Napier's Bones

by Derryl Murphy

The thought of it made him dizzy. If he was carrying the source of “all numerical attention,” as Arithmos called it, then not only was Napier after him, but almost every number in the land. Numbers that he often used for personal gain, as well as protection. What could he do against numbers if they decided they’d had enough?

  “You’ve been quiet,” said Arithmos. They were on a steeper section of road now, and it had adjusted its legs again, still looking for the ideal configuration. “I believe that I can anticipate your concerns. May I try?”

  “Go ahead,” said Dom.

  “I know some of what you discussed before. Individual numbers are not sentient. Numbers that group together can be, although not always. But even numbers such as those that comprise me, while sentient and in control of my situation, are prone to control by numerates.”

  “So I could use you now? Call up your numbers to help me?”

  Arithmos paused, one leg halfway up into the air, twitching and shimmering. Finally, it said, “You’re strong enough, yes. But I’ve decided to throw my lot in with you as best as I may. That decision came because of choices I—we—have seen you make during this journey, and because of who you face.” The leg came down, but it still didn’t walk. “Was I wrong in this decision?”

  Dom absentmindedly waved his fingers about for a second, and then shook his head. “No. No, you weren’t wrong.”

  They started walking again. “This leads to another troubling question,” said Billy. “One that came to me just as Dom spun the Bones back at the Point of Stoer. What happens if Napier tries to control you?”

  “Then his shadow takes control,” replied the number creature. “I have set up as many protections as possible so that he doesn’t detect me and call me to his aid, but if the call comes, I’ll have to answer.”

  “Sonofabitch.” Dom gritted his teeth together. “So what the hell do I do then?”

  There were no eyes, but as Arithmos paused it seemed to turn and look him in the eyes. “Spin the Bones again, and go where they take you.”

  They walked in silence after that, no sound from boats or cars to accompany them. Eventually they came out above most of the trees, high on the hill. The view showed them a similar hill across the gateway to the harbour, open ocean to the right. No ships were in sight, although several oil drilling platforms rested in the harbour, waiting their turns to journey out to the North Sea.

  “We’re here,” said Dom. “But why are we here?”

  “This is one of the Soutars,” said Arithmos.

  “You used that word before,” replied Billy. “What’s a Soutar?”

  “The village we left behind is called Cromarty. In ancient times, the Black Isle—which isn’t really an island—and the villages along it, which now includes Cromarty, were protected from pirates by the two Soutars.” It gestured down with one leg, and then across the water towards the other hill.

  “What, these hills protected them?”

  “The Soutars were giant cobblers, shoemakers of immense proportions. There were days when the villagers would stand in the distance and watch as the Soutars tossed their tools across the entrance to the firth, sharing them with each other, or sometimes just doing so as a game.”

  Dom looked around him. The hill he was on seemed like any normal hill, with farmland and trees, a fence, and even a bench for visitors to sit on. The hill across the water was, if anything, even more bare of features, an easy slope from the far side of it, more steep leading down to the water. “These shoemakers—Soutars—just how did they protect the villages from pirates? Their tools?”

  Arithmos scraped at a piece of road with one leg. “You mock. Someone who has jumped from one side of Scotland to another and who is right this moment speaking with a cloud of numbers, you somehow can’t bring yourself to accept giants in these hills.”

  Dom stuck his hands in his pockets and looked out to sea. But as he prepared an answer he saw a shape out on the water, distant, not yet anything definable. Even from there he could sense the numbers that lay within the shape.

  And then beneath his feet there was a rumble. The ground shifted, started to tear itself apart, and he was thrown to his back. One hand went for the puck, while the other gripped the box of Bones even harder.

  Above him, at the very crest of the hill, a figure pushed itself up out of the soil, trees and rocks and fence shedding from its back, a mad vision of a man arising after having been buried in sand at the beach. The very hill gave way, seemed to shrink in size as the figure rose higher.

  It was enormous, judging by the trees around it, at least seventy feet tall, broad of shoulder and with a huge pot belly. While its skin seemed to be made of soil and stone, it wore a huge tanned leather apron, covered in dark stains, in which rested a variety of equally outsized tools.

  It turned its huge square grey and brown head, looked briefly down at Dom and Arithmos with cold stone eyes, then turned its attention back across the water, where its mirror image had risen from the soil of the other hill.

  “Brother!” it called, a deep cough of a voice, the shock of which caused the waves in the entrance to the harbour to jump high and white. “Shall we share our tools while we await the intruder?” It didn’t speak English, somehow Dom knew that, and yet he could still understand it.

  The far Soutar, hundreds of yards away, spread its arms wide and grinned, its teeth white and flat, an albino slate embedded and somehow polished to perfection. “A fine plan, brother,” came the distant rumble.

  The Soutar on his side of the water turned and smiled down at Dom. “A show for you and your friends,” it said, and it took a hammer—bigger than the car Dom had been driving—from its apron and spun it in the air, two quick flips, then with an overhand pitch flung it across the water. The other Soutar caught the hammer, hefted it, and then with an even wider grin fired it back across the water, faster, each throw back and forth speeding up, until Dom was sure that the silver blur of the tool was going to break the sound barrier. The air around the hammer’s path was heating, the hammer itself beginning to glow red hot, and with a joyous whoop the closer Soutar pulled a set of tongs from its apron and tossed that as well, quickly joined by two tools thrown by its brother. All four were whipping across the water, both Soutars’ arms steady windmilling blurs catching and throwing faster than Dom could track. The air around them was filled with a constant roar now.

  Unsure if even Billy could hear him inside his own head, Dom shouted, “Should I spin the Bones now?”

  Two clanks, one loud on his side of the water, one delayed and a little more distant, from the far side, as both Soutars caught their tools in one hand. The closer Soutar turned and bent over Dom, who was still sitting on the ground. “The Bones are a last resort,” it announced, its grating voice clapping against his body and threatening to crush his heart and guts. Rocks on the road around him bounced like pebbles on a bass drum. “If you choose to use them in our presence, and we are as yet unprepared, then we will be unable to protect the good people of this firth from the coming threat.” Its voice was out of sync with its mouth, which, Dom imagined, didn’t even move in conjunction with whatever its natural language was.

  “I’d listen to it, Dom,” said Billy, his voice quieter now that the tools had stopped flying.

  Dom stood up, rubbed his ass as he looked up at the giant cobbler. He could feel his heart pounding a severe tattoo in his chest, and even though the Soutar seemed to be grinning down at him now, he didn’t feel any better about things. Still, though, he kept the lid to the box of Bones shut tight.

  But as a natural reaction, he felt his fingers attempt to count off primes, anything to stave off the weight of the creature’s attention, but Billy stayed his hand. “No numbers,” whispered his shadow. “Remember Arithmos.”

  Dom nodded, kept his fingers still. The Soutar smiled again, then stood tall and looked out to the water. “A pirate of a different sort today,” it called to its brother.

  It was a cloud of numbers, raci
ng low and sleek over the waves, a dark shimmering smear briefly occluding the water as it rushed on, a vast shadow with nothing to cast it. Every few seconds a small spout of integers would throw up into the air, fall behind the pack very briefly, then with a frantic burst of speed catch up to the rear.

  Without a word, the Soutar on Dom’s side of the water heaved his silver hammer high into the air, and Dom watched as it cut a steep arc through the sky. But it fell well short of its mark, sending up an enormous wave several hundred yards away from the numbers, which continued at their speed, apparently unfazed by the idea of two giants throwing tools at them from the shore. The other Soutar had also thrown his hammer high into the air, and it landed with a splash later than the first, and at an angle to it. The wave it sent up was as large as the initial one, but speeding along at an angle to its twin.

  Holy shit, thought Dom. He could see what was coming. The two waves were going to meet exactly where the numbers would be, unless the numbers were bright enough to slow down or change course. But he had an idea that they had their senses only on the prize, the Bones he carried in the box, and anything else was of no consequence to them.

  The waves crashed together as the numbers tried to slide over them, and the interference patterns set off by the meeting of the waves threw everything into immediate chaos. Irrational numbers exploded into the air, enormous geysers sent integers and patterns and binding formulae flailing away from the pack of numbers, which had halted as if it had hit a brick wall. The waves, instead of moving on, had circled back, came in from different angles, and new numbers arose from the interference they created, spun the remaining numbers under Napier’s control into a black vortex, and with an undignified series of bubbles like farts in a bathtub, swallowed them all.

  Both Soutars leaned over then, plunged their hands into the earth and focused their gazes out on the water. All was deathly quiet for a few seconds, not even the sounds of the waves against the shore reaching Dom’s ears, and then there were two drumbeats, loud, resonating thumps, the sound coming from somewhere deep in the water. A few seconds later there were two more, echoing all through the harbour, and then the hammers leapt from the water as if they’d been thrown, each one flying fast and true into its owner’s hand.

  The Soutar was breathing hard, and with its free hand it reached up to wipe moisture and loose soil from its forehead. “Not the same as pirates, no,” its voice boomed. It lowered itself back to sit on what remained of the hillside, as did its brother across the water. “Tiring, that, after so many seasons asleep.”

  “Aye,” answered the other, as it toyed with the hammer still in its hand, flipping it into the air and catching it by the handle, but not looking at it, but rather casting its gaze out to sea. “Almost sad, not being able to see the blood of pirates spilling into the salt water as they begged for their lives.”

  “Ho!” The nearest Soutar stood again, smile on its face, but as it tried to take a step, the ground at its leg reached up and grabbed hold, froze it in place. Before it could call to its brother for help, or take its hammer to the treacherous rock and earth, more of the ground flowed up its body, twisting and grinding its way around the giant’s body, reconnecting it to the hill, frozen in place. Numbers followed, spilling out of the hole the Soutar had left like bats from a cave as twilight hit, millions of them scattering into the air and swooping about in tight circles, searching. The same was happening to the Soutar across the water as well, its hammer frozen in mid-air, spin halted as it hung well above its hand. There, the numbers had jumped high into the air and were crossing the water to join their fellows on Dom’s side.

  The Soutar managed to turn its head and look down at Dom. “Spin the Bones,” it rumbled, its voice comparatively soft, and without any doubt, horrified. “Go!”

  Dom opened the box, and as Arithmos beside him degenerated into its component numbers and began to skitter across the ground towards him, he spun the Bones.

  Subset

  Where are you taking me?” For the first ten minutes after Jenna had left Dom behind, she had been alone, running as fast as she could along the side of the hill and casting back glances as often she dared. She had seen the spotlight of horrible numbers burning down on the dewy heather, racing up the hill and almost to Dom’s feet, and she had seen Dom spin the Bones and the flash of new and brilliant numbers explode from nothing all around him in a swirling, sparkling tornado that completely engulfed him for a moment, and then dropped away to reveal that he was no longer there. At that moment the spotlight of numbers had hesitated for just a fraction, and then had turned her way, and she had turned and ran again.

  But only moments later she had sensed something else, and had turned to look in time to witness the numbers hesitate, and then fraction away before they dissolved into nothingness, and shortly after that she had been rejoined by Arithmos, the mass of numbers dropping from the sky to form beside her and almost giving her a heart attack in the process. But it only took a second or two for her to realize who it was, that the control Napier had over the local numerical ecology had expired for the moment, and that Arithmos was the numerical being she knew and felt she could trust.

  “There is a large rock on the far side, after a bit of a climb,” said Arithmos. “When we get there, underneath it you’ll find an artefact that we are told you will be able to use.”

  Jenna rolled her eyes, feeling strands of frustration with the numbers rising up above the still-present panic. “I can see numbers, and sometimes I can even convince them to do what I want, but even Dom has trouble making his mojo work with me.” She held up her wrist and showed the strands of copper wire still twisted there. “If he can barely do it, how do you expect me to be able to handle any numbers?”

  “You’ll have to wait and see,” said the numbers. “In the meantime, we carry on.”

  A thought occurred to her then. “Wait a minute,” she said. “What do you mean, an artefact you’ve been told I can use? Who told you? Why aren’t you able to figure that much out for yourself?”

  Arithmos shrugged. “You’ll find out soon enough. In the meantime, we do need to hurry.”

  They walked for a little less than an hour, for the first while Jenna stumbling along the wet side of the hill before finally finding her way to a trail, something that she was sure was normally visited by tourists, but desolate and abandoned on this wet and miserable day. The wind was still blowing, and in those rare moments when it wasn’t raining, the water from the surrounding hillside was blown up and into her face.

  “The Old Man of Stoer,” said Arithmos.

  Jenna, her head down and feeling miserable, wet hair matted over her eyes, looked up at this. “Excuse me?”

  The numerical creature pointed straight ahead, and her gaze followed along. She stood near the edge of a point of land that dropped off to the ocean, and thrusting high out of the crashing waves stood a tall finger of rock. “That tall rock,” said Arithmos, “is known as the Old Man of Stoer. From here, it isn’t far to our goal. It is, however, somewhat slippery on a day like today. Treacherous, even.”

  Jenna bit her lip, trying to hold back both frustration and fear. “What do you mean by treacherous?”

  “You’ll have to climb down to where the ocean meets with the headland. You’ll be up higher than the waves can reach on a normal day.” There was a pause. “It may be more than a little difficult for you.”

  Jenna sat down on the path, not concerned that her bottom could get any wetter. “And what if I say no?”

  The numbers seemed to settle down onto the path beside her. She watched them for a second, then looked out to the ocean, watched the birds wheel around the giant rock, gliding easily on the buffeting, vicious winds. “We can’t control what you do or do not do,” they said. “However, we know for a fact that without the artefact we have set aside, Dom will not make it through the next twenty-four hours alive. Indeed, we suspect that twelve hours might be too optimistic. Which means that Napier will get his hand
s on his Bones, an event that will likely result in the extinction of the numerical ecology as we know it, to say nothing of major changes to the non-numerate world.”

  “How so? What exactly is it that Napier will do?”

  “Even as an adjunct, Napier is too powerful. With the Bones at hand, his plan is to reconstitute his body. When he does this, we anticipate the reaction of the entire numerical ecology will be to allow itself to be absorbed into Napier, and become a part of his essence. It’s not that numbers will once again do his bidding. It’s that numbers will be the integral part of his existence. With one move he will sweep us all into his being. Not only does that reduce us all to slavery for what will likely be next door to eternity—because numbers are a key element in the forward motion of time—but it changes the properties of how the world works, which means that everything in your world that relies on mathematics suddenly becomes suspect, perhaps even unworkable. At least without Napier’s permission.”

  Jenna closed her eyes and shook her head, then put a hand down to help push her back up to a standing position. “What if I fall?”

  “We’ll be there to aid you,” replied Arithmos. “You won’t fall, we guarantee.”

  She shook her head. “Some guarantee. Every time I’ve tried to do something with numbers, you all have scattered away from me. What are you going to do, hold me up with good wishes?”

  “Good wishes and some decent climbing gear,” replied the numbers as they set off for the edge of the hill.

  “Climbing gear?” Jenna didn’t know whether to be appalled or amused.

  Arithmos nodded. “We can’t carry you, we can’t grant you wings, and we certainly wouldn’t wish for you to fall to your death climbing down amongst the rocks, since even if you did have experience in these sorts of things the weather would not be terribly conducive to a safe endeavour. Therefore, we have enough climbing gear to be able to help you down safely.”

  The climbing gear turned out to be a simple harness, carabiners to clip into place, and a rope long enough to descend from where it was already tied around one large rock. It was cold and wet and Jenna wished that she had gloves and a warmer coat, but at least she was wearing decent enough shoes for making her way down towards the water. With Arithmos leading the way, she cautiously set off, hoping that she would make it in time to be able to help Dom and Billy, hoping just as much that she would just be able to make it in one piece.