The Golden Specific

by S. E. Grove

  Sophia considered the room around her. “The pamphlet said your collection covers other places beyond New Occident. Is that true of every room?”

  “Indeed. Every piece of pertinent text that we can find is collected here, or in one of our affiliated archives. There are some areas for which we have more documentation than others, but this is only to be expected. In addition,” he went on, picking up a leather-bound volume, “the Apocrypha are cross-listed in indexes that use our own method of time-keeping.” He opened the volume at random and showed Sophia that it read, at the top, “A.D. 43.”

  “To us, in New Occident, today is the thirty-first of May, 1892. For inhabitants of the Closed Empire, today is May thirty-first, 1131. Yet we are living in the same moment,” Whether continued, “and our indexes take this into account.” He slid the book toward Sophia. The top left of the page read:

  1642—Accounts ledger by Tomas Batiste.

  Location: United Indies Depository.

  1642—Convent log kept by Sister Maria Therese.

  Location: United Indies Depository.

  1642—Broadsheets, collected, published in Havana.

  Location: United Indies Depository.

  Sophia looked up. “There is another depository in the Indies?”

  “There are depositories all over the world. Sixteen, to be exact. Twice a year, they send us updates of their collections so that we may enter the information in our indexes. If you look ahead a few pages,” Whether said, doing so, “you’ll see that other ages are included as well.”

  Still looking under the heading “A.D. 43,” Sophia scanned a list of documents from New Occident, dated 1842:

  1842—Newspapers, collected, published in New York.

  Location: Boston Depository.

  1842—Private diary of Maxwell Osmond.

  Location: Boston Depository.

  1842—Collected letters of Peter Simmons.

  Location: Boston Depository.

  “I understand,” Sophia said slowly. “These all were written at the same time, but in different Ages.”

  Whether nodded slightly. “These were all written—or dated, for the purposes of the archive—in A.D. 43: After the Disruption, Year 43; or, as we call it, Age of Delusion, Year 43. If you wish to review all the Apocrypha produced in a given year, you can simply consult the index. It is,” he concluded seriously, “a vivid indication of just how scattered and disrupted our apocryphal world has become.”

  “It certainly is,” she agreed. She turned back to the index, realizing with growing dread the size of the task ahead. She had no idea what she was looking for, much less the year in which it was originally written. Working in the Nihilismian Archive would present a formidable challenge in drudgery, not unlike searching for a needle in a carefully arranged haystack. How will I find anything useful in three days? Sophia asked herself, gazing at the entries with a feeling of dismay bordering on panic.

  “What is it you wish to consult at the archive?” Whether queried.

  Sophia took out her notebook and withdrew a letter. “I received this in December, long after it was written. There has been no word of its author all these years, and I was hoping the archive might contain information about the place mentioned in it.”

  Whether read the letter silently. Then he placed it on the table and looked at Sophia as if seeing her for the first time. “Bronson Tims,” he said. His expression was unreadable. “Are you related to Shadrack Elli, the cartologer?”

  “Yes. He is my uncle.”

  “You are a recent convert. Your family are not Nihilismian.” They were statements, not questions.

  “No, they are not. And yes, I am a recent convert.” There was a long pause. Whether continued to gaze at her, his face unnervingly somber. Sophia realized that the assistant who had been shelving books had stopped shelving. She stood with her hand on the cart, making no effort to conceal her stare.

  “And yet you seek two people in this world—this apocryphal world.”

  “You misunderstand my search,” Sophia said composedly. “I am Nihilismian, yes, but like my uncle I am still a cartologer. Just as your objective is to reveal the diverging histories between our world and the Age of Verity, so it is my objective to map the differences between them. I wish to confirm the location of this Ausentinia, for I have found no mention of it elsewhere.”

  Whether gazed at her pensively for a moment. “I see,” he finally said. He rose from his chair and carefully returned the two newspapers to the document box. “I will ask Remorse to assist you, since I tend to work with more experienced patrons,” he said, making no effort to conceal his condescension. “Remorse?” he asked, over his shoulder.

  “Thank you, Mr. Moreau,” Sophia said, rising from her seat. “I appreciate the introduction to the archive.”

  “Not at all,” Whether said, turning away, box in hand.

  Remorse sat down across from Sophia. “May I see the letter?” she asked without preamble. She took a pair of amber-tinted spectacles from her shirt pocket.

  Sophia studied the young woman as she read. She could not have been more than twenty years old. Her small hands, delicate and slightly tapered, still looked like the hands of a child. The buttoned work shirt she wore was frayed but carefully ironed, as were her unexpected pants. Short black hair and dark eyebrows framed her face; behind the spectacles, her eyes, as she read, were resolutely inexpressive. Probably not my ally either, Sophia concluded.

  Remorse handed the letter back and crossed her arms. “‘March fifteen, 1881,’” she said, her voice flat. “‘Dearest Sophia. Your mother and I have thought of you every moment of every day during this journey. Now, as we near what may be the end of it, the thought of you is foremost in our minds. This letter will take ages to reach you, and if we are fortunate, we will reach you before my written words ever do. But if this letter reaches you and we do not, you should know that we are following the lost signs into Ausentinia. Do not think of pursuing us, dearest; Shadrack will know what to do. It is a road of great peril. We had no wish to travel into Ausentinia. It traveled to us. All my love. Your father, Bronson.’”

  Sophia stared at her. It was disconcerting to hear her father’s affectionate words voiced so entirely without emotion by a stranger. But it was more perplexing that the stranger knew the words at all. “How did you do that?” Sophia asked.

  “I can remember anything after seeing it once,” Remorse said impassively.

  “That is an enviable skill.”

  Remorse looked away. “It depends upon what you see. There are things you want to remember. And things you don’t.”

  Sophia blinked. “Yes. There certainly are.”

  “So you are looking for Ausentinia.” Remorse said.

  “Yes. Have you ever heard of it?” She realized suddenly that Remorse might be the best shortcut through the archive. “If you remember everything you’ve seen, perhaps you have seen the name somewhere?”

  “I haven’t,” Remorse said. She looked back at Sophia. Then she rose abruptly from her seat. “I think you should look at the index for the year the letter was written. A.D. 82. I’ll go get it.” Without waiting for Sophia’s reply, she left the table and disappeared among the bookcases.

  A few minutes later, she returned pushing a library cart. “I’ve brought you the first thirty.” She began heaving the heavy volumes onto the reading table.

  Sophia frowned at the cart. “The first thirty what?”

  “The first thirty volumes of the index for A.D. 82.” Remorse paused, and for the first time her face shifted from studied blankness to mirth. “You didn’t think the index for each year was just one book? A.D. 82 contains more than three hundred volumes.”

  Three hundred volumes! Sophia thought, appalled. How will I ever read three hundred volumes in three days?

  3

  The Kestrelr />
  February 20, 1881

  I awoke on our tenth and final night aboard the Kestrel to a terrible howling. As I turned to wake Bronson, a sudden jolt threw him against me. We disentangled ourselves hurriedly and dressed. From the violent rocking of the ship and the cries of the crew, barely audible over the howling, we knew we were in the midst of a ferocious storm. Utter blackness, cut through by brilliant silver when lightning struck, filled the world beyond our porthole. I understood in that moment, with unequivocal clarity, that the night would not end well. I had missed Sophia from the moment we left Boston. Now the thought of her in her small bed, sleeping peacefully, pierced me like a blade. She was there and we were here—in a perilous storm on a vast ocean. What had we done?

  There was nothing to do but confront the disaster that awaited. Through the roar of the storm and the crashing of the waves, we heard the shouts become screams, and Bronson took my hand.

  “My love,” he said, “whatever we find outside that door, we stay together.”

  “Yes.” I squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.

  Then he took a length of rope that we had used to keep our trunks in place against the floorboards and rapidly tied it around his waist; the other end he tied around mine. “We’ll need our hands. If we have to swim, we swim together.”

  “Yes, Bronson,” I said again. “I love you, dearest.”

  He placed his hand against my cheek. “And I you, Minna.” In a flash of lightning, I saw him smile. Then his face was thrown into darkness once more, and I felt him turn to open the door.

  Water fell upon us as if dropped from a great height. I lost my balance immediately and tipped backward. The pull of the rope gave me enough time to steady myself. I stepped tentatively onto the deck, seeing nothing but feeling a tug at my waist as Bronson emerged from the cabin.

  We moved hand over hand toward the main deck. A terrible scream pierced the air, and the howling of the wind rose and fell unabated. Suddenly the ship ceased to pitch. I peered into the darkness, seeking some guidance for my slipping feet and some clue as to what had stilled us. As if to grant my wish, another flash of lightning cut across the sky, illuminating the mottled clouds.

  At first I could not understand what I saw. The stern of the ship was embedded in a rocky mass covered with kelp, as if some gigantic stone jaw had taken the Kestrel in its teeth. I heard Captain Gibbons shout, over the howling, “Abandon ship!” Then, in the next flash, I saw the scurrying of dark shapes. They emerged from the rocky mass that held the Kestrel, and I realized then, as the howling changed, that it was not made by the wind. It was more like the howling of animate creatures: dogs, or perhaps beasts.

  The shape nearest to us advanced toward the captain with the unmistakable movements of a man. Amid the thick kelp that hung like hair about his head I saw a face: white and fierce, with bared teeth, grassy beard, and glassy eyes. In the next flash, I saw the creature fling out his arms, making the sound that I had mistaken for the wind; the massive weeds that formed his lower body surged, pushing him upward; the white arms—faintly green and luminescent, as if lit from within—cast a kelp-made net that caught the sailor closest to him in its slippery mesh, throwing him flat onto the deck.

  “Minna, to the bow!” Bronson shouted, as the world plunged once more into darkness. He steered me away, and I knew he aimed for the front of the ship so that we could leap into the waves, putting ourselves at the mercy of the sea.

  The captain and his crew were of the same mind. We could hear them as we walked unsteadily toward the bow. The scene that met us there was chaos. Shapes hurled themselves into the water; others were caught and dragged by the weed nets; and still others, locked in vicious embrace, struggled against each other. There were shouts and howls, but there was no semblance of command, and as I discerned Captain Gibbons only a few steps away, fiercely wielding his blade against the creature that was attempting to seize him, I realized what would happen next.

  A net cast from behind fell upon the captain, and he was flung to the ground. “Captain!” Bronson shouted, leaping forward. I stumbled after him, almost sending us both crashing against the hapless Gibbons, who was struggling mightily. But the captain had dropped his knife. Bronson took it up before the water could carry it away, and he hacked at the net as urgently as he dared without cutting Gibbons. I fell to my knees beside him and pulled uselessly at the slick kelp; it was like trying to rend the water itself—hopeless.

  I knew that we had only a few moments before we were captured. Suddenly, the captain, roaring like a boar, was whisked away, and then, before we could stand, the net I had awaited fell upon us.

  Bronson sliced into it with a cry of frustration. I had to scream in his ear so that he would hear me. “No, Bronson, don’t. Don’t cut—pull!”

  For a moment he did not comprehend me, but then he realized, as I had, that our feet were still upon the wooden deck, and that with our combined weight we could pull against the creature that held the net. “Now,” I cried.

  We hurled ourselves against the nearby rail. Caught by surprise, the kelp creature let go. We pitched into the air, a tangled mass, leaving the ship behind.

  For a few seconds, all sound seemed to have been sucked away. Then I plunged into the water and felt the cold pressure of its weight all around me. The net of kelp had been yanked away. I was too shocked to struggle. I seemed to lose sight of where I was, and the thought passed through my mind—gently, like a curiosity—that I might be losing consciousness.

  It happened to me then: the tendency I have struggled to rein in from childhood; the habit I have almost banished, but that returns at times, unpredictable and unstoppable, throwing me off balance. I lost track of time.

  I drifted. The water was dark with patches of orange light, as beautiful as some marine phantom. Instead of seeking the surface, I found myself contemplating a vision—no, a memory—from the previous night. Bronson and I sat at Captain Gibbons’s table, sharing dinner with him as we had throughout the journey. I took a mouthful of stew, which tasted of squash and butter. The room was quiet and peaceful and the food wonderfully filling. Still, there was a source of unquiet within me, and I decided to voice it.

  “We cannot help but notice,” I said, glancing at Bronson, who nodded, “that the crew grows increasingly uneasy as we sail east.”

  Gibbons paused, staring at his bowl of stew. He took a long drink of water from his crystal glass. “It’s nothing,” he assured us, picking up his spoon. “You have sailed east before—you know mariners maintain all manner of superstition about the open seas.”

  Bronson shot me a look. “Yes, we have sailed east, though not by this route,” he said.

  “Is there a particular ‘superstition,’ as you put it, we should know of?” I asked.

  Gibbons shook his head. “My men are very level-headed on land, but there is always a point halfway across the Atlantic that seems to transform them into frightened children, cowering under their covers at the prospect of nightmares.” He smoothed his hands over the tablecloth, calming the wrinkles of the white linen.

  “Gibbons,” Bronson said amiably. “Come, tell us what it is they fear. Minna and I are not prone to panic at the telling of mariners’ tales.”

  “Of course; I apologize.” Gibbons looked up at us with a smile. “I did not wish to alarm you, but you are quite right. You are both far too reasonable to be alarmed without cause.” He shrugged. “The men believe that crossing the Atlantic carries us across a barrier—an invisible barrier, that is—separating the old world of the Papal States, the Closed Empire, the Middle Roads, and the Early Pharaohs from our Western Hemisphere.”

  “If it is invisible,” I asked, “then what does it consist of?”

  “Ah.” He smiled. “That is where the tales differ. Mariners believe that some mysterious power guards this barrier, but they do not agree on its form. You’ll hear my men talk of the Fellweeds, cre
atures with the Mark of the Vine who guard the old world.” He laughed and scraped the bottom of his bowl, the silver spoon clinking against the fine china. “Fellweeds,” he scoffed. “I think the real danger in the Atlantic crossing is boredom! Too many men with too much idle time, letting their minds wander every which way. Absurd.” He pushed aside his bowl, as if to push aside all thought of his men’s superstitions. “My cook has made us lemon pudding for dessert,” he announced happily.

  The memory faded, as if all the light had gone out of it. I moved listlessly with the water. Suddenly I felt a faint tug at my waist. The thought of Bronson jolted through me. My arms flailed and seized the rope; I scrambled along it hand over hand until I realized my fear—there was nothing at the other end. Only then did I fight for the surface, clawing desperately.

  When I reached it, a rush of sound filled my ears. I could not see. I heard the storm and the great howls of the Fellweeds, but where I was, and where Bronson was, I could not tell. Sinking once again below the surface, I was submerged in terror; if I did not move, I would drown. My arms fought the waves; my legs kicked frantically. When my head struck something solid I reached for it, blindly, and found myself clutching a large piece of wood.

  I took in air and opened my eyes. A piece of the ship’s mast had saved me, but the Kestrel itself was beyond salvation. In the near distance I saw the fragments of the mighty ship fall and disappear, like the bits of a broken toy, beneath the waves.

  4

  Truth Telling