Pile of Bones

by Bailey Cunningham

  “I’ve never been here,” Carl said. “I thought it mostly just held financial documents and letters from old deans. Nothing that I actually study.”

  “This is the school’s memory,” Oliver replied. “I was the head of Special Collections for nearly eight years. This is where I discovered the park.”

  Shelby gave him an odd look. “Here? Seems like a weird place to study the outdoors.”

  “The history of Wascana Park—and the contested territory known as Oscana—is contained in these archives. We have copies of many government documents, and a few originals. When I was first hired as an archivist, I had to create a finding guide for the Wascana Collection. That’s when I began to notice that the park was a magnet for chaos. All sorts of things can happen over nine kilometers of wilderness. Hundreds of people have vanished in or near the park since 1962, when it first opened. Before that, it was a burial ground for more than buffalo bones.”

  “How long do you think people have been using it to cross over?” Shelby asked.

  “We can’t be sure. There are murder cases and disappearances that go back further than the eighteenth century. We don’t have them here, but I dug up a few reports the last time I visited the National Archives in Ottawa.”

  “All those bones,” Carl murmured. “Human and animal. We built a leisure complex on stolen land and covered up the mass grave underneath. Maybe it’s haunted.”

  “Maybe you’ve watched Poltergeist one too many times,” Shelby said.

  “Carl does have a point, actually.” Oliver leaned against the table. “Many parks are built on contested land. Of course, not every park leads to another world, but some do. What first drew me to Wascana Park was its artifice. A false lake spanned by a toy bridge. Infantile trees with no business being there, designed to transform a plain into a king’s wood. The whole thing seemed like a magic act, but what was the curtain meant to cover?” His expression hardened. “I believe that the park was built as a distraction, to hide the frontier between two worlds. The city planners knew exactly what they were doing.”

  “So”—Carl spread his hands—“did they fire you because you’re a conspiracy nut or because you spent all of your time putting together one finding aid?”

  “I quit. Sort of. It’s a long story.” Oliver walked over to the filing cabinets. “Can you give me a hand? These are heavy.”

  Together, they managed to move the files to one side. There was a wall safe behind them. Oliver entered the combination and opened the door. He hadn’t been lying about the weapons. The pile inside resembled props from a production of Oedipus Rex. There were swords, a stack of daggers, a painted quarrel, and a bow. Ingrid’s breath caught.

  “Where did these come from?”

  “The Internet, mostly. They’re reproductions.”

  “Your arsenal is from eBay?”

  “Please. I do have some standards. Most of these are from independent blacksmiths and fletchers. The knives—” He shrugged. “Okay, those came as a bundle. They’re generic, but I did get a discount for ordering them in bulk.”

  “Do the other librarians know that you’re archiving weapons?” Carl asked.

  “Even if they found the safe, they couldn’t open it.”

  “I’m starting to fear Information Sciences a little.”

  Oliver handed Ingrid the sword. “Take this.”

  She looked at it warily, as if it might bite her. The blade was roughly two feet long, with a beveled ivory grip. Faux ivory, she imagined, given that it was a reproduction. The pommel was gold-plated. Like a Phrygian apple, she thought. Best not to take a bite.

  “Go on,” Oliver said. “Try it out.”

  She took the weapon. It was so heavy that she almost dropped it. The effort required to hold it level made her muscles burn. Ingrid stared at the blade as if it were something harmless—a baton, maybe, or a squash racket. In her mind, she could see Fel holding a chipped sword, but it was like remembering a scene from a play. She tried to picture herself in the Hippodrome. She could hear the imprecations of the crowd. They were throwing their food, flashing their breasts, grabbing at their cocks. She was sweating from the heat, and her leg pained her. The old wound, still visible below her knee, like ropes of cooled lava. Fel’s brass gauntlet was hot to the touch. She ran her fingers along the burning studs. The lorica flashed as she moved. Every hook and scale belonged to her. This was her dazzling skin. The only protection she had against spear, blade, or trident. Fel raised her sword.

  You are also a part of me. Like a rib, I surrendered you, but some tensile gut-string joins us still. I forged you, beloved. I named you as you sang out of the water, throwing off sparks. Brave candle. The wick was fresh between us when I called out to you.

  Clavus. Nail.

  Neil.

  The sword didn’t seem quite as heavy. It wasn’t totally familiar, but now she could recall holding it, as you might recognize a fellow passenger on the bus.

  “I’m pretty sure I can hit something with this,” she said. “If it gets close enough, and lets me swing at it.”

  “Is that Fel talking?” Oliver asked.

  “Let’s hope so. She’s the one who knows how to slash at a moving target.”

  Carl and Shelby received their weapons in turn. With considerable effort, Shelby managed to string the bow. Carl took the remaining sword. His expression was dubious.

  “I’m not having any kind of special moment here.”

  “That’s because Babieca can’t fight,” Shelby said.

  “He can too.”

  “I think you’re confusing a song with a real battle.”

  “Yeah? Why don’t you try actually shooting something with that bow?”

  “Good idea. Hold still.”

  “Stop it.” Oliver took the remaining knives. “Shelby—I know that when the moment comes, your aim will be true. Carl—” He shrugged. “It’s not rocket science. There’s a basic rule to fighting with a sword.”

  Carl, Shelby, and Ingrid cried out at once: “Stick ’em with the pointy end!”

  Oliver closed his eyes. “Brilliant. Let’s attack Mardian with references.”

  “We are in a library,” Carl said. “And you walked right into that one.”

  He headed back over to the filing cabinets. “We’re going to need something else.”

  “How about a Taser?” Carl asked. “Or a tranquilizer gun? I’d feel a bit more confident if my weapon had some kind of targeting system.”

  “No guns,” Oliver called from behind the cabinets. “Mardian is sly, but he still has to follow the rules.”

  “But he can still cut us into pieces?”

  “Certainly. As long as his weapon doesn’t have a microchip.”

  “Nice rules,” Carl muttered. “When’s the last time they were updated?”

  Oliver emerged from the cabinets dragging a sack.

  Shelby clasped her hands together in delight. “He’s like Santa.”

  “No way,” Carl said. “If this were Christmas, I’d be holding a game controller, not an actual sword.”

  Oliver untied the sack. “It’s not exactly chain mail, but it will offer some protection.”

  Shelby’s eyes narrowed. “Is that hockey gear?”

  “Pads and chest protectors, mostly. As it turns out, not many people are willing to ship replicas of scale armor to Regina. I had to find the next best thing.”

  “These smell musty,” Carl said. “Have they been used?”

  “Lightly.”

  “Gross.”

  “If you think your manly cardigan will do a better job of deflecting sharp-force trauma, by all means, forget about the padding.”

  Carl scowled. “It’s a jersey, and my mother sent it to me.”

  “Put on the lightly used armor.”

  They divided the equipment. After dressing, they all looked lumpy and uncomfortable. Shelby kept trying to adjust her shoulder pads, and Carl was thrown off balance by the weight of his chest protector. Ingrid wasn�
�t fond of the pads, but Oliver was right. They could easily make the difference between a glancing blow and a fatal one.

  “What if Mardian and his crew have real armor?” Carl kept twisting his torso, as if he were in an aerobics video. “Maybe he sprang for shipping and got actual plate.”

  “On a nurse’s salary? I doubt it.”

  “Oliver—” Shelby turned to him. The shoulder pads made her resemble a power forward, half-dressed and caught unawares in the locker room. “When did you leave this stuff here?”

  “A while ago.”

  “Did you know that we were coming?”

  “Not your company. Not specifically. But I knew that at some point, I’d have to fight the basilissa’s people on this side of the park.”

  “How could you have known that?”

  “What can I say? I’m cagey.”

  “You knew that someone would need a bow. That’s more than a fuzzy guess.”

  “I’ve known a lot of sagittarii. They’re frequent customers at the basia.”

  “I call bullshit,” Carl said.

  Oliver turned to him. “Look. I’m scared too. I may have planned for the worst, but that doesn’t mean I thought it would happen like this.” He held out his hand. It was trembling. “Even on the other side of the park, I’m no fighter. I’m a teacher. I give classes on seduction and body language. I fill out account books. On a good day, I may even find myself naked with a person whose company I enjoy. That’s who I am.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Carl—” Shelby began.

  “It’s simple, really. I can understand the weapons. You were planning for a worst-case scenario. I get that you may genuinely want to help us. I’m even willing to overlook the fact that you and Ingrid clearly have something on the side. Whatever. That’s your business.” Carl’s expression hardened. “But you were head of Special Collections. That’s a tenure-track position, Oliver. Nobody gives up that kind of job. I think you ran for a reason.”

  Oliver started to say something, but Ingrid cut him off.

  “It’s complicated. We—”

  The fire alarm blared. The fluorescent lights went out. For a moment, everything was dark and terribly loud. Then the yellowish emergency lights flicked on. They reminded Ingrid of half-dead streetlamps. Beneath them, her sword looked more like a shadow.

  “He’s here,” Oliver said.

  Shelby’s eyes widened. “Andrew. He’s a sitting duck on the fourth floor.”

  “He’ll be fine, as long as he stays put.”

  “Great,” Carl murmured. “I feel armed and terrified.”

  They left the archive, heading back down the hallway. Ingrid held the sword like a flashlight in front of her. Shelby’s quarrel resembled a messenger bag. Carl kept shifting his blade from one hand to the other, like a hot potato. What were they doing? This wasn’t Anfractus. They were on university grounds. People didn’t fight with swords on campus, except once a year when the Society for Creative Anachronism held their tournament. That was on the green, though. How were they supposed to fight in the middle of the stacks?

  Both sides of the park are real, she reminded herself. Last night, you attacked those miles. They weren’t actors. The blood wasn’t fake. It all seems like a game sometimes, but it’s not. It never was. The stakes have always been this high. Only this time, there are no saving throws. Morgan has no die to cast, and Fortuna isn’t listening.

  “My pads reek a little,” Carl whispered.

  “Keep walking,” Shelby said.

  The alarm continued to scream. In the stairwell, the noise was twice as loud. Ingrid had heard worse, though. Living with a four-year-old made you functionally deaf. She led them down the stairs. The emergency lights were miserly, and it was hard to see more than a few feet ahead. They descended carefully. When they reached the fourth level, Ingrid stopped.

  “That’s—not good,” she murmured.

  “What is it?” Carl asked. “I can barely—”

  He bit off the words. The fire exit was held open by a book. Through the gap, Ingrid could see the dim outline of the nonfunctioning elevator.

  “The alarm—” Oliver swore. “I can’t believe I forgot. The security system deactivates in case of an emergency.”

  “Andrew could be anywhere,” Shelby said. “He must be looking for us. What if he runs into Mardian first?”

  “He strikes me as a logical person. And anyone who spends a lot of time in this library knows that there’s an exit on the basement level. Wouldn’t he simply head for the nearest gathering point outside?”

  “He might have done that before you locked him on the fourth floor. Now he probably thinks that you’re behind all of this.”

  “Let’s hope that we find him before Mardian does.”

  “Andrew’s pretty resourceful,” Carl said. “I think he’ll be fine.”

  He didn’t sound convinced.

  Ingrid squeezed his hand lightly. “Maybe we’ll all be fine. Crazier things have happened.”

  “Crazier than wearing hockey pads to fight a eunuch?”

  “Well—” She continued down the stairs. “My son spends most of his time building catapults to fight an evil porcine menace. He doesn’t question the logic. He just plays.”

  “The pigs aren’t real, though.”

  “I’ve never been completely sure of that.”

  “I get it,” Shelby said. “It doesn’t matter what side of the park we’re on. The rules have gone out the window—otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I rolled high once. Maybe it’s not the die that’s important. We roll with our lives every day.”

  They reached the ground floor. The stairwell was practically in darkness. For a moment, all they could do was stand behind the closed door. Then the alarm stopped.

  “Does that mean the firemen are here?” Carl asked weakly.

  “I doubt it,” Oliver said.

  We roll with our lives. Ingrid exhaled.

  Her life was a streak.

  There was the school and the park, and the students of both, who rolled the dice because it was the only sane thing to do. There was Paul, who loved her fiercely. And there was Neil, her key, her quicksilver. Little Bedouin parts of him had traveled through her body. He was in her blood, her roots, his laughter a cascade of bells. Cleave any part of her, and his shadow would speed forth, like music escaping a wax cylinder. He was with her now, as he’d been with her in the darkness of a thousand alleys.

  I’ve been lucky so far. Why stop now?

  She opened the door.

  4

  THE MAIN FLOOR OF THE LIBRARY WAS SILENT and bathed in caustic yellow light. The bank of computers blinked in time with each other, as if delivering a coded message: Please deliver us from Facebook. Or maybe it was Bejeweled. Whatever games people played to distract themselves from the apocalypse of term papers. The construction zone—what would eventually become the new periodical reading room—was draped in plastic, and Ingrid could see the bony outcroppings of steel support structures beneath it. There was caution tape everywhere, rustling slightly with each breath of air-conditioning. The circulation desk was empty. For a moment, she wanted to jump over the counter and see what was in that restricted space, partially obscured by stacks of reserve textbooks and interlibrary loans. It was probably just another office, but secretly, she imagined that it held forbidden texts, like the monastic library in The Name of the Rose. She glanced at the self-checkout machine and thought once more of Neil, who adored the thump that it made whenever you dragged a book’s spine along the demagnetizing strip.

  The screen invited passersby to scan their materials. Blue and green arrows showed you every step. Ingrid remained still for a heartbeat, watching the helpful animation. Touch here for knowledge. Once, she’d found an old book that wasn’t cataloged, and she could still remember the look of sublime joy on the librarian’s face. This isn’t in the system. If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll need to create a new entry. Her eyes lit up,
as if she’d just found a hoard of pirate’s treasure. She delicately removed the old punch card, still affixed to the inside cover. Ingrid wondered if she’d pocketed the paper relic when nobody was looking. Maybe she had a box full of them at home, yellowed around the edges, slightly aromatic, like ancient recipe cards that still carried a hint of spice.

  Where was Mardian? She heard nothing, save for the rustle of plastic and the occasional squeak of a computer rebooting. She remembered the ghost of the spado’s smile, hovering between care and amusement. But he wasn’t a spado—not here. Surely, on this side of the park, he must have been—intact? The more she thought about that word, the less she was certain of what it meant. Spadones were regular customers at the basia. However they’d been cut, it seemed to have little effect on their natural desires. They shared much in common with meretrices, who were often accused of being cold-blooded.

  She looked at Oliver. The dagger in his hand looked absurdly fake, but its edge was real. Was he also cold-blooded? He’d seemed upset when he came to her, directly following the basilissa’s banquet. She wanted to trust him. But Carl’s many suspicions were far from groundless. Whether he was Oliver, Felix, or whatever lived in between them both, he’d always been talented at rolling the dice. He knew how to pick the winning side, and right now, the odds were against them. Was he planning to run again? When she saw him standing on the doorstep, her first reaction was to say, Are you lost? The park had always served as a frontier that separated their lives. In Anfractus, they passed each other all the time, nodding curtly. But he hadn’t lived in Regina for years. There’d been no worry of running into each other at the mall, Neil in tow, stammering, Oh, wow, it’s been so long—

  “Do you think he’s here?” Shelby murmured.

  Oliver kept the knife level, but his grip was awkward. “He’s watching us. That’s what he’s best at. Peering through keyholes, listening through cracks in the wall.”