Hecate staggered back further, bumping up against her own desk, knocking over her glue pot, still staring at the map, watching the figures, not quite daring to look away even though she now could. As suddenly as it had begun, the activity stopped. Even the picture of the city ceased its movement. The drawings were motionless once more. She waited a little longer before summoning the courage to peer more closely at the Essedenes. The depiction of their attack on their victim was as unsettling as ever, but now it did not move.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Hecate strode over to the library shelves and called out.
“Brother Michael? Brother Michael, are you here? I need to speak with you. Please, show yourself,” she said, looking this way and that, hoping for a glimpse of the monk’s hooded habit as he flitted between the rows of antique books. At last he appeared, stepping out of a collection of parish records and coming to stand in front of her as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
“My dear, whatever is it? You appear extremely vexed.”
“I am indeed vexed. And more than a little terrified, truth be told.”
“Is it the crypt? Has some other event taken place?”
“Not the crypt.” She shook her head. “It’s the Mappa Mundi, Brother Michael.”
“There has been further activity?”
“There certainly has. Tell me, what do you know about the Essedenes?”
“Very little, I confess,” he told her, waving a hand in a vague gesture. He went on, “They were an ancient tribe believed to exist somewhere north of the Sahara.”
“That much I was able to understand from the map. Do you know if they were thought to be particularly fierce or violent? I mean, of course they are shown cutting up a body, but depictions of war were often graphic. It doesn’t tell us much about the people themselves, necessarily.” The memory of the way the figure’s eyes had seared into her was still fresh. She had often seen signs and movement on the map, and the griffin had chosen to befriend her, but she had never experienced such a direct and challenging connection with one of the people in it.
“I can add nothing helpful, alas. However, there was a book, now let me think on it … yes, a translation from the Greek, I believe…” He drifted off along the shelves, searching. Hecate followed him. “Aristophanes, was it? No, Euripides, perhaps? I cannot recall, but I am certain there is a book here that chronicles the existences of forgotten tribes, specifically those in what you might now call the Middle East.” He scoured the rows of books.
“Please, try to remember its name.”
“Yes, yes … it will come to me … lost tribes, forgotten people, customs and arcane burial rites, something of that sort…” The ancient monk drifted this way and that, peering myopically at the books in front of him. His task was made all the more difficult by the fact that they were positioned not with their spines facing out, rather the other way around. Presented with row upon row of page edges of varying shades of cream or yellow made identification challenging. When he could not find what he sought on the lower shelves, nor the middle ones, he flitted upward, taking advantage of his weightless, ghostly form, floating at eye level with the uppermost volumes.
Hecate fought to contain her impatience as she waited.
“Ah!”
“You have it?” she asked.
“I believe so, though I cannot read the title completely.… I see the words Forgotten Peoples of … etcetera, etcetera. I don’t recall the name of the book exactly, but I can see the faded sable hue of the leather, and yes, yes, I am certain this is it.”
That he had located the book was good news. What was less helpful was the fact that it was on the top shelf. Hecate could reach it by using the library steps, but it was a large, heavy tome. It could not be read unless placed in a stand for fear of damaging it. She would have nowhere to place it at that level. It would have to be removed from the chains that secured it, which meant asking Reverend Thomas to unlock the row. She could not possibly request any further access to books for her own interest until she had completed the repair she had been given. Thanking Brother Michael, she made a note of the exact position of the book. She would think up what she hoped would be a plausible reason for wanting to examine it, but first she must finish mending the tear on the small map. Had she not had so many interruptions that week it would have been done some time ago. At least she knew a few further hours should see it properly restored. It was with some horror then, that she saw, on returning to her desk, the disastrous results of the upended glue pot. She had only half registered knocking into it when she had jumped back, startled, from the Mappa Mundi. Now she could see the entire contents of the pot, which had been nearly full, had spread in a ruinous flood across her workstation, coating everything in its path. Including the map. She was in the process of lifting the old parchment up from the desk to inspect the damage when Reverend Thomas entered the room.
For a moment he stared open-mouthed at the sight before him. At last he found his voice. “Miss Cavendish! Would you care to explain what has taken place?”
“Oh, Reverend, I must apologize, I inadvertently tipped my glue pot and…” There was no need for her to finish the explanation. The slow dripping of the adhesive from the corner of the map was sufficiently eloquent.
“Such carelessness!” The librarian’s complexion had taken on an alarming flush of color. “This is the error of a beginner, and a clumsy one at that.”
“I am so very sorry.… I…”
“I have stressed, have I not, on numerous occasions, the importance of care when using viscous substances in close proximity to artifacts?”
“Yes, Reverend.” Hecate gave up all attempts to defend herself and accepted her chastisement, knowing that she deserved it.
Sensing this, Reverend Thomas did not berate her further. Instead he stepped forward to more closely examine the damaged map. Hecate experienced the cold twist of guilt in her gut at what her inattention had wrought. No matter that she had been startled or that her action was accidental. The map was precious and rare and had been entrusted to her care and she had failed in her duty.
The librarian let out a weary sigh.
“Fetch white spirit and clean cloths. The glue must be removed slowly and with a gentle touch. Once you are certain every trace of it has been lifted, a wash of warm water with a few flakes of soap, and then a rinse. Pay attention, for too much water will result in marks and stains. The map must be completely dry before you can complete your repair. Do you understand those instructions, Miss Cavendish?”
“I do,” she said.
He finished the discussion with a curt nod, returning to his own desk where he resumed his work and spoke not another word the entire afternoon.
On arriving home, Hecate went straight to her father’s study. She found him at his desk.
“Father, what can you tell me about the Essedenes?” she asked, tugging off her gloves and removing her hat as she walked across the room toward him.
“And a good afternoon to you, too, my little librarian,” he replied, looking up from his paperwork.
“Yes, of course, hello and all that, but please, Papa … can you recall anything about them from your travels?”
Edward put down his pen and leaned back in his chair, casting his gaze upward as if notes from his expeditions might be written on the ceiling. “Let me see … a little-known tribe. North African. Given to violence. A race that died out centuries ago.”
“That’s it? Nothing more?”
He looked at her then, eyebrows raised. “Why the sudden interest?”
“You know they feature on the Mappa Mundi?”
“I confess I did not. Though now that you mention it, I am not surprised. The creator of the map displayed a fondness for such … untamed peoples.”
“Untamed indeed. And violent, you say? Yes, well, they are shown dismembering a body of course. Which all fits with what they made me feel when they looked at me,” she said by way of explanation, finally sitting down in one of the small armchairs by the unlit fire.
