by CK Collins
Evening
Liashe, Masalay
It needs to be recorded.
Not on paper, too insecure that. So Tchori has purchased a flash drive with encryption and created a password-protected Word document. She waits until Kistulo has gone to sleep before beginning.
She’s always being taken for cautious and conservative — “You needn’t be so afraid of failing” — an irritating caricature. She’s not afraid of failing, she never has been. Being average is what she fears.
When she was a girl of nine, her instructor at Sagaro Girls’ showed a film about Liashe. It was only a year since the Church had relaxed its prohibition on motion photography within the high city, and this film was the first with proper footage. A BBC production with top-shelf talent — Sir John Gielgud providing narration, and Tchori had chills from the first frame.
Some thousand years before the founding of Rome, the city of Liashe was already a thriving centre of learning and religious devotion . . . camera panning over the glittering cornices of the Grith Padonai, lingering on the ancient edifice of Syria Basilica . . . Thought to be the oldest continuously occupied settlement on the globe, Liashe has for two-and-a-half millennia been the heart of the great Ashmanist faith . . . The camera soaring over the gleaming roof of Prophets Hall and advancing through Esau’s Gate . . . And here, occupying one-hundred-and-thirteen acres in the heart of the city, at the pinnacle of the Liashean Plateau, sits the University of Liashe.
Facts that every Masalayan child knows. But to hear them over majestic imagery, recited with reverence by a British film actor, produced surprising awe in her. She had never been to Liashe and it was impossible that she might study there, but what began with that film was a pride in Liashe that has never abated.
She’s showered twice today to wash away the scent of the flowers. But it’s there still, she can smell it under her lotion. A beer and perfumed candle and she begins an outline of everything that happened in Rith Idiiye. Important to record the details before time degrades her memory.
Now on to what Carodai told her on the Trans-Mas. “It began innocuously,” he said, “but I’ve found that beginnings determine ends less than one would think. Most often, it’s the middle that makes the difference.”
This beginning was an assignment. The conclusion of his first University year, and the High Librarian requested a volunteer to visit the monastery at Saida Tal. Eighty kilometres north of Lake Ghaatasira, situated on the coast, a lovely location. The task itself was unexciting, the preparation of a catalogue, but Carodai — Charles then — raised his hand for it. His new mates found it amusing that he would willingly spend his holiday playing clerk. But he liked old books. And it could never hurt to be in the good graces of the High Librarian.
The Anartha portion of the Trans-Masalayan Motorway had yet to be built, so he was two days travelling to Ghaatasira by boat and train. A monk met him, and it was then many hours by car over coarse terrain. A poor country for farming, the people eked out livings from husbandry and quarrying and less licit activities involving unlicensed boats and stills. The monastery was some six-hundred years old, one of the first constructed by the Midaarists after their split from the Church. The north coastal region has always been vulnerable to even mild earthquakes, and damaged portions of the monastery lay abandoned, replaced by new annexes. In an area abundant with good rock and cheap labour, it was sensible to build rather than replace, but it made the building a maze.
The monks had, over the many centuries, taken to supporting themselves through the production of perfume. It can still be purchased, Carodai told her, in boutiques across the south and abroad. Highly prized. Their approach to monastery took them through fields where berries and spices were grown, and inside the building he passed a room with great iron kettles and wooden presses for expelling oil. Every monk went about with hands permanently stained, and the salt air was suffused with citrus and jasmine.
Carodai hadn’t known what sort of welcome to expect, given the long-standing tension between Liashe and the Midaarists, but the monks could not have been more cordial. Saida Tal had two documents of particular interest to the High Librarian. Most important was an original edition of the Declaration of Holy Union. A complete document but with important variations: “Sisters and Daughters” added to the salutation, the word delivered replaced by revealed in the message of eternal life.
In addition, the monastery had come to possess (no one knew how) the only complete catalogue of the High Library in the period prior to the Anarthan Siege. Several documents destroyed in the Siege were captured nowhere else. The catalogue had been transcribed decades before, but no exact replica existed. So Carodai, who had come with camera and tripod, was two days snapping pictures in fickle light.
That task finally accomplished, he moved on to the monastery’s main library, which had never itself been properly catalogued. Tedious work, and it was exasperating to witness the depredations of sea air. He began by making a simple list of the library’s contents then doubled back to prepare a précis of the more significant documents.
The monks had assigned a lad called Digrel to assist him. Largely illiterate and hampered by a club foot that made him unfit for most varieties of labour, such a boy had few options in life but with the monks. He was curious and asked questions when bringing the afternoon meal, and Carodai enjoyed his company.
The monks had mentioned the existence of a hot spring on the other side of the orchard, and Carodai, who thought he could do with a break, asked one afternoon if Digrel would show him the way.
Prohibited from traversing the monk’s chambers, they took the long way round. But Digrel was new to the monastery himself and became disoriented. They found themselves in one of the building’s abandoned areas, its walls crumbling and floor partly buckled by a long-ago quake. At last, Digrel recognised a route out. “There is a door,” he assured Carodai, “through the other library.”
When he reached this part of the story, Carodai chuckled. “‘The other library.’ Poor lad, my reaction startled him. He was rather disappointed that I no longer had interest in the hot spring.”
The monks who knew of the original library’s existence had no explanation for why so many volumes were never transferred, nor was there any record of when it sustained its damage. The guest from Liashe was ever so respectful, and they granted his request to make an inventory.
The condition of the documents was quite poor, and many were beyond recovery. But one cache — he saw it on his first inspection, Digrel lurking anxiously in the hall — was extensive and well preserved. Too excited to sleep, Carodai worked the night through. At the bottom of a leather chest, he came upon an eighteenth-century book of accounts and put it aside as mundane. But through the evening he continued to come back to it, puzzling over the use of vellum in that late era. Bringing the book as near the gas lamp as he dared, he saw something that drove the air from his lungs: Dimly visible beneath the tedious rows of financial notes was another text.
“A palimpsest, Brother?”
“Indeed,” answered Carodai, beaming at the memory. “A complete older book that had been written over. Easy to reconstruct what happened: Some economising monk decided he might save on the cost of paper. So he took an existing document of scant value — a language no one could read — and washed away the ink. But he hadn’t the skill or patience to do it properly. Rather than use something abrasive to scrape away the old ink, he simply used a scrap of cloth dipped in a solution of water and milk. It would have looked good enough in candle light. But the original ink had penetrated deep into the vellum. Lurking there.”
He fell silent then, lost in recollection, his face illuminated by headlamps. After a time he continued, recounting his difficulty orienting the original text, which lay perpendicular to the lines of the ledger. The pages had been re-ordered and he was hours locating the beginning. The style of script made it plain that he had discovered a letter of the late Second Empire. Day arrived, sunlight seepin
g through the dust-encrusted window. And he saw a name: Ivurtigaan.
“Ivurtigaan,” she repeated, trying to place it. “He was High Priest, yeah? The late Radaasis dynasty? Responsible for the massacre in Ghaatasira.”
“The lake made red for days. And you recall the reason for the slaughter?”
“Because they’d not renounce the Godling.”
“Godling fervour had been cooling for centuries, reduced to a few embers before being fanned alive by the flailing violence of an empire in decline. Communities seeking an answer to Radaasine oppression announced their opposition to the Emperor and his priesthood with blue handprints left on city gates and temple doors. Datilik Radaasis instructed his High Priest, Ivurtigaan, to proceed without mercy in leading the people back from error. Following the example made at Ghaatasira, Ivurtigaan penned instructions to each Anarthan governor, including one called Ocolum.
“Very punctilious fellow, this Ocolum. Detail oriented, is the modern phrase. A brutal sycophant as well, but such were the requirements of the job. He wrote a lengthy reply to Ivurtigaan that was, for some reason, never sent. And that letter is what our enterprising monk attempted to overwrite those many centuries later.
“Ivuurtigaan’s order had been to eradicate every trace of the Godling cult by massacring the believers and obliterating the materials behind their heresy. Dear Ocolum, hoping to earn high marks, compiled a catalogue of every item that the cult held dear. One can only imagine what tortures were employed to acquire the information. So ambitious was he that the list was not limited to West Anartha but covered near all the empire. Detailed descriptions of the objects and their locations.
“We know that there was an attempted coup at the time. It may be that Ocolum held onto the letter until things were sorted and then was himself sacked, dead by heart attack, assassinated, we don’t know. All we do know is that the letter was tucked away. And forgotten.”
“That catalogue,” said Tchori, unable to suppress a grin, “all those artefacts and their locations — like a treasure map.”
“Exactly that,” agreed Carodai, grinning as well, but wistfully. “My dear friend Viv, whom I’ve mentioned, she proved a genius in resurrecting the text. Techniques for palimpsest restoration that were years ahead of their time. We were ages working through it, line by line.”
Trying to keep her disapproval checked: “All in secret?”
“Yes. We told ourselves it was a temporary measure. And devised many rationalisations. Have we petrol enough for the last stretch to Liashe or should we stop?”
She consulted the gauge. “Plum enough. Brother, how many Godling sources did he list, the governor?”
“Forty-three.”
“That’s amazing. And you . . .”
“Searched for them? Oh yes. As you might imagine — so many centuries — most were dead ends. We found seven. One of which was that complete Av Udaan that I described. It was already ancient in their time. And they were prepared to destroy it without a thought. But then after you’ve murdered and tortured, book burning seems a minor offence.”
“So, one of the other documents, one of the other six, it predicts what we’ve just seen?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Well . . .”
“The Holy Creed, recall, teaches that nothing is foretold.”
“Of course. My error. So Brother———”
“———I do beg your pardon, dove, but I feel myself waning. You’ve done a splendid job with the driving, Herculean.”
“Thank you, but I’ve one more question, only one more. May I?”
“Please.”
“The name that Thaadi whispered in my ear — I checked the paper, and it’s the name you wrote.”
“Yes, it is.”
“May I ask what it means?”
“You may. But I’ve no answer.” He rubbed his tired face as she took the turnoff for Liashe. “Or rather, I have an answer, but I don’t believe it.”
* * *
Tchori closes the file and hides the flash drive. It’s gone 3:00 a.m. She’s not sleepy but crawls onto the mat with Kistulo. His mind on sex even when asleep, he’s soon got a hand on her hip.
She’s told him that Carodai took her to investigate a manuscript — that they discovered to be a hoax. He fancies himself shrewd, her lad, but the truth is she could convince him of anything. Or almost anything. He’s not so gullible that he’d credit the High Librarian of Liashe with possessing an illicit Av Udaan and secret trove of Godling relics. And he’d be mad indeed to believe that his Tchori has been up the night recording a heresy and trying to wash the smell of the Skythk from her skin.
16 October
* * *
Jaya, Masalay
I finally reach Dad and it’s maybe ten seconds before I start blubbering. He holds out longer, but only because he needs to get through all the cursing (in two languages, so it takes a while).
I tell him the story, abbreviated version, and try to make it linear. He stays quiet through most of it, just breaking in occasionally to say that Masalay is a crazy country and I shouldn’t be in it. He also wants to beat the crap out of whoever runs the Masalayan Railroad. I downplay the stuff about Hilm Hivaa. And how really sick I was. And play up how swanky my new digs are.
He gets the idea that there’s something I’m not telling him. That’s when I remember — right, yeah, almost forgot — that I’m pregnant. I tell him how amazing I feel and how wonderful it is. He tells me that I need to get my ass on a plane today. I say I haven’t got the money for that, which just makes him even more mad — he’ll get the goddamn money. I tell him I can’t leave without Rika.
“It’s going to be fine, Dad, it really is.”
He says he believes me. And that the minute I want to come home, he’ll make it happen. And that if I need to punch somebody, remember to plant my back foot.
* * *
Sometimes I think that my whole life was doomed from the minute we showed up at that farm. But it wasn’t fate, not really, just shitty luck. In one of those alternate universes I like to think about, Willie probably does turn over the deed like he was always promising to do. Maybe there’s some parallel plane of existence where the weather doesn’t go to crap at the wrong time, where blight doesn’t ruin the figs, where the irrigation system doesn’t fail when we need it most. With the right breaks, Dad really might have turned that initial seven acres into twelve and then thirty and up from there. Some other me got to be the celebrated princess of central California agriculture.
But instead I’m the me that everything fell apart on. Weeks of crazy rain that washed away the saplings Dad slaved over. And then washed out the bridge so we had no way out. Rain and rain and rain. Poor Alex crying from some pain we couldn’t figure out. The me who doesn’t have that happen is a me I’d really like to meet. She’d be a better person, I think. Same awesome taste in music, but less issues and more friends and less living like soil is only mud in the making.
I really believe I still could’ve turned out okay, even with all that crap luck, if I’d had a real mom. Dad’s always told me I shouldn’t hold such a grudge. But he was always kind of blind to the reality of her. He can’t see she was a stoner tease who was too self-centered to be anybody’s wife, let alone anybody’s mother. He puts it on himself for not getting Alex to a doctor quicker. But we didn’t have any insurance and there was no way off the farm except to ford the stream and get Mr. Cherry’s help. All of which he would have done — that and ten times more — but his wife kept telling him that Alex was just being a brat.
I was only seven, but I took care of him the best I could. I tried to get him to eat, I invented silly games, I read him books and when I didn’t know the words I made them up. I took him outside, to the edge of the corrugated roof, and we stomped in the mud, which was the best way to make him grin. When he couldn’t get up anymore, I brought him crackers and milk. He just stayed curled, sobbing. I got mad he didn’t appreciate me. And then he
was dead and Mom was screaming at Dad and the rain kept coming down.
* * *
Two months after Alex died, the truck was all packed up. Dad fit me into the front seat with a stack of comic books and a bag of peanuts and drove us to Oregon. Mom decided to stay behind with her pal Willie.
Maybe it’s true, maybe I should be more forgiving.
After all, she did send postcards.
* * *
Oregon was a couple years. Then Arizona for eleven months. Followed by three years in North Carolina. Followed finally by Pennsylvania. Even that wasn’t the end — we had three different places in PA until Dad found the row house in West Chester.
None of those places seem real now. It was all movie sets and predictable plots, the role of Callie played by an actress with limited emotional range.
What happened the last year in North Carolina — I’ve always blamed it on being thirteen. I mean, doesn’t everybody experiment with burglary when they’re thirteen? And I was economically deprived. So there.
