Articles
Most Esteemed Sister,
It has been cold in the tower these last five nights. The factotums say the supervisor of stores has ordered the fires are allowed to burn out overnight. There are problems with the wood coming from the forests, a fact which is no surprise to any who looks from a window towards the North Hills. The trees are dying. Their trunks and branches crumble to mulch and fibre under a single axe blow. The flames which kindle from the wood that is brought back are weak, pale and without the red and gold of warmth. When the factotums refilled the basket beside my fire two nights ago, a beetle crawled out of the heap. The shell of its back was as broad as my palm. It was black. It stirred the air with hair fine feelers. When the factotum struck it with a brush it fell on its back and kicked the air until a boot crushed it. Its belly was the white of the snow that covers the ground and the dying trees.
You must forgive me this diversion; I find I linger on such incidents and details more in recent times, or perhaps I delay because mind and pen circle the matter that I must relate. For that I must also ask your forgiveness. There is no one else who I could write to and not think that they would cast the letter onto the fire, and I feel I must tell someone. It is a pressure in my thoughts, as though a larva has found the meat of my dreams for its nest and grows in my mind.
As you know, the business of the tower is to copy the works entrusted to us. Parchment crumbles, paper rots, and even the metal sheets, on which the most precious of works are etched, corrode and crumble with time.
Perhaps that is what is happening, this life and existence is just a story etched and written on a world that is rotting.
Excuse me again. I would strike that last through and start afresh, but the parchment cannot be spared. The winter-turn supplies should have come but have not. We must take care of what we have.
The process of copying never ceases. It is a circular endeavour. When the last volume of Calculuraia is inked, we must take down the first volume of the poetic diatribes and begin their transcription. This is the function of the tower and the duty of those of us that live here. For our labour we receive bed, board, and shelter for as long as we are devoted to the task. Some come and go within days, their aptitude with quill or stylus inadequate. Others, like myself, find that years or decades have passed since we arrived, and our lives have become entwined with the tower and the words it keeps. There have been few new Visitors in these last years, and since the last fold of summer to autumn, none at all. The oldest scratch out their daily copy and retreat to cot and blanket. The progress of copy has slowed. It worries those of us who have been here years or longer. Soon we will open a book, or unfurl a scroll, and find the letters within spoiled by rot or faded to the point that they cannot be copied. The circle will unravel, and the tower will become a cylinder of rock, filled with sagging shelves and drifts of pages that have become clods of rotten pulp. That is one future that might be. Once I would have said it was the worst that I could dream. Now I wonder if it would be a mercy.
It is rare for new volumes to come into our care. Most of our charges came with the founding. True, it is not unheard of for a potential benefactor to offer volumes to be put into the perpetual cycle. Most are refused with courtesy. The truth is simply that most works not already held by the tower are scarce worth inclusion. So little that is new is worthy. Disaster changed that in as much as, for a time, we received a great many volumes salvaged from Sentiri and Asch and similarly blighted and lost cities. For a while, they came with heaps and sacks of scrolls, tablets, and books, hauled in carts or on mule back. Those who brought them were often scions of the houses who had owned them. A few were looters who had picked through the carcasses of the dead land and kingdoms lost. All wanted paying, but many of the volumes were in a sorry condition, almost as poor as their bearers. We turned almost all of them away. A few we relieved of their burdens. We took in the eleventh volume of the Lays of Valtiz, so finishing the set which we had long thought would never be complete. Similarly, a three-folio set of Sincrae’s Observations of the Heavens. We paid for these, though in amounts that decades before would have seemed a pittance for such wonders. So it is that calamity can make the unobtainable obtainable and the priceless available at discount.
The book came with one of these acquisitions. At least, that is what I believe. I certainly had not seen it before. Newer works and visitors who are not part of the cycle remain on the lowest levels of the tower, and it was in the cellars that volumes donated or acquired rested before one of us sorted and catalogued them. I had not performed this task myself for many years; as one of the established Visitors to the tower, I had more important duties. But even as the acquisitions accumulated, so the number of new Visitors to perform menial functions shrank. I am not above such tasks, though I admit I did offer a brief complaint to the Senior Visitor that I still had a transcription of the diaries of Bevolio the Green to complete. My argument was not given shrift by the Senior Visitor; unless I wished to go to the forests and scavenge for wood, the unsorted stacks were mine to bring to order. I did not press the matter. So, five days ago, at the lighting of First Lamp I went to my task.
I had left it until later in the day to begin my unwanted task. I wished to complete at least another page of the Bevolio, but that being done, there was no putting it off any longer. The sun had already begun its retreat behind the hills, and the only light in the under tower was the candle that I took with me. The under tower is not a cellar filled with the discarded refuse of life or stores of food – the tower is kept free of detritus, and food is stored in houses built at a distance, that vermin might find the journey from one to another too much to chance. No, the undertower is where we keep supplies of ink, parchment, wax, quills, nibs, and styli. It is also where we keep works that have yet to enter the formal cycle. The space given over to potential acquisitions was considerably greater than at most times. Volumes had been stacked in piles, with the main consideration being structural integrity rather than order. Scrolls filled baskets like the stems of dead flowers. Loose pages lay in drifts, tablets in dinner plate stacks, rope books lay in snake coils. I paused at the bottom of the steps to look at this disorder. The light of my candle pushed between the gaps in the mountains and mesas. I confess that an unworthy and unkind thought rose in my mind; that it might be no bad thing if a candle flame were to set the whole lot afire. I shooed the thought away. I put my shielded candle to the side and began.
I do not know how long I had been at my task when I touched the book. I was working through a large heap of volumes that had been dumped into a sack. Most were damp and already succumbing to mould. None were worth putting into the cycle. I had reached down to pull the next volume from a sack and my hand stopped. I pulled it out fast and stepped back. I watched the sack for a long moment, waiting, looking for something to move. Nothing did. But still I waited. For a moment, you see, I thought I had touched something warm, and that it had moved under my fingers. I might have expected a rat to emerge, but rats have fur, and what I had touched had not fur. Just skin.
I went back to the sack. I prodded it with a foot, waited for movement. When nothing moved, I moved forward again, and with the aid of the stem of a reading stand, opened the neck of the sack. The book lay inside. Its cover was battered leather, mottled with shades of brown. No title stamp marked it. Both cover and pages had been bent and frayed at the corners. It looked like a crude consanguinity tome, a book of writings relating to a family, passed down between generations. Notes are often added to the page’s margins, and new material cheaply bound in with the old. I suppose, in a small way such tomes are a cousin to the Tower’s purpose – a means of continuing the circle of knowing. We had seen many such volumes in the books and works offered to us by those coming from the south. They had no value to us, as what little worth they possessed was to the family that created them.
I felt both a surge of relief at what must have been a moment of tiredness, and an edge of annoyance that this piece of bibliographical detritus had got into the Tower. I think it was that irritation that let me put aside the memory of the soft, squirming warmth under my fingers. I picked the book up. I was ready to throw it across the chamber to where the spoil leavings lay. It opened. As I lifted it, it opened. Its pages and cover had that looseness that comes from use, damp, or both. The place it opened to was deep into its extent. The leaves were pale, the colour of fresh churned cream. Their edges were ragged but no mould or stain spotted them. There were words. Words set in neat columns. Black ink, unfaded, clear, the hand both steady and sure, but they were not of any language or cipher I knew. That is not implausible – although I have learned all the great languages and the cipher craft of many of the great archivists and keepers, I do not know everything. There are houses that keep their records, histories and correspondence in codes, the keys of which belong to them alone. But this was not a cipher, or code, or a set of random symbols set down to befuddle the curious. It was a language. I knew it was a language because I could read it. I did not know it. I could not have said what language it was nor how the quill strokes created meaning. But I could read it. I read that open page in a glance. I cannot tell you what it said. I can remember exactly, but I cannot say it aloud nor write it here. These words won’t hold it you see. I would have to copy the language exactly, in the same letters that were on that page. I could do that, but I won’t. I don’t think it would be wise.
The candle failed. That is what stopped me reading. It had burnt down through a full inch of tallow. I woke to darkness. That is the best way I can describe it. I still had the book in my hands. I could feel its pages under my fingers. I shut it and felt my way towards the stairs. The tower above was dark. Cloud had covered the sky outside, and only a few candles had been lit. Cold had crept in and my breath was a white cloud as I climbed back up to my chambers. All the other Visitors and servants were abed. I found my way by fingertip and memory. The bed gave me cold embrace but I fell into it and slept until the day was coming grey through the window. I had not dreamt, or if I did, I do not remember. As I pushed myself to my feet, the book fell to the floor. I looked at it. I must have brought it with me when I climbed the stairs in the dark. I picked it up, not fascinated now but annoyed. I should have woken at first light to begin work on the pages I was copying. The under-tower was no doubt in the same state it had been when I came across the book. I rose.
And the book opened. It lay there, pages open. I read. How could I not?
The next thing I remember was shutting the book as I finished. The day had gone to darkness again. This time the elapse of time did not disturb me. I felt calm. I got up. I was not tired. Not tired at all. Someone must have come in and set the fire, because it blazed in the grate. I sat beside the warmth, and page by page I gave the book to it. When the binding and cover was all that was left, I gave that to it too.
The smoke from the burning leather and string brought complaints from the other residents of the tower. The smell too was quite foul. But I felt better. I had not realised I had felt ill, but now I realised that I had been under a malaise for some time, that my body and mind had been unwell. I was better now. I lit candles, and despite the hour, began to work. I had been two thirds of the way through copying the Bevolio diaries. I went back to it and did not rise or deviate from the task until it was done. Sunlight had replaced candlelight by then. Still, I did not feel fatigue, and so I returned to copying a set of unbound poems by Hingalian. I believe that the factotums brought me food, swept the fireplace and remade it. I believe so, because I was warm, and vital and how else could that be without the heat of flame and the fill of food?
The Hingalian passed into completion too. I recall searching for more ink, and quills, and parchment, and calling for supplies to be brought. Again, I presume they were because I continued. Histories, and works of natural philosophy and poetry passed through my eyes and quill. I have never known anything like it. I am devoted to my calling, but even so there are days and moments when the body and mind want nothing more than to set aside the pen and leave the pages where they lie. All such doubts and concerns were gone. The concerns of the world were cast aside. I am not certain how many works I copied in that time. Subsequent events would imply a great many.
The next incident I can recall was the Senior Visitor standing beside my desk. All of us devoted to the Great Cycle are all visitors to the Tower. There is no formal structure of authority between us. Technically, all who visit are the same. The cycle of the work is what stands above all, and we merely contribute to it. As with all things involving people, the reality is different from the ideal. Time spent as a visitor and one’s contribution to the cycle counts. A person who has copied for a half-score of years and has transcribed several volumes is senior to one who has been there a day and has not put ink to page. I have been here a long time and have had the fortune to copy many volumes and works. I sit in an exalted position amongst visitors. At least that has been my understanding. I am not the most exalted, however. That place is taken by Tanesh Nessian IVth. Four decades and six years she has visited the tower and not left. She has copied the entire works of Bucadan. Twice. Even though her quill hand is less steady than it was, and her progress slows, it will be a long time until another overtakes her. At least that was the case. Now, I do not know. She was the most senior amongst us all, and the highest authority in the tower. And there she was standing beside my desk, her expression severe, but her eyes dancing with concern.
She asked me what I had been doing. I replied that I had been attending to my copying. I lifted a sheaf of unbound pages to make the point concrete. I think I even smiled and said that it had been a most productive few days. Her eyes held on me, the concern deepening in their focus.
‘Days?’ she queried. I nodded. She blinked, pulled up a stool and sat, the movement careful, as though she was considering every detail of her actions. She smoothed her hands across the fabric covering her knees.
I had not left my room for weeks, she said. Aside from asking for more material to be copied, I had barely spoken. I confess I was confused, and I protested that there must be some misunderstanding. And even if I had been reclusive, that was not unheard of in the tower, and given the quantity of work I had completed…
She flinched as I said this, and the gesture drained the conviction from my protest. She took out an unbound sheaf of parchment and asked me if I could remember copying a short volume of astrological poetry by Catshon. I said I could, and that I had completed the transcription only yesterday. She held out the pages. I took them, waiting for her to offer a comment or context but she gave neither. She just watched me as I set them down and looked at them. I made a noise. I heard it come up my throat before I could stop it.
Marks and symbols covered the parchment. Lines and columns of them, filling the pale expanse. It was the language from the book I had taken from the sack in the cellar. I stared at it.
Did I recognise the hand?, the senior visitor asked. I did. I can recognise the work of any of the visitors to the tower at a glance, and fancy that I can read more character in a person’s quill strokes than in their frowns or smiles. But even so, which child cannot recognise their own writing? The hand was mine. I turned another leaf of parchment. The writing, my writing, covered it too. All of it was in the same language that had been in the book I had found in the sack. I stared at it, trying to imagine how this had happened.
‘Was the hand mine?’ the Senior Visitor asked. The question was gentle, soft with pity. I said it was. Then I paused and asked where they had found this manuscript. I knew though, just as I knew my own quill marks.
I had handed it to one of the factotums. I had said, apparently, that it was the Catshon poetry copied and ready for binding and indexing. I could not remember the exchange. In truth I could not remember having spoken to anyone recently, but things had come and gone from my desk and that must have been done by someone.
I looked at the pages I had copied and turned another of them, then another. They were like the rest, covered not in poetry about the heavens but in a language that I did not know but could understand. I shook my head and must have said something about how there must have been an error.
The Senior Visitor let my protest gutter before she placed another sheaf of parchment in front of me. This was supposed to be a copy of Jalazian’s Anatomy and Human Kinetics. I did not turn the first page, even after she urged me. At last, she turned it for me. There was the unknown language, marching across the parchment in relentless lines, and the anatomy was of nothing human. Just as before, it was my work, my hand. The senior Visitor reached to produce a scroll. I asked her to stop. I did not need to see it. It would be the same, I knew. I think I was shaking.
The Senior Visitor did not ask me about the script or the language it used. She was very kind. She said that I was a valued contributor to the cycle, that my visit to the tower had accomplished much. The strain of recent circumstances and my zealous devotion to my work had taken a toll, she said. I could stay of course. Rest. Allow myself space from the quill and word. I think I tried to protest, but the attempt must have been feeble, and she was not swayed.
They took my ink, my pot of blotting ash, my quills, and pen knives. They took the stored parchment, even the scraps. And they took my books. They left me with cot, fire and candle. They brought me food, but nothing with which I could write.
It has been cold in the tower these last few days. The wood that comes from the forest does not burn properly. The factotums let the fires burn to cold ash in the grates. I have not seen them for a long time. There are things crawling from the soft wood that comes from the forest. They took my quills and ink.
Forgive me again. My hand deviates as my thoughts do. The Senior Visitor came to me again. Her concern was gone. What I thought must be anger had taken its place. She began to try and ask me a question, but she could not form the words. Instead, she showed me a book. It was the volume of Catshon poetry that I had thought I had copied. The volume was old and had never been copied before. Its pages were foxed and the binding failing. The words on its pages had faded to a blue-grey. And they were in my hand. It was the language from the book, the language I did not know yet understood. It was there as though it was the original. She took out another book and another, then scrolls. All works that I had copied, all written long before I came to the tower.
The ink was faded on the pages. There were fox spots and stains that were old. The marks and symbols had been made a long time ago. But they had not been there when I had opened them to make copies. The senior visitor just stared at them and then me. I realised that what I had thought was anger was fear.
‘How?’ she asked.
Do you know what is meant by a phage? It was a word used by some physyks to describe a microscopic disease that eats its own kind. Its root meaning is variously that which devours, gluttony, to consume. To eat.
The book that came to the tower in a sack… I know I burnt it, but I do not know where it is or where it went after that.
I opened my mouth to answer the Senior Visitor’s question, to say that I had no idea. I do not know if I answered. The next thing that I can remember is the wind cutting cold through the cracked windows. I sit at my desk. I write. No one has come to clear the ash from the fireplace and light it again. The wood is soft and comes apart into fibres. The factotums come at night when I sleep, to bring food and take it away and bring parchment and quills and ink. I do not see them, but there are always quills and parchment. I work. I write. There are problems with bringing wood from the hills. The high factotum says that the wood is not suitable to burn. I did not see him as he spoke. I have not seen anyone for a long time. There was a beetle in the wood that could not be burned. I work. I write. There is so much to write. The senior visitor never came back, and all the books and parchments and tablets that I have copied have been as they should be. The work I do, the copies I make are as they should be.
It is cold in the tower. I am not sure why I started writing this. I think I began because I was afraid of something. Maybe that I was labouring under a malady, that fever had taken my thoughts. I admit that I have been writing this in spells between my other work, and in those intermissions my moods change. The matter of the book troubled me, as did the questions that the senior visitor brought me, and the soft wood that will not burn, and the beetle with its pale belly and feelers that brush the air. I am not disturbed now. In that, my esteemed sister, this letter to you has done its work. Setting such things down with quill and ink has cleared them from my mind. I feel quite well. I hope you will forgive me for any perturbation that this letter may have caused. Rest assured that both writing it and sending it to you has been most restorative. Sometimes I feel the mind must expel things that are troubling it. I hope that these words find you well, and you are not minded to be disturbed, but to pick up quill and write in turn.
Your grateful brother,
Hiaram Fel
Note:
This piece was recovered from the derelict Tower of the Cycle in the Northern Border Forests by one of our travellers. The elements had overtaken the Tower’s structure. There were no signs of what became of its inhabitants. The area in which it lies suffered a significant effect after the cataclysm. The roads, settlements, and means of supply which allowed the Tower and its community to exist would have been severely disrupted. It is possible that they had fled as day-to-day existence became harder. The tower’s collections of books and other written works had rotted to mulch. In a crisis the dead weight of paper unbalances the importance of old words. This letter was the only legible piece of writing recovered from the tower. From the signatory, it is likely that it was intended for Helasta Fel, Lady of the Green Arch. She, of course, died four years ago, and presumably never received the letter. Of the book that the writer refers to there was also no trace. The description of it is scant and matches no reference that can be easily found. That might be all there is to say on the matter if it was not for the situation that the letter was found in.
Our traveller recovered it in pieces from a fire grate in a near intact room high in the tower. The chimney breast had sheltered the fragments of parchment from the elements. I say fragments because the text as laid down here had to be reassembled. None of those pieces were from the same parchment. As far as can be told, the letter as it reads above had been copied many times. Those copies had then been burnt. Were the contents of each identical? That would be the assumption given that the fragments can be fitted together and form a consistent and cogent whole. That assumption, along with every assumption made about the contents of the letter and its writer must be treated with caution, however. This is for two reasons. First is that the fragments of the copied letters, though burnt, assembled together perfectly. None was out of place and there were no fragments that did not have a place. Second is the fact that I myself am familiar enough with penmanship to be able to tell the quill work of one hand from another. And each fragment was written by a different hand.
K.V.
Edited by Greg Smith
Written
