“The thing is I’m scared,” I hear myself say. “I don’t know what might happen.”
“I know. But I have an idea.”
I look at him skeptically. “What kind of idea?”
“I thought if you could see me, where I come from, perhaps it wouldn’t be so uncomfortable?”
Uncomfortable? He doesn’t get it. That’s not my problem. If I could drown inside the ocean of the universe with him, I’m afraid I wouldn’t try to fight it. I fear I wouldn’t even try to escape the tide. The truth is, I want to feel him again, but I know it’s not that simple. There are consequences and reasons for his being here that exist far beyond my understanding.
“I can make it easier,” he says. “At least I think I can.”
I remember the torture of his eyes, but their darkness is gone now, replaced by something softer, something sincere. I open the door wider. “Come in and let’s see.”
We settle on the floor again across from each other. Ledger crosses his legs and folds his hands. “You should know my past is complicated.”
“So is mine,” I tell him.
“Mine is . . . more complicated.”
I look at him amusedly. “So show me.”
Ledger looks away from me. He takes a deep breath, like there’s something he’s been wanting to say for a thousand years. “I’ve been burning for so long, my skin singed by fire, I hardly know what it is to trust a person.”
“You can trust me, Ledger,” I say. “I know what’s inside you.”
“You do?”
I nod and hold him in my gaze. “And it’s okay. Because the words are inside me, too.”
Ledger looks at me and smiles, filling me with an impossible warmth on the inside. I feel my face flush.
“I am the thing you were born to save. I represent them all. Their many voices live in me. I want you to hear them.”
I hold out my hands, my palms up. “I’m ready.”
Ledger sighs and extends one hand. His fingers graze mine. The room around me vanishes as I dive forward into darkness.
LEDGER
TWENTY-ONE
The girl fell into him. Like a pebble shattering the surface of his pond, she radiated through and through him.
His stars were words. He showed her millions of them as they drifted together. At first they were in pictures, carved into rock faces, then into pieces of stone. The pictures moved and shifted, changing into new forms. Alphabets soon scrawled across his insides. He told her the names for things: papyrus, parchment, vellum. The writing changed then, becoming liquid, running freely at first before being contained inside a vestibule, then hit hard with a thousand pieces of movable type. The machine pressed and punched, cracking and jittering, while it formed hundreds of sheets that would be cut and sewn into quires for quartos and folios.
Now there were thousands of books, in every home and library. They slept next to beds. They were shared, traded, written in, loved. Children treasured them and their form changed once more. They grew pictures. They bloomed with color. Life sprang from inside their square pages. They became endless, like tiny atoms circumnavigating the globe. There could never be enough.
Stores as large as villages sprung up, dedicated just to reading. The books filled tables and shelves, holding the attention of the millions who found them. People gathered for hours just to buy them, to meet the human who brought their treasured words to life. They clutched their copies, graced with the ink of the author, a scrawl of a signature. Like precious tomes they held them. Across the globe, they populated the lives of people, becoming part of them, as closely clung to as a memory.
Something shifted, but not all at once. It happened as a slow underbelly rumble, unsettling and upsetting, but never overthrowing. Like the creeping pain of indigestion, a feeling with the books arrived. Suddenly there was more than just paper and ink but light and code and rectangular screens, flat and colorless. They sharpened, then grew hues. They became sophisticated, like the people who owned them. They were held, but not as books were held. Their pages required no turning. Their faces were prodded and tapped and swiped without care.
They reproduced. They overgrew. They consumed the spaces that once held books. They were always present, their cold, harsh light holding entire libraries. And it was okay because eyes still roamed their pages. Humans still read. The books were still alive.
Though not as much as before.
Something small had died.
The readers’ eyes shifted their focus. There was so much to see, and suddenly the world that held the words, that once was quiet, was full of noise, full of movement, full of other things. Now the words were not words but pictures again. They flashed by, zipping frenetically in an endless stream of darting light, pulling eyes from pages, scarcely ever ceasing.
Faster and faster. More and more. The frequency daunted even the greatest minds. Humans could not place the disturbing feeling that something was lacking. The feeling began to gnaw from the inside, where it was most keenly felt but most easily ignored, and it was supplanted by the exterior. Soon the world had forgotten what the quiet was. Stillness had left. Solace could no longer be found within the cracked spines and pages. Something great had been lost.
And that’s how it ended and began at the very same time. When the stories that made the world were distant shadows and sounds, trace elements only—dust in the eyes to be cleared away . . . When there was no room for reading, when words became data anyone could consume, that was when Fell arrived.
It happened quickly, cleanly. The books did not live long in fire. The devices were wiped clean in almost no time.
Because it was better and easier this way, more efficient. In the name of progress, they said. Everything you ever needed to know could be transferred, downloaded. The light carried it to you in easily digestible chunks. Immersed. Only a few missed the words and the books that held them. But even they could be fixed by the light. The seeping fog of forgetting would make them better.
Ledger felt the girl’s sadness for him, at what he’d lost of himself over the vast stretch of time. It had not been ideal to start here, yet perhaps it was necessary for her to know him, to see her soul and his intertwined in an infinite dance throughout recorded history. He took comfort in knowing that after this she could see the resistance, that she could come to know the Risers.
NOELLE
TWENTY-TWO
I wake alone, in the perfect quiet. Where am I? I look around the room, at the purple-gray walls, the iron-colored floor and the carpet where I fell asleep. Pedanta. My room.
The volumes lay open at my side, and I remember: we were reading, at first. I rifle through the pages, trying to recall what we found in the words before sleep took over, but nothing springs to mind. I sit back and shut my eyes. The story. Ledger’s story. It comes flooding back to me. He had shown me himself, his origins. Then he had shown me them.
The memory of the cool night air swirling around the small crackling fire pulls me back.
I saw them. The Nine of the Rising.
A single source of light passed from hand to hand, illuminating the faces of the Risers. Prospero held the naming ceremony. It was said to be for protection, from Fell’s ever-watching eye in the sky. The Risers each chose a name, an alias to keep them safe. They burned everything else, their papers, their IDs, a couple early versions of our wrist-plates.
A young man with large eyes like chocolates was the first to choose. He wore thick-rimmed glasses and a green tie that hugged his neck too tightly. He held Volume II and flipped through the pages, searching. He landed on one that said Love’s Labour’s Lost in large letters.
“How fitting,” he said, smiling. “Having loved our labor, and labored for that which is lost, we have won our truest love.” Everyone chuckled a little.
“Well, I guess there is only one thing to do.” He pointed to a name and said, “I shall be called after the schoolteacher. The pedant. Holofernes.”
The other Risers laug
hed and nodded with approval. “What better disguise than to be the opposite of oneself?” The circle of Risers hummed in agreement.
One by one, they took their names. I came to know their faces. Ganymede, with her high cheekbones and dark eyes. Macbeth and Lady M, who counted themselves as one, with their matching black hair and attire. Capulet, with his slender eyes and chiseled jaw. Titus, his skin covered in small moles, his eyes deep like caverns. Cordelia, glamorous with long, flowing yellow hair. Hamlet, with the kind, knowing expression. Goodfellow, with his spritely green eyes and hair as red as flames. I counted them, the eight Risers, then realized one was missing. Prospero. The face of their leader was in shadow.
Goodfellow slapped Holofernes on the back, catching him off guard. “A good sturdy name,” he said. “I’m sure Wes would approve.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Holofernes said. “I don’t speak to him anymore. Not since he left us.”
The woman with long black hair, Lady M, stepped forward. “You’ve forsaken your twin? But Holofernes . . . ?”
Holofernes shook his head. “No. The truth is, he has forsaken us. When he chose Fell.”
The man called Macbeth stepped forward, the light bouncing off his shiny dark hair. “Are you sure of this? Do you have proof?”
Holofernes nodded. “Westeph has defected. He has been taken up by Fell’s intelligence unit.”
“What safeguards do we have to protect your algorithm?” Hamlet asked. “What is to ensure he doesn’t give up everything we’ve been working toward?”
“There is nothing to ensure that,” Holofernes said. “And he most certainly will give away everything. He is embittered toward me now.”
“Need I remind you that Fell cannot know we’ve discovered a hole in their stream?” Hamlet said. “If we cannot infiltrate the stream, how can we ever hope to understand their technology?”
“We can kiss our hope of reversing the immersion good-bye,” Lady M said. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m not ready to do that just yet.”
“None of us are,” Titus said.
Ganymede came forward, the turquoise in her earrings glowing. “There’s only one thing to do. You’ve got to protect the algorithm.”
“And how do you suppose I do that?” Holofernes said.
“Easy. You must fight fire with fire,” Ganymede replied.
Capulet stepped forward. “What she means is you will have to out-code him. Build a firewall. Somehow.”
Holofernes nodded, resigned. “Let us be frank, Risers. We all know Westeph’s abilities are superior to my own. I stand little chance of outwitting him in his very own language. I could no sooner construct a defense than he could tear it down and reengineer the entire system.”
“But you succeed where he fails,” Goodfellow said. “Westeph was never a good speaker, never good with people. He’s not a leader, like you, Holofernes. You have a voice. You could teach others your skill.”
“What others? Who will listen to me now, a Riser in hiding? You forget, Wes is a savant. I’d need an army of programmers just to match him.”
“Then we’ll raise one,” Macbeth said. “We’ll raise an army.”
Holofernes looked up in the light, his doubt shattering like glass. “Perhaps,” he said slowly. “Perhaps that is a brilliant idea.”
Macbeth extended a hand to Holofernes. “Pedanta can be yours. You could use it to share your knowledge and build a great city. A city of your making. You will outshine Westeph yet and help us safeguard what you’ve worked so hard for.”
“I will need resources. I will need your help.”
“You will have it,” Goodfellow said. “We will all help you. You will have a city, founded upon your leadership, dedicated to your learning.”
“Then we will build an army, and we will build the knowledge,” Holofernes said. “And whoever is willing to join me will help it proliferate.”
“Good. Then it is settled,” Goodfellow said, gazing into the fire. “And now, who is next to choose their name?”
*
I snap to and fumble for Holofernes’s volume. I find the page, the same page I saw in the story. So this was what I’d been doing after the visions, before I fell asleep. Holofernes. A schoolteacher. I search for his first line, trying to find some meaning there, but the passages are all nonsensical.
I skim the book, looking for other passages, but they’re all the same. Holofernes doesn’t have a single passage like the others, buoyant with life and wit. His are the only words that are strung together, frenetic and strangely devoid of real meaning.
Then it hits me like the bioslice lights at dawn: Holofernes in the play is one big joke. More than that, though, he’s a terrible speaker. Holofernes’s words ring in my head: What better disguise than to be the opposite of oneself? The real Holofernes—France’s grandfather—must have been brilliant, and eloquent, too. He was a good speaker and clearly intelligent—everything the Holofernes in the play is not.
I grab the books and race down the hall to Ledger’s room. The door is open, so I let myself in. I hear the water running in the bathroom and hold my ear to the door. Ledger is humming softly as he showers.
I knock twice. “Ledger? I need to talk to you. It’s important!”
“Elle?” he calls out. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah! Better than okay. I know why Holofernes chose Holofernes.”
I hear the soap fall and Ledger mutter something like a curse. “What?”
“I said, I know why the real Holofernes chose to be named after that character, the Holofernes in the play.”
“Great! Last night you were pretty uncertain.”
I think for a second. I don’t remember much after I blacked out. “Everything’s fuzzy.”
I hear the water shut off. In seconds he’s opening the door, standing in front of me with just a towel wrapped around his waist. “What did you say? I couldn’t hear you.”
I look away, feeling my face heat. “I said everything’s a-a-a little fuzzy after you transferred part of the story.”
“Oh.” His brow furrows. “I think you just need to get used to it. The transfer, I mean.”
I stare at him a second too long before my cheeks burn. “You’re probably right,” I say, shyly. I feel Ledger’s eyes on me, sensing my unease.
There’s a knock at the door. I answer it while Ledger gets dressed. I’m surprised when I see France, dressed in a red-and-gold cape, her hair in a bun, as before. “Oh,” she says, startled. “I didn’t expect you. I trust you slept well?”
“Not exactly.” I pull France into the room and shut the door. “I found something.” I keep my voice low, hoping to focus her on the importance of what I’m about to tell her. “Something in the book.”
She looks at me perplexed. “You’ve been reading?”
“Yes. Sort of. I found something I think you should see.”
I bring over Volume II, plunk it into her lap, turning through the pages to a few of Holofernes’s passages. “Notice anything?”
“What is it?” France asks.
“All Holofernes’s words don’t make any sense.” I point to a passage. “See?”
“I cannot read,” France says, closing the volume.
“Right,” I say, remembering. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” France says. “My grandfather read it to me as a child.”
“He did?”
“Yes. I remember the story.”
“Then you know about Holofernes?”
“My grandfather said his character archetype was known as a pedant. He’s purely literal. Doesn’t understand any of the wit that’s going on around him.”
“No, that’s not what I mean.” I pause, frustrated, unsure of how to communicate what I know to be true, what I saw in my vision. “France, do you know why your grandfather chose the name Holofernes?”
“It was assigned to him, just like all the Risers.”
I shake my head. “No. He chose it. The
y all chose their names for a reason. He was making a statement. A statement about the importance of knowledge. But not just arbitrary knowledge. Not just hollow facts and figures, the stuff Holofernes rattles off in the play. Real understanding. The kind of understanding that can only be passed from human to human. In a book.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I wonder how I can tell her what I learned in the story, what I know about her family that even she does not. “I think your grandfather believed Pedanta should be a place of shared knowledge. I think that’s why he left you with the volume, so the words could live on. Through your voice.”
“But only one type of knowledge can exist here. I already told you that. All else is a distraction and nothing more.”
“I don’t think that’s what your grandfather wanted,” I say, keeping my voice low. “I think that’s why he invented the crossing. So everyone could attempt the journey and perceive the value of the knowledge. It was a symbol for their struggle.”
“No,” France says, shaking her head. “His name was given because the Risers knew what danger the words possessed. That’s why my grandfather wanted me to keep them secret. To keep them hidden.”
“Then why go through all the trouble to protect the volume if it wasn’t important, if it wasn’t the true knowledge?”
France sits quietly, playing with her fingers in an oddly childlike way. I notice for once her youth, her insecurity.
“Listen,” I say, scooting toward her. “You said yourself you are the voice of Pedanta. Why not share your words—all of them—with the people?”
France looks at me blankly, her eyes filling with tears. “I never made the crossing,” she whispers. “I failed. The granddaughter of Holofernes failed to swim. I wanted to make it so badly. But when they pulled me into the boat, I was blue. I never reached the other side. But Ferdi made it, and of course they couldn’t separate us. We’re twins, after all, and he needed me. So they brought me here to the campus anyway, even though I should have been left behind. The knowledge was never mine. Not really.”
Blood, Ink & Fire Page 19