She held it in her arms, stroked its binding, rolled the smooth pages between her fingers. Right through it there were strange arabesques, a script long forgotten. Never in her life had Ophelia handled something even approaching such a phenomenon. Was it just a book, after all? It had the texture neither of vellum nor of rag paper. Awful to admit, but it resembled human skin, drained of its blood. A skin that would benefit from exceptional longevity.
Ophelia then asked herself the ritual questions, those of many generations of archivists and archaeologists. What story was this strange document telling? Why did Artemis want it to feature in her private collection? And what was that message engraved on the base of the Reliquary—Never, on any account, attempt to destroy this Book—all about?
Ophelia would carry all these questions away with her to the other side of the world, a place where there were neither archives nor museum nor a duty to remember. None that concerned her, at least.
Her great-uncle’s voice resonated right down the stairs and kept reverberating beneath the low vault of the second basement in a ghostly echo: “Come back up! I’ve dug out a little something for you!”
Ophelia placed her palm on the Book one last time and then closed the dome. She had said her farewells to the past, in due form.
Over to the future now.
The Journal
Saturday June 19th. Rudolf and I have arrived safely. The Pole has turned out to be very different from all I expected it to be. I don’t think I have ever felt so dizzy in my life. The ambassadress kindly received us on her estate, where an eternal summer evening reigns. I’m dazzled by so many marvels. The people here are courteous, very considerate, and their powers surpass all understanding.
“May I interrupt you in what you’re doing, dear cousin?”
Ophelia jumped, as did her glasses. Immersed in the travel journal of her forebear, Adelaide, she hadn’t noticed the arrival of this scrap of a man, bowler hat in hand and smile stretching from one jug-ear to the other. The puny fellow couldn’t have been much more than fifteen. With a sweeping flourish of his arm he indicated a group of jovial chaps not far off, all guffawing in front of an old typewriter. “My cousins and I, myself, were wondering whether you might grant us permission to read a few of the curios in your august museum.”
Ophelia was unable to stifle a frown. She couldn’t, of course, claim to know personally every family member who came through the turnstile at the entrance to the Museum of Primitive History, but she was certain she’d never come across these characters before. From which branch of the family tree did they spring up? The guild of hatters? The caste of tailors? The clan of confectioners? Whichever, there was certainly a strong whiff of the farcical about them. “I’ll be right with you,” she said, putting her cup of coffee down.
Her suspicions proved justified when she went over to Mr. Bowler Hat’s group. Far too much grinning going on.
“And here’s the museum’s star exhibit!” cooed one of the gang, with a telling look for Ophelia. His irony was, in her opinion, somewhat lacking in subtlety. She knew she wasn’t attractive, with her messy plait releasing dark wings over her cheeks; her scarf trailing; her old brocade dress; her mismatched boots; and the incurable clumsiness she was stuck with. She hadn’t washed her hair for a week and had dressed in whatever first came to hand, not caring whether it all went together.
This evening, for the first time, Ophelia would meet her fiancé. He had come especially from the Pole to present himself to the family. He would stay a few weeks, then he would take Ophelia away with him to the Great North. With a bit of luck, he would find her so off-putting that he would abandon the idea of their union on the spot.
“Don’t touch that,” she said, addressing a great lump of a man whose fingers were moving towards a ballistic galvanometer.
“What are you mumbling on about, cousin?” he chortled. “Speak up, I couldn’t hear you.”
“Don’t touch that galvanometer,” she said, raising her voice. “I’m going to provide you with some samples specifically for reading.”
The great lump shrugged. “Oh, I only wanted to see how this contraption works! Anyhow, I can’t read.”
Ophelia would have been amazed to hear the opposite. The reading of objects wasn’t a widespread power among Animists. It sometimes manifested itself at puberty, in the form of vague intuitions at the tips of the fingers, but it waned in a few months if a tutor didn’t swiftly take charge. Ophelia’s great-uncle had performed that role with her—after all, their branch worked in the preservation of the family heritage. Going back into the past of objects at the slightest contact? Rare were the Animists who wished to take on such a burden, especially if it wasn’t their line of work.
Ophelia glanced at Bowler Hat, who was touching the frock coats of his companions and giggling. He himself could read, but probably not for much longer. He wanted to play with his hands while he still could.
“That’s not the problem, cousin,” Ophelia remarked calmly, returning to the great lump. “If you wish to handle a piece from the collection, you have to wear gloves like mine.”
Since the last family decree on the preservation of the heritage, going anywhere near the archives with bare hands was forbidden without special permission. Coming into contact with an object was to contaminate it with one’s own state of mind, adding a new stratum to its history. Too many people had sullied rare items with their emotions and thoughts.
Ophelia went over to her key drawer. She pulled it too far open: the drawer remained in her hand and its contents scattered on the tiled floor in a joyous cacophony. Ophelia heard sniggering behind her back while bending to pick up the keys. Bowler Hat came to her aid with his mocking smile. “We mustn’t poke fun at our devoted cousin. She’s going to place at my disposal a bit of reading, to educate me!” His smile turned carnivorous. “I want something tough,” he said to Ophelia. “You wouldn’t have a weapon? A war thing, you know.”
Ophelia replaced the drawer and took the key she needed. The wars of the old world fired up the imagination of the young, who had only experienced minor family quarrels. All these greenhorns were after was having fun. Mockery of her little self didn’t bother her, but she wouldn’t tolerate anyone showing so little consideration for her museum, today of all days. She was determined to remain professional to the end, however. “Please follow me,” she said, key in hand.
“Submit your samples to me!” trilled Bowler Hat, with an exaggerated bow.
She led them to the rotunda where flying machines of the first world were displayed—the most popular part of her collection. Ornithopters, amphibious aircraft, mechanical birds, steam helicopters, quadruplanes, and hydroplanes were suspended on cables like giant dragonflies. The group laughed even more at the sight of these antiquities, all flapping their arms like geese. Bowler Hat, who had been chewing gum for some time, stuck it onto the fuselage of a glider.