The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [81]
TWENTY-SIX
The Binder
Every herb, every shrub and tree, and even our own bodies, teach us this lesson, that nothing is durable or can be counted upon. Time passes away insensibly, one sun follows another, and brings its changes with it.
– Charles Johnson, A General History of the Pyrates
He slept on the sand that night, curled up in a warm depression, the insistent whine of mosquitoes against his ears. Lulled to sleep by the constant beat of the distant drums, he nevertheless slept fitfully, waking up at odd intervals to the sound of shouts, the flare of the large bonfire, entering from restless dreams into the waking aroma of wood-smoke and spilled rum.
At last, however, he entered a deeper sleep, into which no dreams came. For a while, in that night, he wasn't there: his mind had shut down, enclosed him in darkness and the peace of unthought.
He woke again abruptly: the beat of his heart was as loud to him now as the drums, and seemed to syncopate with them, join the complex number string they were broadcasting across the island.
He felt an arm on his shoulder, and realised it had been shaking him awake. Aramis. He raised his head, stared into the dark lagoon. It was quiet, the sound of deep night and sleep. Only the drums sounded still.
"Come," the automaton said.
He stood up as if in a dream. "Where are we going?" he said.
"Into the forest. Come."
He followed Aramis. The night was very still. They walked up the beach towards the ring of trees, and entered into the deeper darkness that lay beyond.
All around him the drums beat, their savage sound rising and falling in a pattern he could almost comprehend. It was the sound of machines at work, rhythmic, hypnotic, and unaccounted for. It was very dark. Branches tore at his arms. He stumbled in the dark, hit his shin, the pain searing through his flesh. He cursed and felt more awake. Ahead of him Aramis laughed softly.
He stumbled on, following blindly, his eyes useless under the impenetrable canopy of the trees. The constant drums dictated his movement. Their pattern called to him, formed web shapes in his mind. Where were they going? Somehow, he trusted Aramis. It was, perhaps, an unwise thing to do.
How long they walked for he didn't know. The automaton was always ahead of him, marking the path with the soft tread of feet. What was there on this island beside themselves? What savage tribe beat those drums?
He fell again into a dream-like state. The monotony of the walk lulled him, so when they stopped at last he was startled to discover a faint light above their heads. Dawn was rising, and in the place they stood there were no more trees.
Before him lay a temple.
Why a temple? he thought. What he saw was a ruined building, made of that strange green metal of the lizards, the one used in the construction of the Royal Palace in the capital. The building was vaguely pyramidshaped, and lay in a clearing in the jungle. It could have been anything, and yet the feeling that here, somehow, was a place of worship was undeniable to him. "Come," Aramis said, gentle, insistent, and Orphan followed him. They stepped together away from the trees and into the clearing, towards the temple, if such it was.
The drums rose into a crescendo around him, then quietened down to a distant beat. He followed Aramis towards crumbling stone steps, leading into a dark opening. He climbed them, carefully, and went through.
Inside was dark, with a dry, musty smell, like that of a disused library. It made him think of the Bookman and he almost turned back, but he knew there was only forward, now.
He wished they had a light. It was very dark inside. They walked down a corridor, their feet making no sound on the floor. Orphan trailed his hand against the wall. A smooth surface, metallic, warm.
He heard a sound like wind ahead of him. He stopped, could not hear Aramis. He hesitated, then moved on and his foot came down on air, and he stumbled, and fell with a cry, hitting a sloping surface. He rolled down,