Excerpt from PSYCHOMACHIA
Psychomachy: (n.) A conflict of the soul, as with the body or between good and evil
Here’s a free sneak peek at the beginning! Additional chapters will be for paid subscribers.
(from Chapter 1)
Fear of falling slows me some, and I take short, sliding steps the whole way, dropping the books every now and then because I can’t extend my arms for balance. Wind freezes my ears and nose. About forty years later I shake off snow and pull the chain under the bell. The door opens almost immediately.
“Good heavens! Look at you. Give me that wrap, young woman.” William seizes my coat and yanks me into the hall, slamming the door with a great flourish. Windows rattle.
“Ow, William, don’t pull me, I’ve got broken bones.”
“What!” He lifts his hands into the air, eyes wide. “Which bones?” I surrender my coat while he scrutinizes me, flimsy glasses askew, white hair a frantic nimbus around his head, as if he’s recently been electrocuted. “What’s happened? Why have you walked here alone, then? Are you frozen through?” He fusses at his glasses.
I kick out of my boots. “I like the snow.”
“Beautiful certainly, yes! And if you’ve come on foot from the library then you have had a walk, haven’t you.” He shakes my coat and hangs it near the door, steering me into the front room with its great bay windows. Snowflakes pelt the darkening glass. “What’s this about bones, now?”
“I got kicked in the ribs by a horse and I already saw Sam, so don’t start.” I balance carefully on the edge of a chair. “Wow, everything’s harder to do. Who knew your ribs got in the way so much?”
“Indeed! Whose ill-behaved horse kicks my fragile, frangible Iris? Have we legal claim? What did Sam say?”
“Rook did it. It’s a bit of a story. It’s not so bad right now, Sam gave me some painkillers.”
William’s face darkens. “Hmm. Linus, Iris has come,” he calls to the house. “Lovely, lovely. Well, no, not lovely at all, is it, in your injured state. A lovely walk all the same, I imagine, if it isn’t terribly cold?”
“Not too cold, really.”
“Tea, then? Or coffee? What will you have?” He drops a russet afghan across my lap. “Linus is making cranberry croissants. I believe they’re nearly done.” He disappears in the direction of the kitchen, passing the wide, columned double doors of his library, my favorite part of his palatial home.
William’s house, like many on the island, is a sprawling old Victorian thing, high ceilings and dark wood and white paint, crammed to the rafters with books. Books line the hallways, tower in stacks on the floor; cover the walls. There are even shelves in the kitchen, and small ones in each bathroom.
“Brought books for you,” I call, setting them on the couch beside me, covers damp, pages wavy. I keep my own recent withdrawal in my pocket for the moment. “I dropped them in the--”
“Why thank you.” He carefully places a silver service tray next to me on the expansive couch. “Unsweetened, isn’t it? No cream? What else can we bring you, love? Have you had breakfast? You’ll have a warm croissant, fresh from the oven,” he calls over a shoulder as he disappears again. Pan-banging and stern admonitions follow.
I don’t know about this “Linus.” Supposedly he adores baking and collects aprons. William and I have known each other for ten years; “Linus” has emerged within the past nine months. I’m thinking of him as William’s imaginary friend. He seems harmless.
So far.
“Ahh,” William says, returning with a steaming plate and claiming the snow-damaged book on the top of the stack with his free hand. “De Senectute.” He kisses the cover.
“Thank you, William. Thank you, Linus,” I call around a mouthful of scone.
“Iris has broken her ribs, dear.” calls William himself absently, leafing through the Cicero. “Now then, just what has happened? Is it painful, darling? Can we bring you something to make you more comfortable? A pillow, perhaps. Lift your feet, can you recline?”
When I recount the events of the past couple hours, William chortles quietly, rubbing his beard.
“Yes, well… the Mari Llywd, I expect,” he stands abruptly to cross the room. “Astonishing… I’ll have to pay her a visit.”
“Who?”
“The Mari Llywd. The legend is Welsh, from the dark ages. The horse’s skull was considered good luck.”
He pokes around until he finds a large book, and returns to drop it into my lap. He drums his fingers on his chin. “Indeed,” he murmurs. “This is puzzling. I’d not have thought Gregor Dash to possess the literary background capable of manifesting much of anything, much less the Mari Llywd.”
“But this wasn’t some random horse out of the Miasma. It was Rook. I know Rook. She was just… different. Do you think he twisted some version of the headless horseman or something? That seems more his speed.”
William chuckles. “So ungenerous of you. It is possible, I suppose, but the teeth suggest otherwise.” He hands me a book opened to a full-color illustration of a saber-toothed horse skull at the top of a pole, swathed in vivid robes and ribbons: purple, crimson, gold. It appears to be the centerpiece of some sort of parade. I flip through as William prattles on about the Celts and Arthuriana, pretending to listen.
Later in the bathroom on the second floor, I linger at the door. I love the faucets up here, the high arched kind you usually find in kitchens. And who needs three bathroom sinks? Two on a vanity as long as the room, another large one on a pedestal. A muted television hangs in a high corner, turned, as always, to some nonstop news channel. I dream about taking a bubble bath in here… music, dim lights, maybe a movie. You couldn’t pay me to sit in my own bathtub. It’s probably a biohazard.
A sound out in the hall makes me look up. Near the top of the stairs a door has opened, and in it stands the guy from the street.
Chapter 2
“Ah, hi,” he says, apparently as startled to see me as I am to see him.
It takes me a minute to find my voice. “You surprised me.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know there was anyone else here.” Up close he’s very tall, lank-limbed, raggedy hair a bit darker than it looked outside. He crosses the hall to where I stand in front of the open bathroom door, the recently flushed toilet still running behind me. Great.
He extends his right hand. This one was his weapon; the knuckles are raw and it looks a bit swollen.
“I’m Trevor.”
I take the hand carefully. “Iris.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Iris.” Good grip. He doesn’t seem to favor the injury, but I’m careful with it anyway; who knows how macho he is.
“Likewise.”
“Are you ok? Looked like you got kicked pretty good.” There’s intense focus in his dark brown eyes. Looks like he hasn’t shaved recently. He’s not letting go of my hand.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“You’re a friend of William or Linus?” He asks, straight-faced. I suppress a smile, not entirely successfully. He grins.
“Yes.”
He’s maybe five years older than me, I guess; mid-30’s or so. Dark blue sweater. Denim. Socks. Still holding my hand. Feeling self-conscious, I lifted his gently to take a look at it.
“Does it hurt?” I touched a line of little bruised dents lightly. “Are those tooth marks?”
He lets me inspect it. “It’s a little tender.” I drop his hand. “What happened to the horse?”
“Rosalie took him.”
Trevor leans against the wall, crossing his arms. I take the opportunity to inspect myself quickly, making sure I’m zipped up and not trailing toilet paper.
“His leg’s broken,” I say. Trevor’s eyebrows lift. “Dash, I mean, the guy you beat up. Not your fault. Rook kicked him, too. Rook, the horse.”
He laughs loudly then, with a smile that lights up his face so much that it almost hurts to look at him.
The sound of our voices has drawn William to the bottom of the stairs. “Dear Iris, you’ve found my boy, wonderful! Where are your manners, lad? I didn’t realize you’d returned. Join us at once.”
Trevor turns, still smiling, and extends an open hand toward the stairs. I feel the fingertips of his other hand lightly on the small of my back.
“Please,” he says.
Trevor looks a little different from the pictures I’ve seen; he’s older, his hair’s longer. For as long as I’ve known William, it seems absurd that I’ve heard of, but never met, his son who is so close to my age. His long absence from the island is a sensitive issue which I’ve never pursued; I wonder what brings him here now.
William rummages around in his library at the bottom of the stairs. “Iris, dear girl, I have something for you here.”
“What is it?” I settle into the chair beside a great revolving globe. Europe is in the midst of a lightning storm, high clouds massing up over the UK and France, flickering with blue light. As I watch, dense ribbons of rain unfurl, darkening the countryside below, agitating the small, churning sea. Low rumbling follows.
“Your notebooks.”
“Oh, great. You’re done?”
“For the time being, I daresay.” He hands me a stack.
Fringed floor lamps and plush furniture stand around. Facing mirrors create the illusion of endless rows between the bookcases; floor-to-ceiling paintings in ornate frames stand against the walls.
At a far end, a telescope stands aimed at a high corner of the room. Through it is a clear view of a galaxy, densely stippled with stars of many sizes, some surrounded by solar systems of their own revolving at different rates, in all directions, the whole sprawling mass in a slow, ungainly wobble against the backdrop of space, like an enormous molecule of some unthinkably complex element.
Beside it, a giant rolltop desk stands opened, piled high with parchment and scrolls. A simple microscope stands beside it.
The microscope is my favorite. It is heavy brass, about ten inches high, with the appearance of great age. Through its eyepiece, a slide of an active circulatory system is visible. The view is dense with many types of cells. Colorless at this magnification, the contents course by in the unmistakable pattern of a heartbeat, swirling in eddies. I always expect the cells to jam up and stop, but they run fluidly, as if they’re slippery. Some days no two are alike; other days, the vessel is packed with duplicates.
William pulls a heavy notebook from a shelf and fusses with papers on the table, scribbling in it.
“I applaud your current selection,” he tells me, indicating The Bible of Hell with his pen.
“You’ll be the only one,” I say, flipping the cover open. The “VERBOTEN” begins to scroll, first across the page, then filling and covering it, VERBOTENVERBOTENVERBOTEN –
“Yes, well, that is hardly relevant to our purposes, is it. Have you begun reading?”
“No, I came here first.”
“Ah, wonderful!” He leans over, holding out his hand. I give him the book and he sinks into one of the big armchairs, kicking his feet up, book snug against his chest.
Trevor looks intrigued. “You really gonna read that scary book?” he asks, leaning over and snatching it out of his father’s arms. “Crazy.” He opens it but immediately snaps it closed again, as if something had tried to fly out. He studies the outside from every angle.
“I better do it before it becomes unreadable or something. I’m afraid of it as it is.”
William chuckles. “Indeed. How did you find the annex today? Was it still replicating?”
“Yep.” I shudder.
“What annex?” Trevor wants to know. “What’s replicating?”
“The book has been… exhibiting some new properties of late,” says William.
“What kind of properties?” Trevor leans over, hands tucked under crossed arms, and studies the book from a distance.
“It’s duplicating itself,” I say. “There’s like six hundred copies in this back room of the library. It just keeps going.”
“Yeah? Then you’re a fruitcake.”
“You’re welcome to stay here as you read, if you like, bug,” William says. “You know you need no invitation.”
“So why’s it spawning itself?” Trevor interjects.
“Why, indeed. We’d like to establish that, son. The replication is a relatively recent development.”
“I appreciate the offer,” I say to William. “But I’d like to see how it goes on my own first.”
“Yes, that is optimal.”
“WHY in the name of everything holy would you read that thing on purpose?” Trevor demands. “It’s killed more people than have survived it, hasn’t it? And caused all kind of hell for the ones who are still alive? Isn’t that just, you know –”
“The book itself is not dangerous,” says William.
“Yeah, I was gonna say ‘stupid’.” Trevor answers.
“Tut tut. The effects aren’t inherent in the manuscript itself, but in its readers.”
“Says you. How do you know that? Aren’t they still working that out?”
William sighs. “The worst cases were accidental. Iris is prepared and informed, much as I was.”
“You guessed,” Trevor scoffs.
“Exactly my point. She’ll be the most prepared of its readers yet. I daresay she’s nothing to fear from the experience. It was more than enough for me to approach the venture with the same expectation and a firm belief in my own mettle.”
“So why are you doing it?” Trevor asks, leaning across the end table on his forearms. “Why risk it?”
I hesitate, glancing at William, who gives me a confident smile.
“I have a… theory I want to test.”
“What kind of—"
“Adventuresome girl! Brave girl! Onward, yes!” William claps smartly then at once becomes serious, fixing me soberly with his bespectacled blue glare. He points a finger and squints down its length as if sighting me with a rifle.
“Now. Do remember it’s a deceptive read. It is not like other books. Which is not to say it isn’t just a book.” He picks it up and holds it out toward me, and I stretch across to take it from his hand. “It is, at base, only a book, bug. See that you not forget that.”
“Not what I’ve heard,” Trevor sits back, doubt in his voice. “Except for you, maybe, it sounds like just about everyone who’s read that thing had some kind of biological catastrophe.”
William turns to him in a huff. “You’ve barely arrived, lad. Just where have you gleaned such intelligence?”
“People talk, you know.”
“Who?”
“Island people.”
William laughs. “Making friends at the tavern, were you?”
“I had lunch and one beer!”
“You see, that is a substantial part of the problem, I should think,” William stands, exasperated. “This ignorant gossip spreading fear, setting things off on a malevolent, doomed course before they’ve properly begun.” He turns to me. “I can only offer direction based on my own experience, obviously. It is a powerful book, yes. A potent book. But in the greater scheme, still but a small group of ideas, and this is key.” He pokes the air emphatically.
“Thoughts alone, thought into being by a human no different or more qualified to think things up than are you yourself, and written entirely in the same language you natively possess. You’re under no obligation to accept the author’s views. There are no secret ciphers here, and no black magic. It is only a simple book. This you will do well to keep in your fine, agile mind.”
I nod, noting William’s careful omissions.
Ward 2 of the island hospital is full of the casualties of this “simple book.” More still fill an isolated cemetery, their active remains enclosed in cages.
Even so. William read this book over a year ago. He’s managed to contain the results of his own experience in a sort of annex. It’s his belief that capturing the manifest effects – he calls it “tethering” – is what has protected him.
For the most part, the book that has wrought so much damage elsewhere has brought nothing but blessing to William.
Not counting, at least for the moment, the pesky little detail of Linus.
“You’re scaring me.”
“No, no. Contrary to the superstitions of some, there is no ‘demon’ buried in the language. There is no devil lurking within, waiting to poison your thinking. But the evil it describes is altogether very real, oh, yes.”
He strokes his beard thoughtfully, pulling his chin. “Ivy Lune was right about that. All the same, her thoughts cannot hurt you. No book can hurt a reader, including this one,” he continues. “And any evil that could affect you through the reading of this volume is already there within your own heart and mind anyway. It could come out at any time, under any other circumstances. The same is true of each of us.”
Pushing himself up with his hands on his own knees, he stands. “Come with me, then. You too, son, if you like.” He heads further into the room.
Trevor, who has been lying on the couch with his eyes closed, sits up.
“Where you going?” he asks, suspicious.
“This way!” William chirps, already out of sight.
“Nuh uh,” says Trevor, getting wise. He scoots to the opposite end of the couch and plants his feet on the cushion in front of him, digging in. “I’m not going anywhere near that thing.”
“Come, come!” William claps smartly, his merry voice floating back to us.
Heart pounding, I follow.
The furthest library wall is hung with heavy dark curtains on a wooden rod. William sweeps them open with a flourish. Behind them, a heavily carved gilt floor-to-ceiling frame opens into the wall like a doorway, leading into a moonlit graveyard.
“There is one thing to remember, dear girl. This is most important, and you must promise me,” William says, stepping over the frame onto a cement platform with steps leading down. Drifts of dry leaves crackle. He turns to face me, hands on hips.
“Okay,” I say, uncertain.
“Don’t drink any water, in here, bug. Not ever in a place like this, hm? Don’t even touch it, there’s a good girl. Any source of water you may see, simply let it be. All right?”
I’m unsurprised he emphasizes this detail. Even so, I say “Why?”
“It’s all right, Iris.” He smiles, patting my shoulder. “Just the water. Now, do promise.” William steps lightly through the graveyard, making his way among the headstones.
I don’t move from my place behind the threshold. He looks back, sees me, and sighs.
“The details are complicated, bug. We’ll get to that another time, alright? Step by step, then!” He claps his hands again. “It is so thrilling to have a guest!” He advances without another backward glance.
Trevor comes up behind me at the frame’s threshold. He stands quietly looking in. “Ever been in there?”
“Not yet.”
“Me neither.”
“How come?”
“You first. You’ve been here longer. How have you not gone in yet?”
“For real? Have you seen the place?”
“Well, I want to go in.”
“Well, let’s go.”
“Yes, let’s go! Come on, then!” William calls back, already halfway across the cemetery.
Trevor looks doubtful.
“Why haven’t you?” I ask him, needing no answer.
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because I barely only got here, little miss smartypants.”
“What, five minutes ago?”
“Yeah, I know,” he says, pulling the curtain back. “It’s just creepy.”
The place smells. Its scent changes: spring rain; rotting putrescence, as if a cadaver were nearby; smoke; excrement; the bright tartness of lemons; sulphur, and a fetid, metallic stench like spilled blood.
Across the cemetery William turns, hands on his hips.
“What is the delay? One or the both of you, come on, then, we haven’t all day. Iris, this is for you, dear. It’s important, so come along, now.”
I take a deep breath, glancing at Trevor.
“Uh uh,” he says, shaking his head.
I step through into the graveyard.
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