Library of the Dead

by Glenn Cooper

  When Josephus had drained the last of his ale, Paulinus reached for the candle. Just before he blew it out he told Josephus something that had been on his mind.

  "You know," he said, "there is nothing to say that in the case of twins, the seventh son to be born of a woman is, by necessity, the seventh son that God had conceived."

  Ubertus rode through the countryside of Wessex on the mission that Prior Josephus had pressed on him. He felt an unlikely servant for the task but was beholden to Josephus and could not refuse him.

  The heavy, sweating animal between his legs warmed his body against the crisp chill of the mid-December day. He was not a good rider. Stonecutters were used to slow speeds in an ox-drawn cart. He gripped the reins tightly, pressed his knees against the belly of the beast and held on as best he could. The horse was a healthy animal that the monastery kept stabled on the mainland, just for this kind of purpose. A ferryman had rowed Ubertus from the shingled beach of Vectis to the Wessex shore. Josephus had instructed him to make haste and return within two days, which meant the horse must be made to canter.

  As the day wore on the sky turned slate gray, a hue akin to the rocky face of the coastal undercliffs. He rode at pace through a frosty countryside of fallow fields, low stone walls, and tiny villages, much like his own. Occasionally he passed dull-looking peasants, trudging on foot or riding lethargic mules. He was mindful of thieves but in truth his only possessions of value were the horse itself and the few small coins that Josephus had given him for the journey.

  He arrived in Tisbury just before sundown. It was a prosperous town with several large timber houses and a multitude of neat cottages lining a broad street. On a central green, sheep huddled in the gloom. He rode past a small wooden church, a solitary structure on the edge of the green, which stood cold and dark. Beside it was a small burial ground with signs of a fresh grave. He quickly crossed himself. The air was filled with smoky hearth fires, and Ubertus was distracted from the burial mound by the delicious odors of charred meat and burning fat everywhere.

  Today had been market day, and there were still carts and produce stalls in the square not yet removed because their owners remained in the tavern drinking and throwing dice. Ubertus dismounted at the tavern door. A boy took notice and offered to hold his reins. For one of his coins, the boy led the horse away for a bucket of oats and a trough of water.

  Ubertus entered the warm crowded tavern and his senses were assaulted by a din of drunken voices and the smells of stale ale, sweating bodies, and piss. He stood before the blazing peat fire, revived his cramped hands and called out in his thick Italian accent for a jug of wine. Since it was a market town, the men of Tisbury were well-used to strangers, and they received him with cheerful curiosity. A group of men called him to their table and he fell into an animated conversation about where he hailed from and why he had come to town.

  It took Ubertus under an hour to pour three jugs of wine down his throat and obtain the knowledge he had been sent to discover.

  Sister Magdalena usually walked through the abbey grounds at a deliberate pace, not too slowly, as that would be wasteful of time, but not too speedily, as that would create the impression that something on this earth was more important than the contemplation of God.

  Today she ran, clutching something in her hand.

  A few days of warmer air had thinned the snow to a patchy shell, and the paths were well-trampled and no longer slippery.

  In the Scriptorium, Josephus and Paulinus sat alone in silence. They had dismissed the copyists so they could meet privately with Ubertus, who had returned from his mission, cold and exhausted.

  Ubertus was no longer there, having been sent back to his village with a grim thanks and a benediction.

  His report was simple and sobering.

  On the eighteenth day of December, three days earlier, a child was born in the town of Tisbury to Wuffa the tanner and his wife Eanfled.

  The child's name was Sigbert.

  While neither would openly admit it, they were not shocked by the news. They half expected to hear as much since it was scarcely possible that the fantastic circumstances of a mute boy born to a dead mother who could, without tuition, write names and dates, could grow more fantastic.

  When Ubertus was gone, Paulinus had said to Josephus, "The boy was the seventh son, of this there can be no doubt. He has a profound power."

  "Is it for good or evil?" Josephus asked shakily.

  Paulinus looked at his friend, puckered his mouth but did not answer.

  Without warning, Sister Magdalena burst in.

  "Brother Otto told me you were here," she said, breathing heavily and slamming the door behind her.

  Josephus and Paulinus exchanged conspiratorial glances. "Indeed we are, Sister," Josephus said. "Is there something troubling you?"

  "This!" She thrust her hand forward. There was a rolled parchment in her fist. "One of the sisters found this in the children's dormitory under the pallet of Octavus's bed. He has stolen it from the Scriptorium, I have no doubt. Can you confirm it?"

  Josephus unrolled the parchment and inspected it along with Paulinus.

  Kal ba Lakna

  21 12 782 Natus

  Flavius de Napoli

  21 12 782 Natus

  CNMEOH

  21 12 782 Natus

  21 12 782 Mors

  Juan de Madrid

  21 12 782 Natus

  Josephus looked up from the first page. It was written in Octavus's tight scrawl.

  "That one is in Hebrew, I recognize the script," Paulinus whispered to him, pointing at one of the entries. "I do not know the origin of the one above it."

  "Well?" the sister demanded. "Can you confirm the boy has stolen this?"

  "Please sit, Sister." Josephus sighed.

  "I do not wish to sit, Prior, I wish to know the truth and then I wish to severely punish this boy."

  "I beg you to sit."

  She reluctantly sat upon one of the copying benches.

  "The parchment was certainly stolen," Josephus began.

  "The wicked boy! But what is this text? It seems a strange listing."

  "It contains names," Josephus said.

  "In more than a single language," Paulinus added.

  "What is its purpose and why is Oswyn included?" she asked suspiciously.

  "Oswyn?" Josephus asked.

  "The second page, the second page!" she said.

  Josephus looked at the second sheet.

  Oswyn of Vectis

  21 12 782 Mors

  The blood drained from Josephus's face. "My God!"

  Paulinus rose and turned away to hide his expression of alarm.

  "Which of the brothers wrote this?" Magdalena demanded to know.

  "None of them, Sister," Josephus said.

  "Then who wrote it?"

  "The boy, Octavus."

  Josephus lost count of the number of times Sister Magdalena crossed herself as he and Paulinus told her what they knew of Octavus and his miraculous ability. Finally, when they were done and there was no more to be told, the three of them exchanged nervous looks.

  "Surely this is the work of the Devil," Magdalena said, breaking the quiet.

  Paulinus said, "There is an alternative explanation."

  "And that is?" she asked.

  "The work of the Lord." Paulinus chose his words carefully. "Surely, there can be no doubt that the Lord chooses when to bring a child into this world and when to reclaim a soul to his bosom. God knows all. He knows when a simple man calls out to him in prayer, he knows when a sparrow falls from the sky. This boy, who is unlike all others in the manner of his birth and his countenance, how do we know he is not a vessel of the Lord to record the comings and goings of God's children?"

  "But he may be the seventh son of a seventh son!" Magdalena hissed.

  "Yes, we know of the beliefs concerning such a being. But who has met such a man before? And who has met one born on the seventh day of the seventh month of the year 7
77? We cannot presume to know that his powers have an evil purpose."

  "I, for one, cannot see an evil consequence of the boy's powers," Josephus said hopefully.

  Magdalena's demeanor changed from fear to anger. "If what you say is true, we know that our dear abbot will die on this very day. I pray to the Lord that this is not so. How can you say that this is not evil?" She rose and snatched up the parchment pages. "I will not hold secrets from the abbot. He must hear of this, and he-and he alone-must decide on the boy's fate."

  She was determined, and neither Paulinus or Josephus were inclined to dissuade Sister Magdalena from her actions.

  The three of them approached Oswyn after None, the mid-afternoon prayer, and accompanied him to his chambers in the Chapter House. There, in the dimming light of a wintry afternoon, the embers of his fire glowing amber, they told him their tale as each tried to study his pinched face, which because of his deformity angled down toward his table.

  He listened. He studied the parchments, pausing for a moment to reflect on his own name. He asked questions and considered the responses. Then he signaled that the caucus was over by striking his fist on the table once.

  "I cannot see good coming of this," he said. "At worst, it is the hand of the Devil. At best, it is a severe distraction to the religious life of this community. We are here to serve God with all our heart and all our might. This boy will divert us from our mission. You must cast him out."

  At that, Magdalena suppressed a show of satisfaction.

  Josephus cleared his dry throat. "His father will not take him back. There is no place for him to go."

  "That is not our concern," the abbot said. "Send him away."

  "It is cold," Josephus implored. "He will not survive the night."

  "The Lord will provide for him and decide his fate," the abbot said. "Now, leave me to contemplate my own."

  It was left to Josephus to do the deed, and after sundown he dutifully led the boy by the hand to the front gate of the abbey. A kind young sister had put heavy socks on his feet and wrapped him in an extra shirt and a small cloak. A cutting wind off the sea was pushing the temperature to the freezing point.

  Josephus unlatched the gate and swung it open. They were hit squarely by a strong cold gust. The prior gently nudged the boy forward. "You must leave us, Octavus. But do not fear, God will protect you."

  The boy did not turn to look back but faced the dark void of night with his immutable blank stare. It broke the prior's heart to treat one of God's creatures harshly, so harshly that he was likely condemning the child to a freezing death. And not an ordinary child but one with an extraordinary gift that, if Paulinus was correct, came not from the depths of Hell but perhaps from the realm of Heaven. But Josephus was an obedient servant, his first allegiance to God, whose opinion on this matter was not apparent to him, and his next allegiance to his abbot, whose opinion was clear as a windowpane.

  Josephus shuddered and closed the gate behind him.

  The bell rang for Vespers. The congregation assembled in the Sanctuary. Sister Magdalena held her lute to her chest and basked in her victory over Josephus, whom she scorned for his softness.

  Paulinus's mind swirled with theological ideas about Octavus-whether his powers were gift or curse.

  Josephus's eyes stung with salty tears at the thought of the frail little boy alone in the cold and dark. He felt intense guilt at his own warmth and comfort. Yet Oswyn, he was sure, was correct on one notion: the boy was indeed a distraction from his duties of prayer and servitude.

  They waited for the shuffling steps of the abbot, which failed to materialize. Josephus could see the brothers and sisters shifting nervously, all of them keenly aware of Oswyn's punctuality.

  After a few minutes Josephus became alarmed and whispered to Paulinus, "We must check on the abbot." All eyes followed them as they left. Whispers filled the Sanctuary, but Magdalena put a stop to them with a finger to her lips and a loud shush.

  Oswyn's chamber was cold and dark, the untended fire nearly spent. They found him curled and bent on his bed, fully dressed in his robes, his skin as cool as the room air. In his right hand he clutched the parchment upon which his name was written.

  "Merciful God!" Josephus cried.

  "The prophesy-" Paulinus muttered, falling to his knees.

  The two men mouthed quick prayers over Oswyn's body, then rose.

  "The bishop must be informed," Paulinus said.

  Josephus nodded. "I will send a messenger to Dorchester in the morning."

  "Until the bishop says otherwise, you must lead this abbey, my friend."

  Josephus crossed himself, digging his finger into his chest as he made the sign. "Go tell Sister Magdalena and ask her to begin Vespers. I will be there shortly, but first there is something I must do."

  Josephus ran through the darkness to the abbey gate, his chest heaving with exertion. He pushed it open and it squeaked on its hinges.

  The boy was not there.

  He ran down the path, frantically calling his name.

  There was a small shape by the road.

  Octavus had not gone far. He was sitting quietly in the frigid night, shivering at the edge of a field. Josephus tenderly picked him up in his arms and carried him back toward the gate.

  "You can stay, boy," he said. "God wants you to stay."

  JUNE 25, 2009

  LAS VEGAS

  W ill started flirting at sea level and was still going strong at 34,000 feet. The flight attendant was his type, a big shapely girl with pouty lips and dirty-blonde hair. A wisp of it kept falling in front of one eye and she was constantly and absently brushing it aside. After a while he began to imagine lying beside her naked, brushing it aside himself. A little wave of guilt inexplicably washed over him when Nancy intruded into his thoughts, proper and reproachful. What was she doing mucking up his fantasies? He willfully fought back and reverted to the stewardess.

  He had followed standard TSA security procedures for checking onto the US Airways flight with his service weapon. He was preboarded in coach and had settled into an aisle seat over the wing. Darla, the stewardess, immediately liked the looks of the brawny guy in a sport coat and khakis and draped herself over the cross aisle seat.

  "Hey, FBI," she chirped, knowing as much because of the security procedures he'd undergone.

  "Hey yourself."

  "Get you something to drink before we get invaded?"

  "Do I smell coffee?"

  "Coming up," she said. "We've got an air marshal in 7C today, but you're way bigger than he is."

  "You want to tell him I'm here?"

  "He already knows."

  Later, during the beverage service, she seemed to lightly brush his shoulder or his arm whenever she passed. Maybe it was his imagination, he thought as he drifted to sleep, lulled by the low rumble of the engines. Or maybe not.

  He awoke with a startle, pleasantly disorientated. There were green crop fields stretching to the horizon so he knew they were somewhere over the middle of the country. Loud angry voices were coming from the rear near the lavs. He undid his seat belt, turned around and identified the problem: three young Brits spanning a row, drinking buddies in full lager-lout mode, getting prelubed for their Vegas holiday. Ruddy-faced, they were gesticulating like a three-headed monster at a willowy male flight attendant who had cut off their flow of beer. As alarmed passengers looked on, the Brit nearest the aisle-a taut bundle of muscle and tendon-rose up and stood eyeball-to-eyeball with the crew member and shouted emphatically, "You heard my mate! He wants another fuckin' drink!"

  Darla quickly moved up the aisle to assist her colleague, deliberately seeking out Will's eyes as she flew by. The air marshal in 7C held his seat, standard operating procedure, watching the cockpit, on guard for a diversion. He was a young guy, blanched with nerves, sucking it up. Probably his first real incident, Will thought, leaning into the aisle, studying him.

  Then, a sickening thud, skull on skull, a Glaswegian kiss. "That's wha
t ya get, ya fuckin' bastard!" the assailant screamed. "Ya want another one?" Will missed the act but saw the aftermath.

  The head butt opened the attendant's scalp and knocked him yelping to his knees. Darla involuntarily let out a short shriek at the sight of flowing blood.

  The air marshal and Will rose as one, locked onto each other and started to perform like a team that had drilled repeatedly together. The marshal stood in the aisle, drew his weapon and called out, "Federal agents! Sit down and place your hands on the seat in front of you!"

  Will showed his ID and slowly advanced toward the rear holding the badge above his head.

  "Oh what tha fuck is this, then?" the Brit called out as he saw Will closing. "We're just trying to get our hols started, mate."

  Darla helped the bleeding attendant to his feet and led him forward, scooting by Will, who gave her a reassuring wink. When he was five rows from the troublemakers he halted and spoke slowly and calmly. "Take your seat immediately and place your hands on top of your head. You are under arrest. Your vacation is over." Then the staccato punctuation mark, "Mate."

  His friends implored him to back off but the man would not stand down, crying now with rage and fear, cornered, his jugulars distended purple. "I will not!" he kept repeating. "I will not!"

  Will pocketed his badge and unholstered his gun, double-checking the engaged safety. At this, the passengers became terrified; an obese woman with an infant started blubbering, which started a chain reaction throughout the cabin. Will tried to erase the drowsiness from his face and look as badass as possible. "This is your last opportunity to end this well. Sit down and put your hands on your head."

  "Or what?" the man taunted, his nose thick with mucus. "You going to shoot me and put a hole through the bleedin' plane?"

  "We use special ammo," Will said, lying through his teeth. "The round'll just rattle around inside your head and turn your brain into pudding." An expert shot who had spent his youth picking off fox squirrels in the Panhandle brush, at this range he could place a round anywhere he wanted within a few millimeters, but it would exit, all right.