"Whatever for?"
"I don't know, but it's some sort of machine, I'm betting, voice-activated--maybe from before the Rising. They call black mercury 'ichor' here. I might have you come and take a look at 'em later."
Ichor? An obscure word in Old Rhendalian meaning "blood of the gods," a word the ancient alchemists used to describe a mythical, elusive substance which turned lead to gold. Adewole said nothing about it to the engineer; esoterica bored him.
Deviatka speared a potato, plopped it on his plate, loaded it with butter and began mashing it up. "Not right now, though. I'm taking a tour to see what else I can ferret out. Peter Oster's shown me some ingenious uses of their limited resources, and I'm seeing what I can apply to our ways of doing things as well as recommending appropriate technology of our own. I'll take him along, if Ambassador Weil can spare him." Peter proved to be a hard-working, intelligent young man. Three Osters had gone to work for the Eisenstadters as guides--Peter, his mother, even his hot-tempered younger brother, but not Master Oster; Peter's father stayed holed up in the farmhouse and watched Camp Turnip with hostile eyes.
"Do me a further kindness, Karl," said Adewole, "and document whatever you see for me--whatever you see, mechanical or no. I do not know how long these people's ways can continue under the onslaught of the new."
"Why would you want them to?" he answered in surprise. "It's a tough life up here, you can't blame them for wanting something better."
Adewole finished a bite of imported lamb, a haunch of which he'd watched the Osters devour two days earlier; their incredulous delight had brought a new appreciation to his meals. Everything on the table--potatoes, butter, lamb, bread--had been brought from the ground. "No, no, of course I cannot, but as an anthropologist…" He thought of the couriers he'd just begun to talk with. So little paper could be made on the island. Parchment made from things like frog skin might be had, but something so costly would never be used for something like a request for a farmer to please send two bushels of peas straight away and would he accept flax in payment. The couriers carried messages from one end of the island to another instead, using songs and rhymes handed down over centuries to remember them. Their traditions might be lost in less than a generation; radios and cheap imported paper would wipe them out. "I do not know if I will have time to document it all before it is gone," he finished lamely.
"You won't be the only anthropologist up here for long, though, Ollie," said Deviatka, "and you'll be the dean of them all. Speaking of deans, Blessing's due tomorrow, you know, with a scholarly horde. Is that the right term? 'Horde?' It's a parliament of owls, a murder of crows and so on. If it's chaps like you I suppose he'd call it a 'plague' of scholars, eh?" Deviatka laughed and cheerfully tucked into his remaining dinner. Adewole picked at his. What had they brought upon the fragile island? As difficult as life was on Risenton, so much would be lost in so short a time. He brooded on it through their traditional pipe and brandy, and took his brooding to bed.
The next day, Henrik Blessing arrived in a barrow.
The Dean's legs couldn't take him the three miles from East Camp to Town Hall. No pack animals had been brought up--no animals of any kind--and so nothing else could be done; Peter Oster chucked Blessing into a barrow and rolled him off down the road. "Thass no shame," said the young man kindly. "We trundle our old 'uns all round the island. None look amiss at 'em." By the time he got to Town Hall, Blessing had settled himself to look as if riding in a barrow conveyed a great honor.
Adewole, Deviatka, the Council and Ambassador Weil waited for him. Though Adewole translated as courteously as possible, the Dean's unspoken condescension shone past it. The dubious niceties over, Blessing offered Ambassador Weil his arm for the walk to the temporary embassy. "We will call you if needed, Adewole, but I doubt we will," he said, waving a thick, dismissive hand. "I've gotten you out of my hair and I find I like it. In fact, I hope it's permanent."
"You'll just have to fill the Mueller Chair again, sir," said Deviatka in mock concern.
"Nonsense! Professor Adewole still holds it. In fact, I may negotiate with the Mueller Foundation to move the Chair holder to Risenton in perpetuity."
The two dignitaries strolled away; Ambassador Weil shot Adewole a sympathetic glance over her shoulder. "I was so happy here," said Adewole.
"You'll be happy again, old thing," said Deviatka. "He's having to pay for his own supplies. I expect him gone within the week. In the meantime, I shall make my escape with young Oster and make my tour. Make yours before Weil drafts you as 'translator to the grandees' for good."
Adewole decided to hide in the University. The Library building alone remained of the old school; the rest had long been taken over for more prosaic use. Cob-and-stone houses filled the footprints of what had once been much larger buildings. Many smaller cob-and-stone buildings lined the old, burned-out shells, sharing a wall at their backs and facing one another across the impromptu courtyard they formed. Across quadrangles now set to tidy garden plots stood Melody Hall, the home of Deviatka's mysterious Choir. In the old campus's center stood the Library--a near-perfect example of early classical Rhendalian architecture, an object of study in itself.
William Buckan, the Library's threadbare little caretaker, led him past the newer collections to the oldest stacks, hidden far back in the building in a locked room. "The books can't be read, you see. Not the ones this old, we no longer understand the language," said the librarian. "We protect them--indeed, they are our greatest legacy from before the Rising, even if we can't read them--but nothing more. Sometimes artists will come to copy the illustrations. Joerg Eichel back in his day. They are beautiful objects, though, aren't they?" he sighed.
They were. The books lined the many shelves, their carefully oiled leather bindings still colorful despite their extreme age. "You say some of these books are illustrated, Mr. Buckan?"
"Oh yes, and the writing is so very fine!" The little librarian searched through the stacks until he found his example. "Here, look at this one."
Adewole eased open the book to find the impossible. "This is not handwriting, sir, this is printing. Printing was not developed Down Below until some five hundred years ago."
"Printing?"
"Yes, using movable type. Do you not still have it?"
"Type? No, I don't understand you." Adewole explained the basic process, but the man shook his balding head. "No, sir, we wouldn't do such a thing even if we knew how. Who could spare the wood? Or paper? And the metal! My goodness. Couriers are better."
"You have no new books at all?"
"Oh, no, of course we do, but they're primarily the record books, kept at the Town Hall. Births, deaths, taxes, contracts and so on. The Families commission books like these on occasion. I believe the Lumburghers have a small library. They are our main benefactors here at the University, you know."
As the librarian spoke, Adewole scanned the book. Just as he'd hoped: essentially Old Rhendalian, written in runic letters and bearing obscure diacritical marks indicating differing pronunciations than classical Old Rhendalian. Only the most serious scholars of the language would find the books readable, and even then they would present a challenge. Adewole was as serious as a scholar could get.
He looked up from the printed page around the room--shelves and shelves and shelves, years of research ahead of him. He carefully closed the book. He'd been so eager to look at it he hadn't put on the cotton gloves he'd brought for the purpose and cursed himself. "What book do you suggest I start with? This one?"
"I couldn't say, sir," said Mr. Buckan. "Shall I go through the stacks and find some likely candidates?"
Adewole smiled, though inside his nerves jangled and sang, and he calculated all the duties that might come between him and the books. "I will bring what I need tomorrow."
Chapter Eight
The next day, Deviatka and Peter left for their tour; Corporal von Sülzle went with them at Berger's insistence, leaving Wirtz behind to care for Adewole. At first he thou
ght it was a bit much, a whole corporal to himself, but once he'd filled two packs with his dictionaries, reference books, blank books, notepads, inks and pens Adewole appreciated Wirtz's help lugging it all over to the Library.
Mr. Buckan had set up the rare books room as an office. He gave Adewole a key. "You must keep it locked at all times, Professor, even when you are in here by yourself. The books in this room are invaluable, irreplaceable, as I'm sure you realize." A lightcrystal brightened the room. A sole stool provided the only seating at the long trestle table.
"I'll send a barrowman to East Camp for a proper chair, sir," said Wirtz. "You deserve better than that."
"It does not matter," muttered Adewole absently, his attention focused on a single book, lying on a goathair felt pad atop the table. Its binding looked like old books he'd seen bound in ostrich leather, its raised bumps a dark, dull shine against a creamy background.
Judging by the covers, the books spanned some three hundred years. Most were bound in cow leather, and he assumed they were pre-Rising. Some were bound in something else--goatskin, according to Mr. Buckan. He indicated the sole book on the table. "This one is particularly fragile, sir. It is bound in frog leather. I, ah, I should not be letting you handle it."
Adewole pulled on his cotton gloves, never taking his eyes off the thin book. "I shall be quite, quite gentle, I assure you."
"Your gentleness was never at issue, sir," murmured the librarian. Adewole looked up at the nervous tenor in the man's voice, but he had already left the room.
By now, Corporal Wirtz had unpacked Adewole's tools and books. "Will you be wanting me further, sir?"
"No," said Adewole, coming to. "No, Wirtz, go about your day." The corporal made sure to leave a lunch basket where Adewole could see it, announced he intended to make sure it was eaten, and sketched a familiar, affectionate salute before leaving.
Once alone behind the locked door, Adewole sat down, absently shifting his kikoi so the fringed ends fell down his back. He smoothed the book's bumpy binding. Who last opened this book, and how long ago? Did that someone know how to read it? He set his notebook, pencil, pen and inkwell far away from the book to his right, slid his reference books off to the left but close to hand, fumbled on his spectacles and opened the ancient book.
The pages looked as if they had been bound into the book from some other source. Written in large runes on the first page in a bold, almost overbearing hand was a name: Heicz Vatterbroch. Adewole scribbled a reminder in his notebook to ask Councilwoman Lumburgher and Mr. Buckan about the name, and turned the page. The manuscript continued in the same hand as the name--handwritten, not printed. Perhaps it had been a notebook before its binding. He riffled the pages as gently and quickly as possible--all handwritten, though the writing changed in the last few pages. Adewole held his breath in excitement. Other books from this period were printed. This was a primary document, not a history after the fact. He remembered to breathe and turned back to the first full page.
Adewole read the opening sentence, read it again. It didn't make sense. He frowned, opened a reference book and slid a finger down a list of runes to ease his mind. He picked up his pencil and tapped it against pursed lips before he pulled his notebook to him and wrote out the first sentence's translation:
Once upon a time, I built myself a god.
A religious treatise, perhaps? How does one build a god? Gods either were or weren't, and gods made humans, not the other way around--at least as far as traditional theology, folklore and myth went. He scanned the page; the writer switched willy-nilly between three different runic alphabets, and it slowed Adewole down. Worse, the emerging phrases made about as much sense as the opening sentence had, and as the day wound on he ran over each line, trying different translations even after he'd assured himself he'd gotten it right.
Religious and technical language, all tangled up, just in the opening page. Was it a prayer book or the introduction to an autocarriage manual? "The spirit is drawn to metal, metal eternal. As I make it, so shall it stay. What on earth is that supposed to mean?" he muttered, throwing his pencil onto the open reference book. His spectacle temples cramped the muscles they dug into; he took the spectacles off and rubbed behind his ears. With no windows he couldn't tell how late it was, but his stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten.
Adewole squinted at the stubborn page. Perhaps it was time to give it a rest and return later; he had a preliminary translation. Working in stages instead of pushing each word to its final, perfect-as-possible form made him twitch. What a bad habit, polishing each page before moving on. He should just take a run at it, finish the draft and then go back to polish. He should, but he knew he would not. Adewole stood up and turned the page; when he returned to the book he would move on.
The next page had no text. Instead, it contained a large illustration. Adewole put his reading spectacles back on. At first glance the illustration looked like a crudely drawn man; on closer inspection, the intricate, beautiful drawing resolved into a human figure made of metal, like a machine. He sat back down, picked up a magnifying glass and peered at the page. The idol--for such he assumed it was--swirled with patterns like roiling clouds or oil on water.
Adewole's hunger retreated. He'd never seen a culture build a god figure piecemeal of metal like this--almost like a machine. He flipped through the following pages: diagrams, cutaways, intricate schematics. Perhaps it really was a machine, and perhaps by copying the drawings he might understand what the manuscript was trying to say. "The spirit is drawn to metal," he murmured again. "Hmm." He must show this to Deviatka, he thought as he settled down to his work.
Deviatka returned two days later. "I have been waiting for you to come back, Karl, I have found an extraordinary thing," said Adewole as his friend came through the door of Frey's stable.
"That would be fortunate, because Peter Oster and I found nothing of note at all--it's why we came back early," sighed Deviatka. He handed his gloves and cap to Wirtz and slumped into a chair. "Tea, please, Wirtz, and something to eat. I'm starving. What did you find, old thing?"
From his friend's polite face, Adewole knew he thought it would be some new folk tale or other. Now, Adewole would surprise him as much as Deviatka had surprised him that first flight in the autogyro. "Diagrams, machine diagrams, quite unexpectedly complex, I think. I believe they predate the Rising, though the book itself is handwritten, not printed, and looks as if it were bound not long after the Rising from individual notes rather than folios."
"Not surprising, a printed book couldn't be as old as all that."
Adewole told him about the Library's books. "The ones predating the Rising--at least a thousand years old, Karl--are printed, not transcribed. They had the printing press a thousand years ago!"
Deviatka whistled, only mildly impressed. "Lo how the mighty have fallen."
"But they had more than that. Look." Adewole spread a few drawings copied from the book on the table. "The entire manuscript is full of these drawings, quite detailed. I'm fairly sure nothing like this existed in Jero, and Eisenstadt hadn't even been founded. I don't know what it is, but I thought perhaps you might tell me," he finished in triumph.
Deviatka gave him a good-humored smile and bent over the drawings. He fast became intent, flipping through the drawings over and over. "I have no idea what it is," he murmured, "nothing like it before the last hundred, hundred and fifty years or so. This is pretty sophisticated gearing--nothing all that new about gearing, but in combination with the rest…these look like hydraulic cylinders, this looks like a piston engine." He glanced up at Adewole. "Whatever this is, it's more sophisticated than anything on Inselmond now, by far. It's as sophisticated as the work we're doing in Eisenstadt, perhaps more--this must be from a different book, eh?" said Deviatka, setting aside a sketch of something made of bones.
"No, it's from the same book. It may be a different project than the other diagrams, or a random note bound into the rest by accident. I, ah, I haven't finished translating
it fully. I am trying something different this time."
Deviatka looked up, eyes gleaming in the light from the black mercury lamp. "You must let me see the originals, Adewole. I congratulate you on your artistic abilities, but I must, I must see this book."
Adewole grimaced. "I cannot. These are books kept under lock and key. They will not let anyone else in."
"They're afraid I might hurt them, or they worry the books might sprout legs and walk off?"
"Yes, actually--now, I beg you not to take it as a personal affront, Karl, nothing of the kind is meant. We can apply to Councilwoman Lumburgher, but I am afraid Dean Blessing's behavior has set her against the University of Eisenstadt's professors."
"You're a professor."
"Yes," Adewole smiled, "but Blessing openly despises me."
"Perhaps I'll kick Blessing the next time he bends over, that ought to put me in his bad books." Deviatka paced round and round the table, Wirtz's nearby tea and sandwiches forgotten. "I have to see it. Is it nothing but drawings?"
"No, there is text as well," said Adewole. "I have been over it once, but I am not at all finished with the actual translation yet."
The Machine God (The Drifting Isle Chronicles) Page 8
