BOOK ONE: THE FIELDS OF REBIRTH
CHAPTER SIX: FOR FUTURE REFERENCE
April 5, 2012
Cambridge, Earth
Her stylish leather rucksack slung over her shoulder, Morgan Penn-Drake couldn’t help but smile to herself as she strolled through the hallowed halls of the Bodleian Library, each shelf lined with some of the rarest books in the world. Several of the other international students in her cohort didn’t truly comprehend what a privilege it was to study here.
“How may I help you today, Miss?” asked the genteel, grey-haired man behind the main desk.
“Hi,” said Morgan, “I should have a book reserved? Under first name Morgan, last name P-E-N-N hyphen D-R-A-K-E.”
The librarian put on a pair of reading glasses and squinted at his computer screen. “Ah, here you are. And a Rhodes Scholar, no less! Quite impressive, Miss.”
“Thank you,” said Morgan, smiling politely.
“Now let’s see…” said the man, “Call number 1208.121.
The Tome of Wonders. I’ll have to pull that volume out of special collections and fetch you some gloves, as it’s quite fragile.”
After a few minutes, he returned from the back with a heavy, leather-bound volume. "Here we are," he said, leading her to a reading room with a pristine white table and chairs.
“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you never to touch the book with your bare hands,” the librarian said sagely. He carefully placed the priceless tome on a simple wooden lectern.
“Of course,” Morgan said, eager to get started.
“You have ninety minutes, Miss,” said the man, “At which time we will need to return this volume to its special temperature-controlled storage unit.”
“Understood,” said Morgan, pulling out her brand new iPad 3, “Is it okay if I take some pictures?”
“As long as you don’t use the flash.” The librarian gently closed the door behind him as he exited the room.
Barely able to contain her excitement at being allowed to personally handle such a rare specimen, Morgan opened the book to the title page and marveled at the large uncial characters.
“
Grimorus de mirabilibus,” she read on the first page, “Which is, being interpreted, the
Tome of Wonders. An account of the signs and wonders wrought among the peoples of the world of Athla, and a compendium of the most potent spells, true names, and words of power by which this world was formed and governed.”
Fascinating, but bizarre. Where exactly was this
Athla supposed to be? Was this text some kind of esoteric cosmogony?
“Written by the hand of the Archon Gabriel,” she continued to read, “High Councilor of the Circle of Evermore.”
Morgan’s brow furrowed. More oblique references to things she’d never heard of. The next inscription was written in a much more refined, flowing script. “Also the chronicles and noble lineage of the Verdant Court as abridged by Julia of House Inioch.”
Morgan wasn’t sure whether to feel intrigued or bemused. She wasn’t sure what she had expected to find. Despite being a very well-read literature enthusiast, she had never experienced anything quite like this before.
“Also the words of Merlin the Prophet, written in his own hand. Let she who has eyes to see behold with wisdom and understanding.”
Drawn to the last inscription, Morgan gently ran her gloved fingers over the words. It was written in a barely legible scrawl, but she found it strangely compelling. Out of curiosity, she skipped ahead several dozen pages until she found a page with a pair of discerning eyes scribbled in the upper corner. It was some kind of incantation entitled
“Piscis Aureus.”
“Two dulcimas,” she read, “Raised to the degree of forty half-dulcimas, divided into equal parts by the third of a cackle of grouse geese, put over the result of ten finemackels (albeit
small finemackels), stretched over the total of fifty-three and an eighth bottles of wildebeest lard, yields a gilded minnow of precise measurements; two hundred and sixty-nine centidrils by three million twenty-three punds (not
punts, as might be expected)…”
Well,
that was certainly scintillating reading. Perhaps it had been a mistake to request this book after all. Morgan released a colossal yawn, unable to suppress it any longer. Then she noticed some tiny marginalia written at the bottom in crimson ink: “Seriously? All this for a gilded minnow? If only this drivel revealed something more valuable.”
There was something familiar about the handwriting but Morgan couldn’t quite place it. She pondered what she had read for a moment. Then, on a hunch, she began to gently thumb through the remaining pages. After searching for several minutes, her hunch proved correct when she found something in the middle of the strange chronicle referenced on the title page. Near the top of one page, someone had painted a beautiful little golden fish.
“Aha!” thought Morgan as she began to read the page’s contents.
“Then the Athlans slew my father, King Inioch,” she began to read, “They burned his court and laid waste to his holdings in the Valley of Wonders. My brother was left for dead as our people fled to the four winds. The menfolk left our lands so desolate that there was hardly a blade of grass that went unsinged. Yet my mother vowed that our people would return to our homeland one day, just as a rabbit may safely emerge from its hole following a forest fire.”
That account certainly sounded ominous. But what did any of that mean? Suspecting that she was now following something akin to a trail of breadcrumbs, Morgan continued to gingerly skim through the tome page by page.
Finally, about three-quarters of the way through the book, she stopped when a small flourish in the margins caught her eye: in the midst of a long panoply of various animals, she spied a little white rabbit peeking out of its hole. The rest of the page contained an elaborate caption written in fine gilt letters and a resplendent illustration of a stone edifice with a golden dome.
“The hidden temple complex of the Godir lies forgotten by time,” the passage began, “Herein did the Archons once worship the Allfather. However, the light that aided the masses in connecting with the divine has long since been extinguished. The voices of hierophants and choristers have fallen silent and whatever liturgies or rituals they once practiced are now truly mysteries lost to the ages. This site’s once grand halls now attract cultists and sinister entities seeking to awaken and twist its power. Yet hope remains, for overgrown and derelict though it may be, the earnest seeker of truth will find the Temple of Godir in the Fields of Rebirth, where many shall yet awaken from their darkest dreams.”
Morgan quickly captured an image of the page with her iPad. She wasn’t sure why, but something about the text she had just read felt urgent, like there was someplace she needed to be or something she needed to do, but had somehow forgotten. She hurriedly stuffed her things into her bag, pulled off the soft white gloves, and headed for the door.
“Finished already, Miss?” asked the librarian as she hurried by his desk.
“Yes, actually,” she responded, “And thank you again. You’ve been extremely helpful, but if you’ll please excuse me, I’ve just remembered that there’s somewhere I need to be.” Even though Morgan couldn't remember
where she needed to be, she could feel a very palpable sense of urgency.
“Certainly, I understand,” said the man, rising to his feet as she hurried by, “Oh, and one more thing, Miss–”
"Yes?" Morgan turned and glanced at him over her shoulder.
“Good luck, Lady Morgana,” he said with a knowing smile.
13 Blōtmonth, FA 21
Caer Eluned, Athla
Morgana Pendragon sat bolt upright in bed, her eyes wide, the dream still lingering in her mind as vivid and bright as the sun at midday.
“Chamberlain!” she called, shoving aside her bolster and throwing on her gown, “Send for Knight-Constable Breunor! It’s urgent!”
***
Author’s Note: The passage about the Temple of the Godir began with a much shorter in-game blurb which I have expanded for emphasis. The boring passage about the "gilded minnow" was included as an homage to one of my favorite games from 30 years ago. Bonus points for anyone who knows the reference. Thank you all for continuing to read and support
Omentide!
