Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 2: The Infinite Library

Friar Cedric

A dream wolf shook me by the leg. I awoke thrashing, gasping, staring up into a grand vaulting of arches, pillars and marble stairways. Through regularly spaced windows I spied dawn's pink light. Clearly I lay within the tower itself. My torn leg throbbing as though ghostly teeth still chewed upon it. Perhaps they did.

I pushed away blankets, struggling to sit. About me lay the scattered followers of imaginary St. Benefact. Blankets wrapped tight, packs for pillows. Did we resemble defeated soldiers? No; we'd won the battle, ascended the mountain, reached the tower.

Granted, that was yesterday's victory.

Observing the sleepers, I contemplated their separate faces. They looked tired, dirty, and weary. As did I, no doubt.

I am the oldest of the band. In truth I think myself the only adult. The rest... innocents dancing in the storm, leaping to catch the fire of the saints in upraised hands. Even our bard. She bears plentiful scars and worldly views. But at heart she's as much a daydreaming waif as the boy I put a dunce hat upon at lessons. Just so his cruel family would see him as dunce, and leave him be.

And Jewel? I watched her breathe in, breathe out. In the hall's half-light her face looked pinched, worn as any farm wife after a week of weary work. Jewel is grown woman, no child. And yet could I see her spirit as I'd beheld Beatrice's... surely Jewel would appear a glowing, glowering girl-child. Arms crossed, angry foot stamping at the adult world.

Or did I do her wrong? And all the Benefactors, seeing them as wandering innocents? Condescending of me, certainly. These people were not fools; for all they'd come to a cursed tower for unlikely treasure, certain adventure.

Perhaps the wrong lay in not including myself in the category 'wandering innocent'. Surely every soul is a lost child; and all our years are the long miles we wander. Whether alone or with friends.

Ah, but the road is so much easier with friends.

To study faces seeking visions of the soul within... a fool's game. But still I gazed down on Jewel of Stonecroft. If she saw my spirit, what would she see? Probably a dreary man grown gray in library dust. Tottering on his cane, snapping yellowed teeth at the saints...

The thought made me growl. Enough brooding! I stood. Feeling sore and weary, cold and old. Bah.

I set to the repairing of my leg. Beneath the bandages waited dried blood and fresh pain, pink scars and leaking wounds. Unpleasant. I closed my eyes, trembling to recall the beast shaking me back and forth.

I pronounced what healing oration I dared, feeling the green warmth lay like a kind hand upon the wound. And yet draining me afresh of what strength I'd recovered in sleep. My blanket siren-called me to return. I resisted.

Instead, I stood, began exploring the hall. Tapping my staff against white stone walls. Stark masonry that glowed wherever sunbeams splashed. But not the floor: rough black rock that ignored sun's gold touch.

The hall itself confused the eye. Spaced regularly with great pillars through which a maze of spiral stairways wound to higher levels.

I followed a cool wind to the tower doorway. Dim memories of last night returned. Matilda and Bodkin coaxing us up and ever on through the dark. Shepherds leading befuddled sheep to safety. How by St. Typhon had those two rogues thunder-blasted the third trap?

Beyond the archway, I stood outside the tower. In open air, gazing at a peaceful panorama of mountain and cloud, shadow and light, ice and stone. The sun rising in triumph, painting clouds with orange fire. A humming sound on the wind drew my attention upwards.

There floated the Hefestian directable, the markings of the University of Daedalus upon its side. A line moored it to the tower top. What did they do here? Research, obviously. But historical, theological, political, practical or academic?

The directable could not have been here long. Unless supplied by yet another directable. Costly business, that.

Strange coincidence they should be here upon our arrival. I watched, spying no movement but the craft shifting position as the wind blew.

I entered the tower again, stood in the grand hall, pondering the different stairways. Some merely led to balconies. But central to the hall wound a great spiraling set of steps. Upwards, and downwards. The steps upwards were pretty marble; those downwards, black and less inviting. How much more pleasant was the path upwards; for all that the map sent us to seek the lower levels.

I climbed upwards, the stairs curving so that one never saw far ahead nor behind. My leg complained, but an unpleasant taint upon the air worried me. I climbed farther, soon spying the corpse I expected.

Poor fellow, he lay sprawled face down. A rich red-black trail declared he'd descended from higher floors, struggled to end here, so near the tower exit.

The robes were familiar. I'd worn them myself as a student of the University of Daedalus. Perhaps I knew this man, had shared a class or glass of beer. Cautiously I turned the body over.

No longer stiff; faintly wafting of decay. This man died some two days past. The livid face: not one I knew. A dart-end protruding from his stomach declared his manner of death. I searched pockets. Finding parchment and quill. A shattered ink bottle. Behold: a dead scholar. The blue ink bleeding into the blackened blood.

A pocket of the robe held two stones that glittered bright by the dim light. Diamonds, I decided. They weighed ominous for their probable worth. Another item interested me more: a book. I leafed through it puzzled. A dictionary of an antique language from the lands beyond the sea. Anglish? The folk far north of Psamathe speak a dialect of Anglish; but it is no scholars' tongue. Why carry it to this tower?

Mere academic interest, most like. A scholar carries a book to learn from, not to crack nuts. I sighed, raised my staff over the man.

"May the one true Saint be your guide through the Infinite Library," I intoned. Not truly a sacramental oration. In fact, a Lucretian farewell. Who knew, perhaps he was my fellow heretic.

And if you wonder, the Infinite Library is this world. Your world, my world; our shared existence. No grand marble edifice in the glorious but doubtful Fields of Elysium. This world itself is the one library containing all books. And all your life you wander the aisles, perusing ancient texts and strange pictures, filling pockets with bits of wisdom and science, truth and fable. There is no greater purpose, for all that the truths you gather shall return to tatters of parchment and dust. As shall you; and every last scholar. So be it.

So I sighed, signed goodbye to the dead man, turning with weary steps downwards. I did not note how he rose and followed after me.

I came in sight of the Benefactor's makeshift camp. Val and Matilda stood yawning, searching packs for breakfast items.

Soon as I came in sight, the Silenian shouted. She drew bow, notching an arrow. Val lifted her knife.

"Peace," I said, surprised at their alarm.

But Matilda sent an arrow near enough my head I felt the feather kiss my cheek. I shouted, ducked.

Val hurried forwards, knife ready. While the other Benefactors struggled to awaken, pushing aside blankets and dreams.

I prepared to retreat, thinking my companions gone mad. Turning about at a sound behind me. There stood the dead Hefestian scholar, hands curled into bloody claws. Mouth open to bite. But instead of falling upon me, he sank to the floor, Matilda's arrow through his dull white eye.