He wore it the next day when they went back to work. By now both children were building up their catalogues and making small, but visible, impacts on the clutter. The librarium buzzed in tune to their industry. But there was one minor flaw in this endeavor that neither of them had yet worked out, though it was about to be uncovered with dramatic consequences.
Midmorning, as Rosa went flashing by en route to a room, David crowed that his collection of books on aviation history was almost complete.
“I found this on Floor Twenty-Nine,” he said. He held up a large, rather weighty book that had a photograph of a biwinged air:plane on the cover.
Rosa skidded to a halt. “Let me look at that,” she said.
Caught a little off guard, David gave it to her. Air:planes had not existed on Co:pern:ica since the origins of global taxicars, but they were still talked about fondly in some quarters. David imagined therefore that Rosa was simply attracted to the beauty of the obsolete machines. But it was not the plane she was after at all. It was the author.
“Nyremann,” she whispered, measuring the width of the spine. “I’ve got a space on my N shelf in Transport for this. Thanks, David. Bye.” She even had the temerity to plant a light kiss on his cheek as she ran.
“Hey!” he called out. “You can’t have that. It’ll leave a gap in my collection. Rosa?!” And off he went, charging after her again.
And so began the fateful chase that led them to the window on Floor Thirty-One, where Rosa, by then out of breath and out of options, knew she could run no more.
“Hand it over,” David said. He was nearly exhausted, too, but had saved enough energy to come striding, almost manfully, across the floor.
Rosa raised the book high. “Make you a deal.”
“What deal?” he puffed.
Her mouth curled into a mischievous grin. “A race,” she panted. “Whoever gets to it first gets to keep it. Agreed?”
David looked at the window and guessed her intent. “No,” he said.
But her arm came down and she hurled the book out. Almost immediately, they both heard a dreadful thump.
“Uh, what was that?” Rosa said.
Both children thrust their heads out of the window. Far below, the book was lying among the daisies.
Poking out from underneath it was an emerald green wing.
11.
Runcey!” Rosa gasped.
“He’s hurt,” said David, turning away at once. “Fetch Mr. Henry. I’m going down to see.”
Rosa just stood there, pale and mortified.
David stopped at the door to the room and looked back. “It was an accident,” he said, softening her auma with a huge slab of kindness. For in a world where everyone could create what they needed, what else but an accident would cause any kind of harm? Even so, Runcey’s situation looked desperate and there was no time to waste. “Find Mr. Henry,” David repeated. And he dashed downstairs, asking the librarium to guide him to the ground floor by the quickest possible route.
It was warm outside, the clouds nearly absent, the daisy fields still. Barring one small area of soiled pages and displaced feathers, all was well. “Runcey,” David whispered as he knelt. He lifted the book and put it aside. The firebird was flat on his back with his wings splayed out and his toes curled up. His delicate eyes were closed. His wonderful ear tufts were limp and askew.
In all his youthful time on Co:pern:ica, this was the closest David had come to actually handling a firebird. His mother had often desired to tame them, but he could not recall her, or anyone else for that matter, ever picking one up. But that was precisely what he did now. Sliding his hands underneath the bird’s wings, taking care to center them under Runcey’s shoulders where the bones, he thought, were probably strongest, he lifted him out of the daisies. Straightaway the left wing tried to flop back. It was weaker than the other one, presumably broken. There was a trickle of green fluid from the left ear as well. And patches of the breast were sore and grazed. To David’s greater dismay, the tiny spray of feathers that normally sprouted up from the top of Runcey’s head were all laid flat. He tilted his ear toward the bird’s beak. Not a breath of air was traveling through the nostrils. Runcey’s chances of survival seemed bleak.
Despair and anger raced through David’s mind. If only he hadn’t chased after Rosa. If only he’d let her have the book. If only Runcey hadn’t flown by the window. If. If. If. The painful stabs of guilt went on. But as their composite effect turned into sorrow, it was his body, not his fain, that was first to respond. Heat prickled the corner of his eye. Astonishingly, a droplet of water bloomed out and settled precariously on his cheek. David felt the wetness forming but made no attempt to touch it or dry it. By then he was simply consumed with the need to do what he could to save Runcey’s life. He squeezed his eyes shut and extended his fain, hoping to commingle with the creature’s auma. The result was a little odd. Like anyone who had ever attempted this before, David couldn’t link into the firebird’s consciousness. What he did feel, though, was a tremendous warmth seeping into his hands. It spread swiftly up his arms and circled in the pectoral muscles of his chest, as if it were seeking out his thumping heart. The teardrop struggled to the edge of his chin. Live was the intent he put into his fain.
Live.
Suddenly, there was a whoosh of air above his head and a fearsome squawk announced the arrival of another firebird. David, his focus broken, jerked back. The new bird was twice the size of Runcey. It was a deep red color with a purple frill around its neck. There was savagery in its eyes and rage in its auma. All the warmth David had felt in his chest suddenly turned to a dreadful chill. He knew without having to commingle or speak that the creature judged him responsible for Runcey’s fall. Without another sound, it swept forward and gripped Runcey in its claws and took off for the upper floors of the librarium, but not before it had made its mark on the boy. As it closed in, it opened its jaws and sent forth a jet of fire, so white-hot that it could only be described by the thermal patterns in the air around it. The fire should have struck David full in the chest. Instead, a blinding flash of light filled the space between them, as if something had jumped in and cushioned the flame. It only lasted a sec. Long enough for the firebird to leave with Runcey and David to fall back, barely conscious. By then, Rosa was close enough to catch him but not near enough to be dazzled by the light. Mr. Henry was right behind her.
“What’s it done to him?” she cried, clamping David’s forehead. The boy lay limply against her shoulder. “Why did it attack him? They just don’t do that.”
“Go inside, quickly,” Mr. Henry said. Leaning forward, he picked up the boy. David was frothing lightly at the mouth. A large portion of his favorite maroon T-shirt was bleached and some of the threads were torn. Mr. Henry chewed his lip and looked up toward the clouds. Every window that was visible above Floor Thirty-Five was occupied by at least one firebird. They stared at Mr. Henry. Mr. Henry stared at them. When he went inside the building, they did, too.
Only one — a pretty, cream-colored creature with apricot tufts around its ears — dropped down and landed among the daisies. It was smaller than the bird that had come to claim Runcey and not nearly as frightful. It poddled around thoughtfully on its long, feathered legs, stopping now and then to drum its claws, as if it were assessing the situation. It looked upward at the window the book had come through, then at ground level and the damaged flowers. Suddenly, the lines of its eye sockets twitched. It tilted its head. It had spotted something. Lifting its long, spectacular tail feathers, it walked a few paces and peered at the ground. There among the squashed and bent-back flowers was a joined-up ring of violet-colored daisies. At its center was a tiny, glittering object. Extending one foot, the bird scooped the thing up as best it could (such a nuisance, not to have paws), then turned away from the librarium to observe the item in a better light. What it saw made all of its feathers stiffen. It had found David’s teardrop, preserved and made whole by the energy condensed and captured in
side it: the glowing white flame of a firebird.
12.
Mr. Henry carried David inside to a room that Rosa had never seen before. There were books in there, of course, but not nearly as many, and they were all surprisingly tidy. None lay on the floor or in piles, for instance. And although there were gaps to be filled on the shelves, there was a certain neatness about their arrangement, which suggested that someone (Mr. Henry, she supposed) had gathered them together with care, with love.
But for once, books didn’t dominate the room. Over by the window, bathed in a slanting cone of light, was a proper single bed. Rosa hummed in envy when she saw it. She and David normally slept in hammocks or on the floor (or occasionally on a shelf if they were very tired). Mr. Henry laid David down on the mattress, supporting the boy’s head with a shallow pillow. To Rosa’s surprise the curator imagineered a blanket, which he flowed across David’s body. A glass of water appeared beside the boy as well. And a small lamp. Rosa gulped and put her hands behind her back. For Mr. Henry to be using his fain, the situation, she guessed, was serious.
“Is he going to die?” She was standing in the center of the room looking on. Her auma was overflowing with guilt.
The curator slid back one of David’s eyelids. Despite the brilliance of the firebird’s flame, the pupils were massively swollen. “His breathing is normal but his auma is in stasis. It’s impossible to say if the effect is permanent. I will need to seek advice. I’m going to my office to make a v:com. I may have to leave the building for a time.” He parted David’s hair and stood up to leave. “Stay with him, child. You are excused from your duties in the librarium today.”
Rosa looked at David’s body and shivered. “But … what should I do?”
The curator paused and took something from his waistcoat pocket. Rosa’s pupils almost grew to the size of David’s. Mr. Henry owned a watch. A ticking thing, with (what were they called?), oh, yes, “hands.” She’d never seen one before, not even imagineered, but knew what they were from books she’d come across on the subject. (Timepieces. What a quaint idea.) Mr. Henry looked at the watch, pouted his lips, and snapped it shut. “Read to him, Rosa. That’s all you have to do.”
“Even if he can’t hear?”
“He can hear,” said Mr. Henry. And in three quick strides he was out of the room.
So Rosa went to the shelves in search of something. Though what was suitable in these circumstances wasn’t really clear. Instinct, as always, would have to be her guide. The librarium, she told herself, would not let her down.
The first titles she examined, however, were dull to the point of knuckle-gnawing blandness. Who else but Mr. Henry would keep a whole shelf of books … about books? Most were to do with the layout of librariums, though the buildings were referred to by another name: “libraries.” Rosa could not understand this. The pictures of the “libraries” were much like her present surroundings (internally, at least), though the Bushley librarium, as far as she knew, did not possess movable shelves (called “trolleys”) — an intriguing idea that she thought she would take up with Mr. Henry when the curator next invited them into his study.
Things did not improve on the next shelf along. Here she found a whole collection of books that appeared to be just about the use of words. “Dictionaries,” they were called. They varied in thickness and density of writing, but all had one thing in common: The entries, in bold type, were in perfect alph order. She tingled with envy to see such a thing and felt inspired to rush back to her work right away. A slight groan from David’s lips reminded her that her duty — this day — was to him.
She slid the dictionary back onto its shelf. Fascinating as David would undoubtably find it, it didn’t lend itself to fluid reading. She glanced across the room. On the shelves opposite were several rows of books with jazzy spines. She yanked one out. It was about something called “pool.”
Rosa drew her head back, as if she had just smelled something unsavory. She opened the book with one finger. The pages were old and brown and wavy. They made a slight crackling sound as they parted. The book fell open at a picture of a well-dressed man with neatly combed hair, bending across a high green table, pointing a long thin stick at a cluster of colored balls.
What on Co:pern:ica …?
Another groan from David brought her to attention. Whatever this pool thing was, it was going to have to do. She plonked herself down on the bed beside the boy. His eyelids were flickering, but decidedly closed. Rosa gulped and reopened the book, somewhere in the middle, at a section called Tech:nique.
“The striking of the cue ball,” she read aloud, “is what determines good positional play. It is not just a question of studying angles. Knowing where to hit the white, and with what degree of pressure or follow-through, is what separates the professional player from the amateur.”
That was as far as her reading got. She was about to close the book and look for something a little less dreary, when she glanced down and noticed the daisy chain was missing from David’s wrist. She gasped and jumped up. He must have lost it outside, during the attack. Anxious not to leave him, she headed for the window, hoping she could lean out and spot it. She was just a few paces from the light when there came a heavy fluttering of wings and the recess was occupied by the silhouette of a firebird.
“MR. HENRY!” Rosa screamed for the curator at the top of her voice. But the old man did not come running and the firebird by now had swooped inside to perch squarely on the headboard, right above David’s pillow. It was the same red bird that had flamed the boy earlier. It stared down at him and twisted its prominent beak.
“Get away!” Rosa yelled, and hurled the pool book at it.
She missed — practically by the width of the bed — but the firebird had set its sights away from David anyway and was already flying toward the nearest shelf of books.
Unbalanced by her throw, Rosa lost sight of the creature for a moment. The clattering sound of books raining down upon the floor quickly identified its whereabouts. To her astonishment, the bird was going along the uppermost shelves, clawing the contents off them as if it intended to destroy the whole collection. It was certainly disrupting the order Mr. Henry had so fondly created. Rosa leaped to her feet and stormed across the floor, balling her fists, her shoelaces trailing.
“What are you doing?” she screamed. “What’s wrong with you? Stop it! Stop it! You horrible thing. What have we done to deserve this?”
Then the most extraordinary thing happened. The firebird did stop throwing down the books and hovered by one in particular. A glowing white light emerged from its eyes and strobed the spine for a couple of moments. Then it stretched its hooked claws forward and appeared to select the book from the shelf. It flew back with it toward the bed and dropped it, with reasonable care, on David’s chest. Rrrh, it went. Grumpy, but mildly apologetic. It tapped the book twice with its beak, then flew for the window and was gone.
Rosa stumbled across the floor. Her thoughts, like her hair, were in total disarray. She lifted the book off David’s chest. On its cover was a picture of a flaming firebird, though it looked like no variant of one she’d ever seen. Fearsome. Wild-eyed. Terrifying. And scaly. Her auma struggled to cope with the image. She switched her gaze to the titling instead and read the three words across the top of the cover: Creatures of Mythology. The one word across the bottom she spoke aloud. It was unfamiliar to her and the pronunciation, she would later come to learn, was incorrect: “Drar … gones,” she breathed.
Dragons.
13.
Just seven days after her dramatic visit to the Merrimans’ home, Aunt Gwyneth returned to take Eliza away. Seven days was the standard time allotted for couples to resolve their commingled auma in the knowledge of an enforced separation. Even so, when the moment came, Harlan struggled to physically let go of his wife and had to be admonished again by the Aunt. Such outrageous displays of emotion, she snapped, would see him condemned to a counselor as well. He would then be on file. And what
would that do for his future with Eliza?
“How exasperating,” Bernard Brotherton said, when Harlan told the tech:nician about it the next morning. “To be chosen as an Aunt is a great honor, but the timing is dreadful for both of you. How long will she be away?”
“Who can say?” said Harlan, looking distant, looking lost. Some aspirants were taken for three or four months; some for as long as Co:pern:ica took to complete a full spin. He sighed and smoothed his fingers around the contours of his face. “Any progress on Project Forty-Two?”
Bernard swung around and faced his com:puter. “Well, there the news will be more to your liking. It’s been a challenge, but I have achieved a breakthrough. Those co:ordinates you gave me are like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I had to recalibrate SETH to accept them. You were right; they do describe a time horizon, but it’s a far more complex event than the shimmer we saw on the film. Macro Forty-Two,” he said to the machine.