Deep Storm (13 page)

At last, in late afternoon, a different monk stepped into the library, carrying yet another set of books. Like the others of his order, he was dressed in a plain cassock bound with a white cord. But he was older than the rest and seemed to walk with a more measured tread.

He proceeded down the center aisle of the library. Approaching the visitors table the only occupied table in the room he laid the ancient texts carefully upon the white linen.

Dominus vobiscum, he said with a smile.

The man rose from the table. Et cum spiritu tuo.

Please remain seated. Here are the additional manuscripts you requested.

You are very kind.

It is our pleasure. Visiting scholars are few and far between these days, alas. It seems creature comforts have become more important than scholarly enlightenment.

The man smiled. Or the pursuit of truth.

Which is frequently the same thing. The man pulled a soft cloth from his sleeve and lovingly dusted the ancient books. Your name is Logan, correct? Dr. Jeremy Logan, Regina Professor of Medieval History at Yale?

The man looked at him. I am Dr. Logan. Currently, though, Im on academic leave.

Please do not think I am prying, my son. I am Father Bronwyn, abbot of Grimwold Castle. He took a seat on the far side of the table with a sigh. In many ways it is a trying job. You would think an abbey as ancient as this would be free from internal bureaucracy and petty grievance. But the truth is just the opposite. And we are so remote, our life so simple and humble, that new initiates come only rarely to our gates. Our number is less than half what it was fifty years ago. He sighed again. But my position has its consolations. For one, I preside over all bibliographic and library matters, and, as you know, the library remains our only, and our most prized, possession God forgive my covetousness.

Logan smiled faintly.

So naturally I am made aware of our comings and goings especially of persons as well recommended as you. Your letters of introduction made impressive reading.

Dr. Logan inclined his head.

I couldnt help but notice that, along with your application to visit our library, an itinerary was included.

Yes, that was an oversight on my part. Ive been doing research at Oxford, and my departure was a hasty one. I fear my papers got a bit scrambled. I wasnt trying to boast.

Of course not. That wasnt my meaning. But I couldnt help but be surprised at the places youve already visited on holiday. St. Urwicks Tower, as I recall. Newfoundland, correct?

Just south of Battle Harbour, on the coast.

And then your second stop. The Abbey of Wrath.

Dr. Logan nodded again.

Ive heard of it, as well. Kap Farvel, Greenland. Almost as remote a location as ours.

They are possessed of an ancient and exceedingly broad library, particularly in local history.

Im sure they are. The abbot leaned closer over the table. I hope youll forgive my familiarity, Dr. Logan: as I said, we get so few visitors these days, and my capacity for social nuance is sadly atrophied. But you see, what surprises me most about these visits of yours is the timing. Those spots boast libraries that would reward weeks of study. And each is difficult, time-consuming, and expensive to get to. Yet according to the itinerary, this is only the third day of your trip. What are you looking for that requires you to move with such speed, and that requires such trouble and expense on your part?

Dr. Logan glanced at the abbot for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. As I said, Father Bronwyn, my including the itinerary among the papers I sent here was an oversight.

Father Bronwyn sat back. Yes, of course. I am an old and curious man, and I didnt mean to pry. He removed his glasses, raised a corner of his cassock sleeve, cleaned them with it, replaced them on his nose. Then he placed his hand on the ancient calfskin volumes he had brought with him. Here are the books you requested. The Lay Anecdotes of Maighstir Beaton, circa 1448; Colquhouns Chronicles Diuerse and Sonderie, of a hundred years later; and of course Trithemiuss Poligraphia. At this last title, the abbot shuddered slightly.

Thank you, Father, Dr. Logan said, nodding as the man rose and took his leave.

An hour later, the monk who had originally helped him returned, removed the manuscripts and incunabula, and took Logans written request for additional volumes. Within a few minutes he returned with still more moldering titles, which he laid on the crisp linen.

Dr. Logan placed the volumes before him and, one after the other, paged through them with white-gloved hands. The first volume was in Middle English; the second in the vulgate; and the third a poor translation of the Attic Greek dialect known as Koine. None of the tongues gave Logan much difficulty, and he read with ease. Yet as he continued, an air of depression settled over him. At last, he pushed the final book away, blinked his eyes, and rubbed the small of his back. Three days of grueling travel to godforsaken spots, three nights of sleeping in cold rooms of drafty stone, were catching up with him. He glanced up at the massively built library, with its Romanesque vaulted ceiling and narrow windows of crude but charming stained glass. Late-afternoon light was slanting through them now, daubing the library in a mosaic of color. The monks, as was their custom, would put him up for the night after all, there was no other accommodation for many miles and no roads to bear him away. In the morning, a hired trawler would take him back to the mainlandand then where? He realized, with a sinking feeling, he did not know where to turn next.

In the silence behind him came the clearing of a throat. Dr. Logan turned to see the abbot, arms behind his back, regarding him. Father Bronwyn gave a kindly smile.

No luck? he asked in a quiet voice.

Logan shook his head.

The abbot came forward. I wish you would let me assist you. I dont know what you seek, but it is clearly something of great importance at least to you. I may be an inquisitive old fool, but I know how to keep secrets entrusted to me. Let me help you. Tell me what you seek.

Logan hesitated. More than once, his client had emphasized the need for complete discretion. But what good was discretion if one had nothing to be discreet about? He had visited three repositories of critical knowledge, and several others of lesser relevance, while furnished with only the vaguest of assignments. Unsurprisingly, he had found nothing.

He looked carefully at the abbot. Im looking for local accounts eyewitness accounts, preferably of a certain event.

I see. And what event is that?

I dont know.

The abbot raised his eyebrows. Indeed? That does make things difficult.

All I know is that the event would be significant enough, or perhaps unusual enough, to prompt recording in a historical text. Most likely, an ecclesiastical historical text.

Slowly, the abbot moved around the table and sat down once again. As he did so, his eyes never left Dr. Logans.

An unusual event. Such as a miracle?

That is quite possible. Logan hesitated. But its my understanding the miracle how can I say it? might not have its roots in a divine source.

In other words, the source could be demonic.

Dr. Logan nodded.

Is that all the information you have?

Not quite. I also have a time frame and an approximate location.

Pray continue.

The event would have taken place roughly six hundred years ago. And it would have happened there. And he raised his hand and pointed toward the northwest wall of the library.

At this, the abbot started visibly. Over water?

Yes. Something seen by a local fisherman, say, straying far from shore. Or perhaps, if the day was exceptionally clear, something observed on the horizon by a person walking the coastal cliffs.

The abbot began to speak, then paused as if reconsidering. The other two monastic libraries you visited, he began again quietly. They, too, were situated on the coast were they not? Both of them overlooking the North Atlantic. Just as we do.

Logan considered this a moment. Then he nodded almost imperceptibly.

For a moment, the abbot did not reply. He looked past Logan and his eyes went distant, as if viewing something far away or, perhaps, long past. At the front of the library, a monk gathered several books under his arm, then slipped out on noiseless feet. The dusty old room fell into an intense silence.

At last, Father Bronwyn stood up. Please wait, he said. Ill be back shortly.

Logan did as requested. And within ten minutes the abbot returned, carrying something gingerly between his hands: a bulky rectangular object wrapped in a rough black cloth. The abbot laid the object on the table, then drew the cloth carefully back. Beneath lay a lead box figured in gold and silver leaf. Drawing out a key from around his neck, the abbot unlocked the box.

You have been candid with me, my son, he said. So I will be the same with you. He patted the lead box gently. What is inside this box has remained one of the greatest secrets of Grimwold Castle. Originally it was felt very dangerous to possess a written record of the events herein. Later, as myth and legend grew, the record itself became too valuable and controversial to show to anyone. But I think I can trust you with it, Dr. Logan if only for a few minutes. And, slowly, the abbot pushed the box across the table. I hope you dont mind if I remain here while you read it? I cant allow it to leave my sight. That was an oath I swore on being named abbot of Grimwold Castle.

Logan did not open the box immediately. Instead, he simply stared at the gold and silver scrollwork adorning its top. Despite his eagerness, he hesitated.

Is there something I should know before I begin? he asked. Something you would care to tell me?

I think it will speak well enough for itself. Then a smile not grim, exactly, but not entirely pleasant spread across the abbots features. Dr. Logan, surely you are aware of the saying, Here there be monsters?

I am.

It is found in the blank spaces of the oceans on old maps. The abbot paused again. Then, very gently and deliberately, he tapped the box. Read this carefully, Dr. Logan. I am not a gambling man except perhaps on the quality of Brother Fredericks wine when each new vintage is laid down but I would bet this is where that expression first came from.

Chapter 14

When Crane entered Conference Room A, the smaller of the two in the Medical Suite, he found Michele Bishop there already, entering a notation into her palmtop computer with a metal stylus. The glossy surface of the conference table was conspicuously bare. In his prior experience, medical fact-finding meetings were always accompanied by a blizzard of paperwork: charts, reports, histories. But save for the thin folder beneath Cranes arm, there was no paperwork here today. Hard copy took up valuable space, and so wherever possible, data inside the Deep Storm station was kept scrupulously within the digital realm.

As he took a seat, Bishop looked up, gave him the ghost of a smile, then glanced back at her palmtop and made another entry.

Whats Waites status? he asked.

Im recommending he be released tomorrow.

Really?

Rogers given him psych clearance, and Ashers agreed to confine him to quarters. No reason to keep him here any longer.

As she spoke, Roger Corbett entered the room, a large latte from the nearby coffee bar in one hand. He smiled broadly at them in turn, then took a seat at the far side of the table, placing the latte and his own palmtop before him.

Michele was just telling me youve cleared Waite for discharge, Crane said.

Corbett nodded. Ive done a full psych workup. Hes got some anxiety issues that didnt show up during the initial approval tests, perhaps some non-specific depression as well. But hes responding well to the meds. Weve backed off on the antipsychotics without adverse effects. I think were looking at a simple mood disorder that should respond well to therapy.