Book of Souls

“Darkly near a son who sinned,” Will said. “I guess we need a shovel.”

Isabelle returned from the garden shed with two. They were isolated but they began their work guiltily, looking over their shoulders since they weren’t engaging in the most socially acceptable of activities.

“I’ve never done dug up a grave.” She giggled.

“I have,” Will said. He wasn’t kidding. Years ago he had a case in Indiana, but he wasn’t going to go there, and she didn’t press for details. “I wonder how deep they planted them in the old days?” He was doing the heavy work and was starting to sweat. There were two other ancestors close by, so there wasn’t enough room for both of them to dig simultaneously.

He shed his jacket and sweater and kept the shovelfuls coming, producing a mound of dark, rich soil on top of a neighboring grave. An hour into the enterprise, both of them were getting discouraged; they wondered if William was there after all. Will climbed out of the hole and sat on the grass. The afternoon sunlight was autumn-hard, and there was a crisp chill. Isabelle’s lime tree was noisily rustling overhead.

She took over and jumped in like a little girl diving into a swimming pool, both feet hitting the bottom at once. There was a curious dull thunk when she landed.

As one, they both asked, “What was that?”

Isabelle choked up on her shovel, dropped to all fours, and began scraping the ground with the blade exposing a rough metallic surface. “God, Will! I think we’ve found it!” she shouted.

She dug around the object and identified its edges. It was a rectangle about eighteen inches in length, ten inches in width. As Will watched, she pushed the shovel into the ground beside one of the long edges and pried it up.

It was a heavily tarnished copper box. Below it was the rotting, green-stained wood of a coffin lid. She handed the box up to Will.

It had a heavy patina of green and black but it was evident that it was a nicely etched piece of metalwork with little round feet. The edges of its lid were encrusted in a hard, red material. Will dug at it with his thumbnail, and pieces chipped away. “It’s some kind of wax,” he said. “Sealing wax or candle wax. They wanted it to be watertight.”

She was at his side now. “I hope they were successful,” she said expectantly.

They had the discipline to cover up the grave before addressing the box, but they raced through the task. When they were done with the backfilling, they ran to the house and made straight for the kitchen, where Isabelle found a sturdy little paring knife. She worked the hard wax from the whole perimeter and, like a child opening the first present of Christmas morning, ripped the lid off.

There were three parchment pages, stained copper green, but they were dry and legible. She recognized them immediately for what they were. “Will,” she whispered. “It’s the last pages of Felix’s letter!”

They sat at the kitchen table. Will watched her eyes dart and her lips make small movements, and he exhorted her to translate on the fly. She began to read it slowly, out loud.

On the ninth day of January of the year of our Lord 1297, the end came to the library and to the Order of the Names. The scribes who numbered greater than one hundred had been acting strangely, lacking their ordinary diligence of task. It was as if a pall had been cast over them. Indeed, it seemed a lassitude which we were unable to fathom as they did not and could not speak their minds. And prior to this day a harbinger occurred which foretold the coming events. One of the scribes did incredibly violate the rules of man and God by taking his own life, thrusting his quill through his eye into the substance of his brain.