Page 18 of Sinistram
The priest acknowledged that even magic couldn’t completely protect against rock slides, collapses, bad air, or explosions. Yet he remained firmly convinced that the toll of deaths and injuries would be higher without the magic and that they were effective against all but the worst catastrophes.
He made note of the litanies and rituals that were cited, but frowned as once more, the book failed to address the presence of actual monsters among the dangers faced by those who toiled underground.
Finally, in the third book, he found what he’d been looking for. The author was a parish priest who documented life in a mining community in the late 1800s, around the time of the Darr disaster.
The priest clearly recognized the dangers faced by his parishioners and the fear that gripped their loved ones every day. He slipped in enough veiled digs to make it clear he faulted the mine owners for cutting corners that increased the risks.
When Father Illich learned that the town’s mine witch was too elderly to continue his work, the priest went to the witch and asked to learn the rituals. Travis applauded the man for his open-mindedness and could have cheered out loud when the author wrote down the specific incantations, mantras, spells, and wards.
The next several pages detailed the different mine monsters he had encountered, what worked against them, and what had not. Tommyknockers were mentioned, as well as trolls, gnomes, andcoblyns, among others.
“Can you see if there are more manuscripts by this author?” he asked the Keeper. “If there’s something unbound, it wouldn’t be with the books.”
The priest looked unhappy to be bothered, but disappeared into the stacks long enough for Travis to use his phone to photograph the key pages. The Keepers prohibited phones or cameras, more a nod to tradition than for any real reason related to magic.
He took plenty of notes, careful to have his phone out of sight by the time the Keeper returned.
“No, sorry.”
“Thanks for checking.”
Travis turned the page and found a faded newspaper clipping about the Mammoth Mine disaster. The priest’s handwriting on the bottom of the clip read, “gnome.”
His fingers brushed the old article, and suddenly the library seemed to disappear, leaving him in the dank cold of the mine.
Travis’s mind knew that visions weren’t real, but his body reacted to the threat anyhow.The air smelled of wet rock, oil lamps, and the exhaust fumes of the huge engine at the mine mouth. In the echo chamber of the tight tunnel, the engine’s cycle sounded like a mechanical heartbeat, reverberating from the stone walls.
Sweaty, dirt-streaked men crowded into the narrow entrance, and Travis could see the fear in their eyes they tried to hide. These men—some of them only boys—knew that the odds were against them returning home, and faced that fear every day. Most of them looked overtired and underfed, scraping out a living in this new land that barely kept them and their families alive.
Voices buzzed around him, speaking in Polish, Croatian, Hungarian, and heavily accented English. Many had been miners in their home countries before they came to Pennsylvania, hoping for a fresh start. They knew the dangers and gambled that, at least for today, luck would be with them.
At the mouth of the mine, silhouetted against the light, Travis glimpsed a man whose arms were lifted in benediction. The thunder of the engine kept him from hearing most of the words, but he felt the tingle of magic as the spell swept over and past the men, deep into the tunnel where the monsters lurked.
When the miners moved, they swept Travis along with them, into claustrophobic tunnels that opened into cavernous rooms where the coal was chipped from the rock by pickaxes and sledgehammers. Some of the men carried open flame lanterns, and other lamps hung from hooks high in the rock pillars.
A few men had gone deeper into the tunnel and returned. Travis saw them argue with the overseer. He couldn’t pick upmuch, just “bad air.” Their report didn’t sway the man, who sent them back to their task. Murmurs and whispers circulated among the other men even as they stuck with their work.
Travis tried to draw a deep breath and found it difficult, as if his lungs were already full of something they couldn’t dispel. He coughed and gagged, trying to clear his throat. Smoke mingled with the tang of methane and fine rock grit that Travis could taste in his mouth.
Then he saw it, a misshapen shadow against the lamplight, lurching toward them. Seconds later, an explosion rang out behind the creature, and a ball of flames raced around and past him.
Men screamed and tried to run. Travis remained frozen, an unlucky observer of the tragedy. The fire that engulfed the miners didn’t affect the creature. Its red eyes gleamed, and just before Travis’s vision faded, he saw the monster’s lips pull back in a saw-toothed smile.
Travis woke gasping for breath, face down on the table. His whole body shook, and he swore he could still feel the fire and taste the methane.
I saw it. I saw the disaster and the monster.
“Your time is up.”
Travis had almost forgotten the Keeper had stayed with him, and he managed not to startle at the interruption. Whatever the priest made of Travis’s vision, it had not moved him to offer help.
“Because it’s clearly so busy in here?” Travis snarked, still trying to regain his presence of mind. He shut the priest’s memoir, careful not to touch the old clipping again.
The keeper was not amused. “The magic and spirits in these books make them dangerous. Contact must be limited to avoid possession or worse.”
Travis always doubted the dire predictions the Keepers gave about restricting time in the library with the magical tomes. Although his skepticism suspected that the library minders didn’t want to be responsible for their visitors for longer periods of time, he knew that many in the Sinistram did not question the idea that the library and its contents were dangerous, to be avoided if possible, and if not, consumed in as small amounts as possible.
“I think I’ve gotten what I need.” Travis hid his annoyance. He carefully packed away his notebook and knew the Keeper would insist on reshelving the books he had used.
