The Bookman

by Lavie Tidhar

  "The Bookman," Orphan said.

  "Yes." The lizard's tail twitched. "His life, too, had been suspended with the impact. But his returned earlier, how or why I don't know. He was weak at first, trapped as we were trapped, but aware, and thinking. And his hatred of us grew. We were anathema to him, repulsive to him in our ignorance – but mostly because we were his masters, I think. And so, at last, he made his escape."

  "Is that why he fights you?"

  "I don't know," Wyvern said. "If you see him again, ask him."

  As he sat now, looking at the waves, Orphan couldn't help but feel a sense of something imminent approaching. The pirate captain had listened to him, and in his turn had handed him a story. Stories, he thought. What was it Gilgamesh had said to him, all that time ago? This is the time of myths. They are woven into the present like silk strands from the past, like a wire mesh from the future, creating an interlacing pattern, a grand design, a repeating motif. Don't dismiss myth, boy. And never, ever, dismiss the Bookman.

  He was trapped in other people's stories. He thought now about the Bookman. That awful, mysterious power that had so effortlessly manipulated his life, who had taken Lucy from him and sent him on this quest: he had feared him, but now, a different image of the Bookman rose in his mind, of the servant, lashing out at his former masters – he was a creature of pity, almost.

  "Then came the time," Wyvern said, "when we were awakened. When that man came to the island, a barbarous adventurer, thinking to discover the origin of an old, worthless myth. He and his men landed on the island, and in so doing roused us at last from our cold slumber. And so we did the only thing we could."

  "What did you do?" He remembered the play he had watched at the Rose. The story of the Ancient Mariner. Gilgamesh's journal. And suddenly he thought – Poor Vespucci. He did not deserve that.

  "There was only one way to get back," Captain Wyvern said. "We no longer understood our old sciences, did not know how to create from scratch that level of civilisation. Our librarian, perhaps, could have helped us. But when we awoke he was gone. And so… survival, Orphan. It has always been about survival."

  "You took over the throne," Orphan said.

  "We had to," Wyvern said. "Or, at least, some of us had. To change the history of this world and bring about a new technological civilisation, all leading to this moment in time: when we could use the science humanity has developed, to send a message home. To come and take us back."

  "No!" Orphan said. The words of the Bookman came back to him then. "It will tell your people to come here! To help you settle this world, and make it your own."

  He was startled by the pirate's chuckle. "An invasion? No. You wouldn't understand, Orphan. Where we come from… this place is nothing to my kind. We lived in great structures in space, enormous habitats we formed to suit ourselves, where all our wishes could come true, and every dream effortlessly enacted. We had the power of gods. No. My people want to go back, before we all die out. This world – this planet – is difficult for us."

  Orphan didn't know who, what to believe. He set it aside, for the moment. "And you?" he said. What do you want, he wondered. What do you get from living as we humans do, worse than we do, living like a savage on your shabby pirate ship?

  Again, he was surprised by the pirate's laugh. "I did not want to rule a world," the lizard said. "I never did. For me, this world is my paradise. Harsher, simpler – and more honest than any other. I could have played in a makeshift court and ruled a primitive empire, but I prefer this, boy. To live and to die by cannon or blade, and may the Bookman and my technology-worshipping kind all end up at the bottom of the sea, if the sea would take them."

  It was the last thing he had said to him that night. Then he had dismissed him, and Orphan rejoined the others, and in the coming days and weeks lived as they did, as the captain did. Was it freedom?

  It was a kind of freedom, he thought. But each being – human, or machine, or lizardine – each sought, perhaps, its own freedom, and there were many types of it, and all hard to win.

  He wanted his own freedom now. And, more than that, he realised, he wanted Lucy to have hers.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The Binder

  Every herb, every shrub and tree, and even our own bodies, teach us this lesson, that nothing is durable or can be counted upon. Time passes away insensibly, one sun follows another, and brings its changes with it.

  – Charles Johnson, A General History of the Pyrates

  He slept on the sand that night, curled up in a warm depression, the insistent whine of mosquitoes against his ears. Lulled to sleep by the constant beat of the distant drums, he nevertheless slept fitfully, waking up at odd intervals to the sound of shouts, the flare of the large bonfire, entering from restless dreams into the waking aroma of wood-smoke and spilled rum.

  At last, however, he entered a deeper sleep, into which no dreams came. For a while, in that night, he wasn't there: his mind had shut down, enclosed him in darkness and the peace of unthought.

  He woke again abruptly: the beat of his heart was as loud to him now as the drums, and seemed to syncopate with them, join the complex number string they were broadcasting across the island.

  He felt an arm on his shoulder, and realised it had been shaking him awake. Aramis. He raised his head, stared into the dark lagoon. It was quiet, the sound of deep night and sleep. Only the drums sounded still.

  "Come," the automaton said.

  He stood up as if in a dream. "Where are we going?" he said.

  "Into the forest. Come."

  He followed Aramis. The night was very still. They walked up the beach towards the ring of trees, and entered into the deeper darkness that lay beyond.

  All around him the drums beat, their savage sound rising and falling in a pattern he could almost comprehend. It was the sound of machines at work, rhythmic, hypnotic, and unaccounted for. It was very dark. Branches tore at his arms. He stumbled in the dark, hit his shin, the pain searing through his flesh. He cursed and felt more awake. Ahead of him Aramis laughed softly.

  He stumbled on, following blindly, his eyes useless under the impenetrable canopy of the trees. The constant drums dictated his movement. Their pattern called to him, formed web shapes in his mind. Where were they going? Somehow, he trusted Aramis. It was, perhaps, an unwise thing to do.

  How long they walked for he didn't know. The automaton was always ahead of him, marking the path with the soft tread of feet. What was there on this island beside themselves? What savage tribe beat those drums?

  He fell again into a dream-like state. The monotony of the walk lulled him, so when they stopped at last he was startled to discover a faint light above their heads. Dawn was rising, and in the place they stood there were no more trees.

  Before him lay a temple.

  Why a temple? he thought. What he saw was a ruined building, made of that strange green metal of the lizards, the one used in the construction of the Royal Palace in the capital. The building was vaguely pyramidshaped, and lay in a clearing in the jungle. It could have been anything, and yet the feeling that here, somehow, was a place of worship was undeniable to him. "Come," Aramis said, gentle, insistent, and Orphan followed him. They stepped together away from the trees and into the clearing, towards the temple, if such it was.

  The drums rose into a crescendo around him, then quietened down to a distant beat. He followed Aramis towards crumbling stone steps, leading into a dark opening. He climbed them, carefully, and went through.

  Inside was dark, with a dry, musty smell, like that of a disused library. It made him think of the Bookman and he almost turned back, but he knew there was only forward, now.

  He wished they had a light. It was very dark inside. They walked down a corridor, their feet making no sound on the floor. Orphan trailed his hand against the wall. A smooth surface, metallic, warm.

  He heard a sound like wind ahead of him. He stopped, could not hear Aramis. He hesitated, then moved on and his foot came down o
n air, and he stumbled, and fell with a cry, hitting a sloping surface. He rolled down, unable to stop.

  He lay winded, his eyes closed. Pain brightened behind them. Thrumming. He could feel the floor vibrating with the beat of drums.

  "Stand up."

  The speaker wasn't Aramis. The voice was gravelly, old, the sound of dry earth hitting a metal coffin. Orphan opened his eyes and saw dim light coming alive around him. He was in a large, circular room, bare but for…

  He stood up and tried to back away. In the centre of the room stood a gigantic spider. Aramis stood respectfully to one side, at a distance, his face impassive. Beside him stood Captain Wyvern.

  "Approach," the spider said.

  Orphan looked at the spider. Something was not right about it, about its appearance… A lifeless sense. No. Constructed. At the end it was curiosity, more than fear, that made him move. He wanted to see.

  He paused a few feet from the spider. He looked over the creature and almost sighed. Strong, metal legs held up the fat bulbous body. Two black eyes, like polished buttons, stared down at him. It strongly resembled the Bookman, he thought: an insectoid creature that was not made of living tissue, a machine and yet much more. He stared at the creature, trying to understand. Something Byron had said…

  "So you are the messenger," the spider said. Its two forelegs rose and fell on the floor, tapping out a sharp staccato.

  The floor changed.

  He stood now, he saw, within a picture. It was a picture of the island, rendered by arcane means he didn't understand. Crude, he thought. Not a picture. A map. He stood at its centre. The temple was marked under his feet.

  "I am the Binder," the creature said.

  Orphan stole a glance at Aramis and Wyvern. They were immobile, like two statues who might have stood for centuries in this ruined hall. "What do you bind?" he said.

  The spider sighed. The alien eyes looked deep into Orphan's, held him captive. "Books," it said. "Which is to say, repositories of knowledge. Everything living, everything thinking is a sort of book, Orphan. Yes, I know what you call yourself. I also know your name. I have been waiting for you."

  "My name is Orphan," Orphan said, sounding petulant even to himself.

  "A book which doesn't yet know its own title…" the Binder said. "To answer your question: I am, as this shape may suggest to the mind, a web-weaver. The world is made of many strands. How those strands interact, how one shapes the other, is the thing that occupies me. Your strand, for instance. Strands."

  "What?" He took a step back, and thought, What does the Binder want with me?

  "My web is limited," the Binder said, "to this island. And my time is almost gone. I, like the Bookman, was only ever meant to be a tool. A repository of data, of forgotten science no one was ever that interested in. In the world we came from…" It sighed again, a strange sound from the arachnid body. "The Translation," the Binder said, "will one day give this world its peace. The Translation of everything." It advanced on Orphan. Orphan stepped back, again. "The translation of every work begins with a single word…" the spider said. And then – "Hold him."

  Orphan tried to turn. But Wyvern and Aramis materialised on either side of him and held him. He tried to struggle but couldn't break free. "What are you doing?" he shouted.

  "Destiny," the Binder said, "is like a book. It needs manufacturing, the pulp processed, the glue fixed tightly – and it requires a binding, to hold it together lest it fall apart.

  It approached him. The drums picked up again, their beats rising and falling as if following the spider's eight footsteps.

  Panic made Orphan voiceless. He struggled against his captors but they were unmovable. He tried to kick and found only air.

  Then the spider was on top of him.

  Metal legs pinned him down. "This will hurt," the spider said, "a little. Hold his hand flat against the floor."

  Orphan felt his hand grabbed, pressed palm down on the ground. They grabbed his fingers and splayed them. He tried to speak and couldn't.

  A leg came down. It was metal, like an axe. The pain seared his hand. He shook and wanted to be sick. Dimly he saw the spider lift something from the floor – his thumb? His thumb! – and toss it to Wyvern. "Take it down to the growing vats," he thought he heard him say, though the words swam in his mind and his vision blurred.

  "Will it work?" – Aramis.

  "I am not the Bookman. My skill is not in replication." The spider crouched over Orphan. Its eyes bore into Orphan's. Bile rose in Orphan's throat and was stuck, almost suffocating him. "Perhaps. For a little while. It might be long enough."

  "The balloon?"

  "Yes. He will carry the Translation."

  "You are using him as bait."

  "Yes. And the other must follow his own path. Let him find his title."

  "We are taking a risk."

  "Enough!" The spider leaned over Orphan. It had no smell. Orphan wanted to scream, to beg, but the pain in his hand was terrible and he was more afraid than he had ever been before. He whispered, "Please…"

  The spider, gently, moved one of its legs and pressed it against Orphan's forehead. Pain, more pain, erupted like a volcano inside his head, lava burning his eyes, his tongue, a slow river of molten pain covering his entire body.

  This time he did scream. The leg pressed down, deeper, reaching into his brain.

  He heard the Binder's voice, faint, murmuring, "I need to make an impression of the–" and then there was more pain, a storm of it. He screamed again, and then a blackness like the rushing of a giant wave slammed into him, and he lost consciousness.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Mysterious Island

  I remember the green stillness of the island and the empty ocean about us, as though it was yesterday. The place seemed waiting for me.

  – H.G. Wells, The Island of Doctor Moreau

  When Orphan woke up he was lying on his back and the ground was rolling. The pain had receded; was, in fact, gone. He discovered to his surprise that his head was clear, his senses alert. He could smell the sea, and feel the texture of the curved floor, a smooth, light material. He opened his eyes. The sky overhead was a cloudless blue. The rolling of the floor continued. He turned his head and saw the sides of a boat.

  Where–? His thumb! Horrified, he raised his hand to his chest, stared at it. What–?

  "It's a prosthetic," a familiar voice said above him. "As good as the real thing, boy."

  It was Captain Wyvern. Orphan raised his head. He was lying in the bottom of a boat. It seemed to be floating in place. Sharing the boat with him were Wyvern and Aramis. "Stand up."

  He stood up. He stared numbly at his thumb. It was… he tried to move it and discovered no difficulty. It was made of… He touched it. It felt warm. A hard metal of some sort? Its colour was almost like that of skin, but he seemed to sense or see a darker shade underneath, something like silver. He raised his hand, lost his balance, and used it to grab hold of the side of the boat. The thumb worked as if it were his own. No. It was his own thumb now.

  "What… happened?" he said. And then, "The Binder–?"

  "You needed to go to Caliban's Island?" Aramis said, echoing his question of the – was it the previous night? How long had he been unconscious?

  "Yes," Orphan said.

  "And I told you there is one who could help you. The Binder could."

  Orphan shuddered. The thought of the spider filled him with horror and his mind shied away from the thought. Instead he said, "I need a pee."

  Wyvern sniggered. It was the kind of sound geckos make as they scuttle across a ceiling. Orphan, ignoring him, walked cautiously to the other end of the boat.

  He relieved himself into the sea. Heroes shouldn't have to need to pee, he thought. It was quiet. He had a sense of an immense space opening all around him, of him standing small and alone in the centre of a vast emptiness.

  I'm not a hero, he thought when he was done. It made him feel better. Heroes had a tendency to die. Orphan,
so far, had managed to stay alive. Just.

  "Turn around," Aramis said.

  Orphan turned. And stumbled again.

  The island rose before him.

  It was an unexceptional-looking island. The sand was black, fine. The ground rose further ahead, perhaps a hill, perhaps a mountain, obscuring the interior from view. "This is it?" Orphan said.

  "This is it," Wyvern said.

  Orphan looked at him. He flexed his fingers. His thumb. It felt… it felt like it always had. But… He looked from Aramis to Wyvern, feeling bewildered, and he said – "Why?"

  There was a short silence. The boat bobbed gently on the water.