Secret of the Seventh Sons

by Cooper, Glenn

  At the table sat Felix; Brother Bartholomew, the grizzled old monk who led the Scriptorium; Brother Gabriel, the sharp-tongued astronomer; Brother Edward, the surgeon, who presided over the infirmary; Brother Thomas, the fat drowsy keeper of the Cellarium and the Buttery; and Sister Sabeline, Mother Superior of all the sisters, a proud middle-aged woman of aristocratic blood.

  “Who can tell me the current state of affairs within the Library?” Baldwin demanded, referring to the monks who labored there.

  They had all visited recently, driven by uneasy curiosity, but no one had more intimate knowledge than Bartholomew, who spent much of his life underground and even assumed the physical characteristics of a vole. He had a pointy face, an aversion to light, and made small quick movements with his scrawny arms to emphasize his speech. “Something is troubling them,” he began. “I have watched them for many years.” He sighed. “Many years, indeed, and this is the closest I have ever seen to emotion.”

  Gabriel chimed in. “I agree with our brother. These are not typical displays of emotions that any one of us might experience—joy, anger, tiredness, hunger—but an unsettling sense of something being out of order.”

  “What specifically are they doing that is different from their usual practices?” Baldwin asked thoughtfully.

  Felix leaned forward. “I would say their sense of purpose seems somehow diminished.”

  “Yes!” Bartholomew agreed.

  “Over the years, we have always marveled at their infallible industry,” Felix continued. “Their toil is unimaginable. They work until they collapse and when they awake after brief respite, they are rejuvenated and begin anew. Their pauses for food, drink, and nature are fleeting. But now…”

  “Now they are getting lazy, like me!” Brother Thomas guffawed.

  “Hardly lazy,” the surgeon interjected. Brother Edward had a long thin beard, which he stroked obsessively. “I would say they have grown somewhat apathetic. The pace of their work is slower, more measured, their hands move sluggishly, their sleep periods are longer. They linger at their food.”

  “It is an apathy,” Bartholomew agreed. “They are as they have always been, but you are correct, there is a certain apathy.”

  “Is there anything else?” Baldwin asked.

  Sister Sabeline fingered the edge of her veil. “Last week one of them did not rise to the occasion.”

  “Astonishing!” Thomas exclaimed.

  “Has this occurred again?” Gabriel asked.

  She shook her head. “There has not been an opportune time. However, tomorrow I am bringing a pretty girl called Elizabeth. I will inform you of the outcome.”

  “Do so,” the abbot said. “And keep me informed about this—apathy.”

  Bartholomew carefully made his way down the steep spiraling stairs leading from the small chapel-sized building to the crypts. There were torches set at intervals along the stairwell that were bright enough for most, but his eyes were failing after a lifetime of reading manuscripts by candles. He felt for the edge of each stair with his right sandal before dropping his left foot onto the next.

  The winding of the stairs was so tight, and he turned so many times on himself, that he was dizzy by the time he reached the bottom. Every time he descended these stairs and entered the crypts, he marveled at the engineering and building skills of his predecessors who had burrowed so deeply into the earth in the eleventh century.

  He unlocked the enormous door with the heavy black iron key he kept on his belt. Since he was small and light he had to lean into it with all his strength. It swung on its hinges and he entered the Hall of the Writers.

  Though he had entered the hall thousands of times since he was first initiated into the Order of the Names as a young abbey scholar with a quizzical nature, he never ceased to pause in amazement and wonder at the sight of it.

  Now, Bartholomew looked out on a crop of pale-skinned, ginger-haired men and boys, each one grasping a quill, dipping and writing, dipping and writing, producing a din of scratching as if hundreds of rats were trying to claw into barrels of grain. Some were old men, some young boys, but despite their ages, they all looked uncannily similar to one another. Every face was as blank as the next, green eyes boring into sheets of white parchment.

  The writers faced the front of the cavern, seated shoulder by shoulder at their long tables. The chamber had a domed ceiling that was plastered and whitewashed. The dome was specially designed by the eleventh century architect, Brother Bertram, to reflect the candles and increase their luminosity, and every few decades the plaster was whitewashed anew to counter the soot.

  There were up to ten writers at each of fifteen tables stretching to the rear of the chamber. Most of the tables were fully occupied, but there were scattered gaps. The reason for the gaps was apparent because the edge of the chamber was lined with cotlike beds, some of which were occupied by sleepers.

  Bartholomew walked among the rows, stopping to peer over a shoulder here, a shoulder there. All seemed in order. The main door leading from the stairwell opened. Young brothers were bringing in pots of food.

  At the rear of the chamber, Bartholomew opened another heavy door. He lit a torch from a candle that was always kept by the door and entered the first of two interconnected pitch-dark rooms, each one dwarfing the Hall of the Writers.

  The library was a magnificent construction, cool dry vaults so vast they seemed, in torchlight, to have no physical boundaries. He passed through the narrow center corridor of the first vault and inhaled the rich earthy smell of the cowhide covers. He liked to periodically check that no burrowing rodents or nesting insects had penetrated the stone-lined fortress, and would have made his usual thorough inspection of the entire library had he not heard a commotion behind him.

  One of the young brothers, a monk named Alfonso, was calling for his companions.

  Bartholomew ran back to the hall and saw him kneeling behind the fourth table from the front with two of his fellow monks. A pot of stew was spilled on the floor and Bartholomew almost slipped on it.

  “What is wrong?” the old man called to Alfonso.

  None of the writers were affected by the disturbance. They remained occupied as if nothing had happened. But at Alfonso’s knees there was a puddle of blood and a stream of crimson flowing from the eye of one of the ginger-heads, a quill thrust through his left eye deep into his brain matter.

  “Jesus Christ Our Savior!” Bartholomew exclaimed at the sight. “Who did this!”

  “No one!” Alfonso cried. The young Spaniard was shaking like a cold wet dog. “I saw him do it to himself. I was serving stew. He did it to himself!”

  The Order of the Names convened again that day. No one had ever seen or heard of such an event and there was no oral history. Certainly, writers were born and writers died from old age. In this way they were like all mortal men, save for the fact that they never recorded their own births or deaths. But this death was entirely different. The fellow was young and had no sign of disease. Brother Edward, the surgeon, had confirmed this. Bartholomew had examined the last entry on the man’s last page and there was nothing at all remarkable about it. It was simply one more name that happened to be in Chinese characters, by Bartholomew’s reckoning.

  It was clear this was suicide, an inexplicable abomination for any man. They discussed long into the night what actions they should take but there were no ready answers. Gabriel wondered if the body should be taken above the ground and burned, but there was dissent. A writer had never been treated so, and they were loath to break ancient traditions. Finally, Baldwin decided he should be placed inside the crypts that honeycombed the earth alongside the Hall of Writers. Generations of writers lay in repose within these catacombs, and this wretched soul would be accorded the same fate.

  When Felix returned to the underground chamber with strong, young brothers to aid in the burial, he noticed that the writers were even more sluggish and listless, with a greater number than usual asleep on their cots.

&
nbsp; It was almost as if they were in mourning.

  The horses shuffled and whinnied when Luke came into the stables. It was black and cold and he was frightened by his own boldness for even being there. “Hello?” he called out in a half whisper. “Is anybody here?”

  A small voice answered, “I’m here, Luke. At the end.”

  He used the slice of moonlight coming through the open stable door to find her. Elizabeth was in the stall of a large bay mare, huddling beside its belly for warmth.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I am afraid.” She wasn’t crying anymore. It was too cold for that.

  “You are freezing,” he said.

  “Am I?” She held out her hand for him to touch. He did so with trepidation, but when he felt her alabaster wrist, he encircled it with his hand and would not let go.

  “Yes. You are.”

  “Will you kiss me, Luke?”

  “I cannot!”

  “Please.”

  “Why do you torture me? You know I cannot. I have taken my vows! Besides, I came to hear your plight. You spoke of crypts.” He let go and pulled away.

  “Please do not be angry at me. I am to be taken to the crypts tomorrow.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “They want me to lay with a man, something I have never done,” she cried. “Other girls have suffered this fate. I have met them. They have borne babies that are taken from them when they are suckled. Some girls are used as birth mothers again and again until they lose their minds. Please do not let this happen to me!”

  “This cannot be true!” Luke exclaimed. “This is a place of God!”

  “It is the truth. There are secrets at Vectis. Have you not heard the stories?”

  “I have heard many things but I have seen nothing with my own eyes. I believe what I see.”

  “But you believe in God,” she said. “And you have not seen Him.”

  “That is different!” he protested. “I do not need to see Him. I feel His presence.”

  She was growing desperate. She composed herself and reached for his hand, which in the unguarded moment he allowed her to grasp. “Please, Luke, lie down with me, here in the straw.”

  She carried his hand to her bosom and pressed it there. He felt the firm flesh through her cloak, and his ears filled with rushing blood. He wanted to close his palm around the sweet globe, and for a moment he almost did. Then he regained his senses and recoiled, banging into the side of the stall.

  Her eyes were wild. “Please, Luke, do not go! If you lie with me, they will not take me to the crypts. I will be of no use to them.”

  “And what would happen to me!” he hissed. “I would be cast out! I will not do this. I am a man of God! Please, I must leave you now!”

  As he ran from the stables he could hear Elizabeth’s soft wails mixing discordantly with the neighing of disturbed horses.

  Storm clouds lay so low and heavy over the island that the transition from darkness to dawn seemed slight. Luke lay awake all through the night, fitful and troubled. At Lauds, it was almost impossible to concentrate on his hymns and psalms, and in the brief interval before he was obliged to return to the cathedral for the Prime Office, he rushed through his chores.

  Finally he could bear it no more. He quietly approached his superior, Brother Martin, clutching his stomach and asking for permission to forgo Prime and attend the infirmary.

  Permission granted, he put up his hood and chose a circuitous route to the forbidden buildings. He picked a large maple tree on a nearby knoll, close enough to watch but far enough to conceal himself. From that vantage point, he stood guard in the raw gray mist.

  He heard the bells ring for Prime.

  No one came or left the chapel-sized building.

  He heard the bells ring again to signify the end of the Office.

  All was quiet. He wondered how long he could pass unnoticed and what the consequence of his subterfuge would be. He would accept his punishment but was hopeful that God would treat him with a small measure of love and understanding for his pitiful frailties.

  The bark was rough on his cheek. Consumed with fatigue, he dozed briefly but awoke with a start when his skin chafed on the jagged surface.

  He saw her coming down the path, led by Sister Sabeline as if towed by a rope. Even from a distance he could tell she was crying.

  At least this part of her tale was true.

  The two women disappeared through the front door of the chapel.

  His pulse quickened. He clenched his fists and softly beat them against the tree trunk. He prayed for guidance.

  But he did nothing.

  Elizabeth felt she was in a dream the moment she entered the chapel and began her descent underground. Years later, looking back, her mind would never allow her to retain the details of what she was about to see, and as an old lady she would sit alone by the fire and try to decide whether any of it had been real.

  The chapel itself was an empty space with a blue-stone floor. There were low stone walls but the structure was mainly timber-framed with a steeply pitched shingled roof. The only interior decoration was a gilded wooden crucifix affixed to the wall above an oaken door at the rear.

  Sister Sabeline pulled her through the door and led her down the steep stairway that bored into the earth.

  At the threshold to the Hall of the Writers, Elizabeth squinted into the dim cavern and tried to make sense of what she saw. Wide-eyed, she stared at Sabeline, but the woman’s icy rebuke was, “Hold your tongue, girl.”

  None of the writers seemed to take notice as Sabeline dragged her in front of them one by one, row by row, until one man raised his ginger head from a page and looked at the girl. He was perhaps eighteen or nineteen. Elizabeth noticed that three spindly fingers on his right hand were stained black with ink. She thought she heard a low grunt come out of his puny chest.

  Sabeline yanked the horrified girl away. At the end of the row, Sabeline pulled her toward an archway into a black void. Elizabeth thought it must surely be the gate to Hell. As she passed through it, she turned her head and saw the grunting young man rise from his table.

  The void was the entrance to the catacombs. If the first room smelled like misery, the second room smelled like death. Elizabeth choked and gagged at the stench. There were yellow skeletons with bits of adherent flesh piled like firewood in the recesses of the walls. Sabeline held out a candle, and everywhere the light splashed Elizabeth saw grotesque skulls with jaws agape. She prayed she would fall into unconsciousness, but woefully remained sensate.

  They were not alone. Someone was beside her. She whirled around to see the dumb blank face and green eyes of the young man blocking the passageway. Sabeline withdrew, her sleeve brushing the leg bones of a corpse, its dry bones clattering together musically. Then, holding the candle high, the nun and watched from a short distance.

  Elizabeth was panting like an animal. She could have fled, deeper into the catacombs, but was too afraid. The ginger-haired man stood inches away, his arms limp by his sides. Seconds passed. Sabeline called to him in frustration, “I have brought this girl for you!”

  Nothing happened.

  More time passed and the nun demanded, “Touch her!”

  Elizabeth braced herself for the touch of what seemed a living skeleton and closed her eyes. She felt a hand on her shoulder, but strangely, it did not repulse her. It was reassuring. She heard Sister Sabeline shrieking, “What are you doing here! What are you doing!”

  She opened her eyes and, magically, the face she saw was Luke’s. The pale, ginger-haired youth was on the ground, picking himself up from the spot where Luke had roughly shoved him.

  “Brother Luke, leave us!” Sabeline screamed. “You have violated a sacred place!”

  “I will not leave without this girl,” Luke said defiantly. “How can this be sacred? All I see is evil.”

  “You do not understand!” the nun roared.

  From the hall, they heard a sudden pandemonium.

 
Heavy thuds.

  Crashes.

  Flopping. Thrashing.

  The ginger-haired youth turned away and walked toward the noise.

  “What is happening?” Luke asked.

  Sabeline did not answer. She took her candle and rushed toward the hall, leaving them alone in the pitch-dark.

  “Are you hurt?” Luke asked Elizabeth tenderly. He was still touching her shoulder, and she realized he had never let go.

  “You came for me,” she whispered.

  He helped her find her way from the darkness into the light, into the hall.

  It was no longer the Hall of the Writers.

  It was the Hall of the Dead.

  The only living soul was Sabeline, whose shoes were soaked with blood. She aimlessly walked among a sea of bodies, draped on the tables and cots, crumpled in piles on the ground, a mass of lifelessness and quivering involuntary twitching. She had a sick, glassy expression and could only mutter, “My God, my God, my God, my God,” over and over, in the cadence of a chant.

  The floor and tables and chairs of the chamber were slowly being coated with the blood spurting from the quill-pierced eyes of almost 150 ginger-haired men and boys.

  Luke led Elizabeth by her hand through the carnage. He had the presence of mind to glance at the parchments that lay on the writing tables, some of them blotting up puddles of blood. What curiosity or survival instinct prompted him to snatch up one of the sheets as he fled? That would be something he would contemplate for years to come.

  They ran up the precarious stairs, through the chapel, and out into the mist and rain. They kept running until they were a mile from the abbey gate. Only then did they stop to soothe their burning lungs and listen to the cathedral bells pealing in alarm.