The Absolute Book

by Elizabeth Knox

  ‘And the Well just gave it. Wisdom and sacrifice all at once. Odin had to take the cloak by the shoulders and support its weight while keeping the bent-backed old man inside the warmth his young body had made.

  ‘The old man was ancient, toothless, his eyes red-rimmed and lashless. He had long, phosphorescently white hair. His lustrous young skin was now parchment brown. Drops of spittle gleamed at the corners of his shrunken mouth. But his hazel eyes shone with the light of every book in every library from now, back until then, the fourth century after the birth of Christ.

  ‘Is wisdom a triumph or a calamity? I think it’s both. We watched that old man go mad. No human, no sidhe, could hold all that knowledge in his head. He went insane, and then sanity—or some similar capacity for reason—came back, flowed into him as if he had some reservoir designed to level off his mind if it were accidentally flooded or emptied. And then the man we were looking at was only half mad—and wise beyond measure. Knowledgeable beyond measure.

  ‘Odin helped that old man down the winding stair and back along the ridge between Asgard and Elysium. We passed the border of the poorest heaven, later named Purgatory, which was just beginning to show signs of its later character, the shapes of fishes scratched on the rocks, fishes without tails, drawn by failed Christian souls. We walked through maybe only a mile of the Sidh before the old man roused himself enough to use his glove and call a gate. It was his grandmother’s gate, the newest and last, no longer stopped up with the dragons his grandmother had contrived to trap there in order to prevent his father’s enemies pursuing his mother and her infant son into the Sidh. The gate came out in a lake under a slumped ruin. There’s a cross on that spot now, and no lake, and the gate has moved a mile or so north and east—you know where. The gate that was made for Shift’s father, the Prince, and is known to this day as the Prince’s Gate.’

  Munin fell quiet.

  That damned apostrophe, thought Jacob. He was fading out, so cold now he couldn’t raise a shiver. He’d lost his legs, his hips. He could see his knees poking out of accumulated snow, but he couldn’t feel them.

  Somewhere, water was falling into a quiet pool—though with the air so cold it was full of ice crystals, how could any water still be flowing? Jacob could hear it, though, that steady articulation—plink, plink, plink.

  It was the beat of a heart monitor.

  He heard his heart grow steadier. He struggled to focus on the raven. Her body was a hole in his field of vision, but one that fidgeted, and had spikes, a beak, pinions, claws. Jacob tried to tell Munin what he thought—about the thing above all of them. He tried to say that no one had a fate, not the man in the street, the world leader, the CEO of the tech company trying to solve the problem of a cost-efficient solar battery; not the young man wearing a bomb vest who believes that someone on Earth might know what God wants. There was no fate. There was what people tell others and those others believe. There was conspiracy and propaganda and inspiration, not fate. Fate was only someone else’s idea of how the world worked, a story people inherit, a lie they’re told. If he’d learned anything, Jacob thought, he’d learned that. That there was no thing that should be, that must be, even the world.

  Jacob kept coming up and going down again. His bed was full of butter. There was quiet weeping nearby. He was in Intensive Care and sometime during the night when he was anywhere near the surface of himself the people in the beds either side of him expired. He heard the flurry, the crash cart, the hawking sound of curtains yanked shut, and a voice full of tears calling a stranger’s name.

  Jacob tried to draw in his limbs and sink into his oily bed. But he couldn’t move, wouldn’t bend, was tied like the Titan to his rock with the eagle on its way.

  A nurse came and slipped the switch for his pain medication into his hand and held it until she was sure he had it firmly.

  Later it was quiet and he was somewhere different, a two-bed cubicle on a ward, no longer in intensive care, but very near the nurse’s station. The other bed was empty but when he came to a nurse was sitting on it watching television. A building was on fire. The nurse turned to him when he croaked a question. ‘What was that, love?’

  ‘Terrorists?’ Jacob asked again. The captions running under the images of the fire wouldn’t come into focus.

  She turned back to the screen before answering. ‘Not terrorists. Tories.’

  The first news Jacob received that he actually wanted came, strangely, from his parents. He hadn’t expected them. It was sobering to see them, in their matching puffer coats. Jacob might just have been creeping around the roots of the World Tree in spirit form, but he only really understood how close to death he’d been when he saw Carl and Sandra.

  They stood by his bed, desperately uncomfortable, and grey around the gills. He thought they’d find it easier to say things to him if he’d died and this was a viewing. Carl looked more embarrassed than distressed by his predicament.

  Jacob swung between feeling touched and furious. These were the wrong people. He had information to impart, and these were the last people he wanted to see.

  A woman who patrolled the corridors with a tea cart looked in and asked his parents if they wanted a cuppa. They said yes. The woman moved a second chair from the empty cubicle so they’d both have a seat. They sat, still in their coats, and Jacob had the impression his father wouldn’t have managed to stay seated without the cup balanced on his knee.

  They made little sallies of talk. His father said something about Jacob’s brother-in-law’s new job managing a garden centre. A niece Jacob hadn’t seen in two years had broken her arm playing soccer. The high street at Sandwell was now one-way, and it hadn’t solved the traffic problems at all.

  They made small offerings of their lives and then there was a long pause before his father spoke up with the urgent things he had to say and, listening to him, Jacob realised that, though the distress was about how he had nearly died, their embarrassment was one part awe and one part astonishment.

  ‘They had helicopters out over that estuary for as long as it was light,’ his father said. ‘Police helicopters, spotters with hunting rifles. Wildlife officers. Big-game hunters. They had no end of volunteers with guns. They had over a hundred witnesses, but no one could bring themselves to believe it. Especially when no one could find the bloody thing, which was, by all accounts, huge.’

  ‘Didn’t they find it?’ Jacob asked.

  ‘No. But.’ Jacob’s father hesitated and glanced at Jacob’s mother.

  ‘Don’t upset him, Carl,’ she warned.

  Jacob thought, Speak your piece, Carl, car groomer of Sandwell. ‘I don’t get upset,’ he said.

  ‘You mean you don’t show it.’ His mother was tart.

  ‘Everyone has to believe in the beast because they found the man’s body stored under a bank at the top of the estuary,’ Jacob’s father said. ‘Crocodiles do that.’

  Jacob nodded.

  ‘The body was missing one of its arms,’ his father added.

  ‘It’s been so hot this summer, the beaches should be full,’ his mother said. ‘But apparently people from Margate to Scarborough are googling, “How fast can a saltwater crocodile swim?”’

  Jacob laughed.

  ‘Rosemary Hemms says you didn’t even know the man.’ His mother’s face creased with anxiety.

  ‘Hamish McFadden. No, I didn’t know him.’

  ‘Rosemary says he had something to do with your work.’

  ‘He was stalking Taryn Cornick. She was helping us with our enquiries.’

  ‘Rosemary says McFadden supposed you were Ms Cornick’s boyfriend.’

  Jacob closed his eyes. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘I’m her friend.’

  ‘Bad business,’ his father said.

  ‘Yes. But there’s bad business everywhere, Dad.’

  ‘But that’s just the news, isn’t it. They make their money out of having ordinary people on the edge of their seats all the time and fretting over every little thing.’r />
  ‘But Carl, that’s why “See something, say something” works,’ said Jacob’s mother.

  ‘Don’t get all up in my ear, Sandra,’ said Jacob’s father. ‘Jacob doesn’t need to hear our naive opinions.’

  ‘Oh, excuse me, should I come back later?’ A voice from the doorway, running the words of the commonplace question together in a strange way.

  ‘Not if you have tests to perform, or medication to offer,’ said Jacob’s father. ‘Don’t mind us. We won’t be staying long.’

  ‘Unless we’re wanted for longer,’ said Jacob’s mother, timid and hopeful.

  Between them, as usual, they were making it impossible for Jacob to say what he wanted, what was enough and what too much. Everything hurt him and he was lying in a cloud of a meaty smell, the redolence of a stranger’s blood in his sweat. He’d had two transfusions.

  ‘Or are you a reporter?’ Jacob’s father’s voice was sharp. ‘They’re only letting family in. So if you’ve cheated and sneaked . . .’

  ‘Shift,’ Jacob said. ‘Come in. These are my parents.’

  ‘I hope you have permission to be here,’ Jacob’s father said.

  ‘No one noticed me,’ Shift said, reassuring Jacob. ‘Nobody’s going to rush in and throw me out.’

  Jacob found the bed controls and made the head of the bed come up.

  ‘That’s better,’ said his mother, and hitched his blanket a little further up his chest.

  Jacob said to Shift, ‘Have you seen Taryn?’

  ‘She’s been here almost the whole time. Three days. You have to tell them to let her in. She says she knows things you’ll want to know and she’s sure it’s reciprocal.’

  Jacob’s father got up and offered his hand to Shift. ‘I’m Jacob’s father, Carl Berger, and this is his mother, Sandra.’

  Shift took the hand. ‘Shift,’ he said. ‘Like Prince or Madonna or Capucine or Colette.’

  Jacob muttered, ‘Your slider has slid too far down the twentieth century, buddy.’

  Shift laughed. ‘I won’t interrupt you for long. I only wanted to remind Jacob that he’ll need to ask for Taryn if he wants to see her. It’s this ward’s policy for non-family members.’

  ‘You’re going?’ Jacob said.

  ‘I’m taking Taryn away. Which is why I’m trying to expedite a meeting between you. She’s coming with me to the Moot, and the Tacit, and Purgatory.’

  Jacob gave a moan of frustration and misery.

  ‘I think he’s feverish,’ said his mother, and leaned over him to dab at the skin above his eyebrows, not confident enough to simply lay her hand on his forehead.

  Jacob tried to collect himself. There were things he needed to know, even though Shift was standing there, by his bed, safe. He stammered out the text that Taryn had sent from Singapore on her way south, and which he’d looked up and had been turning over in his head ever since. ‘Chi I’amina mi lacera? Che m’agita le vicere?’

  The room was again silent for a beat. Then Jacob’s father said, ‘What’s that?’ And began to huff and blow a little, as he did whenever he thought someone was purposely talking over the top of this head. It was difficult not to—the top of Carl’s head always having been held so resolutely low.

  ‘Don Giovanni. The final act,’ Shift said, politely. ‘“Who lacerates my soul? Who torments my body?” It’s the bit where the Don gets snatched into Hell.’

  ‘Do you like opera, dear?’ Jacob’s mother was eager to be surprised. Eager for anything really.

  Jacob opened his eyes and tried to catch hers. ‘Mum,’ he said, with as much affection as he could muster, which turned out to be more than he imagined he had. Tears filled his eyes.

  Jacob looked back at Shift and recklessly decided to continue in the same vein and quote other lines that had been running in his head on and off for weeks. He half sang, in his breathy, ruined voice, ‘Misterioso, Misterioso altero, croce, croce, e delizia.’ And then, ‘I do like opera.’

  ‘And that was La Traviata,’ Shift said, but this time didn’t offer a translation.

  ‘Rather lovely, even croaked out,’ said Jacob’s mother.

  ‘Hmm. I’m sensing a change of career here,’ said Jacob’s father, with the air of someone determined not to be left out, but whose lifelong habit is not to put up his hand for anything, except a round of drinks whenever his turn came.

  Jacob’s parents had flanked his bed. Shift was behind his mother’s shoulder, standing stock-still, radiating alertness and resolution despite the usual obscurity surrounding him. He said, ‘I’ll come back for you, Jacob. You know the rules. If you say, “Take me with you,” you’re asking to be subject to conditions that are far from satisfactory.’

  ‘You can change them.’

  ‘I don’t know that I can. Right now it’s looking unlikely. You have your freedom to consider.’

  ‘I’m done with it.’

  ‘All right. I’ll be back within a fortnight.’

  ‘I won’t be here in a fortnight. This hospital will have me up and out.’

  ‘I’ll find you.’

  Jacob lost his temper. He’d delayed pressing the button for his pain medication too long, and was in agony. ‘You’re crap at finding people! You hang around waiting in places they might be expected. You’re never where you’re meant to be. You lurk. You hide. You consent to be hidden. You’re bloody useless!’ Jacob subsided, panting and moaning.

  His father huffed, but his mother showed great presence of mind and only straightened his covers again, while looking apprehensively at Shift.

  Shift kept a steady gaze on Jacob until Jacob met his eyes. ‘And,’ he said, ‘I’m not yours. And you’re not mine.’

  ‘And nothing is your business,’ Jacob replied. ‘Yes, I get it.’

  Then Shift gave a polite nod to Jacob’s parents, and left the room.

  Taryn and Jacob had half an hour. Enough for each of them to give the other the bare bones, but no time for the telling detail. Having to leave out the telling detail gave Taryn an insight into Shift’s insistence on stories personal to the people telling them, and anchored in a hat full of blackberries, a miles-long parting in the marsh, water acidic with potash, a canvas dress, cakes made of almonds and clementines. She wanted to interrupt Jacob and ask about the tree roots on the walls of the snow-covered stairway—what did they look like? Exactly?—because that was the World Tree. And why had Odin been at the well anyway when the boy Shift came looking for wisdom? But because Jacob was weak and drugged she let him waste minutes on his refutation of ‘fate’. Yes, she wanted to hear what mattered to him, and she must listen to him rather than indulge herself with apologies.

  She told him about Odin’s appearance in her audience at Auckland. She told him about her father’s screen test and the fight at Hell’s Gate, and that, as of yet, Shift hadn’t told her how he escaped. He’d said there would be time for that once they were away. They had to set out at once. Until they caught up with Neve and he retrieved the Gatemaker’s glove, they were committed to crossing the many miles from the Island of Apples to the place where the Moot was held. Shift had allowed time for the longest journey, the one without the glove, from the Summer Road to the Horse Road and then a days-long voyage down the river by boat. But they had to go now. She touched the phone in her pocket. ‘Alan has called me twice today. I haven’t answered. I should call him before we go through the gate. I don’t know how to explain it to him. McFadden. Webber. Any of it.’

  Jacob’s voice was a whisper. ‘I wish you and I had talked properly in the time we had out on the estuary.’

  ‘You were using all your strength just to move. I’m told you’d lost more than three litres of blood by the time they transfused you. Sorry,’ she said again.

  He took her hand in the one of his that was unencumbered. There was a line in the back of that hand, but it was capped off. His central line and the cannula in the crook of his other elbow were still in commission.

  ‘I’ve got this right?�
�� Taryn said. ‘Munin was taking you to Asgard?’

  ‘For me it would have been like arriving at a very exclusive resort with the wrong wardrobe and credentials. Besides, Munin was overselling her one-time-only offer. I got suspicious.’

  ‘Why do you think she made the offer?’

  ‘Out of the kindness of her heart. My suspicion was a matter of habit. I’ve thought it through now.’

  ‘Any regrets?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t want to have to live with chronic pain. And there’s going to be a lot of that. But it’s not an impact injury. And I’m fit. I’m told my back should come right in a couple of years. Right for ordinary purposes.’

  Taryn didn’t say anything.

  ‘I’ve got good health insurance. And people in my line of work accept the risk of injury.’ Then he asked, ‘Were you hurt yourself?’

  Taryn didn’t admit to her joint injury and the anti-inflammatories she was on. She didn’t say that she couldn’t sit for longer than forty minutes and was dreading the car journey to Princes Gate. She only touched the big patch of gauze on her neck. ‘The cuts,’ she said.

  ‘My concussion helps. I just sleep,’ Jacob said. ‘I’m worried I’ll forget what you’ve told me. Things make sense and then unravel. I keep having to close my eyes.’ He paused. ‘I’ve never known cold like that. There was ice in the air, like confetti.’ Again he paused and watched her face, his attention deep, but not keen. ‘Did you see how the crocodile shook him? Every time he came around, the leg the crocodile wasn’t gripping seemed to have more joints. He was being smashed against the seabed.’

  Taryn nodded.

  ‘What was Shift’s dragon like?’

  Taryn frowned, perplexed.

  ‘The dragon that exploded out of Stuart’s jeep and carried you and one of the jeep’s doors off to the gate.’

  Of course, Taryn thought.

  ‘He only needs to have done it once. After that it’s muscle memory. Or cellular,’ Jacob said. ‘It’s one of the things he doesn’t forget.’