Legends of Garaaga

by Paul E. Cooley

  Cool water dribbled into his mouth. Herodot let the liquid gather and then swallowed. The burning in his throat rose to a crescendo and then abated to a low ache. "Thank you," he whispered.

  "More?"

  Herodot shook his head. "What happened?"

  Akakios grinned. "You fell and I think someone kicked you."

  "Yes. I think someone did."

  The older man patted Herodot's leg. "You rest. I can't have my best scribe brain-addled." Akakios rose and turned.

  "Sir?"

  "Yes, Herodot?"

  "Have you had a chance to read my scrolls? The translations, I mean?"

  Akakios shook his head. "No, I've not."

  "I need to speak with Cleitus."

  "Not now, you don't," the old man sighed. "Master Cleitus is a little busy at the moment trying to calm the scholarly horde."

  Herodot laughed and regretted it. His throat felt as though it was full of stones. "How long have I been out?"

  Akakios shrugged. "It is midday. Many hours, my friend. You rest now," Akakios said and tucked a blanket around his ward. "There is time enough for talk of work. For now, you must rest."

  "Rest," Herodot repeated and closed his eyes.

  He was asleep before Akakios left the room.

  Herodot shivered. Tablets covered his table. The scroll was nearly full. He stared down at the Greek words.

  Garaaga's children make monsters in their father's visage. They feed on us. They walk our land as our brothers and sisters until it is time to consume. We are their prey. We are their herd. And they have only our slaughter in mind.

  Rashim's words as told to the first Keeper. Trianni had faithfully written Isin's story, including the young man's death at the hands of an evil merchant.

  We need fear those who worship the dark god, Trianni had written. The supplicants are as dangerous as the god's children, and far more numerous.

  I shall write no more. I shall endeavor to keep these words hidden among the tomes until my death. As long as the merchant and his men wander the city, I will stand watch over Nabu's gift and ensure they are not destroyed. As long as I have breath, I shall whisper the names of Rashim, Isin, and Gujaritan.

  The last tablet had no words written upon it. A symbol was carved in the clay, the same symbol as in the dream.

  "Worship the dark god," Herodot muttered.

  There would be no more tablets for him to translate from Trianni; the man's tale was done. Herodot stood from the bench and felt the ripple of his spine readjusting. The hall was quiet and empty.

  He rolled up the scroll and walked to the sorting bin. His hand reached forward to place the scroll with the others and stopped.

  We need fear those who worship the dark god.

  He placed the scroll in his belt instead. A flush of shame rose to his cheeks. Mistrust. After all the Library had given him, he was loathe to place this one in the archives. The story would be incomplete. Later scribes would not know how it ended. But the need to keep this one scroll above the hundreds, perhaps thousands, he'd translated was overpowering.

  Betrayal, a voice said in his mind. Betrayal of Akakios, of the Library.

  It didn't matter. Trianni had died to keep the story safe. Could he do the same?

  Herodot stared down at the clay tablets. The last remnants, the last pieces of Trianni's account. He picked them up and headed toward the store hall.

  The torches and braziers had been faithfully lit. There was nothing to fear, and yet he shivered just the same.

  The dream's shadowy figure entered his mind. Garaaga's shadow reaching out and destroying the man who wrote these tablets. Had Trianni died like that? Had the lapis merchant and his men murdered him?

  It was impossible to know.

  He entered the store-room. There were still more tablets lining the shelf. He replaced the final three Trianni tablets and picked up the next in line. He took one look at it and sighed. Unless the librarians had incorrectly sorted the inventory, and that was a rare occurrence indeed, Trianni had been true to his word.

  One look at the uneven cuneiform imprints was all the proof he needed. This scribe wasn't half as gifted, or as committed to his work. He pushed the tablet back into place.

  He yawned. His head ached. Akakios had told him to stay in bed for the day, sip water, and sleep. Instead, he'd headed to Scribe Hall as soon as he was able. He wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead.

  Herodot looked back at the shelf of tablets. Trianni had scribed 723 tablets. 723 clay slabs recounting floods, market days, strange storms, lights in the sky, rituals, and harvest seasons. All until the last 33. From then on, it was Isin, Gujaritan, and Rashim.

  How many scrolls had he inked as he translated? Herodot touched the one in his belt. 278 scrolls had been interred by the Librarians. All of them except this last.

  He closed his eyes. Greek letters flashed in his mind. Trianni's cuneiform turned into a language the learned of the modern world could grasp. And Herodot remembered every word, every letter.

  "I feared you would be here."

  Herodot stiffened and then turned to stare into Akakios's wizened face. "Where else I would I be, patron?"

  Akakios scratched at his white speckled beard. "I certainly thought I would find you still in the infirmary."

  Herodot smiled. "I had to finish."

  The old man's brows raised. "And, did you?"

  "Yes."

  Akakios let out a peal of laughter and raised his hands in supplication. "By all the gods! It's about time." The old man clapped him on the shoulder. "You are certain?"

  "Unless there's been a catalog mistake, Tupšarru's words are no more."

  "You mean Trianni."

  "The same," Herodot whispered. He turned to stare at the shelves lined with the ancient tablets. "I am done with him."

  "You sound sad."

  "I am," Herodot said. "I had hoped there would be more. Something."

  For a moment, neither man loosed a sound save for their breathing.

  "Come. You must be famished."

  "The dining hall will be closed."

  "Not to me, Herodot. Never to me."

  The old man led the scribe out of the storeroom. They walked through scribe hall. For the first time in his life, Herodot despised its emptiness. As they passed his work station, he lingered. He placed his index finger in the clay dust and drew Garaaga's symbol. A sudden deep chill shot down his spine.

  "Herodot?" Akakios asked in a low whisper.

  "Coming, sir," Herodot said in a shaking voice. He placed his palm atop the symbol and wiped it away. "I'm right behind you." He turned his back and forced himself to follow his master.

  Alexandria was rarely warm, at least when compared to the rest of Egypt. Its placement gave it a temperate climate that was always cool and almost always with a breeze. Herodot had placed two blankets across his legs, but he still felt cold.

  Akakios had been true to his word. They talked while Herodot ate dried fish, fruit, and unleavened bread. His master asked question after question about Trianni and about the legend found in the last few tablets.

  The old man's eyes sparkled and his foot tapped in excitement. Herodot, exhausted and empty, droned on for what seemed like hours. By the time he'd finished his meal, the bells had rung, calling for curfew.

  Herodot finished the story, repeating Trianni's last words. The scroll in his belt felt heavier. What would Akakios make of his holding onto the last scroll? The symbol that he had so painstakingly copied from the clay tablet?

  "So Isin made a convert out of Trianni."

  "Yes. The last keeper created yet another keeper."

  Akakios nodded. "And now we are keepers as well."

  Herodot cocked his head and then smiled. "The keepers existed to ensure the legend lived on. Despite how the world around them changed, the legend had to be kept intact."

  "There is but one missing piece then."

  "Yes."

  "Will you ask? Or should I?"


  Herodot parted ways with his patron in the dormitory hall and headed to his cell. His tunic was stained with clay dust but he didn't care. Instead of taking it off, he climbed into the bed and threw blankets over himself.

  The moment he lay on the straw mattress, he closed his eyes. Sleep tried to embrace him, but failed to consummate. Every time he neared the dream land, the same thought would light his mind anew.

  The book. The leather book with its strange Sanskrit on the left pages, the runic writing on the right, ink so crimson it looked as fresh as the day it had first touched parchment. Or so it had been described.

  Trianni's story did not mention any such tome, but that made sense. After all, Nerutal's soldiers hadn't encountered it for another 1700 years after the ancient scribe's death.

  If Philus' account had been true, the book would be in the Alexandrian treasure room, or "the pit," as it was affectionately called. Only the head Librarian could authorize entrance. And in a few hours, Herodot would call on Cleitus to discuss it. Akakios had offered to attend the meeting and ensure passage, but Herodot was adamant he discuss the matter in private.

  The book.

  Each time he thought of it, he couldn't dispel the image of Akakios's excited eyes and anxious face. Tupšarru had hardly been Herodot's greatest achievement. His translations of Gilgamesh and the sacred Ishtarian bible had required weeks of study. He had learned Akkadian very quickly, but the Sumerian symbols of those two tomes had been written by high priests. They were different than the common Akkadian and it had taken certain leaps of faith to even attempt a translation.

  Akakios had been so pleased with those two feats that he had proclaimed Herodot the greatest scribe that ever lived. At least in private.

  But that evening, Akakios looked more excited than Herodot had ever seen the man. His stoicism was legendary and he rarely gave the scribes more than a nod of approval. Cleitus was a clownish man when compared to his patron.

  Herodot turned over in his bed. His back ached and so did his head. No matter his desperation for sleep, it would not come.

  The cuneiform symbols from the tablets, the Greek words he'd made from them, floated in his mind. Word for word. He could remember each symbol, each line, each delicate stroke of Trianni's stylus and the Greek word that followed.

  The scroll he had taken from the Library, the scroll with Garaaga's symbol, lay beneath his pillow. He raised a hand to touch it. It felt warm and soothing.

  At last, he felt he could sleep. The soldiers had decided to take the night off, or so it seemed. Alexandria slept as it had before the war had descended. Only the ship lights from Ptolemy's navy were out of place.

  Herodot snuggled against the pillow, one hand wrapped around the brass scroll ends. The tablets. The scrolls. Now only the book remained.

  The dark forest floor was obscured by overgrowth. Barely able to see with a crescent moon's wan light struggling through the canopy, he moved forward on naked feet. The spear in his hand seemed a part of his arm, as though it had always been there. Ever since his father placed it in his hands, it had become just another part of him.

  He closed his eyes and concentrated. The jungle appeared in phosphorescence, no longer dark or foreboding. The animals around him were lit up in his imagination. He smiled and continued walking forward, eyes still closed.

  The brambles seemed to part before him, the fronds swishing across his skin. Their cool moisture soothed him, quieting the nervous tension in his stomach.

  The cave, he thought. The beast is waiting for me in its cave.

  Herodot took the stairs down into "the pit." While most of the Library sat atop a thick stone foundation, "the pit" had been the first structure built and was closest to the sea. Pitch and tar sealed it from the elements and it had supposedly never flooded.

  The torch in his hands should have warmed him. Instead, the cold stone walls left him shivering. With each step, the air seemed colder. He could see his breath condensing in the air around him.

  As soon as he'd awakened from the strange dream, he donned a fresh tunic and headed to Cleitus' office. The old librarian had been seated behind a marble table reading.

  "Good morning, young man. I trust you're feeling better?"

  "Good morning, sir. Yes, thank you."

  Cleitus did not look up from the scroll. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

  "I wish to visit Alexander's treasure room."

  The old man's eyes flashed upward to him. His lips curled in a thin smile. "You do?"

  Herodot nodded.

  He placed the scroll on the table and tented his hands. "I assume there is something in particular you are looking for?"

  "The book. From Philus' account."

  Cleitus grinned. "Then you have finished your translations?"

  "Yes, sir."

  The Librarian rubbed his hands together. His weathered and chapped skin rustled like dead papyrus stalks in the wind. "I am interested in reading them."

  The scribe licked his lips. "Most should already be cataloged."

  "Most?"

  "I finished them last night."

  Cleitus nodded. "And why do you wish to see the book?"

  "To complete the story, the connections. What Philus described in his account may be the missing link to the religion."

  "Garaaga," the Librarian muttered.

  "Yes. It must be a bible, something like our holy book."

  Cleitus laughed. "Garaaga's very own Torah, eh?"

  Herodot said nothing.

  The man sighed. "I meant no offense, young man."

  "None taken."

  "You believe this book is the key? To the rest of the history?"

  "Yes."

  "And what if it's not? What if it's nothing more than cooking instructions?"

  Herodot smiled. "Then I shall at least know what they ate."

  The old man let out a peal of laughter. He moved to the side of the table and brought out a fresh sheet of papyrus. He unrolled it and took a pen from the ink reservoir. "You shall need an introduction to Varsish. He is the head guard. I doubt the man ever leaves his post."

  Cleitus scratched out Greek letters on the papyrus. He signed it with a flourish, blew on the ink, and then rolled it up. He dipped his signet ring into wax and then stamped a seal across the document. He handed it to Herodot. "Good hunting."

  As he rounded the staircase, Herodot heard muttered voices below. Ptolemy's men would be there. While Caesar's soldiers guarded the Library floors above, only the royal guard were allowed in the pit. Even after the hostilities had broken out, Caesar's men showed respect to the guards and did not dare interfere with them.

  Once they came into view, he didn't doubt why.

  Three obsidian skinned men stood in front of a heavy wooden door. Thick gold necklaces, filigreed with Osiris' image, hid their necks. Wide golden cuffs covered their forearms. Each man held a curved blade in his hands.

  Several torches and braziers lit the area. The gold gleamed and sparkled beneath the wavering flames. The metal blades appeared suicidally sharp.

  The tall, muscled men eyed him as he stepped into view. The largest of the three, painted glyphs covering his skin in blues and reds, stepped forward.

  "What business do you have?" the man asked in Greek. The accent was thick, but the pronunciation was flawless.

  Herodot swallowed. He pulled the scroll from his tunic and outstretched his hand. The large guard held out two fingers and gently pulled it from his shaking arm.

  He unrolled it and stared. His lips moved as he read the Greek. He nodded to himself and handed back the scroll.

  "Pass," the man said and stamped his foot.

  The other two guards stepped away from the entrance. The large man turned and opened the door. "You've brought nothing to write on?"

  "No, sir."

  The man laughed in derision. "No writing, only study. And mind your torch."

  Herodot nodded.

  "Stay as long as you like. K
nock on the door when you are ready to depart."

  He nodded again and walked through the tall doorway.

  He took a few steps inside. The rectangle of bright light from the chamber shrank as the door slammed behind him. A lock clicked into place.

  Herodot's torch seemed to barely penetrate the darkness.

  Filthy Jew!

  You'll die in darkness!

  The children's voices rang in his skull. He felt hands of shadow reaching for him. He shook. The torch's dancing flame carved amorphous shapes in the darkness. A pair of eyes gleamed at him.

  Herodot closed his eyes. Nothing here he told himself. "Nothing."

  He opened his eyes. The two gold circles in the darkness were still there, unblinking. He slowly turned and hummed to tune out the yelling children.

  Die! Die!

  The thing in the darkness was watching him. With his back turned, it could be silently stepping forward. The shadow guardian would be behind him, ready to rip him to pieces.

  The torch's flame showed him the brazier on the wall. It took him three shaking tries to push the flame into the oil. The brazier lit and sparked.

  Polished, black stone reflected the fire light and his image. The eyes glowed behind him. A jet of urine soaked his netters.

  "Nothing here," he whispered. He turned and stared into darkness. The brazier illuminated a quarter of the room and Herodot took in a deep breath.

  A gold mask hung on the wall. Amber jeweled eyes stared from its emotionless face. He let out the breath. The voices in his head had disappeared as had the crushing fear.

  He walked to the other side of the door and lit the opposite brazier with more sure hands. Shadows dissolved beneath the light.

  The room was filled with gold, silver, and bronze relics. A bejeweled elephant's head sat in one corner of the room, its eyes empty and lifeless.

  Relics hung from the walls. Strangely shaped swords of unknown metal filled weapons stands. Shields of polished gold or bronze reflected the light. Wooden pipes, clubs, and armor filled another stand.

  Herodot stood in place, his eyes wandering over Alexander's treasures. How many lands had he supposedly traveled to? The Indus? Macedonia? Egypt, Greece, Persia...