The Face in the Frost (4 page)

“ ‘
January 21:
I have been trying to unlock the cipher of this strange book. Having exhausted my supply of cryptographic manuals, I am sending to London for more. The writing
looks
as though it could be translated. That is, it is suggestive of some meaning.’

“ ‘
February 3:
The new books are no help. I am going to give up trying to interpret this piece of nonsense. It has taken up far too much of my time. After all, it may be in a language I do not know. But then, why does it seem so meaningful?’

“ ‘
February 17:
I will give this damnable book one last try. To the devil with all manuals! I should be able to solve it with my native wits.’

“ ‘
February 18:
I stayed up all night, and toward morning, when the letters were twisting and squirming before my eyes, I found that the first two lines made sense.
Laudate Dominum!
All that is required, it seems, is concentration. It seems to be the beginning of an incantation of some sort. This has been a bitter winter. Wolves were howling last night in a grove of trees a few hundred yards from the abbey. I could see their eyes as I stood in my window.’

“ ‘
February 20:
I have asked the abbot to excuse me from prayers for a few days, so that I might finish something that will, I am sure, be for the greater glory of God. He consented but reluctantly, and made a needlessly unpleasant remark about my haggard appearance.
He
has not wrestled with Powers and Principalities.’

“ ‘
March 13:
It has taken incredible concentration, but I have finished the first incantation. I assume it to be complete, since the next line is indented and begins with an ornamental capital. Tonight, I will try the spell and see what it brings.’

“ ‘
March 14:
At first, I was horribly disappointed. I chanted the words, but nothing happened. However, I soon came to see that one has to want something specific to happen. I decided that the best thing would be to close my eyes and see what image formed. I saw many things, but one picture kept recurring, the snowy field outside my window, and in the middle of it, one gray wolf. (No doubt this was the result of what I mentioned in my note of February 18.) I chanted the words again and went to my window. It was ten o’clock at night, a three-quarter-f moon was in the sky, and in the snow, I saw a wolf staring up at me. In that instant, I realized that I had
made
him, and that I could keep him there only by intense concentration. The moment my brain began to grow tired, the wolf began to shimmer and fade into the snow. When I ran outside, I saw that the creature had left tracks. I have done what Tiresias, Simon Magus, Arbaces, and all the sibyls could not do.’ ”

Prospero dropped the papers into his lap. The two men stared at each other for a long time.

“Well,” said Prospero at last, “I thought we were changing the subject when we started to read this thing.”

“So did I,” said Roger. “Fool that I am I didn’t notice the connection till you read it just now. This gives added significance to some things that happened later. Read on and you will see what I mean.”

Prospero picked up the papers again.

“ ‘
March 15:
The wolf will not obey my commands, though I can hold him here for upwards of an hour. I must read more. The abbot will not allow me to have my meals brought here. I spoke to him sharply, and he accused me of experimenting with black magic. I said that he spoke without knowledge, and quoted Job to him. He stared at me in wonder and, I think, in fear. I expected him to ask me to kneel and beg forgiveness, but he hurried away.’

“ ‘
March 17:
More success with the control of the wolf. I have translated three whole paragraphs now. The intense study is affecting my nerves. I constantly think that someone is plucking at my sleeve. When I turn around, there is no one there. And last night I dreamed that something dead lay alongside me in my bed. I woke up in terror and thought I heard something strike the floor. When I went to the window, I saw the wolf. He had come unbidden; I do not know why.’

“ ‘
March 20:
Quarreled with the abbot again today. It seems very strange that he is opposed to what I am doing. Now that we speak of witchcraft, I wonder who his master is?’

“ ‘
March 28:
I cannot get beyond the third paragraph. Could it be that the rest of the book is untranslatable? I lack will power. Told the abbot that I would not obey his evil command.’

“ ‘
April 7:
It seems that the next paragraph is not an incantation at all, but a set of directives. Prerequisites for further action. I cannot believe that such demands need to be met, so I will simply continue to the next spell.’

“ ‘
April 23:
The words have fought me fiercely, but I am ready now. I think the “instructions” were interpolated by a madman.’

Here Roger interrupted. “The next entry—the last one, as you see—has no date. The original page from the diary was torn out, crumpled, and thrown into the fire. Someone rescued it and stuck it back into the book, but the date was burned away.”

Prospero read:

“ ‘I have smashed my bottles and retorts, and I have given the book to an old fisherman—a foreigner, but a good man—who promised me that he would drop it into the deepest part of the sea. How can I tell what has happened? I spoke the words I had learned, and suddenly the whole room began to waver and drift like smoke. I felt as if I could put my hand through the table and the walls. I saw everything as through murky water. The floor pitched like a deck, but with difficulty I got to the window. The wolf was out there on the grass, closer than ever before, but beside him was a man in a monk’s robe. The cowl was thrown back, but I could not see his features through the shimmering air. Then his face grew impossibly large and came near, and I saw that it was mine—my face as it might be after a year in the grave. A voice, a dry insect voice, harsh and cracked, whispered, “
Give me the book
.” I clutched the book to my chest and fell down to the floor, which was now like smoking, bubbling water. I could see through to the ground and there was no roof above me, and I was sinking with that awful rotted face hovering over me. I fainted, and when I awoke, the solid stone floor of my study was under me again. The book was there in my arms undamaged. What I did with it I have written above, and I swear to God that what I have written is true. The abbot has forgiven me, and I am to make a pilgrimage soon,
quia peccavi nimis
. I will take up my studies again when I feel able to.’ ”

Prospero sighed and folded up the notes. “Only one thing remains for me to ask, and I’m almost afraid to ask it,” he said.

“I know what you mean,” said Roger with a tense smile. “Yes, I did bring a sample of the book’s script with me.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a small wrinkled card. “This is in the monk’s own handwriting. Is it the writing on your window?”

Prospero stared at the card, crumpled it slowly, and pressed his fist to his eyes. Then, standing up suddenly, he threw the wad across the room. It dropped neatly into the trumpet mouth of a potbellied brass spittoon.

“Come on,” said Prospero, as he pulled Roger to his feet. “Let’s go out and sit in the back yard for a while.”

Prospero and Roger went out the back door into a cool night filled with lightning bugs that flashed their tiny pulsing lamps in every corner of the garden. A great willow hung in ghostly silver near the faintly trickling fountain, and Prospero’s favorite apple tree stretched one long awkward branch up to touch the eaves of the house. The sharp smell of black dirt mingled with the green smell of wet leaves, and a light milky mist lay on the grass. The two weary but still talkative wizards sat in a pair of fan-backed wicker chairs and pitched pebbles at the drunken satyr in the fountain. They talked about wars, enchantments, and obscure facts until the sky above the forest began to be fringed with pale blue. Eventually, they collected enough strength to get up and go inside. Prospero took Roger to one of the many spare bedrooms, where the two of them shook out a set of slightly musty sheets and made up the canopied oak bed. On the way back to his room, guttering candle in hand, Prospero noticed that the great ruby-paned iron lamp that hung at the head of the stairs was flickering and laboring as if it had been thrust into a musty cave or a long-unopened room. He cast a sharp look down the dark stairs and stood dead-still, listening. Crickets and frogs and, far off, a restless dog. The light began to burn more brightly, so he blew out his candle and went to bed.

Bookmakr:Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

When Roger Bacon woke up the next morning or, rather, the next noon, he felt something more than the usual muggy heat of August days in the South Kingdom. He felt tension in the air, a tension almost audible, the humming of a high-pitched string. He was inclined to blame this feeling on his own nervous nature, so he took a leisurely bath and started down the hall toward the staircase. Prospero’s door was open, but he was not in bed. There was no sound downstairs. Roger tiptoed quietly down the steps, went to the living room, and took a square-headed iron mace down from its hook on the wall. But when he stepped into the hallway, there was Prospero, standing at the front door, holding the linen curtain aside and peering out of the small square window. Without turning, Prospero spoke:

“Put that silly weapon away and go to the kitchen. There’s some bread and marmalade, and I’ve made some coffee. And we’re surrounded.”

Roger dropped the mace, which just missed his toe as it fell.

“Surrounded? By whom?”

“By whomever or whatever our friend with the book has decided to send against us. Look.”

Roger pressed his face against the small square window. Across the road, under a tall thorn hedge, stood three gray figures.

Roger laughed. “Surrounded? By those three?”

“Oh, there are more. There are at least ten more in the forest to the east of us, and I think there are some waiting up the road, toward Brakespeare. Anyway, numbers don’t mean anything. Those things are the agents and the work of a man who probably has more power than we have. He is learning how to use that book, and when he has enough strength—or thinks he has—they will close in.”

Roger pounded the door in frustration. “Then why are we having breakfast? Are we going to die gracefully at the table, like gentlemen? Why don’t you try something? Between the two of us, we ought to be able to send them back to what’s-his-name with their blasted gray robes on fire.”

“And what if we can’t? Then he’ll know what he can do. Right now I don’t think he’s sure. He wouldn’t have sent them if he didn’t think that I am some kind of threat to him, although right now I would love to know just
how
I could disturb him.” Prospero glanced out the window again and continued. “Even if we do drive them off, we still have him to deal with. I will bet you, Roger, that those things can’t do anything until nightfall. So there is certainly time for breakfast.”

Roger kicked the iron mace into the corner and followed Prospero to the kitchen, where they ate a big breakfast of ham, scrambled eggs, bread, and quince marmalade. Prospero seemed amused by Roger’s nervousness, and this made the latter more and more cranky.

“Now,” said Prospero, pushing back his chair, “you are probably wondering what we are going to do. Come on.” He got up and went to the cellar door.

“Are we going to hide?” said Roger. “Oh, good! It’s been years since I hid in a nice smelly basement.”

Prospero was laughing so hard that he had trouble getting down the stairs. He led Roger to a high rampart of cordwood, which he then began to dismantle.

“Oh, I see,” said Roger as he helped him. “We’re going to burn the house down.
That
ought to throw them off.”

When all the wood was cleared away, the two wizards were standing before a black door with a porcelain goose-egg knob. A yellowed piece of cardboard, held to the door with a red thumbtack, said “Root Cellar.”

“Well, I haven’t been in this place for several months,” said Prospero. “There’s no telling what we’ll find.” He pushed the door open and a rank, sweetish smell of decaying vegetables hit them. In the windowless earth-floored room were shelves into which blackened rutabagas were rotting, Mason jars filled with cloudy green dandelion wine, and bushel baskets of wildly sprouting potatoes. Here and there, the walls were blotched with white and green fungus, and in a corner, cheesy green-spotted toadstools were squatting. Prospero calmly began to take the jars off the shelves that lined the short wall opposite the door. Then he started to lift the shelves from their curlicued iron brackets. Roger was watching him now with delight, for under the dirt and vegetable growth on the wall was the outline of a small arched door.

“Prospero! You never told me about this!”

“I always meant to, but it never seemed all that important. I began to build it quite a few years ago, but I ran into a little trouble. You’ll see what I mean. The door, at any rate, is a success. It responds to one of the oldest door spells in the world.”

He placed his hands on the door and whispered a few raspy words that sounded like Arabic—actually, they were corrupt Coptic. The door swung inward with a loud screech, and Prospero, ducking his head, stepped inside and motioned for Roger to follow him. A low-ceilinged dirt tunnel with basalt slabs for steps went spiraling down to a smooth stone floor. At the bottom of the stairs, Roger looked at the long vaulted tunnel before him.