39

Twilight of the Devorants

Not everything is as it appears, as it is written, how it is expounded and propagated across a passive-receptive landscape that will not check the logic of your assertions. I know this only because I had accepted far too much on the faith of what I was told or what I had read. I had been perhaps far too complicit, willingly duped if only to carry on with this now greying mystery that ran simultaneously toward two unreachable horizons of the beginning and the end. I was no longer certain if Castellemare would be the one to write the colophon on this series of enigmatic narrative trains, or if what was being written would never come to a halt.

I had taken as well on too much faith that those laughable bibliophiles were the real Devorants. I was to be disabused of this assumption that did not augur well with the mechanics of this overdrawn drama. With Setzer effectively retired, Castellemare vanished, Angelo dead, Dr Warburg little more than an inconsequential squeak in the sinecure station of his crepuscular academic career, Leopold now turned hostile against what he may have perceived were my bad intentions, and my being barred from that infinite Library, there was little left of the former footholds and clues to keep me going on. The stage upon which I had been thrust was now mostly barren save for the confused fool expected by a grim and harsh audience to deliver an eloquent monologue but having forgotten his lines.

In order to overcome this feeling of terrible inertia, that all my pursuits had become fruitless and idling, I decided to investigate the one element in this mystery that I had so carelessly cast aside as insignificant. It is usually the case in mystery, as the formula goes, that what one considers a red herring, a mere segue, will provide the key to solution. So, I tapped what sources I could to learn more of that group, the Devorants.

Search engine results are not to be trusted if one desires to locate secrets. Secrets do not parade themselves in public for easy acquisition unless if in doing so they can be assured anonymity. The Devorants that I had met were listed there, a cheap looking website saturated in pretentious dogma and a few unflattering pictures of old men in ridiculous regalia attempting to look indispensably imperious. I recognized a few of them as the hapless thieves who made away with my books. There was no image of their noble carriage, their station wagon. Apart from this folly of a group, there was little more than the whisper of ghosts of what I presumed would be the real Devorants.

I suddenly heard a rustling sound coming from my bookshelf. A single leaf was wagging on its own between two other books, as if someone were on the other side waving it for my attention. I crept toward the shelf and snatched the leaf. The typesetting and ligatures suggested that it was from a book dated between 1700 and 1800. Upon it was a single inscription:

In other words:

Oddly enough, or perhaps far too apt as to be an embarrassment, the page number on this leaf corresponded to what would have been the final page in the 7^th Meditation. This, however, did not correspond to the type of paper or typeset used in the book, but from what I knew about the Library, it perhaps held various reprints and incarnations of the same book repeated throughout history and perhaps into the future. It did seem to square with the notion of the “six works” that made up – or set up for – the seventh meditation which would be the synthesis itself.

And, again, more noise from the shelf, this time a hoarse whispering. A gloved hand displaced a few books and beckoned me. In fright, I fled.

Things did not return to normal although I took refuge in a used bookstore – which was perhaps a mistake. As I was trying to steady my nerves scanning the spines of what passed for the store's “classics of literature”, one by one the books were being replaced by books written by another me. I resisted any and all urge to pick one up, and instead made haste to the store's physical sciences section and, yet again, more books written by me. It was a clear sign that the Library, or someone within it, wanted my full attention. Again, the whispering came from the shelves, this time more audible that I could make out what was being said. “Around the corner.”

Feeling the numbing effects of fear, I complied, walking around the shelf to what was usually a cul-de-sac of shelves housing the store's “occult” section. Instead of a dead end, the shelf seemed to go on for quite a distance. The Library had once more opened itself up to me, but there was a problem with the lighting – it was too faint to make out the books let alone read them. A figure silhouetted against this dusk light was at the end of my journey.

“Come,” the figure said with no mean severity.

I was led through that dark corridor, the menacingly unreadable books rising high on either side of me, their spines bristling with the mystery of what contents they promised. I could hear the sound of dry pages being turned perhaps by dryer fingers as we neared a vast table where sat a collection of figures whose eyes were hooded, their countenances severe and serious. As if anticipating that I would break this suffocating silence, one of the figures turned to me and raised a single bony finger to his lips indicating that I should remain silent.

My guide ushered me to an empty seat before a pile of opulent quarto volumes and a few pulpit editions. With the ghost of a touch, he pressed me into my seat and subsequently made his way to one of his own. In that dimness I tried in vain to make out the features of these cloaked figures, their paucity of sound rendering them spectral. None would look at me, but were each absorbed in their meticulous act of reading, poring over text in patient search for I know not what. I was perhaps expected to do the same.

If this were the infinite Library, it was a section I was not familiar with, decorated as it was by a bay of large tables squatting conspicuously in open areas near monolithic shelves. In this readerly crypt, there was hardly enough light by which to read, but my eyes slowly adjusted to these crepuscular conditions. The hefty volume before me was in French, a general history of the “Compagnnonage”. My more pecuniary instincts when it came to antiquarian texts could not be repressed as I habitually examined the spine, the gilt edges, the type, the woodcut engravings of asphodels on the prefatory pages, running my fingers over the inside cover and imagining what sort of off-cuts may be pressed within. Although the affair was a quiet one, by comparison to my other reading companions, I was making enough of a commotion that some of them retrained their focus on me with chillingly unchanging expressions that said for me to desist. Cowed, I returned to the book, this time carefully examining what was written there. I quietly peered at the spines of the other books in my pile and could make out that each of them were on the same or similar subject: a history of the Compagnonnage.

In the top margin of the first page was a note written in Old French that I had difficulty translating, but the gist of it was this:

From what I could understand – albeit hard going since my French was not up to snuff – would be fascinating to a select few, a niche of people who made 17^th century French companion groups their obsession; it certainly wasn't mine.

There was much dry discussion on the ambiguous origins of the Devorants – who were only named explicitly fourteen pages in. This was followed by a detailed account of the proper ceremonial procedure involved in the taking of the oaths, what the oaths contained, and what they meant. I was partially distracted by the motives of these figures, if they were trying to teach me a lesson of some kind or revealing some pertinent information. The long section on oaths outlasted my interest by about thirty or so pages, and I was starting to read hastily, taking a pause between pages lest my reading rhythm and page-turning distracted these daunting readers who seemed to read at a regulated synchronized pace. Most of all, I did not want to be insulting or appear rudely uninterested in their task. The tension of the circumstances made this the most difficult of reading experiences.

The section on mysteries seemed to promise much more in the title than it delivered, and so was far less interesting than I had hoped. Much of it made esoteric references that were entirely lost on me. The dry and abstruse nature of the discussion, coupled with my trials in translation, was beginning to frustrate me. I must have made it to page 235 when the silence came to an end with a series of startling reports made by the closing of large books, made all the more so obstreperous by the tomblike quietude.

As quietly as I had been seated, I was gently herded from my seat and wordlessly summoned to accompany the group of twelve. We came to a small and ornate wooden door which the member in the lead opened and held open for all of us to enter. The fishbowl effect of the cramped and musty chamber, redolent with the smell of so many volumes standing as sentinels in square-shouldered formation – all of it made the already packed room feel that much smaller. Why these texts had been cached here from the regular Library circulation would eventually be revealed to me. In fact, the Library was filled with such cache rooms, alcoves, locked chambers, and small adjoining galleries accessible only by those who had the right keys.

“Do not be alarmed,” my guide finally spoke, a hoarse rasping emanating from barely moving lips. “We are the Devorants, companions of the book and itinerant researchers in the Library. As we spend all our time reading, there is little to no discussion. Among us, I am one of the few who still has the ability to speak. Many of us have not spoken in several years, and sparingly if we must.”

“Why have you led me here?” I asked. “Does this have anything to do with my possession of certain texts?”

“We are not interested in your books. We are interested in you.”

“Why is that?”

“Lineage. We subscribe to the belief of heredity, the traits of the father handed down to the son, his son, and so on. Our history records have frequently come up with your name. A traveler from Parma journeyed and met a member of our Order in Nantes. This Gimaldi, which we believe to be an ancestor of yours, spoke of secret plans and a secret passage, as well as a vast and unseen Library in Tuscany. In this Library, your ancestor said, was a sum of the Devorants' history far greater than what we knew or could possibly fashion. He told us that the Devorants were greater in number via the Library than the whole population of this world. This same Gimaldi invited a few of our elect to this Library, but he was killed en route in a skirmish before he could tell us in which section the books vital to our project were stored.”

“Have you found them?”

“Yes and no. Without Gimaldi's help, our Order has spent generations accumulating histories in an attempt to construct the best one from the nearly infnite variations. We have, in the course of so many years, met other members of our Order from different histories.”

“Your task seems pointless, in a way. The Library is infinite, and as such, the printed histories of your Order will equally be so.”

There was some grimacing among the group. The claim that I was making was contentious and unsatisfactory to them. One of the silent members felt compelled to reply, his faculty of speech difficult and hoarse from years of not being used.

“No... the Library is not... infinite. It is... like all things... bounded. Look, here, this shelf ends... And this one. How... can something infinite be composed... of finite parts?”

“He is right and this is our view,” my guide took over. “Men confuse multitude with infinity. That is lazy thinking. Even grains of sand have a finite number no matter how large that number is. There are perhaps as many histories and books in this Library as there are grains of sand on a beach, but it is still finite. Once we have all the histories, we will merge them into one universal history of the Devorants, selecting the best, most logical, and substantial parts of each, canceling out all inconsistencies. You have spent too much time listening to Castellemare's wrong-headed Order. If the Library were infinite, it would have infinite parts, and every book would be infinite unto itself.”

I couldn't help myself from replying, “Well, in one way a book is infinite: there can be infinite interpretations.”

“Sophistry,” he replied.

“Or postmodernism,” I said. The word seemed to resound with them as much as would an explanation from contemporary physics, which is to say nil. After a few moments, I resumed, “So why did you bring me here and have me read that book?”

“Reading is purity,” the hoarse one croaked.

“You are a Gimaldi. It is hoped that you will direct our research, honouring the oath taken by your ancestor.”

“I am not bound by any oath made by my predecessors,” I said, which was followed by a low grumbling chorus of dissent. “Furthermore, I cannot say that I have much interest in your Order, for I have my own concerns at the moment, my own mysteries to resolve. From what you have had me read, and what you have told me, I can see that the Devorants offer nothing to the mystery I am bound up with.”

“This is where you are wrong, Gimaldi. These chambers are where we sleep and where we safeguard precious texts in the Library from those whose eyes are too dim and unworthy to comprehend, too barbaric or filled with solecisms to appreciate. Help us to define our history and it will invariably define your own.”

“You would recruit me in this task of which I have no interest, and then promise me something in return that I have no desire to learn.”

“Do you not care about the histoyr of your lineage?”

“Not really. I am not narcissistic enough to delve into my own genealogy. From what I read, heredity and heraldry are sacred and eternal items in your world view, but it is not something I share.”

“The history of a book reveals the history of the people who held it, and vice versa. Histories are intertwined and interdependent.”

“Are you alluding to the Ars atrocitatis?”

“Books of many names. Perhaps what we know of its authorship and those who possessed it would be of valuable interest to you.”

“At what price?”

“Quid pro quo. Help us locate what we seek.”

“That could take an eternity in this vast place. No.”

“So be it, Gimaldi. You've a special talent for making powerful enemies fast. We have heard in the rustling of pages talk of Castellemare wishing to severely redress certain perceived injustices. And, then, there are Angelo's employers who were told of your involvement in his death. Castellemare informed them, of course. And given your blind persistence in acquiring forbidden knowledge to which you are not entitled, despite so many warnings that have come in a variety of ways, you've made enemies of darker forces still whom you have never encountered. We are, perhaps, one of the last who have no stake in your demise. Your position is precarious, and you would be safe with us for none dare disturb us or molest any of our charges.”

I was reeling from the very idea that Castellemare would be so fervent in his malice and revenge to turn his own enemies against me. However, I was wary of what may have been a ploy, a pressure tactic by these hooded Devorants. They were offering me safe refuge and access to the books they concealed from the regular circulation, but in exchange for a very monastic service.

“What guarantees my safety, especially if my enemies are so treacherous?”

“This place and its immutable laws. All must observe the Law of Quiet Study or else the Library has one ejected. This is a place of study, reading, research, and contemplation. Violators are banished forever, a high price to pay for transgression. Your enemies can only harm you outside where the law does not extend.”

“I'll just have to take my chances, then. This place is far too vast that I would fear going mad to stay here for too long. I already have difficulty conceiving of this place as I can't square my logic with its reality.”

“Have you such an important life that you would risk its inevitable and premature end? If infinity is what you fear, let us put you at ease with our proofs. Our cartographers have been plotting the dimensions of the Library for much longer than you have been alive. They say that the Library, at certain points, ends. Any idea of a beyond is mere fancy and illusion, the chaos of mere repetitions, echoes, reflections. ..Mirrors that grant this illusion of infinite space. One of our explorers who traveled along the same shelf row for sixteen years came across the very same books that began his journey. This suggests that the Library itself is one enormous circle, bending in an imperceptible circumference. It may actually be a contained sphere.”

I let him continue: “Those like Castellemare are still trapped in scholastic thinking, blended with mystical hash. Yes, mystics with their infinites, pedants chained to their dogmatism. We, on the other hand, are humanists who believe in empirical investigation. Do not be fooled by their seductive mysteries, for these are merely vain novelties of speculation taken as truth. Castellemare's Order is peopled with failed and irrational metaphysicians who impose their hasty explanations upon the Library in lieu of testing for accuracy. All books end, and it is no different with the dimensions of the Library. If the Library were infinite, then our orders would not trouble with power struggles all these centuries. There are twelve orders who have been vying for total guardianship of the Library ever since the library of Alexandria was consumed. What you see around you is the Alexandrian library, but its collection has expanded, acting as the repository for all books that are destroyed.”

“What of the multiple worlds theory that the Library seems to exemplify?”

“We have every reason to believe, given our research, that even these worlds are not infinite, but like all things in the universe... regulated by numbers. The numerical law, bequeathed to us in the secret codes of Pythagorus, states that there are twelve times twelve times twelve worlds in total.”

“1,728 worlds in all,” I said. “And so, 1,728 libraries of Alexandria.”

“Yes, numerologically expressed as the magical number nine.”

“I have my doubts about the validity of numerology.”

“In numerology, validity is contingent upon where one puts the significance.”

As opposed to the other Order that called themselves Devorants, these members were hardly quaint or pretentious. The determined severity etched on their stone-like visages, and the serious devotion to a task they felt obliged to perform at the expense of any else, bespoke of fanatical zealotry. Still, their offer of protection appeared loaded to me, and it seemed as though all these competing orders had made me a battleground, some kind of prize of conquest, vying for influence and my loyalty. I was caught in a manipulative courtship, but was there anything beyond the symbolic significance to be gained or was my capitulation merely the prize of winning a sick game? This line of reasoning made Castellemare's reactions seem more plausible, as he was acting like the jilted lover. How many of these Orders' representatives had been trying to curry myfavour, lure me over to their side, using sometimes cruel and brusque tactics, or other times feigning to take me into their most intimate confidence? Those like Castellemare and Setzer had done so by pretending to be aloof and indifferent to winning my loyalty, in some cases pushing me away, declaring me unwanted or dispensable, more of a nuisance than a high value commodity. That was indeed the trick: give meagre offerings so that I may desire their attention that much more, a passive-aggressive method of winning a game whose rules were still a mystery to me.

The Devorants were endlessly searching among the competing narratives, conflicting origin stories, the farrago of testimonies for a viable and unified history they could call their own. There was something sad and futile about their tragic attempt to reclaim something that was either lost forever, buried in plural confusion, or that did not exist at all. The Devorants had taken the insularity and monomaniacal obsessive tendencies of scholarship to an absurd extreme.

My resolve in declining their offers, contingent upon devoting my life to their pointless and inconsequential sleuthing, was firm. They knew I was resistant to their machinations, their persuasion, and that the threat of future harm by groups unseen was not enough in itself to convince me. This sombre, staid affair in the chamber was coming to an end. Their understanding of the Library only extended as far as its specific utility in furnishing them with the myopic research goal of their origins.

My guide led me out of the chamber in disappointed silence. Would the Devorants, upon my rejecting their overtures, deliver me into the hands of those they claimed had malicious designs upon me? Were these cloaked searchers above acts of spite, or were they as treacherous as Castellemare? Their courtship of me failed and I was being shown the way out. Doubt was cast upon the reality of this meeting when I blacked out and came to, roused by the clammy hands of the bookstore owner and gawked by a few sets of concerned eyes. The smell of dust was what linked the store to that stifling chamber.

Making my unnecessary apologies and weak excuses, declining the semi-sincere and obligatory offers to be brought to hospital, I left the store and tracked my way back in the direction of home. I was once again waylaid by fatigue and so sat on a cafe patio, urging myself away from another fainting spell with the aid of a much-needed cigarette. A young and eager university student two tables away was fully absorbed in what I recognized to be the authoritative book on that most perplexing of manuscripts, the Voynich. A middle-aged and overweight woman taking a break from shopping was generously inhabiting her own seat, slowly thumbing one of those cheap paperback bilges where the author's embossed name grossly and monumentally overshadowed the title. The patron who had occupied my seat prior had abandoned today's newspaper on the wrought-iron table, its thin leaves licking the wind. Half expecting another impossible coincidence and half merely biding my time, I perused the newspaper. No such hints or placement of dangerous clues were present in the paper, its normalcy of the usual inconsequential political contests and ongoing wars taking place in far too distant places to stoke genuine concern was both dull and reassuring. The book review section lacked substance, reviews more enamoured with their maneuvering of flattering or clever adjectives. I idled past these and scanned the classifieds for estate sales, taking semi-professional note of those that listed book collections – which were few and unpalatable in their descriptions.

The large woman, surrounded by her retinue of boutique bags, farted and tried to cover this up with a forced cough. The university student was seemingly experiencing a flagging of interest or ability to maintain attention to what he was reading. All eyes fixed upon my direction when a sudden surge of wind took my newspaper up in a clamour of angry freedom. I dutifully chased down the printed tumbleweed mess, hastily folded it in a poor approximation of its original shape, and tucked it under the ashtray.

A poster on a nearby light pole redirected my thoughts, an advertisement for a local community theatre's adaptation of Don Quixote. I felt the sickening, terrible shuddering effect of a neglected moral lesson, lodged in place and impossible to avert. Specifically, the sad end of Don Quixote, how he repented of his madness on his deathbed, that rather well-stocked library of his composed of chivalry books. Those books collected and read with obsessive zeal was what bewitched him, spurring him to embark on an absurd journey of illusions. Were we not the same as the poor Don Quixote who had spent countless sleepless nights and long days steeping himself in that fantastic world of books only to lose his wits entirely? Was I so different, or the university student who sat nearby pouring indiscriminate amounts of high scholarship into a febrile mind, or the woman who devoured pulp romances that only set in starker relief the lovelessness of the world? Filled with ever more fantasies of origin, obsessively seeking unified history through books, the Devorants were indeed afflicted... severely touched in their heads, but their extreme and obvious example could not efface the fact that each of us was also afflicted in our own way, in our own degree. To each their fanaticism, all courtesy of books themselves. And, perhaps, praise ought be given not to what one reads, but what one refrains from reading.