"And, what did you feel? Did she touch you?"
"She passed right through me. There was a cold breath, but not much else."
"Exactly. But, these things could be felt and smelled. That evil gray cloak never touched me, but it must have been as palpable as the others. It had a dead smell about it, and it made a swishing sound as it moved across the floor. And, there was something else, something that you must have felt when the moth appeared. You said that you were scared by the moth, even though it didn't come near you. Do you know why you were scared?"
Roger looked nervously around the dark room.
"I felt that there was someone there. I felt the power of some incredibly hateful will, a human will that wanted to kill you. And just before the moth flew away, I felt the will grow fainter."
"Not quite ready," said Prospero with a sour smile "Whoever he is, he can't do what he wants to do just yet. If there is such a he, that is. We may be wrong about all this. Anyway, we ought to talk about something else. There's nothing more maddening than empty speculation."
Roger sat up in his chair. "Good Lord! I had forgotten all about the notes I brought you. On the book."
"Book?" said Prospero.
Roger looked at him in exasperation. "Yes, book! Remember? Just before I left for England you asked me to trace that book, the one written in the cipher that no one had been able to crack. Well, you were right. The book has been in England and may still be there, for all I know, though I couldn't locate it. It had been in several castle libraries and was mainly thought of as a curiosity. Most of the old scholars I talked to thought the book must be some kind of practical joke, an elaborate sport. It made its way from one library to another because people borrowed it and never returned it. Not that anyone tried to get it back. No one in England took the book seriously, as far as I know, except one monk at Glastonbury Abbey. He has been dead for about fifty years now, but I found his notebooks under a pile of old papers in the abbey's archives. When you read what he has written, you may think that he was a little crazy. But, I don't think so. Here, let me get the papers for you. I couldn't bring his actual notes, but I copied out everything pertaining to the book."
Roger got up and went to the hallway, where he fumbled about in his raincoat for a while. When he came back, he was holding a bundle of rain-spotted foolscap sheets that were covered on both sides with his neat uncial script. Prospero refilled the brandy glasses, and he had just risen from his chair to look for his watch when a small marble clock high up on a dark shelf near the ceiling struck two, Not bong-bong, but clunk-clunk, since Prospero had stuffed the bells with paper to keep them from waking him up. When the muffled striking had finished, two wooden doors opened tn the front of the clock and a small brass cannon rolled out. The spring-action barrel fired two metal pellets which flew across the room into the open mouth of a bust of Aristotle. The philosopher's eyes blinked red twice as the pellets went down his throat. Gulp-gulp, ping-ping. Roger stood staring at the spectacle.
"I do not think, Prospero," he said, "that one should attribute a very high degree of reality to your house."
"That clock is altogether too real," said Prospero. "I think I will have to stuff Aristotle's mouth with paper."
"You might try not winding up the clock," said Roger.
"Oh, my no!" said Prospero, dead panning. "What would the clock think?"
The two men sat down again, in the easy chairs. Prospero had brought a large floor candelabrum from the other room, and he had placed it between the two chairs. Now, he began to read by the wavering shadowy light. He mumbled the first few lines of the first page to himself and looked up.
"This seems to be a very thorough description of the book. Is it from a catalogue of some sort?"
"Yes," said Roger. "The monk kept a descriptive list of all his books. Most of the entries are very brief and limited to standard descriptive terms, but this note is quite elaborate, and it certainly goes beyond the kind of thing you'd expect to find in a book list. The rest of the material you have there I copied from a diary he kept. I didn't include anything that did not pertain to the book. At first, there are just a few scattered notes, but later he writes about the book obsessively. You will see why."
"You do know how to arouse curiosity," said Prospero, smiling "Why don't I read this aloud? I hate long silences as much as you do, and we both enjoy being read to."
"Very well," said Roger, sitting back. "Anyway, I haven't read the thing since I was in the archives at Glastonbury. Read on."
Prospero began to read in a slow, matter-of-fact voice.
'"Item 1036. Small quarto volume in vellum-covered boards. No markings on back or front cover or on spine. Little sign of wear. Contains 73 parchment leaves. Writing on both sides of leaves. Colored drawings in margins, small woodcuts used for initial letters, and some full-page wood cuts. Curious dolphin cross on last page. Bookplate on inside front cover. This latter has been defaced by some crisscross slashes probably made with a pen, but I can make out the design, which is this:"' Prospero found himself looking at a macabre heraldic device.
"Even though it's my drawing of his drawing," said Roger, "it's probably accurate. And, it's familiar too, though I can't think why."
Prospero nodded. "I feel the same way. Well, let's go on. The book appears to be written in a cipher, though i cannot even make out the alphabet that is used. The writing is neat and flowing, and there seem to be words and word groups. There is something vaguely disturbing about the writing. The decorations are similarly odd and much more unsettling. The flowers drawn in the margins are minutely detailed, though they correspond to no flowers that I have ever seen, either in life or in my herb-books. Some flowers have men and women rising from them. Woodcuts used for initial letters are executed with skill. One shows a lighted window in a moonlit tower. A figure in the window, hunched over a lectern. A similar cut shows the scholar at his desk before an open book. A shadowed figure, presumably a friend, looks over his shoulder. One full-page woodcut shows (I imagine) the Witch of Endor. Certainly, there are "gods ascending from the earth." The witch's back is to us and she is thrown into silhouette by the light of a fire. She holds a rod. The spirits, which are crawling out of the fire, look like horribly emaciated men. Some are on their knees begging, some are trying to flee, and one is crawling toward the witch with a look that gave me a bad dream the other night. Another full-page cut shows a man who has apparently just been awakened. He is in a nightgown and he holds a candle. Again, the face is away from us, for he looks toward a large open window. The light, or something about the drawing, is incredibly well done, making the window a terrifying black hole. Anything might crawl through it. Not that there are shapes in the window. It seems absolutely dark. I have contemplated burning this woodcut, but I cannot do it. Twice I have awakened at night to find myself in the situation of the figure in the picture. Without a candle, but in bright moonlight. Once I woke up and found that I was unfastening the latch on my bedroom window. I have never been a sleep walker before. God save me from a moonless night!'"
Prospero shuddered. "Even reading about this is horrible! Did anything happen to the poor man?"
"No... well, that is to say, he was not dragged off by dark creatures. But, he-oh, read on! The diary is next."