by Erik Lynd
"Rath told me," Christopher said, but it sounded hollow in his own ears.
"Ah yes, and he is the trustworthy type? Recent escapee from Hell trying to kill you? Seems legit," the Librarian said.
"So, he didn't kill the Beast?"
"I don't know. I am just pointing out the unreliability of your source. It does seem to me that a creature able to kill a being with experience stretching back to the beginning of time, a being with thousands of years practice, fully in control of an immense power you are just starting to understand, would not be so easily dispatched by a kid swinging a sword like a baseball bat."
"So, what you’re saying is that either Rath did kill him and I just got lucky, or Rath lied and the thing that did kill my predecessor is still out there?"
"Yes," said the Librarian, "and I wouldn't count on the idea that Rath did it. It seems the less likely of the two."
Christopher leaned back into the soft chair and rubbed his eyes. He suddenly felt very tired. He needed a moment to assimilate this new threat. Up until now he only had to worry about his prey and some mysterious group of dark souls that called themselves the Alliance. He still had very little information on them besides their name. Now he had to start looking over his shoulder for a powerful, rogue dark soul that might come after him?
Not for the first time, and definitely not the last, he wished he could just get rid of the Book and Weapon and go back to school where he had been safe. Where his biggest problem was getting a paper done on time or passing a test, not “which horrible monster was he going to fight to the death today?” But he had been down this road before; he knew he couldn't quit, so that left only one option.
"All the more reason I need help. I can't just rely on getting lucky with my ax-chop technique, as you put it."
"Hmm. Well, you took that realization fairly well. It's not every day you are told you might be hunted by a being that killed the world’s greatest killer. There may be hope for you yet."
Christopher gave him a wane smile. "Now that might be the nicest thing you have ever said to me."
"Well since we’ve established you will probably be killed at any moment, I do take pity on you. I am not completely heartless."
Christopher's smile dropped.
"Now let's see what we can do about getting you some training."
The Librarian spun on his heels and glided off down an aisle. Christopher jumped up to follow. The Librarian turned right and then left down other rows. They wound their way deeper and deeper into the labyrinthine aisles of books and tables. The air smelled of dust and age. This place had come into existence the moment he had opened the Book, but it felt as old as a medieval castle. Christopher quickly became lost and disoriented in the maze and dark. Occasional lamps, torches or even candles stuck in a shelf or on top of a bookcase lit the way, and made the shadows around the stacks dance. Christopher made sure to keep up with the Librarian; if he lost sight of him, Christopher would never find his way back.
"The problem is your mind is too feeble," the Librarian said.
Christopher just rolled his eyes.
"It was never designed to interpret what was stored here. It is too much for it to take. It would drive you mad, but we can give it a try."
"Drive me mad? I don't know about this..."
"We will start small, that way if there is any damage it will be minor," the Librarian went on.
"Look, maybe I can just hire someone..."
"Here we are." The Librarian had stopped at a shelf and pulled a book off. Even as he grabbed the book Christopher still couldn't see his hand; the long sleeve of his robe draped over it covering his fingers. The book itself was a plain, standard leather-bound tome with no title or any markings on the outside. “This is the knowledge of Miyamoto Musashi."
"Wasn't he Japan's most famous samurai or something like that? I think I read the book he wrote. I don't remember it being quite so thick. Besides, reading books does not seem to be an efficient way of training."
"You misunderstand, this is not a copy of his book, this is a representation of his knowledge. In contains everything about him, everything he did or thought, or anything anybody thought about him. None of these books are really books in the traditional sense."
Christopher must have looked puzzled because the Librarian sighed and tried again.
"Have you seen the Matrix?"
"The movie? Yeah. I loved it," Christopher said. "The sequels sucked."
"And you remember when they plugged him into the computer and downloaded all those martial arts directly into his brain?"
"Yes. Are we going to do something like that? Because that would be awesome. I wouldn't have to spend time learning it."
"No. We can't do that because your brain isn't wired to understand this place at that level. It would blow your mind, in the bad way. That is, however, the closest way I can describe how it is supposed to happen. Your predecessor could pull what he needed when he needed it. It wasn't exactly like in that movie, but close."
Christopher was disappointed; for a moment he thought this would be easy. He should know better by now. "So, what do we do? How do I get this knowledge?"
"A compromise, I think. Partially the old fashioned way, partially using the power of the Library. It is probably better if I just showed you."
He handed Christopher the book.
"Open it," the Librarian said.
Christopher stared at the book in his hand. It seemed normal, like some sort of fancy edition of an old classic novel. He moved it around nervously from hand to hand, feeling the cover and spine as if touching it would give him some clue as to what would happen. He didn't think it would be as simple as written words. The last mysterious book he opened turned him into damnation incarnate.
"Okay, here goes," Christopher said with one last look at the Librarian. The look was returned with cavernous darkness from under the hood. Fucking ultimate poker player. He opened the book.
5
Then he was standing in a field surrounded by trees. A faint breeze washed over him, carrying the scent of flowers and a hint of wood smoke. He could hear birds and other animals scurrying about in the nearby trees and brush. There must have been a stream or small river not too far away; he heard the gurgling of water washing over stone.
It was definitely not Central Park. In fact, the landscape looked different from any he had ever seen. And the air, despite the smell of burning wood, was fresher than he had ever experienced. Crisp and clean. The land around him was so full of life, he could feel it. He wanted to lie down and stretch out in the sun. That was the other thing. It was summer here, but back in New York it was the dead of winter. This couldn't be real.
He was dressed in the same t-shirt, hoodie and jeans he had been wearing in the Library and in turn in his bed back home, where he had entered the Library. Which made him wonder, was he in yet another pocket universe like the Library, or was this the same universe as the Library? It was starting to make his head hurt.
As a test he reached out with his power and tried to pull the shadows to him, trying to clothe himself in his uniform. Nothing came; he could feel the power in him, waiting, writhing, but it was as though it was not allowed to come out.
He turned slowly in a circle, trying to get some sense of where he was. His foot caught on something and when he looked down, he saw the open book at his feet. Despite the breeze its pages didn't move, nor did they seem to have any writing on them. He turned completely around and looked up.
There, almost close enough to touch, was a mountain, the air so clear it appeared massive and towered over him. It took him a moment to realize he recognized it. Mount Fuji. He had seen it in pictures.
"This is my favorite place," said a voice from behind him.
Christopher spun to see a short man in baggy black pants and what looked like a kimono with a print of trees and Mount Fuji on it. Christopher had no experience in Japanese clothes, but the clothes looked old, as though the man had stepped from s
ome ancient painting. He was a small man, perhaps in his fifties, but he had an ageless face, he could have been seventy. He also had a white cloth over his head like a bandanna, although Christopher was sure there was a proper name for it.
The man held two large wooden sticks, one in each hand. They were long and carved into a vague katana shape; Christopher suspected they were some sort of practice sword. He tossed one at Christopher's feet.
"You are Miyamoto Musashi?" Christopher asked. He made no move to pick up the practice sword.
"In a way. I am all that he ever was, I am all his knowledge. As I understand it, I exist to teach you. This is somehow a way for you to understand, to experience."
"So you are going to train me? Show me how to fight with my Weapon?" Christopher asked.
"I am going to show you how to master yourself and to win in all battles. Now pick up your bokken," Musashi said and pointed to the wooden sword at Christopher's feet.
"Wait. Right here? Now? And how are you able to speak English?"
"Yes. Right here, right now and there are no languages here."
Musashi sprang forward, his sword whipping through the air, and struck Christopher's arm. Christopher yelped and staggered to the side, clutching his arm. The area where the sword had hit him stung and felt deeply bruise, but not broken.
"What the fuck? I'm not ready. I still have some questions. Jesus Christ that hurt."
"No time for questions. We only have a few hours today," Musashi said circling around him.
"A few hours? I can't—."
WHACK!
The bokken came down on his right thigh. Harder this time, the pain excruciating. Christopher fell down as his leg gave out. His bokken was near and he scooped it up, using it as a cane to get back to his feet.
Musashi's bokken sliced through the air and knocked Christopher's bokken out from underneath him. His leverage gone Christopher once again stumble to the ground. Despite the pain, his leg wasn't broken, and Christopher climbed once again to his feet, this time keeping the wooden sword between him and Musashi.
Musashi straightened up, coming out of his fighting stance. "That is much better. We will talk, we will wander this forest, and we shall fight. In time you will learn all I have to teach. When we are done for the day, all you need to do is close the book."
Musashi nodded to the open book lying in the field.
"Shall we start at the beginning?"
Hours later Christopher was not sure he had the energy to crawl to the book, let alone close it. He lay on the grass. He didn't have to look to know his body was covered with bruises and welts. He didn't think anything was broken, but you couldn't tell that from the pain.
He had spent the afternoon 'training' but he was pretty sure the only thing he got better at was turning black and blue. At one point they had paused in his relentless beating to eat. They walked over to a small cook fire surrounded by a camp site just inside the trees.
There were two mats by the fire to sit on while Musashi dished up rice and some sort of fish. The rice was rougher that Christopher was used to, but with more flavor. It was not processed like the grains he was accustom to eating. The fish, too, had more flavor than he expected.
"Did you catch this yourself?" Christopher asked. He had been trying to make conversation all day, but Musashi had limited himself to terse words about his stance, or how he was moving, or how he held his stick—bokken—too low or too high or too centered.
Musashi said nothing. It seemed that even on lunch break it was to be the silent treatment.
"Is the weather always like this?" Christopher tried again, half-heartedly. Then to his surprise Musashi spoke.
"You are not ready to speak," he said. "You do not have skill."
"Skill? What about questions? Shouldn't I be able to ask questions?"
Musashi made a barking sound. It took Christopher a moment to realize he was laughing.
"You don't even know what questions to ask; therefore, it is useless. Do no useless action," Musashi said, and he spoke no more during lunch.
And now Christopher lay staring at the beautiful sky, and he thought the greatest thing in the world was the breeze that drifted over him.
"You did not do very well," Musashi said.
No shit.
"But I see a way forward in you," Musashi said. "Next time you will do better."
"Next time? Next time? Fuck that. We are done. I'd rather take my chances going against a dark soul with my hands tied behind my back."
Musashi turned and walked towards the trees. "Next time try not to fall so much."
Motherfucker.
Christopher rolled over to say something to him, but he had already disappeared. Christopher spied the book about ten feet away and crawled to it. He took one last deep breath of the clean, pure air and then winced as his ribs tightened in pain around his chest. He closed the book.
And he was once again lying on the carpet in the Library. The robes of the Librarian were inches from his face. He moaned. The pain was less here, but it wasn't gone. It was as though the transition from ancient Japan back to the Library fast forwarded his healing a few days.
"Was it fun?" the Librarian asked.
"Not exactly the word I would have used for it."
"Well, maybe next time."
"Next time? He said the same thing. You don't mean, like, tomorrow?" Christopher asked.
"No, no. I was thinking there is this one Cossack from the fifteenth-century, greatest warrior of his generation, for tomorrow."
"Wait a different guy? I get a different teacher each day?" Christopher asked.
"Yes, my idea was to use the knowledge of the Library to have you trained by the greatest warriors that have ever lived. But not a different one each day, at least not after the first few days. I wanted you to sample several different styles before you commit to a plan to work with them. One teacher would never be enough. Your weapons and powers are diverse; no one mortal can show you your potential," said the Librarian.
"You sound like a personal trainer trying to sell me a training package," Christopher said. "Besides there's no way I can spend what? Five hours a day here? I don't have that kind of time, we need something faster."
"You didn't spend five hours there, at least not of real time. As I said, the Library is conforming to your mortal mind. With your predecessor, accessing the information was almost instantaneous. For you, when you experience the knowledge here, it is also instantaneous, but you have to process it at a normal rate."
"Process it? So, no time passed from when I opened the book to when I came back?"
"On my end it just looked like you opened the book a moment ago and then fell. But you do that a lot, so I wasn't concerned. I would think that if you came here once a day you could get four to six hours of training in before your body collapses."
Christopher had thought that Eris might be worried about him—he had never stayed in the library for this long—but according to the Librarian he had been here only a few minutes. This was all very, very weird. He needed to learn, but every day with an unlimited number of teachers. Would this actually work?
"Will this even work?" Christopher asked. "I mean this is just my spirit thing, not my body. If this is all in my head, how will my body get in sync?"
"Good question, I suppose that would be more of an on-the-job part of the training. Putting into use what you learn here. Nobody ever said hunting down escaped souls from Hell would be easy."
"I'll have to think about this. It's a lot to take in," Christopher said.
"I understand. This all must be a shock to you; you've had such a simple mundane life up until this point," the Librarian said.
"Whatever," Christopher said and walked to the exit door; it had appeared at some point after he had returned from ancient Japan.
"You don't want to go to the journal room and pick up a new hunt?" the Librarian asked.
“Not tonight, I just finished one and need a night off. I'm gonna be her
e tomorrow anyway, right? Besides lately they have a way of finding me."
He opened the door and stepped back into the normal world.
6
Christopher returned from the Library to the lair. His little home away from home deep beneath the Bronx zoo. They had redecorated and repurposed some rooms, but it still looked like a large bomb shelter.
The bed he was in was shoved into a corner. It was in the main room so the others, either Eris/Dark Eris or Hamlin, could watch him. He was his most vulnerable when he was visiting the Library. His spirit went to that other realm, but his body stayed and was at the mercy of anybody around him.
That is why he used the lair when traveling to the Library: it was his most secure location. At least in New York. His successor had built lairs throughout the world, all of them now his, accessible by the cube room, as they called it. In that room he was able to transport, teleport really, to any of the others. He had journeyed to many other countries over the last few weeks, although he didn't leave the lairs for the most part. It was an impressive set up, but then again, his predecessor had been Satan's emissary on earth, so he had access to a lot of resources.
The lair itself, at least the New York one, was a fairly large underground complex, well hidden behind both technology and supernatural security. The direct way to access it was through a mystic door near the river that only opened for him or rather, the one bearing the Book. The main chamber was dominated by a mass of computers and wires at the center, like something out of a hacker movie. They were learning to use it, but slowly. At this point, its primary use was for video games.
It had a kitchen, guest rooms, storage and a bathroom. It was comfortable, albeit spartan. He had bought some rugs off Amazon, but it didn't compare to his home in the city. He thought of this place as his office.
Hamlin, the NYPD detective who had become, for lack of a better word, his partner in…well, whatever it is his life had become, was sitting at the computer stack now working at something. He wore the same rumpled brown suit he always wore, tie pulled loose and collar unbuttoned. He had the perpetual look of a man who had just smelled something and didn't like it at all. He was a walking cliché.