Glenn Cooper: Library of the Dead aka Secret of the Seventh Son

The Order of the Names convened again that day. No one had ever seen or heard of such an event and there was no oral history. Certainly, writers were born and writers died from old age. In this way they were like all mortal men, save for the fact that they never recorded their own births or deaths. But this death was entirely different. The fellow was young and had no sign of disease. Brother Edward, the surgeon, had confirmed this. Bartholomew had examined the last entry on the man’s last page and there was nothing at all remarkable about it. It was simply one more name that happened to be in Chinese characters, by Bartholomew’s reckoning.

It was clear this was suicide, an inexplicable abomination for any man. They discussed long into the night what actions they should take but there were no ready answers. Gabriel wondered if the body should be taken above the ground and burned, but there was dissent. A writer had never been treated so, and they were loath to break ancient traditions. Finally, Baldwin decided he should be placed inside the crypts that honeycombed the earth alongside the Hall of Writers. Generations of writers lay in repose within these catacombs, and this wretched soul would be accorded the same fate.

When Felix returned to the underground chamber with strong, young brothers to aid in the burial, he noticed that the writers were even more sluggish and listless, with a greater number than usual asleep on their cots.

It was almost as if they were in mourning.

The horses shuffled and whinnied when Luke came into the stables. It was black and cold and he was frightened by his own boldness for even being there. “Hello?” he called out in a half whisper. “Is anybody here?”

A small voice answered, “I’m here, Luke. At the end.”

He used the slice of moonlight coming through the open stable door to find her. Elizabeth was in the stall of a large bay mare, huddling beside its belly for warmth.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I am afraid.” She wasn’t crying anymore. It was too cold for that.

“You are freezing,” he said.

“Am I?” She held out her hand for him to touch. He did so with trepidation, but when he felt her alabaster wrist, he encircled it with his hand and would not let go.

“Yes. You are.”

“Will you kiss me, Luke?”

“I cannot!”

“Please.”

“Why do you torture me? You know I cannot. I have taken my vows! Besides, I came to hear your plight. You spoke of crypts.” He let go and pulled away.

“Please do not be angry at me. I am to be taken to the crypts tomorrow.”

“For what purpose?”

“They want me to lay with a man, something I have never done,” she cried. “Other girls have suffered this fate. I have met them. They have borne babies that are taken from them when they are suckled. Some girls are used as birth mothers again and again until they lose their minds. Please do not let this happen to me!”

“This cannot be true!” Luke exclaimed. “This is a place of God!”

“It is the truth. There are secrets at Vectis. Have you not heard the stories?”

“I have heard many things but I have seen nothing with my own eyes. I believe what I see.”

“But you believe in God,” she said. “And you have not seen Him.”

“That is different!” he protested. “I do not need to see Him. I feel His presence.”

She was growing desperate. She composed herself and reached for his hand, which in the unguarded moment he allowed her to grasp. “Please, Luke, lie down with me, here in the straw.”

She carried his hand to her bosom and pressed it there. He felt the firm flesh through her cloak, and his ears filled with rushing blood. He wanted to close his palm around the sweet globe, and for a moment he almost did. Then he regained his senses and recoiled, banging into the side of the stall.

Her eyes were wild. “Please, Luke, do not go! If you lie with me, they will not take me to the crypts. I will be of no use to them.”

“And what would happen to me!” he hissed. “I would be cast out! I will not do this. I am a man of God! Please, I must leave you now!”

As he ran from the stables he could hear Elizabeth’s soft wails mixing discordantly with the neighing of disturbed horses.

Storm clouds lay so low and heavy over the island that the transition from darkness to dawn seemed slight. Luke lay awake all through the night, fitful and troubled. At Lauds, it was almost impossible to concentrate on his hymns and psalms, and in the brief interval before he was obliged to return to the cathedral for the Prime Office, he rushed through his chores.

Finally he could bear it no more. He quietly approached his superior, Brother Martin, clutching his stomach and asking for permission to forgo Prime and attend the infirmary.

Permission granted, he put up his hood and chose a circuitous route to the forbidden buildings. He picked a large maple tree on a nearby knoll, close enough to watch but far enough to conceal himself. From that vantage point, he stood guard in the raw gray mist.

He heard the bells ring for Prime.

No one came or left the chapel-sized building.

He heard the bells ring again to signify the end of the Office.

All was quiet. He wondered how long he could pass unnoticed and what the consequence of his subterfuge would be. He would accept his punishment but was hopeful that God would treat him with a small measure of love and understanding for his pitiful frailties.

The bark was rough on his cheek. Consumed with fatigue, he dozed briefly but awoke with a start when his skin chafed on the jagged surface.

He saw her coming down the path, led by Sister Sabeline as if towed by a rope. Even from a distance he could tell she was crying.

At least this part of her tale was true.

The two women disappeared through the front door of the chapel.

His pulse quickened. He clenched his fists and softly beat them against the tree trunk. He prayed for guidance.

But he did nothing.

Elizabeth felt she was in a dream the moment she entered the chapel and began her descent underground. Years later, looking back, her mind would never allow her to retain the details of what she was about to see, and as an old lady she would sit alone by the fire and try to decide whether any of it had been real.

The chapel itself was an empty space with a blue-stone floor. There were low stone walls but the structure was mainly timber-framed with a steeply pitched shingled roof. The only interior decoration was a gilded wooden crucifix affixed to the wall above an oaken door at the rear.

Sister Sabeline pulled her through the door and led her down the steep stairway that bored into the earth.

At the threshold to the Hall of the Writers, Elizabeth squinted into the dim cavern and tried to make sense of what she saw. Wide-eyed, she stared at Sabeline, but the woman’s icy rebuke was, “Hold your tongue, girl.”

None of the writers seemed to take notice as Sabeline dragged her in front of them one by one, row by row, until one man raised his ginger head from a page and looked at the girl. He was perhaps eighteen or nineteen. Elizabeth noticed that three spindly fingers on his right hand were stained black with ink. She thought she heard a low grunt come out of his puny chest.

Sabeline yanked the horrified girl away. At the end of the row, Sabeline pulled her toward an archway into a black void. Elizabeth thought it must surely be the gate to Hell. As she passed through it, she turned her head and saw the grunting young man rise from his table.

The void was the entrance to the catacombs. If the first room smelled like misery, the second room smelled like death. Elizabeth choked and gagged at the stench. There were yellow skeletons with bits of adherent flesh piled like firewood in the recesses of the walls. Sabeline held out a candle, and everywhere the light splashed Elizabeth saw grotesque skulls with jaws agape. She prayed she would fall into unconsciousness, but woefully remained sensate.