The Everlasting (16 page)

There was no answering voice, and no other sounds. He was alone. And the choice really was not difficult to make.

The hole was wider than it looked, hidden in the shadows of the overhang. To begin with, Scott crawled over sharp shale and angled rocks, which dug into his palms and knees. But a few feet in, when any borrowed light from the city failed to penetrate, the ground changed to something smooth. He could not easily identify what it was; it felt like grass, but was warm and fine as felt.

He leaned down and took a sniff, and it smelled of nothing.

He lay still and breathed out slowly, listening for any sounds from deeper in the cave. There were none. He crawled on, enjoying the feel of the stuff beneath his hands, and within a few seconds he saw a light up ahead. It flickered and flowed, dancing in unseen currents, perhaps caused by his entry into the cave. And he could smell the smoky taint of burning oil.

“Hello!” His voice did not echo at all. “Nina?” he called. “Old Man?” The rock ate his words. Nothing came back.

Scott crawled on, aiming for the light. He hauled
with his left hand, pushed with his feet, pulled his right hand along after him. It was getting worse. He caught a whiff of something wrong and smelled the mud on his hand.
I'm dying.

He reached back and touched the papers folded in his pocket. They felt suddenly dangerous, evidence of some vast betrayal that he did not yet understand, and all he wanted to do was throw them away. But what if he did? What if he crawled back to the cave entrance, curled the papers into balls, and threw them from the cliff? Perhaps they would blow away on a breeze and be lost forever. Or perhaps they would be found, an enigma, a puzzle, just as challenging to the discoverer as the original tablets had been to Papa and Lewis sixty years before.

He could not do that.

And much as they felt heavy as guilt, neither could he destroy them.

He crawled on, came to a bend, turned almost ninety degrees, and found Nina looking at him.

She was standing in a small, spherical cave. Several holes in the walls bore bluish flames, lighting the cave and giving the smell of burning oil to the air. The ceiling shone with crystal brilliance, and the floor was lined with dozens of overlapping rugs: reed, wool, and silk.

“Old Man not home?” Scott asked. He lowered himself from the crawl space and stretched straight.

“This is only his front door,” Nina said. “He asked me to wait here for you, guide you in.”

“Guide?” Scott looked around. Other than the way he had come, there was one exit from the cave, a round doorway behind Nina.

“There are lots of ways in, but only one way out,” she said. “I don't want you to get lost down here.” She turned and entered the doorway, and Scott followed.

The corridor wound left and right, up and down, and the entire route was lit by burning oil reservoirs held in hollows in the wall. In places the smoke hazed the air slightly, but generally the cave was kept clear, though Scott could detect no real air movement. Other tunnels veered off from the main corridor, varying from the same size to too small for someone to pass through. They joined from above and below as well as from the sides, and Scott quickly formed the impression of a vast ants' nest below Edinburgh Castle, inhabited by just one man.

“How far?” he asked.

“Almost there. How do you feel?”

“Tired.” His chest was starting to ache as the rot ate its way inside. His muscles were turning to jelly, and his joints were so stiff that he was amazed Nina could not hear them creaking. He was much, much more than tired.

“Almost there,” she said again, glancing back at him over her shoulder. Her beautiful dark eyes . . . sometimes so cold, now tinged with sympathy. Was she really just playing him?

A minute later Nina stopped, glanced around as if to orient herself, and then turned back to Scott. “He'll see you,” she said, “but he'll seem . . .”

“Strange. Yes. You told me.”

“Well . . .” She shrugged, turned, and headed through an arched doorway.

Scott followed.
Strange.
And when he entered the wildly illuminated chamber beyond, he thought that had to be one of the greatest understatements ever.

Papa sits in his comfortable fishing chair and stares out across the river. He has never seriously fished—not that Scott has observed, anyway—but he seems to enjoy the tranquillity of the river. It gives his mind free rein to wonder, so Papa says, though Scott thinks that maybe he means
wander
as well. Its soporific flow provides a certain hush and solitude. And to underscore it all, there are sounds and sights to the river that many people seem unable to appreciate. Water flows musically across rocks, reeds hush and sigh as currents pull them this way and that, ducks paddle, pond skaters float on the surface, dragonflies speckle the air, kingfishers make a blur of blue, a heron stands still as an ornament until it darts for the kill, fish leap and make rippled patterns, and insects and birds buzz and sing, adding their own concerto. Life follows the river, Papa says, and what better place to join in?

But today things are different. Today the far side of the river has been invaded by tourists.

“There was a time when they'd never have let that damn monster drive down this far,” Papa says. “Let alone disgorge all those sheep to scatter their picnic waste and crush the grass with their fat arses.”

“We can move if you like, Papa,” Scott says. He's eleven years old, and he'll do anything to help his grandfather.

Papa waves his hand, shakes his head. “Too relaxed to do that,” he says. “For now, anyway. Look at them! Damn them. A sample of all that's annoying about humanity.”

Scott watches the tourists disembark from the coach and flow along the riverbank. They have no grace about them, and within minutes the riverbank has been polluted by their colorful clothes, picnic hampers, and the annoying chatter of conversation. He and Papa are too far away to hear what is being said, and he's glad for that.

“People have a lot to answer for,” Papa says. And here the memory normally ends, with the old man staring across the river and Scott staring at him. It's a saying that Papa used a lot in his final few years, and Scott often wondered why it sounded so weighted coming from Papa's mouth, so judged. He would mumble it while reading of a new housing estate being built on the other side of their village, but his tone implied that the builders were using dead babies as foundations.

And now the memory continues, telling Scott more than he has ever remembered before.

“People are different,” Papa says.

“From who?” Scott asks.

“One another.” Papa waves his hand, as though shooing away objections that have not yet been spoken. “No, no, I don't just mean the differences from
country to country, color to color, creed to creed—though there
are
differences all across there, and don't let any of these new politically correct cretins tell you otherwise. It's what makes humanity
great
, all those differences. It's what makes us so wonderful and diverse. Embrace the diversity, Scott, and you'll be great as well. No, it's not that.” He sits back in his chair, chewing a stem of grass and resting one finger on his fishing rod, testing for movement. Scott has never seen him catch anything.

“What is it, Papa?”

“It's us and them, Scott.” Papa closes his eyes.

“Us and who?”

“Us—thinkers and seekers, and explorers of places and things. And them.” He opens his eyes again and nods slightly across the river. “Them. The flock. Ignorant of so much, and happy in their ignorance. All great people are sad people, Scotty.”

“What are you sad about, Papa?”

“They're sad because they gain a glimpse at the truth. And I'm getting there. I'm getting there.”

The memory came and went in an instant, the phrase
people are different
sticking in Scott's mind as he looked in upon Old Man. And in that same instant Scott wondered whether Papa had been referring to the people picnicking on the other side of the river, or the ghosts that dwelled among them.

The cavern was almost perfectly cuboid, and Old Man hung in one top corner. He was startlingly skinny, bald and naked, and his long limbs ended in
hooked claws that found purchase in the rough walls and ceiling. He was staring directly at Scott, and for someone who appeared almost animalistic, the intelligence in his eyes was startling.

Scott glanced around the cavern. There were dozens of electric lights set in the walls and ceiling, some of them on, some off. They were a variety of colors. Two walls were taken up entirely by a range of shelves, all of them crammed with books and loose bundles of paper. Another wall was adorned with exotic-looking tapestries and weavings, all of them overlapping so that the wall behind was totally obscured. There was a cot in one corner piled with rumpled sheets and blankets, and in the center of the room stood a chair and large desk. The desk was almost bare except for one huge, thick book, open at its midpoint, and a vast selection of pens.

The remaining wall through which Scott had entered the room was pocked with dozens of holes, each the width of his clenched fist.

“You've changed,” Nina said. “I like what you've done with your hair.”

“Peace, Nina. Quiet, girl. Don't taunt Old Man.”

“I was teasing, not taunting. Big difference.”

Something hissed somewhere in the room and Scott looked around, panicked. Snake? Insect?

“Another secret,” Old Man said. “Still so many. No end to secrets, Nina. Lately, all bad.” He moved down the tapestry-covered wall like a spider, crossed the floor on all fours, and climbed onto the chair. His head tilted and his eyes almost closed.

The hissing grew louder. Scott glared at Nina, but she offered him nothing.

Something spit from one of the holes behind him. Old Man raised his hand faster than Scott would have believed possible and plucked a shape from the air. He held it up before his face, sniffing it, tilting his head to listen, and before Scott could even begin to make out what he held, Old Man had opened his mouth wide and thrust it inside.

For a moment his cheeks seemed to glow with some inner light.

“Ahh,” he said. He looked at Scott and nodded. “Secrets.”

“Old Man, I need your help.” Nina knelt beside the table, then sat cross-legged on the floor. She glanced at Scott and motioned him over, but he remained where he was.

Not just yet
, he thought.
Not until I know this is safe
.

“He won't hurt you,” Nina said.

“Won't hurt human,” Old Man said, and when he smiled, the colored lights reflected from a mouthful of sharp, white teeth.

Scott walked across the soft carpet and sat beside Nina, sighing as the weight relaxed from his frame. He wanted to close his eyes and rest, but he dared not. He was afraid that he would never open them again.

Old Man picked up a pen and wrote a few words in his book. Scott and Nina watched silently, listening to the scratch of pen on paper and Old Man's breath as
he concentrated on every letter, every curl and spot of ink. He leaned back when he was finished, dropped the pen, and sighed. “Almost done, this one.”

“What are you working on right now?” Nina asked.

“Deciphering the root of Linear A,” Old Man said. “Oldest language, still unknown. Secrets? Yes, it holds many.”

“Such as?”

Old Man glared down at Nina, and for the first time Scott noticed that his eyes were a pale milky white. “I can't say.”

“You can tell me,” Nina said. “You can tell me anything; you know that. Come on, old guy.”

“Talk strange,” Old Man said. He sat back in the chair and laced his hands behind his head. “Talk like people. You, always ready to blend in. Can't live with humans. Stars don't live with rats. Gods don't eat with spiders. Order of things, Nina. Order.”

“You used to tell me all about the things you've been researching,” she said. “There was a time we'd sit out there on the volcano's shoulder and talk for days about your latest fascinations. You'd tell me all the new secrets.”

Old Man nodded. “Look what happened.”

Nina's smile slipped and she looked down at her hands. “What do you expect?”

“Greed. Human conceit.”

“Aren't you human?” Scott asked.

The man smiled. It was a strange expression, both gruesome and beautiful. It made Scott distinctly uncomfortable.
“Human once. Long time back. Now I'm more . . .” He shrugged.

A very human gesture
, Scott thought.

Nina stood and walked to one of the book-lined walls. She took a tome down and started leafing through it, and Scott realized that they were all journals. Some were larger than the one currently sitting on Old Man's desk, a few smaller, but if he squinted against the harsh light he could see that their spines all contained the same spidery handwriting.

“So let's see what you've found since we last met,” Nina said.

“Nina . . . care,” Old Man said, and there was a hint of warning in his voice.

Nina looked up, her skin so smooth in this light. “I always take care, Old Man.”

“I'm ill,” Scott said. “I've been touched by blights.” He found himself unbuttoning his shirt and showing his chest.

Nina sighed. “I was coming to that. But yes, he has.”

“You want me to cure?” Old Man asked. He tapped the desk with one of his clawed hands.

“I know you can.”

“Used to be able to. Long time ago. Now, not sure.”

“You don't
forget
things,” Nina said.

“No, I learn. Nothing I learn is mine. I—”

Another hiss came and another object—a burst of light, a smear of something harsher—spurted from a hole in the wall. Old Man snatched it from the air and pressed it to his mouth. Scott saw his tongue snake
out and curl between his fingers; then he swallowed the object whole. He closed his eyes and nodded, leaning forward for the pen even before the glow had gone from his face.