The Book of M (21 page)

“The Red King is becoming more uncooperative,” Imanuel said to Ory. “The bartering system was workable at first. But more and more, he just wants to use force. Why trade when you can just take?”

Malik set the papers down and shook his head.

“
Vey is mir,
” Imanuel muttered, pressing on his eyeballs with his fingers. “Sorry. That was rude.” He stood up. “Ory, it's about time I show you what we're fighting for.”

“WATCH YOUR STEP,” IMANUEL SAID AS THEY CLEARED THE
landing of the third floor, where the vault was located. Ahead of them, Malik was already opening the door at the end of the corridor. Weak torch light streamed into the hall.

Ory followed, unsure of what to expect. Opulence? A dungeon? Something inexplicable that had been created in the Forgetting? The first two levels of the Iowa had been fairly similar. Charred, boarded up, iron-reinforced. The third floor looked as it must have the day before Boston, except that every piece of furniture was gone.

“Good God,” Ory gasped when he reached the door.

From floor to ceiling were stacks and stacks of books.

“Our war chest,” Imanuel said.

“Good God,” Ory heard himself stammer again.

“It was Paul's idea.” He smiled. “I keep doing it for him.”

Ory put a hand on Imanuel's shoulder, letting it sink in. Paul was no longer alive, but he wasn't completely gone either. As long as Imanuel was fighting to collect more books, some part of him was remembered. Some part of him remained. The same way that some part of Max remained as well. But the part of her left was not a book—because she was still alive, and lost. He was here because he was trying to find her. He had to get back to searching.

Ory turned to his friend, but at the same moment, Imanuel pointed inside. “Go on in. There are paths through, once you get started.”

Ory stepped hesitantly between the towering stacks. It was like a geometric forest. A soldier on inventory duty briefly looked up from where she stood. “How many books do you have here?” Ory asked as he picked up a lightly weathered paperback.

“About three thousand,” Imanuel said, with a touch of pride.

How many were once there? Ory wondered. A hundred thousand? A million? Three thousand books would have been perhaps a section of one genre, or maybe twenty shelves. Something a person could pass by on their way from the entrance to the elevators. But here, now, in this new D.C.—it was an entire room
full
of books. It was probably the only room left like it in the world. Wherever he looked, it seemed like there were endless numbers of them. “How many more do you hope to get?” he finally asked.

“Nothing short of all of them would ever feel like enough,” Imanuel said. “But really, just one in particular.”

Ory looked down. For a moment, it felt like they were standing on a mountainside again, surrounded by tables topped with fluttering white tablecloths. Ory had owned a copy, in the D.C. apartment that had crumbled to ash. And there had been another at the wedding—Paul had read his vows from it. Where had that one gone? In all the months after everyone disappeared, Ory had never seen it lying about
on one of the deserted floors, gathering dust. “That's a good book,” he finally said.

Imanuel smiled sadly. “It is.”

“I'm glad you're doing this,” Ory added.

“After Paul—I didn't know if I could keep going,” Imanuel continued. “But then I remembered there was a copy of his poetry in most libraries. If there was one in this library as well, if it hadn't been burned yet or disappeared—that makes me keep getting up in the mornings.”

Paul had signed Ory's copy when he bought it. Ory tried to remember exactly what Paul's note on the inside cover had said. Something about constellations—Paul's poetry was about the sun and the sky, and night. Ory should have paid more attention. He hadn't known he would need such a strong memory of it. That he wouldn't be able to just go to the shelf and take it down whenever he wanted.

“General!” Ahmadi's voice floated through the columns of paper. They scrambled out in time to see her salute Malik from the doorway. “The Reds' offensive has calmed down. They're mostly all back inside the library's gate. They're waving the big red flags.”

“Trading time.” Malik grinned. Ory saw him glance at Imanuel.

“No,” Imanuel said.

“I want to,” Ory replied, even though he had no idea what
trading
meant in this context. He didn't care. He would help Imanuel, then ask for help finding Max in return.

“I want you to not die the same day I find you again.”

“Imanuel, please,” he said. “Let me do this. For Paul.”

He saw the muscles in Imanuel's jaw working, but Ory knew there was no response that would win over his plea to do something to honor Paul's memory.

“Good,” he said at last, and nodded to Malik. He didn't look back at Imanuel. He didn't want to give him another opportunity to argue. That, and he wasn't sure of what he'd seen in Imanuel's face.

Of course Ory did want to help, even if he had ulterior motives. But the expression on Imanuel's face hadn't been guilt over not wanting to spare the resources or men to help find Max. It had been blind fear.

“IS HE NORMALLY SO WORRIED BEFORE A MISSION?” ORY ASKED
Malik on the way down the stairs. Ahmadi was far ahead of them, already disappeared into the lobby on the ground floor.

Malik shrugged. “You're his late husband's best friend. The Reds aren't someone I'd send my almost-family to face.”

“I volunteered,” Ory corrected.

Malik nodded. “I know. And I'm not in the business of turning down a willing soldier.” Ory felt Malik's hand on his arm then, to slow their descent. “When I said that you might find help here, I didn't realize that your Max wasn't in D.C., that you lost track of her pretty far from here—or that she's shadowless. If the only reason you're doing this is for the General's help, I'm sorry, but I don't think he'll give it to you. A shadowless alone, for that long . . .” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I don't think your wife made it across the river. I don't think the General believes she did either. He can't justify sending one of his own on such a dangerous mission.”

Ory took his arm away. “She's alive,” he said. “She's in D.C.”

“I hope you're right. I just don't think you'll find the help you want here. If you want to stay and try anyway, that's on you. If you want to walk away now, I won't stop you.”

“I said I'd do this one for Paul. We'll see about afterward.”

Malik started walking again. “Welcome to the war.”

Ory fell in behind him as they reached the landing. “Why does he call himself the Red King?”

“
We
call him the Red King,” Malik replied. “We don't know what he calls himself.”

It was still raining outside. In front of them, Ahmadi pulled her coat around herself and grumbled.

“So the Reds are . . . They're just destroying everything in the city for fun?” Ory asked as they stood under the overhang. Behind them, ten soldiers checked their makeshift armor and lined themselves up double file. One of them was carrying twice the clothes and weapons in his arms—a set for him, Ory realized.

“Not exactly.” Malik shook his head. “Plenty of other shadowless do that. They're unorganized and haphazard, though. The Red King is different. He's managed to create a group and a territory. They all paint themselves red; they all live together in the old library.”

“Strange,” Ory said. “It's almost like . . .”

“It's almost like they remember, or he remembers for them,” Malik finished for him. “At least one thing, anyway.”

“What do you think that one thing is?” Ory finally asked.

Ahmadi shrugged. “Fuck if we know.”

Ory sighed. He didn't know if it was encouraging or more terrifying, this idea that the Reds all might be remembering a little, or one thing, or the same thing. He glanced at the soldiers behind him. “This will sound . . . ,” he started.

“Why do we risk trading instead of just killing them all?” Malik said. “We would if we could. But they outnumber us ten to one. Our only bargaining chip is to keep them thinking we have knowledge or supplies to trade in exchange for their books. But we're running out of things to offer them that they haven't already misremembered back into reality.”

“How are we going to win the war, then?” Ory asked.

“We aren't,” Ahmadi said. “We're going to lose. We just have to get Paul's book before we do.”

I HOPE OF ALL THINGS, I FORGET YOU LAST, ORY. I
HOPE I FORGET
you even after I forget where we're going. I'd rather drive forever and never reach New Orleans, but still remember you.

This morning was cold enough that when I woke up, there was a tiny bit of frost on the outside of my tent. It crackled as I unzipped the flap, a thousand tiny rolling snaps. The sound was so nice, I went to every side and bent the support poles slowly until each fabric sheet crinkled. When I came around the front side again, Dhuuxo was outside hers as well, bundled against the crisp dawn, head wrapped in a scarf so that only her eyes and the bridge of her nose showed. When our gazes met, she winked at me. “Small pleasures,” she said.

I grinned and nodded back. It's only my sixth night with all of them. I still feel shy, as if this is only temporary and I won't be allowed to stay. Well, it is temporary. But for another reason.

Dhuuxo strode soundlessly across the dead grass between us. In her hand was a rose, freshly picked. I hadn't seen any flowers at all since it had grown cold, let alone a rose—but it was as beautiful as if she'd just bought it from a florist's shop.

I looked at her, trying to decide. I knew the rose could not have been from anywhere near here. What was harder to tell was whether she knew it or not.

“When I first came to America, they always had a bouquet of these on the counter at the refugee center. I used to steal them and rub the petals between my fingers until they disintegrated,” Dhuuxo confided. “I couldn't help it. They felt so soft. Like this.” Her cheeks wrinkled above the line of her scarf as she smiled beneath it. She stroked one of the petals on the rose's outermost layer, rolling it softly between the pad of her middle finger and thumb. It looked soothing, almost meditative. Then she handed me what was left of the bloom. “You try,” she said. “I'll make the fire.”

Dhuuxo was right. I couldn't stop. I carried the battered corpse of that rose around for the rest of the day, until we were inside the RV, cruising slowly along the bumpy swells in the damaged road, and Dhuuxo caught sight of it again. She laughed so hard it made Intisaar laugh, too. When they'd wiped the tears out of their dark eyes, so deep brown they almost look purple, Dhuuxo pressed another freshly picked bloom into my hands. I realized there was a pile of them next to her in the RV's little travel sink. I looked at Intisaar, who looked away from me, as if to say,
Leave it. I don't know if she found them, or . . .
Did Ursula? I want to ask her, Ory—but I don't know how, when.

“Max, come up here a moment,” Ursula called to me then. I scrambled gratefully to the front seat. “How much farther?” she asked when I dropped down beside her.

I had been keeping track on the map. “We've traveled maybe a fourth of the way,” I replied.

“That's more than I hoped for,” she said automatically, as if she hadn't even heard the answer. She drew in a long, quiet breath. Ahead, we were coming upon a wide, open field on either side of the road. The grass had grown waist-high at least, and a few leaning weeds brushed the aluminum sides of our vehicle in a soft, hissing hum. Ursula turned to look at me as the RV began to slow. “I'm injured,” she said softly. I forgot the roses. “Don't tell the others.”

We pulled over so the right two wheels were in the grass and the left two wheels were still barely on the road. “Bathroom break,” I announced casually to the rest of the group sitting behind us. The twins and Ysabelle were already helping Victor, Wes, Lucius, and Zachary up, guiding them in a line toward the door like mothers with children. Even though being together helps us resist the pull, the four men seem to be doing worse and worse, faster and faster. We women are forgetting things too, but not like them. I don't know if it's the same way outside our group, but it seems that men forget faster without their shadows. I don't know why.

I followed Ursula out of the RV and around the other side of it. We waded through the grass carefully, the tips of each blade flicking against our hands. The field was turning golden, and when the wind came, the grass rippled like an ocean, the shimmering, flaxen tide rolling in and out. I was starting to panic, Ory. Had she been wounded before I met them? Why hadn't she said something? Why hadn't she gotten help long before this? Did we have a first-aid kit in the RV? I patted my clothes as we walked, trying to figure out what might make the best tourniquet. When we were far enough away that Ursula could see the others but that they couldn't hear us, she turned to me and held out her hand. It was definitely blood—on the tips of her fingers was a dark, thick smear of red, as if she'd dipped them into it.

I stared, terrified. Who else would lead us if Ursula was dying? I struggled to pull off my jacket with numb, panic-clumsy hands. “Where's the wound?” I heard myself stammer.

“Here,” she said, and pointed to the source. “There's no pain, but I felt the blood an hour ago.”

I looked at where her hands were. She was touching the space where the insides of her thighs met. A small, deep crimson stain had started to seep through the fabric of her jeans there.

I didn't feel embarrassment or pity. I felt only relief—a release so overwhelming I sank slowly down into the grass and let the earth hold me up instead of my legs. “It's okay,” I finally managed. “It's okay.”

“It's not fatal?” she asked.

“No.”

She sat down beside me. “I've forgotten something,” she said softly.

“Yes,” I said. “But it's not important.” I didn't know, Ory. Was it important? Had Ursula ever had any children? Had she wanted them? Had she already forgotten their names?

We watched Dhuuxo and Intisaar gently corral two of the men close to the RV through the golden, waving stalks. They wanted to explore, it looked like. Before, that was all right. But now, whenever there was something out of the reach of the RV's wide tires that
needed investigation, we did it all together, holding hands. The risk was too great now that someone could get lost, and then forget they were lost at all.

“Will it stop?” Ursula asked me.

“It will,” I said. “In a few days. In the meantime, we should wash your jeans and then put some cloth there, to absorb the blood. Otherwise it'll keep soaking into your clothes.”

Ursula nodded slowly. Across the field, in the shade of the RV next to Ysabelle, Zachary seemed to be sketching something on paper he had brought with him from inside. “Will it happen again?” she asked.

I didn't know what the right answer was. If it was more true to say yes or no. I tried to imagine what you would say. “No,” I finally told her. By the time Ursula's next period came, it was more likely that neither of us would remember any of this.

When we got back to the RV, I gave Ursula your flannel shirt I took with me when I left, to cut into strips of fabric. I kept the collar for myself, though—it's been in my bag so long, that's the only part of it that still smells like you. I breathed it deep, trying to picture your face. Then, terrified, I snapped my eyes open.

Ory, it's so horrible. It's
horrible.
I miss you so much, because I can't see or hear you—but I can't even
think
about you, either, not in any kind of meaningful detail. Every time I slip up and do it, I almost scream. Do you know what that's like? Can you even imagine not being allowed to soothe your grief with memories, because what if I get it wrong? What would that mean? How far do I have to run before you might be safe? I looked up, trying not to start sobbing, and realized Zachary was sitting in front of me.

“Hello,” he finally said.

“You remember how to speak!” I gasped.

“Yes,” he said. “But . . .” He stalled. The words were slow and clumsy, as if his tongue was too cold to move. “Iron. Stony.”

I studied him for a long moment. Then I realized he'd forgotten the word for
hard
.

“I understand what you mean,” I said, as kindly as I could.

Zachary looked down at his fingers, at the ink stains that had soaked into the deepest layers of his skin. It was almost like he'd made his own shadow. “Hands are better,” he said.

“Okay.” I nodded.

In reply, he held them up, as if gripping a steering wheel.

“Ursula?”

“Ursula.” There was a long pause as he sifted through the remaining words he had. “Who is Ursula?”

“The driver,” I said.

“Driver.” He nodded in recognition.

“Ursula,” I called to her at the front of the RV. Zachary stayed sitting there, as if he was in a trance. He's almost completely gone, Ory. The look on his face . . . that's the look I never wanted you to see on mine. It was blankness. Utter blankness.

It will be terrible when we lose him. When he forgets the last thing, which is how to draw. Yesterday he drew my face for me and held it up for me to see. I didn't realize how long it had been since I looked at myself in a mirror until he handed it to me and my eyes searched every inch of his careful portrait. My freckles, the curve of my nose, the tiny scar above my right eyebrow. Do you remember, Ory? Well, of course you do. But I'd almost forgotten.

Ursula had made her way over and crouched down beside us, finished fixing her underwear. “What is it?” she asked him.

Zachary only pointed out the side window.

We looked. Green fields, the sky, and a hazy, drifting cloud just above the driver's-side door mirror.

“Is that smoke?” I asked.

Ursula grabbed her gun. “Not smoke,” she said. “Dust.”

It was too late to drive. They were on us before we even got back to our seats.

There was a crowd of them, at least thirty or forty. Dispersed at first, running crazily in all directions, leaving in their wake that trail of dust Zachary saw. All of them with shadows.

“My God,” Ysabelle gasped. “I've never seen so many.”

“Ross!” a woman suddenly shouted as she spotted our RV parked in the field. “Look, a van!” The group converged into a speeding, shadowed mass, aiming straight for us.

“What do we do?” I cried.

“Victor, Wes, Lucius, out now!” Ursula shouted.

The men snapped to attention like soldiers, grabbing whatever was there—knife, baseball bat, wrench—and shoved the door to the RV open. “Come on!” Wes bellowed at them threateningly, swinging the bat. We all spilled out behind, trying to add to the illusion that we had numbers.

“Shadowless!” a few cried. Some of the shadowed runners scattered immediately when they saw the bright ground beneath our feet. But the rest were too desperate to give up. Something small sailed by my ear as they closed in. Lucius flung a wrench. One woman was in front of the rest, eyes desperate. An axe jerked wildly in her hands as she ran.

I didn't know how to kill someone, I realized then with horror. I didn't know how to stop a person that determined, Ory. She was going to cut us down.

All I could hear was the keening note of her blade as it cut back and forth through the air. She howled and lunged right for Wes.