The Keepers of the Library (18 page)

From the corner of her eye she became aware of something. On one of the video screens.

Her heart went into a full gallop.

“No, Ron. Thank you. Please call if you get anything.” She pulled out her earpiece and shouted across the room, “Middle row! Second screen from the left! Freeze it and go back fifteen seconds!”

Andrea halted that screen with a palm gesture and swiped it into reverse with another. “Play,” she said.

Nancy was close to it now at Andrea’s side. “There! Stop!”

The screen froze. A hatless man had one hand on the handle of a postbox and another hand in the slot.

“Jesus,” Nancy said.

“What?” Andrea looked puzzled.

“That one. Do a facial capture and run it against all your other footage. And do it fast. I know him.”

W
ill had an inkling of what he
was going to find behind the door, but his suspicion was hardly enough to blunt the numbing reality of seeing it.

He had imagined what it might be like to be in the same room as them, a fly on the wall, but these kinds of musings had been akin to imagining having a time machine to go back and witness the goings-on at the court of King Henry VIII or wander the grottos of Lascaux while prehistoric man painted frescoes.

There were seven of them.

The oldest was perhaps in his seventies, the youngest, not much older than Will’s own son. They sat at two simple tables at the front of the room; unoccupied tables stretched into the black reaches of the chamber.

All seven looked up when they entered. Will saw seven sets of emerald eyes briefly staring at him before they all quickly resumed their work.

“It’s all right, they’re friends,” Cacia said to them soothingly, but it seemed to Will that her words mattered as much to them as reassurances given to household pets. It was her tone that mattered.

There was no fear betrayed in their comportment,
no curiosity, no sense of a violation of privacy. They were mute and blank-faced, their lips relaxed in their labors, their eyes nonblinking. Every one of them had longish ginger hair, straight and fine, the older men thinning at the top, showing scaly scalps.

Will was drawn to their hands. Long, delicate fingers grasped black ballpoint pens depositing flowing, cursive script onto white A4-sized sheets of paper. They sat in padded wooden chairs, their paper illuminated by high-intensity lamps. All had the pale complexion of basement dwellers and the spindly habitus of men whose bodies existed only to support the mind.

As he had walked through the Library, he had imagined them wearing the flowing robes of ancient monks, but their garb was commonplace and, as such, incongruous. They had uniforms of a sort but the clothes spoke more to household convenience than regimentation—khaki trousers, white socks and sandals and light blue cotton shirts.

“Dad,” Phillip said.

“I know,” Will replied. “I know.”

They fell silent again watching, slack-jawed as the ginger-haired men did what their kind had been doing since the eighth century: writing down names and dates. And next to each name was the simple notation—
natus
or
mors
, born or died.

“Can we go closer?” Will asked.

Haven ushered them in until they were standing between the two occupied tables.

“They’re working on th’ thirteenth of April 2611,” Cacia said softly. “They’ve been on it for almost a week.”

“In that time, about one hundred thousand people’ll be born and one hundred thousand’ll die every day,” Haven said, using the hushed voice one
uses in a library. “I totaled it one day when I had nowt better t’ do.”

“They’ll be in balance,” her mother said. “I hope it’s a natural one.”

“It’s my job t’ count th’ pages,” the girl said. “When they get t’ six hundred, Andrew, one of me brothers, binds ’em in a book.”

The body odor of the men, a sweet, fermented smell, filled Will’s nostrils. “What do you call them?” he asked.

“They each have names,” Haven said. “But we call ’em the writers. For twelve centuries that’s what they’ve been called.”

Suddenly Will and Phillip startled when one of the writers in front of them pushed his chair back and rose.

“Don’t worry,” Cacia said. “Haven, take care of Matthew.”

Matthew was young, perhaps twenty, with reddish stubble on his chin and above his lip. He walked toward the door and stood before it, his hands at his side, shifting his weight on his feet.

Haven opened it for him and both of them left.

“He had t’ go t’ th’ loo,” Cacia said. “They’re like children, really. They need constant attending. We’ve got t’ feed ’em, clean ’em, shave ’em—cause they don’t like beards, put them t’ bed at night and wake them up in th’ morning. I’m not complaining—it’s what we do—but it’s a lot of work, I can tell ya. All the Lightburns are involved. The entire farm exists to support ’em. You met me husband and ‘is brother. Haven’s got two older brothers, Andrew and Douglas, and an aunt, Gail who’s got two girls, both small. Like I said, it’s our duty. All of us do our part, all our wakin’ hours.”

Will could see that Phillip had shifted his attention
from looking over one of the writer’s shoulders to listening to Cacia. “But Haven goes to school,” Phillip said.

“She does, and not of her own choice or our choice. Not by a long shot. She’s always been a free spirit, that one, wandering off, picking ‘er wildflowers and following butterflies onto th’ fells. Years back, th’ headmaster of th’ school in Kirkby Stephen was up walking the fells above th’ farm when he happened upon ‘er and was curious why he didn’t recognize ‘er. She was young at the time and admitted she lived down on the farm. Well, th’ local authorities visited us and wanted to know why th’ girl wasn’t going t’ school. It was a lot of bother. We live off the map as much as we can, you see. We don’t use th’ doctors, don’t take benefits, and here they are, snooping around. We’re used t’ th’ DEFRA people coming ‘round t’ tag th’ sheep and cows, but we never had trouble with offcomers muckin’ about with our children. We had to hide th’ young’uns down here with the writers every time some busybody showed up. But they got their hooks into Haven, and we either had t’ send her off t’ school or jump through all sorts of hoops for home schooling, which was even worse since they’d come and inspect ya all th’ time. So aye, Phillip, Haven’s been the only Lightburn who’s gone t’ school. It probably accounts for why she did th’ stupid thing contactin’ you.”

Will jumped in with a question. “There are seven writers. They get old, they die, but they don’t die out, do they?”

Cacia sighed. “Ah, you’ve spotted our biggest challenge.”

Will had found a weak spot. He had to exploit it even if it was going to upset his son. “Tell me, Cacia, is Haven next?”

Cacia nodded solemnly. “We want her t’ be a wee bit older, but aye.”

Will was right about Phillip because the boy almost came out of his shoes. “Are you serious? With one of them?”

The writers stopped their work at the shouting but resumed in unison a few seconds later.

“It’s our way, Phillip. It’s always been our way,” Cacia answered patiently.

“Leave her alone!” Phillip demanded gallantly. “If it’s your way, why don’t
you
do it?”

Cacia touched a young writer lightly on the shoulders. “This lad’s mine. And Matthew too.”

Will kept drilling. “How does Haven feel about this obligation of hers?”

“She’s not thrilled, is she? She’s seen the outside world in school. She fancies boys. I reckon she fancies you, Phillip. Maybe all that played into her deciding t’ contact ya. But she’ll do what th’ Lightburn women are supposed t’ do. It’s for th’ glory of God. It’s bigger than us. As it is, our generation’s been slackin’. They’re only seven of ’em now. Look at all the empty tables behind ’em. In the past, there’s been twenty, thirty a time.”

“So it’s up to Haven, then her younger cousins, to get the numbers up,” Will said harshly.

“Dad, we can’t let that happen!” Phillip said.

“I’d respectfully ask the two of you not t’ be judgmental of us,” Cacia said sadly. “There are greater forces in the universe than th’ sensibilities of young girls.”

Haven returned with Matthew. “Dad’s coming,” she said. “We’d better take ’em back t’ th’ dormitory.”

Will had a flood of thoughts. Grab one of the ginger-haired men around the neck and use him as a hostage to get out. Do the same with Cacia or the
girl. Do something! But he kept returning to Phillip’s safety and decided to fight with words only.

“Cacia, you’ve got to let us go,” he said. “Haven was right. The world needs to know there’s no Horizon. Billions of people are suffering needlessly, scared to death over something that’s not going to happen.”

“I’m sorry, Will. It can’t be done. The world mustn’t find out about us. They won’t let us survive in peace. It’ll be th’ end of the writers and th’ end of their work. We won’t abide that. Now hurry. We’ve got t’ go.”

B
ased on Annie’s briefing, Melrose decided they would visit Scar Farm first, Lightburn Farm second, and Brook Farm third. If those didn’t pan out, they would carry on until they’d covered the entire list of properties.

Annie warned them that the folks at Scar Farm employed a somewhat undecipherable dialect, but Melrose nevertheless complained irritably, “I can’t understand a bloody word they’re saying. Really, do we need an interpreter in our own bloody country?”

“Fuck off,” the farmer said.

“Shall I interpret?” Annie asked, smiling.

“Tell them we have a right to enter their premises under the Security Act of 2019,” Melrose said.

“I’m gittin’ me gun,” the farmer said, disappearing inside the farmhouse door.

Melrose told one of his lads to apprehend the farmer and put him in restraints and after a brief scuffle, the old farmer was in plastic cuffs and his wife was hyperventilating on the kitchen floor.

While the other agent stood watch in the garden, one hand upon his holstered weapon, Annie kept
an eye on the elderly woman, offering her a glass of water and some settling words. Melrose and his colleague searched the house and the outbuildings.

Kenney and his men had staked out some high ground in a thicket on the other side of the road. Now, he was watching the MI5 team through binoculars as they ran their paces.

“What kind of weapons you think they have, chief?” Harper asked.

“Peashooters, more than likely,” Kenney said. “And no telling whether they can hit a target.”

W
ill broke down and ate the lunch Haven brought down for them. Father and son sat chained to their beds in the partitioned room inside the larger dormitory. The girl explained it was used as an isolation room when one of the writers came down with a cold or a fever to prevent its spreading.

“What are your mom and dad saying they want to do with us?” Will asked her as casually as he could.

“They’re not sayin’ in front of me,” Haven said. “They don’t trust me any more. But I can hear ’em arguing.”

“Can you get us the keys to these?” Will said, holding up a manacled wrist.

“They’ve hidden everything from me,” she said. “The keys, Phillip’s NetPen.”

“Can you call the police?” Phillip asked.

“Nae! They’ll see me using th’ phone in th’ lounge.”

“Can you sneak away and go to a neighbor?” Will asked.

“Not likely!” she said. “My uncle and brothers are keepin’ watch. It’s only because mum’s told ’em she’s short-handed, they’re letting me bring th’ meals.”

The girl sat on Phillip’s bed while he ate, close
enough for their shoulders to touch. She asked him if he was done and he responded by giving her a peck on her cheek, changing its color from pale to rouge.

She hastily gathered the trays and left, saying she’d be back when she could, then turned her head to give the boy a shy smile.

“Good maneuver,” Will said. “She’s already on our side, but every little bit helps.”

“It wasn’t a maneuver,” Phillip replied in a bothered tone.

The kid’s smitten, Will thought. “She’s a nice girl,” he said. “You got good taste.”

“When we get out of here, you’ve got to promise me you’ll make sure nothing happens to her, okay?” the boy demanded.

“I’ll go to bat for her. You’ve got my promise.”

“We are going to get out of here, aren’t we?” Phillip asked, suddenly less confident.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“We’ve got to,” the boy said, stretching out and yawning. “The world’s got to know about this place.”

As the boy snored the afternoon away, Will lay on his bunk, his arms folded defiantly over his chest, trying to work the angles. The kid already had Haven in a spell and he’d have to work the Piper charm on the girl’s mother. They weren’t getting out of this by resorting to violence. It was too risky. Like his son said, they’d have to make love not war.

He was starting to drift off himself when the door to their little room opened and Cacia came in with a couple of mugs of tea. She saw Phillip was asleep and whispered, “Why don’t we have a chat?”

Will nodded and held up his wrist.

“Do I still have your promise?” she asked.

“I’ll let you know when I retract it,” he said.

She unchained him, left Phillip’s tea by his bed, and escorted Will to the three-doored anteroom.

He sipped at the milky tea and gestured at the Library door. “Want to take a walk?”

Inside, she switched on the lights, and Will inhaled the ancient vapors.

“It’s quite the place,” he said.

“ ’Tis that. It’s magical. That’s why we’ve got t’ protect it.”

Will began his semirehearsed speech. “Let me give you my take on this, Cacia, okay? Your writers or savants or whatever you want to call them—I don’t have a clue where they get their abilities. I’ve never been really religious, but I guess there’s no getting around the fact that their talent speaks to some kind of higher authority. Maybe that’s God. Maybe it’s something else. But one thing I do know is that the names written down in these books represent real people. The names of most of the billions of people alive today are here. The names of billions more who haven’t been born yet are here. It’s about people, isn’t it? It’s not about books.”

They began to move down the central corridor.

“What are you sayin’, Will? That we should turn away from our obligations t’ perpetuate the Library so people can know their fate? I don’t know why this Library exists, but I know it’s our obligation t’ protect it from th’ prying eyes of th’ outside world.”

“Look, I’ve thought about this every day of my life since I discovered the first Library. I don’t think it’s healthy or natural for people to know the day they’re going to die. People ought to be focused on living, not dying. And I think it’s despicable that my government used the data for decades for geopolitical purposes. But it makes me sick that the entire world is
walking around with the mistaken belief—which in a way I’m responsible for—that they’re under a death sentence. People are in anguish over the Horizon. I think it’s time to let them know that next February 9 is just going to be another day.”