“Of course, Reverend.”
“On no account are you to leave the library unattended. Do you understand?”
“Absolutely. I will take the greatest care of—”
“See that you do. I will send the verger to lock up at five.…” he told her, his words already fading as he moved out of the door.
Hecate listened to his painful descent of the stairs until she heard the door to the north aisle at the bottom open and close, excitement growing inside her. It was barely three o’clock. She would have the library to herself for two whole hours! She would work quickly to finish the stack of papers so she would be free to examine the map again.
Anticipation lent speed to her fingers as she sifted and sorted and filed away the documents. She would not fail in her small duty. Having charge of the library, however briefly, was a test, and she must pass it well. At last, just when she thought her patience would run out, she put the final sheet of yellowing paper into the box on her right, marked the date on the lid, and set it down on the stack beside her desk.
Now her time was her own. She turned to the Mappa Mundi. It appeared calm enough, quiet and motionless. She could hear nothing, nor detect any movement. She examined it closely, repeating to herself the names of the creatures and the places this time, determined to commit it all to memory. At one point she lifted a hand to touch the surface of the map, but a slight apprehension made her hesitate. On the last occasion she had laid a finger upon the vellum she had a duster in her hand, so that her skin had not made direct contact with it. What might happen with that barrier removed, she wondered. How much better might it be to have a friend present? To share the moment. To keep watch over her.
She stepped over to the bookshelves and peered along the rows.
“Brother Michael?” she called gently. “Brother Michael, are you there?”
For a moment there was no reply, and then she sensed rather than heard a disturbance in the far corner of the room. Seconds later, the aged monk glided into view, his round, wrinkly face smiling in welcome.
“How wonderful to hear my name called after so very many years,” he said. “And all the more wonderful that I am called by one still treading the earth.” He came to stand in front of her, pushing his hood back off his head so that his already-compromised vision was not further inhibited by the generous cowl.
“Good afternoon to you, Brother Michael,” she said, her heart beating a little faster as had become its custom at the thrill of having a ghostly companion. “I am happy to have the opportunity to speak with you again. Since last we spoke I have sought out the others.”
“Others? Oh, my brethren and sisters. Yes, yes. They have mentioned as much to me. It gladdens my heart to think that we may all welcome you into our home. How fortunate we are that you have come.”
“Are you? Fortunate, I mean. What can I do to help any of you? I feel unable to provide any service at all, save for conversation.”
“Never underestimate the value of listening to the words of another, my child. Particularly when they are spoken by the lonely. Furthermore, to have a living ally in our midst, well, who knows in what ways you may be of assistance to we flimsy, insubstantial folk?” He smiled at her, attempting and failing to pick up an inkpot to make his point.
“Actually”—Hecate shuffled her feet as she spoke, uncomfortable about asking a favor so soon in their friendship—“I was rather hoping that, on this occasion, you might be able to help me.”
The monk silently clapped his hands in delight. “But of course! Ask, and it shall be given. If I am up to the task, that is.”
“That is a question I have about myself, Brother Michael. Am I up to the task?” She pointed at the map. “I want to try to connect with the Mappa Mundi again, but I confess I am a little afraid.” She looked at her hands then. “I don’t know what will happen when I properly touch it. I was so excited about what occurred before, but now … now I doubt myself. What if it’s all simply random? I mean to say, there hasn’t been anyone else working here aside from Reverend Thomas for years. What if the map was merely reacting to the novelty of my presence? Or to my youth, perhaps? Or the fact that I am a woman? What if I inadvertently stir something in it which would be better left undisturbed? How am I to know what to do for the best? Perhaps I ought not to interfere.… How do I know if I am up to what could be required of me?”
Brother Michael folded his arms, tucking his hands into his sleeves. “There are times we cannot know before we act, my child. The knowing comes afterward.”
Hecate thought about this and knew that he was right. Her father had told her she was engaged in wonderful endeavors. He was right, too. And he believed in her ability to withstand whatever rigors were demanded of her in pursuit of those endeavors. Of course such strange actions required courage, but oh, how glorious to have those opportunities! To be given the chance to take those risks and venture upon wild, uncharted waters.
With determination, she stepped closer to the map. She found herself unconsciously pausing to touch her Hecate brooch, as if she might draw strength from her namesake. She was, after all, attempting to cross a most unusual threshold. It could not but help her cause to summon the goddess’s assistance, surely? She made a point of emptying her mind of thoughts as best she could, so that she might better receive any communication that came toward her. Slowly, but without trepidation now, she lifted her hand. She had already decided what she would touch this time. Not the map’s one flaw. Not its center. Not even the image of Hereford Cathedral, though she had considered all of these. No, instead she chose something else she felt drawn to. A little creature that sat a hand’s span above the center, near the left margin. A tiny beast that had already, more than once, signaled to her in its own strange way. She leaned forward a fraction and stretched out her hand, pointing her index finger, moving it until at last it touched the curious shape of the griffin, on the very tip of one of its wings.
She was amused but not alarmed by the high-pitched, somewhat raucous cry of the mythical animal, for it was clearly a sound made in greeting rather than anger. Even the sudden flapping of its wings, stretching of its neck, and swishing of its tail were something she might have anticipated, and she found them delightful. What caused her to gasp, to exclaim with a mixture of shock and joy, was the fact that the griffin bent its legs, lowered its head, and then sprang free of the map.
Hecate ducked as it swooped by, its wings beating erratically, as if the griffin was having to remember how to use them. Now that it was liberated from the confines of the map it became so much more than ink and vellum. Its breast feathers shimmered green and gold. Those on the underside of its wings were scarlet. The rest of it was the tawny gold of a young lion. It swooped straight through Brother Michael, who tolerated the impertinence with a mild “dear me!” Still squawking, the creature, which had grown to the size of a small cat, gained speed, flying the length of the room in seconds, finding its strength with every wing beat. For one awful moment, Hecate feared it might escape the room, or worse, crash into the glass of the windows. It flew directly at the north wall at one point, but veered left at the last minute to avoid a collision. Gaining confidence and speed, it executed two low swoops. During the second one, its talons caught up a piece of parchment from the librarian’s desk and knocked over a pot of pencils.
“Have a care!” Hecate called after it, surprised and delighted to see it was able to interact in a tangible, physical way with things around it.
The griffin seemed to be tiring. It flapped on with some effort, and at last landed atop the nearest bookcase, cocking its head to one side, its beady eyes taking in its new surroundings.
Instinctively, Hecate put out her arm, as if the tiny beast were a hawk that might return to its master. “Come along now,” she coaxed it. “It’s quite safe. Come here, little one.”
The griffin lifted a foot but only so that it might step sideways along the top of the bookcase. It had the beak of an eagle, but the body and tail of a lion. Its face was an intriguing mix of the two animals, and the sounds it uttered were sometimes birdlike, sometimes more those of a cat. Just when Hecate thought it would resist her attempt to tame it, it launched itself from the shelf, making a rapid descent, and landed with surprising accuracy on her outstretched arm. She had braced herself for the impact, for the sharp grip of its talons, but it was almost weightless. Almost, but not entirely. As it hopped up her arm and settled on her shoulder she felt its tiny steps, felt its feathers brush against her ear as it made itself comfortable, felt the slightest pressure as it held on to the fabric of her dress.
With great care, she reached up and stroked its downy chest, her fingers detecting the softest resistance, as if it were made of spiders’ webs or thistledown. In this way her new friend differed significantly from her ghostly family, for there was corporeal substance to it, however slight.
Hecate found herself beaming at Brother Michael.
“What a glorious, magical thing!” she said, moved almost to tears. “Have you ever seen this happen before?” she asked him. “Has anything ever … come out of the map like this?”
“Not in all the many centuries I have been here, no. Not so much as a mouse, let alone such a splendid fellow as this.” He chuckled, a gleeful sound that suited him well. He seemed a touch surprised by his own laughter, making Hecate wonder how long it had been since he had heard it.
“Why has this happened, do you think?” she asked him. “What does it mean?”
He gave an elaborate shrug and shook his head. “So many questions … alas I have no answers for you. What I think we can both agree upon, with some certainty, is that you, Mistress Cavendish, are precisely where you are needed.”
She smiled, nodding. “Yes,” she agreed, “I believe I am.”
At that moment the sound of the stairwell door opening and closing made her start. She could hear quick footsteps on the stairs and the jangling keys. She felt rooted to where she stood. Brother Michael was at her side. The griffin made no effort to move or hide. She glanced at the map and saw that the image depicting the little beast had vanished! Expecting the verger she was surprised to see John Forsyth enter the room.
He looked at her, taking in at once her bright-eyed expression.
Hecate waited.
“You are alone?” he asked. “I thought I heard voices. Who were you talking to?”
It was all Hecate could do not to laugh out loud. There she stood, in the company of a phantom monk, with a mythical being perched on her shoulder for all the world like a pirate’s parrot, and John could see neither man nor beast. She stifled her mirth, noticing that John was not oblivious to the fact that something momentous was taking place.
“I was expecting Mr. Gould,” said Hecate, somewhat playing for time.
