A Book of Life

By David Ellis

Long before there were books, there were spirits, demons, djinns. Many were of no consequence, idle beings with no interest in humanity, some, kindly, eager to help, visiting anxious souls in their final sleep to provide reassurance.

A few were different from any of these. A few were angry and full of hate.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Atmosphere Press
• Release date: Jun 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781639446643

David Ellis

David Ellis’s previous novels include In the Company of Liars, Jury of One, Life Sentence, and Line of Vision, for which he won an Edgar Award. An attorney from Chicago, he serves as Counsel to the Speaker of the Illinois House of Representatives.

Book preview

ONE

‘But you must accept that the stories are bollocks!’ The nearly bald man windmilled his arms for effect as he strode around the room, ‘Total bollocks, you’ll be a laughing stock…worse than that, I’ll…we’ll be a laughing stock, you won’t be able to publish…all mumbo-jumbo nonsense, fairy stories, and the press’ll pick it up of course, and we’ll be ruined. I’ve got a hard enough job trying to keep the department afloat at the best o’times, and then this!’

John Moss was angry; he was almost always angry, but on this occasion he was angrier than was usual, even for him. John Moss was the director of the Local History Unit at the University of Mexfield. He spent many of his working hours attempting to convince University bean-counters that they should keep his operation open. The University bean-counters very much wanted to close him down, as he had five senior academic staff under his wing, they were expensive to maintain, and cost savings were always required. Every day was a battle, and what he did not need—what he absolutely did not need—was one of ‘his’ people doing stuff that would attract ridicule. John Moss had always played the ‘serious research’ card to protect his empire, tried to convince the numpties above that his Unit could carry out worthwhile research that would also be of interest to the local community. He was seriously worried that the man who sat before him now would bring this entire and hard-won pack of cards tumbling down.

‘John, I think that you are overreacting, I really do. I have no plans to go public on this or publish anything, at least not yet—it’s more a sort of a…personal enterprise.’

‘But everything you do—we do—has to be accounted for, you can’t just fuck around on private business, you are employed by the University. Moreover, you have your own reputation to consider; if you screw up at this stage of your career, you are finished…history.’

Malcolm Fender did not offer a response.

Malcolm Fender was much the younger man, by some twenty years, and he was younger than he looked. Appearing to be older than you are can have its advantages, usually early in life, but that bonus tends to devalue as the years pass. Fender was forty-two, already thinning on top and not too proud of it. He wore a rather full moustache which looked like it might be false, and students accordingly called him ‘Soprendo’ after the erstwhile magician. Fender may not have been too wild about that, but he had likely gotten off easy, as the monikers attached to John Moss were rather less humorous.

He watched the older man continue to wander round the room, slowly losing momentum, all angried out for the time being. Moss was a good man to have fighting in your corner, a total bastard… hard work though, he was bloody hard work, not far off retirement but still full of fury. Fender sometimes wondered how he would deal with all of the soon-to-have time on his hands, if and when he finally shuffled off the paperclips.

‘What evidence do you have on this? I’ve read your report, but it’s all hocus-pocus. This Na Arran community, what is that all about, what is the provenance of the documentation, and how can you say, with any confidence, that it is reliable?’

Malcolm Fender breathed deeply, ‘The Na Arran community is a recognised group…’

‘By whom? Most people with half a brain would testify that they were a gang of misfits and sorcerers, whose testimony cannot be believed.’

‘…A recognised group, with a hierarchy and a structure…’

‘But even if you accept that they existed as an authentic collective, what evidence do you have that any of the records are worth the vellum they are written on?’

‘What evidence do we have on the Magna Carta, or the Lindisfarne Gospels…or the Bible?’

‘That’s a false argument and you know it. Look, Malcolm…’

Fender had heard this before—this was the switch from nasty cop to nice cop.

‘You may think that I am a total arse, and you may be right…’

Fender smiled; this sounded reasonable.

‘…But I’m just trying to save you from yourself, and at the same time, save all of us.’

John Moss was a big man, in body as well as in character. His shaved head mitigated the near baldness that would otherwise have encroached. The beard was grey and immaculately groomed. The shambolic dress of the standard academic was not for him; he looked like an insurance salesman and sounded like a gangster.

‘So, you are telling me that we should not finish the excavation?’

‘I am asking that you should not finish the excavation.’

Moss looked into the far distance, into some past when he was just a humble research student, not having to deal with this crap. ‘But you will probably ignore me. Being an academic, and as head of this Unit, I can lead but I cannot manage.’

Fender wrinkled his face in confusion, ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, John. Are you telling me to stop—or what?’

‘I can’t stop you carrying out your independent research and you bloody well know it. All I can do is warn you of the consequences and draw your attention to the fragile position of the Unit. Bear in mind that there is pressure from above to close us down—and if they close us down, both of us will be able to chat in the offices of JobsPlus in the future.’

The phone rang and quickly switched to answerphone mode, but Moss ignored the potential interruption. ‘I know you’ve not been in the business for that long, Malcolm. How long has it been? When did you join the Unit?’

‘I started three years ago. You were on the interview panel—remember?’

‘Yeh, and you were bloody good, which makes it all the more important that you don’t bugger it all up.’

‘Can I say something?’

John Moss raised an eyebrow, ‘What?’

‘The stories about the Book were never the big issue, and we made that clear in the report. I agree with you, that’s all hocus-pocus, but there is genuine interest there from some quarters, believe me.’ At this John Moss gave an involuntary start, as if he had received a mild electric shock. Fender continued, trying to sound convincing, but sincerity was never a strongpoint.

‘We think…’

‘We?’

‘…Yeh, my colleague and…’

‘You mean the boy Anderson?’

Malcolm Fender smiled and wondered what Tony would say when he relayed this description. Tony Anderson was seven years younger than himself, thirty-five; he had come on board a year ago, the most recent staff member to be recruited to the Unit, and quite possibly the last for some time. Like Fender, he had interests in folk tales and the connection to local history and personalities. They had hit it off very early on, mainly as a result of a significant drinking session at the Angel, a local hostelry often frequented by staff and students from the University. This ‘welcome to Mexfield’ event had descended into a bilateral booze-up following the departure of all other staff members originally present, clearly under orders from wives and girlfriends. Subsequently, Fender looked out for the new boy. There weren’t too many staff members that Fender would willingly share a pint with, so when one popped up, he had to be fully exploited—and protected.

‘So, let’s get this right—next week, Wednesday, is it?’

Fender nodded.

‘Next Wednesday, you will carry out the excavation to recover the Book of Life or whatever it’s called?’

‘That’s the name the Na Arran gave it. It’s not a big excavation, John, we just need to move the stone from the cave entrance and get the casket out. It will have a lock on it, but we should be able to burgle our way in, no problem.’

‘But clearing the stone out will require a heavy lifting kit, right?’

‘We have hired something. I can’t give you the precise details—Tony has done all of the heavy lifting on that, excuse the pun.’

‘And is it also the case that representatives of the Mexfield Citizen will be in attendance?’

‘I thought that it might do us good to get a bit of press coverage, might help the Unit, no such thing as bad publicity, etc.’

‘To start with, you have no authority to involve the press in University activities; all such business should be channelled through the Press Office. Secondly, you already promised not to involve the press; and thirdly, I refer you to my earlier comments. Any press coverage of this may well develop into ridicule, especially if the—let us call them—more fanciful stories are picked up. It is all well and good taking the academic high ground over this, but you know what will happen, you cannot be that naïve.’

‘All my communications with the Citizen have been to do with the history and the science, John. There is no reason for them to pick up any of the other stories.’

‘But they will.’

Fender was a patient man, but he was close to losing it, and he began to wonder if Moss had an ulterior motive. Could it be that the older man felt threatened in some way? Could it be that the attention that might be afforded to this younger member of staff was unwelcome to a head of a Unit which was struggling to justify its existence? Food for thought.

‘And what happens after the Book is recovered? Presumably, you have thought about this.’

‘We will see what information we can extract from it, of course. From the documents we have already unearthed, we feel that there is a good chance that it will give us some real nuggets—about the community, the people that were that community…’

‘And the sources that you are basing all of this on, where did they come from, how solid are they?’ John Moss looked as if he wanted to punch somebody, standing against the wall, glaring at Malcolm, who appeared to be shrinking in the chair in front of the director’s substantial desk.

‘The documents were found in a cellar, below the Angel Tower ruins, all in the report, John; we believe that the Na Arran community used the location as a repository. We know of an individual, one James Swallow, who we think acted as a chronicler of events at the time, as the material we are working from all bear his personal mark. He has recorded the events of that day, the depositing of the Book of Life in a casket or trunk, and the sealing ceremony in the cave beneath the Angel Tower.’

‘And why was the Book placed in a different place? Why was it not consigned to the cellar? Why the cave? It sounds a more difficult operation to put it there?’

Fender’s eyes began to sparkle, well aware that genuinely enquiring people can be won over by genuinely intriguing possibilities. He had been quite prepared to go out on a limb over this affair, to say ‘up yours, John Moss’, but he would much prefer the old git to be on board.

‘We don’t really know…it may be that the elders believed the cave to be more secure. The cellar belonged to the Angel Tower—maybe they thought that future residents in the Tower might disinter the Book.’

‘Why did it need to be secure—it’s just a damned book…isn’t it?’

‘A precious artefact to the Na Arran.’

‘Or a dangerous artefact.’

Fender screwed up his eyes, ‘Back to the Future again, eh? Surely you don’t have any truck with the hocus-pocus, John?’

John Moss stared out of the window.

‘And will you be there on Wednesday to witness the exhumation?’

John Moss continued to stare out of the window.

TWO

There was much murmuring around the round table on that day, under the Angel Tower, as the village worthies came together to debate. An extraordinary meeting of the village leadership had been called, on a middle eve no less, following the Feast. Though not unprecedented, such events were rare in the history of the Na Arran community. The last such gathering had followed the Great Flood, some five years previously, when the stream at the foot of the valley had become a torrent and drowned out the bottom row.

There was a Crisis.

Thaddeus Lark had called a meeting of the Twelve Elders to debate and to decide what must be done. Thaddeus Lark was the Chief Elder, he was the wisest of the wise, the most respected man in the community. He was fifty-five years old. Tall and strong with a great beard tinged with the greyness of his great age, yet with a mop of angry black hair, this, remarkably, was a Thaddeus Lark still in the prime of life. He was handsome, proud, confidant, intelligent, the uncontested leader of the community, and had been for ten full years—ten years. As many years ago, John Drake had died of a cruel, unknown affliction, John Drake had been the last Na Arran Master, much loved by the people. There had been great mourning after he had passed into the next world; he had been a great man. John Drake had loved Thaddeus Lark, had raised him as his own son, had anointed him as the Chief Elder, the next Master in an undisputed succession.

‘I thank you all for your attendance.’ Lark’s voice now echoed around the hall, the Place of Meeting, the ultimate council of the community. To the others present he seemed almost too large for the space. His personality, his presence filled the void and extended beyond, into the outside, the dark outside.

‘My Brothers, we have serious business here on this eve.’ His voice and expression were grave, though he felt unusually nervous. Thaddeus Lark knew that these were difficult times for everyone, for he was conscientious and thoughtful, and beneath the fighter’s image was a caring, God-fearing man.

‘We must not delay any further, you will all appreciate the dangers that our community faces. Brothers, in all of the years that lay before us, we shall not face a more critical time.’

His fellow Elders had been silent during these words, but as he finished, as the mutterings began, Thaddeus Lark made no attempt to enforce a silence. He realised that he needed to let the tension find its own path. Taking a sip from a bowl of water, the Chief Elder paused to allow the background noise to subside.

‘You will all know why I have called this meeting’—he paused to acknowledge the nodding heads around the table—‘however, I shall provide a brief summary of the situation as it is.’ Another mouthful of liquid was taken as a bead of sweat trickled down the noble forehead; Thaddeus Lark felt its slow progression and resisted the urge to wipe it away.

‘This community has, for many years, been the guardian of The Great Book, the Book of Life. We have kept it safe for two centuries—my predecessors were the Holders of The Book for all of that time.’

‘And your