to befall the Wattinger family, as Henry lost two wives to car accidents, as well as his only daughter to a freak home flooding. The Captain is said to have become a recluse, until he died in a house fire this winter, 1989. What contents could be saved of his house were all found in his secure basement, untouched by the blaze above. Investigators wonder why the Captain himself didn’t take refuge in the secure location, but the answers are alas, unknowable. All of his worldly belongings were donated to various public institutions, including the New York Public Library, the Guggenheim, and other bodies.”
Penelope took out the note from her pocket, rereading the words, “may god have mercy on all our souls” just as her phone vibrated at her hip.
“Drat!” She saved the article and turned to find an alarming text message on her phone. It was from the Director.
ALL SPECIAL MANUSCRIPTS STAFF TO RETURN TO OFFICES IMMEDIATELY. BY ORDER OF THE DIR.
Just what is going on here? Penelope thought, a small part of her wondering if perhaps it was the word of her find. Maybe the Director wanted to congratulate her personally…
When the lights flickered overhead, Penelope had that same feeling that she had downstairs, upon finding the Luminaire. It was a feeling of dark, and terrible foreboding.
***
There was a policeman waiting for her at the sealed metal doors. He tipped his cap to her, but said nothing to her questions.
“Is everything alright?” Penelope tried again, but the officer just raised his eyebrows and stared resolutely at the doors, as the door lights blipped and there was the customary hiss of pressurized air, like an angry snake. It made Penelope jump. The doors opened before she had a chance to swipe her lanyard, and out came two paramedics in green and yellow jumpsuits. Between them they brought a medical gurney.
“What is going on here?” Penelope asked once more, until she saw that the gurney was occupied. There was a long, humpy shape underneath a white sheet, and Penelope knew that it was the body of a person.
“Who is that?” she asked, her voice raising in alarm.
The gurney jostled over the rubber seal in the floor, and from underneath the white sheet there fell a chubby hand, wearing a blue latex rubber glove—and underneath it she could clearly see a heavy signet ring on the middle finger. As far as she knew, there was only one large man down here who wore any signet rings at all.
“Hopkins?” Penelope gasped, moving to go to the side of the gurney, but the cop laid a warding arm out.
“Sorry ma’am, let them do their job,” he said in a deep Bronx accent.
“Miss Harp? Officer? Come in, quickly!” It was the Director, standing in the doorway and looking pensively at the retreating body of the Special Archivist and the paramedics. Behind him, Penelope could clearly see other two other police offers in black and blue, with their own pale sorts of latex gloves, flashlights, clipboards, and cameras.
“After you, ma’am,” the officer indicated that she should go first, and Penelope had the creepy sensation that he was watching her, waiting to see if she was going to make a run for it.
“Director Jones? What is the meaning of this?” Penelope asked. “Matthew—is he going to be alright?” she said confusedly, as the Director ushered her ahead of him, towards the nearest manuscript laboratory room.
“No, Miss Harp, I don’t think he is…” the Director said carefully. “All of the staff have been collected in here, officer,” Penelope watched him turn to say to the officer who had followed her in. “That’s everyone apart from, well, apart from Hopkins. Please, if you will just give me five minutes with my staff…”
“What is going on!?” Penelope was saying, turning around to see herself in a room with five other white-coated employees, all of whom looked as worried, scared, and confused as she did.
“Of course, Director,” the officer said. “Actually, given the nature of this place down here, we should be able to isolate the cause very quickly.”
“Yes, yes of course,” the Director said uncomfortably, before walking into the laboratory behind Penelope and closing the atmosphere-sealed door behind them.
Immediately, Penelope felt like they were locked within a bubble. All sound from the officers outside were silenced, which was strange given how clearly she could see them through the glass walls as they bent down, inspected things, made notes, and talked on their radios.
“Simon? Just what the hell is the meaning of this?” said a black woman, her highlighted tufted hair pulled back in a band, and a face mask hanging from around her neck. Penelope seemed to think that her name was Brigitte, and worked here in the lab testing acids and solutions of different types of parchment.
The Director looked hopelessly at them all for a moment, then down at his hands, and then up at another member of staff: this time a smaller, rounder woman with short black hair and thick glasses by the name of Mary. To Penelope’s eyes she was the one who was most upset, a huge wad of handkerchiefs barely leaving her nose.
“Mrs Manelli?” he offered, but when she said nothing and sobbed even louder, the Director sighed, and took up the testimony himself.
“I was contacted by Mrs Manelli here, by phone, a little under an hour ago,” he said gravely, looking around the room. “She had received, as you can understand, quite a shock.” Penelope felt the Director’s eyes as they scanned around the room quickly, and inquisitorially. “She had just walked in to find the body of Archivist Hopkins, on the floor, apparently dead of, of…”
“He was murdered!” the mild-mannered Mary Manelli suddenly announced. “His head was turned around right back on itself, and his neck, his neck… It was horrible.” She made a wringing gesture with her hands, as if she were wringing out an old cloth, and immediately burst into tears.
“What!?” There were gasps and swears from the assembled crowd, and Penelope felt herself sway on
her feet. I saw him just before, just earlier today… She was feeling suddenly sick.
“What do you mean, murdered?” Brigitte said.
“Are we safe?” said another Archivist. “I have children to think about!”
“What happens now? I want out of here!” another demanded angrily.
“Enough!” the Director said, his foot stamping on the floor as he said so. Amazingly, the tactic worked as the terrified people fell silent. “Of course we don’t know what really happened to Hopkins, but the police aren’t ruling anything out yet.”
“But this is madness. Who, out of any of us, could break a man’s neck?” Brigitte scoffed, offering her thin wrists and hands more suited to carefully dipping and painting solutions than to wrestling with grown men. She has a point, Penelope thought, but her heart knew something else. The Luminaire itself was siting only a few feet away, in a glass case ready for examination where Penelope had delivered it, the words of its title page clearly visible and legible to her, even though she could also see them as disorientating, alien glyphs and squiggles.
‘Welcome, Pilgrim, to the End of Days.’
Chapter V
It’s the book. Penelope knew this. Knew it as deep and certain as she knew that she would not be sleeping tonight. The facts started to stack up next to each other: the strange blackout that she had, the sense of foreboding every time that she looked at it. The mysterious deaths of the previous owner, the flickering lights, and now Hopkins… Why can I read it, and no one else can? I have to find out where that book came from, and what it contains…