The Resuurection Fields

by Brian Keaney

  “Help me, Giddim!” Kidu urged.

  Dante struggled to fight the corruption, but it was far too strong for him. It was as though he were trapped in a narrow cavern deep underground and cold water was rising all around him. It seemed that Orobas had finally succeeded in defeating him.

  Then suddenly he felt a slackening of the creature’s will.

  “No!” Orobas whispered. “It cannot be!”

  “What cannot be?” Dante wondered. Something of enormous significance must be taking place, something that Orobas had not counted upon.

  “I will not allow it!” Orobas roared, and his proclamation seemed to drown out everything else.

  A moment later the Great Flock was back upon the slopes of the mountain, Kidu and Dante with them. They had been cast out of the Odyll and thrown back to earth as carelessly as one might toss a pebble. Relief filled Dante, but in his mind an image remained, confused yet urgent, like the remnants of a dream.

  During those last moments he had spent within the Odylic realm, his mind had been so nearly joined to Orobas’s mind that he had shared his enemy’s last thought. What had caused his enemy such distress? Dante struggled to bring the vision into focus. Something to do with a bell?

  Meanwhile, the Chief Buzzard stared fixedly at Kidu with his one bloodshot eye, and every other bird in the Great Flock waited to see what he would say.

  “Kidu Kekkaka,” he began at last. “Though many here doubted you, myself included, your giddim did indeed show us the Hidden Path as you promised. We will always wish in our hearts that he did not turn back from the brink. Yet perhaps there was no other choice. For what we have seen, we thank you.”

  He bowed slightly and Kidu bowed in reply.

  “It is the decision of the satsumballa, therefore,” the Chief Buzzard continued, “that you be allowed to go free. But more than that, I declare that you are the Zimbir That Is Not Zimbir. The Great Flock is yours to command.”

  As Kidu looked around in astonishment, a great chorus of squawks and chirps and whistles and bird cries of every kind greeted the announcement.

  “We great now,” the bird said delightedly, speaking inside his mind. “We in charge. We heroes, Kidu and Giddim.”

  But there was no time for congratulations. The chaotic set of impressions with which Orobas had left Dante had finally resolved into a clear picture, and he understood at last that Bea was in terrible danger.

  “What we do next, Giddim?” Kidu demanded.

  “Fly, Kidu,” Dante urged him. “Fly like you never flew before!”

  THE SUMMONER

  It was still dark when Bea woke, but she could tell by the stars that dawn was not far away. She dressed quickly and, with the bell clutched tightly in her hand, stepped outside, taking care not to wake Maeve.

  She had not gone very far when the night was suddenly illuminated. Blinded by the light, she stopped in her tracks.

  “Stay where you are!” a voice ordered.

  The huts were surrounded by security guards. They had trained a spotlight on her, and one of them was speaking through a megaphone. Squinting against the light, Bea saw that there were dozens of them holding guns pointed directly at her, while others were dragging the sleeping Púca from their huts.

  “Albigen was right,” Bea thought. “I led them straight here.”

  Two of the guards stepped forward and seized her arms. Then out of the shadows stepped Dante—or Sigmundus the Second, as he now appeared to be.

  Even with the light shining directly in her eyes, Bea could see that there was something terribly wrong with him. His face looked as though it were covered with tattoos, but as Bea stared more closely, she saw that the tattoos were alive, that they moved across his face as though they were insects that lived beneath his skin.

  “What has happened to you, Dante?” she cried out.

  He lifted his arm and pointed to the bell. “Take the Summoner from her and bring it to me,” he ordered in a voice entirely devoid of any emotion.

  Bea held on as firmly as she could, kicking at the guard’s legs as he began prying the bell from her fingers. One by one, he peeled her fingers back.

  Suddenly, without warning, the sky above them thronged with shadowy forms and the air was full of the sound of birdcalls. Birds dropped down upon the beehive huts in their thousands as if the sky were raining feathers. Straight at Sigmundus the Second and the security guards they came, tearing at their faces with razor-sharp claws, stabbing at their eyes with beaks like knives. In a moment their victims disappeared under swarms of feathered attackers, and still more came all the time.

  Free of her captors and still clutching the bell, Bea raced across the stony ground towards the pillar. The dawn was already knocking on the door of the world.

  Panting, she reached the base of the pillar only to find that her way was blocked. Standing in front of her was a young man whom she recognized, yet did not recognize. A memory that had been buried deep within a dream began to surface.

  “I see you were not expecting me,” the young man said with a smile of unspeakable cruelty. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your promise.”

  “Set!” she said, as her recollection of the dream finally crystallized.

  He nodded. “You may call me that.”

  “I have to climb this pillar,” she told him, glancing skyward. Surely it was beginning to grow perceptibly lighter in the east?

  “You needn’t worry about that anymore,” Set said. “You’re mine now. I will make you queen of the Nakara. Just think of that!”

  “I don’t want to be queen of anywhere!” Bea told him.

  “Too late! Remember your promise—when the sky is full of feathers and the moon sleeps in a basket. A girl should always keep her promises, you know.”

  “But if I don’t…,” Bea began.

  “If you don’t ring the bell, Orobas will be victorious.” Set finished the sentence for her. “Of course. But that is no longer your concern.”

  “But why?” Bea asked. “Why do you want to stop me?”

  “Because this is my world,” Set replied, “and I am its lord. You didn’t know that, did you? Your ancestors believed in me but that was long ago, and as the years went by, you all forgot my name. The birds did not forget, however. They called me Shurruppak and they never ceased to fear me. Orobas, too, was careful to respect me. He placed himself under my protection and he was wise to do so. For I am all that stands in the way of his destruction. But I do stand in the way. For if I let you ring that bell, it would mean my destruction, too. So I will not allow it.”

  He reached out his hand. “Give me the Summoner,” he ordered.

  But then another voice spoke, a voice like the sound of bells ringing out across a landscape of snow and ice. “Step aside, brother,” it said.

  Bea turned and saw that Tzavinyah was standing beside her. Her heart was filled with a wild joy, even as anger flashed from Set’s eyes. “You have no business interfering!” he cried.

  “I have every business,” Tzavinyah told him. “I am here to ensure that the summons is issued.”

  Set raised his left hand in the air with the palm facing outwards, and a ray of light shot out towards Tzavinyah. The air around Bea grew so hot that she felt as if her hair might burn up, but immediately Tzavinyah raised his right arm in a similar gesture. From his palm there came a similar beam of power, though this one seemed to chill the air so that Bea shivered as she watched. The twin forces met in the middle and locked so that for a time the two brothers stood there, arms raised above their heads in a duel, until at last Set lowered his arm and his beam vanished.

  Tzavinyah followed suit. “There is no difference in strength between us,” he conceded. “Only Bea can decide which of us will prevail.”

  Bea was about to open her mouth and say that she would choose Tzavinyah when Set spoke first. “Consider this before you make your decision,” he said. “If you give me the bell and come with me, all of this will be like a dream. In its plac
e I will conjure up a world that is tailor-made for you, a world that contains every pleasure and diversion you can possibly imagine. But if you choose Tzavinyah, you choose death.”

  “What do you mean?” Bea asked.

  “When you ring the bell, it will not just be the end for Orobas,” Set continued. “You, too, will die. And death will mean the end of everything. For make no mistake, by ringing that bell you will wake the Odyll—and once that has happened, there will be no Resurrection Fields for those who have died.”

  Bea hesitated. She had not thought about what might happen if she rang the bell, at least not beyond the notion that it might somehow bring about the defeat of Orobas. But she had always assumed she would survive, along with all her friends.

  She looked at Tzavinyah. “Is it true?” she asked.

  But Tzavinyah only looked back at her without speaking. His expression was unfathomable.

  “He does not know,” Set told her. “The answer is hidden from him, like so much else. But I have looked in places he will not contemplate. I have turned every page in every forbidden book that was ever written. I have sifted through the ruin that time has made of the world, lifted every stone and gazed underneath. That is why I know what comes after the ringing of the bell, and I promise you it is the end of everything.”

  Bea glanced up at the sky. There could be no mistake now. It was definitely growing brighter in the east. “And if I do not ring it?” she asked.

  “Then Orobas will triumph,” Tzavinyah replied quietly.

  It was all very well to pretend you were not afraid of death, Bea thought, but people only said that because they had not truly looked death in the eye. They had not understood that it meant everything you had always taken for granted and loved without even knowing it—the world around you, the memories you carry with you, your hopes for the future—all of this being extinguished like a candle flame that is blown out. And afterwards, there would be nothing. Not even emptiness. Not even loneliness. Not even pain.

  Bea didn’t want that. She couldn’t bear it. “I am still so young,” she thought, and a single tear ran down her cheek.

  But then she took a deep breath and began to climb the steps. At the top of the pillar she gazed out at the edge of the world, where the yellow lip of the sun was just beginning to emerge above the horizon. Slowly she held out her arm, and with a trembling hand, she rang the bell.

  The sound started off very small, so that she wondered if she had made some sort of mistake. But instead of dying away, the peal of the bell grew louder and louder still until it seemed as if it would drown the whole world in sound. At the same time, Bea saw her own life played out before her mind’s eye, unwinding like a film playing backwards, slowly at first, then faster and faster until it was a kaleidoscope of images and then finally a blur that faded into white light.

  EPILOGUE

  Bea was standing in the middle of a vast, grassy plain. Here and there a few trees dotted the landscape, and a small white bird flew across the sky. She knew she should recognize this place, but there was a blurriness to everything, almost as if she were looking at something underwater. Then it came to her: these were the Resurrection Fields. Not far away, the ground suddenly began to move. A shower of earth was flung upwards, and a human hand pushed through the soil, then another, followed by a man’s head. With a little difficulty, the owner of the head clambered out of the hole he had just made. He was white-haired, a little stooped and completely naked. He looked mildly dazed and completely unaware that he was being watched. This did not surprise Bea, nor did she feel in the least embarrassed. In fact, she had the distinct feeling that she was not really there at all but looking on from a distance, and that she was quite invisible to the white-haired man. There was something familiar about him, but no matter how hard she tried, Bea could not recall where she had seen him before. After a little while he seemed to pull himself together, and with a sudden smile he began walking away from her.

  Before she could see where he went, another figure began digging himself out. This time it was a boy of about her own age. Once again Bea was not uncomfortable about seeing him emerge naked since she was quite sure that was how it was meant to be. Once again she had the feeling that she almost recognized him, but she could not think of his name. The boy looked about him and grinned delightedly. Then he walked off in the direction that the white-haired man had already taken.

  As she watched him go, everything began clouding over and Bea felt a kind of dizziness come over her, so that she thought she might be sick at any moment. At the same time she realized that her thoughts were disappearing, leaving nothing in their place. She struggled to remember what she had been thinking about just a moment ago. Was it something about a man? Or a boy? But it was no good. It was as if someone had taken the contents of her mind and shaken them out into the wind. She felt a brief moment of utter panic. What if her thoughts never returned to her again? What if she could not even remember who she was?

  The next thing she knew, she was sitting on the branch of a tree, holding a book in her hand. It was her favorite tree, an ancient willow so bent over that its branches grew parallel to the ground, a place where she often came to sit and read.

  So what had she been thinking about just a moment ago? She frowned and concentrated as hard as she could, but the answer would not come. It must have been something to do with the story she was reading, but for the life of her, she could not recall it now.

  Perhaps it was time to go home. She closed her book and stood up. Then she noticed the boy. He was standing some distance away among the trees, gazing in her direction. He was slim and pale with fair hair and very blue eyes, and there was the hint of a smile on his face. It occurred to her that he was laughing at her, and she felt a wave of indignation.

  “What do you think you’re doing spying on me?” she demanded, trying to look her most dignified.

  “I wasn’t spying,” the boy replied. “I was just walking along when I saw you.”

  Bea was not sure that she believed him. This was her spot. No one else ever came here. She looked at him more closely. It was on the tip of her tongue to say something rather cutting and put him in his place, but then she stopped herself. After all, he had just as much right to be here as she did. If it came to that, they were both trespassers—the old hospital had been closed to the public for years. She wondered if he had climbed through the same gap in the fence that she had.

  Now that she looked at him more closely, she had a distinct feeling that they had met somewhere before. But it was very odd because she also felt quite certain that it had not been in this lifetime.

  “My name’s Bea,” she said. Then she stopped, surprised at herself. What was she doing telling him her name?

  “I’m Dante,” he replied. “What’re you reading?”

  She hesitated. But some part of her seemed determined to be friendly, despite her better judgment. She held up the book, and he read the title aloud.

  “The Promises of Dr. Sigmundus. What’s it like?”

  She thought about trying to explain the story but then she heard herself say, “I’ll lend it to you when I’ve finished if you like.”

  “Beatrice Argenti,” she thought, “have you taken leave of your senses? He’ll think you’re throwing yourself at him.”

  But he just smiled, a proper smile this time. “Thanks very much,” he said. “I love a good book.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Brian Keaney is a celebrated British author of young adult fiction. His writing has earned the admiration of such stellar contemporaries as His Dark Materials’ Philip Pullman. Says Pullman of Keaney’s Jacob’s Ladder: “[T]his novel has an original tone and an unusual setting. I applaud Keaney’s seriousness of purpose.”

  The seed for The Promises of Dr. Sigmundus was sown when, at thirteen, Keaney first read Dante’s The Divine Comedy and became deeply affected by the classic tale’s visions and themes.

  After his family, writing is Keaney’s prima
ry passion. He makes a habit of spending time on a farm in Ireland, “sitting on the hillside, listening to the wind blowing through the heather and letting the stories grow in my mind.”

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2008 by Brian Keaney

  Illustrations copyright © 2009 by Nicoletta Ceccoli

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Originally published in Great Britain as The Promises of Dr. Sigmundus: The Mendini Canticle by Orchard Books in 2008.

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/teens

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Keaney, Brian.

  [Promises of Dr. Sigmundus]

  The Resurrection Fields / by Brian Keaney ; [illustrations by Nicoletta Ceccoli].

  — 1st American ed.

  p. cm.—(Promises of Dr. Sigmundus ; Bk. 3)

  “Originally published in Great Britain as The Promises of Dr. Sigmundus: The Mendini Canticle

  by Orchard Books in 2008”—T.p. verso.

  Summary: Although beset by otherworldly perils, Dante and his best friend Bea continue

  to be dedicated to the overthrow of Sigmundus and the dark powers that have

  latched on to his methods of authoritarian mind control.

  eISBN: 978-0-375-89362-9

  [1. Science fiction.] I. Ceccoli, Nicoletta, ill. II. Title.

  PZ7.K219Res 2009

  [Fic]—dc22

  2008041088