Infernus

“Yes, the collapse of the hospital is a well-documented event — 1987.”

“Doctor Begels, it is impossible that ancient volumes could witness… ” he stopped suddenly, light dawning on his long, unhandsome face. “Did you say you had the manuscript carbon-dated?”

“Yes. I’ve had them inspected also, very trustworthy people in England, who have looked at the paper, the ink, everything. They believe them to be authentic. I reacted like you, at first. I was so disgustingly intrigued with the contents that I hadn’t thought to have them dated. As a last resort, at my father’s prompting, I took them to the experts in England. Nothing can prove them to be anything but three-thousand-year-old volumes. Which is why I have suggested the whole affair be published as fiction. You will agree that even as fiction, it is a little on the unusual side.”

“Yes, a little.”

“The original leather-bound volumes I have permanently entrusted to the group I have mentioned, the dark brotherhood. They are eternally safe. I did this for several reasons. In their original state they are unedited, and for that reason they must never see the dark of day, or be published. They are also extremely ancient, which, as you stated, is impossible.”

“To say the least!” he fumbled. “We will definitely hawk them off as fiction, to avoid any awkward misunderstandings.”

“All the work was done on my laptop. I’m hinting, that once I did all the editing (with many suggestions by the dark brotherhood), I threw the edited stuff into the electronic trash bin and scattered it into cyberspace. Never to be recovered. Yes, later I erased and reformatted my hard drive. In a way, I wish it hadn’t been I who found them. Thankfully, you will never know the effect of poring over documents such as these. For example, I had to decode most sections (that I have been promised will never be published) that use the most unrestrained, hideous names for all races of people. Not words you might hear anywhere, my friend — the vilest names. By a process of elimination, I was able to tell which phrases belonged to which race, or group.” She paused, and caught her breath. “Five years, exposed to that.” She pointed to the box.

Early morning sunlight glittered through the dewy window and danced lightly across the forest green blotter on the desk. No light can touch that book, she thought, and then her mind laughed. And maybe laughed again, but she stopped it.

“Yes,” he said, “you have excluded much text here.”

She laughed aloud. “It is best.” She smiled wearily. “Are you familiar with what is known as The Apocalypse According to John?”

“Of course,” he replied.

“In the Apocalypse According to John, also known as The Book of Revelation, there is mentioned in the first verse of the thirteenth chapter that there is a beast coming out of the sea, having ten horns and seven heads.”

“Alright, I’ll take your word for it, having never read it,” he said as he unconsciously steepled his index fingers again, safe in the protective church of his mind.

“It also states that on each of the Beast’s heads there is a blasphemous name.”

“And,” he smiled like the Cheshire cat, “your point being?”

“In the unedited version of the book I translated thirteen essays that graphically describe what was written on each head and what it meant. It also described how believers in the Messiah would be impaled on the horns, after the Beast had defeated Him and His angels in the last great battle, the battle in Megiddo, or Armageddon. I thought it wise to purge those kinds of things from the finished product. The Beast was apparently seen, at great length, by the book’s author.”

He couldn’t help but smirk. “Interesting! You’re quite sure the original is safe, Doctor?”

Her laugh was a challenge. “There is a brotherhood that no one knows, my friend, whose existence is so deep and dark that only a few of their own brothers on earth know who all the members are. One of them joked that they made the Masons look like the New York Times. I do not know this. They have promised me that no billions of dollars could ever make the real book surface again, even if I wanted it, or begged them. I wouldn’t, of course. They wanted all of it. They adore the complete text; and I even imagine they will worship it, as damnable as that may sound. Because they contacted me during the translation process, I could not, under torture, tell you their location or even who I gave it to. All the details of my handing it over to them were quite clever and I shall never reveal them. So, yes, believe me, the original is quite safe. Not one word of this present manuscript had better be deleted or added, or the deal is off. There’s a symmetrical reason for this, as you may notice, if you have read it often enough, as I have. It must remain as it is — just as we agreed — or I’ll walk to another publisher. Or, better yet, never seek to publish it at all.”

“Well,” he said, “I’ve read it. It’s concise and brief. There’s no grand need to edit any of it.”

“Naturally, I made a few changes — only a few. As I said before, the language of the completed text is unnerving, unhinged. Every last thing was described in the coarsest language imaginable. I exchanged a few words to give the text a more clinical, less hideous effect.”

“This book will make you a very rich young woman, if not for the royalties, then for the set contract.”

“That’s all, then,” she said, nearly rising. He was not finished, she could tell. She politely sat back down, smiling slightly.

“Oh, one last thing, Doctor. The little matter of the title. Did you think over my suggestion of a title change? You’ve stated that the title literally translates as, ‘The Book That Unwound You.’”

“That’s right, I have thought it over. I think I’d like it to be called simply, ‘Infernus.’”

“His name,” the publisher paused for effect, “for Hell.”

She turned her head to stare out the window, and began reciting what he considered must be a well- practiced poem. “’Gold is for strength, Green is for pus; White is their neutral, but Red is mine leader.’”

He leaned over the desk and cocked his head to hear her mere whisper. “What did you say? What was that?”

“A poem I translated, but never included in the text.”

He almost believed he saw a thin tear run down her sallow cheek and disappear into her clothes. “And why is that?”

“I thought the colors would be obvious.”

“The colors of the demons? And are they? Obvious, that is?”

She turned and looked at him, which she seldom did. Her right eye blinked seven times. “Oh, yes.” She paused, and then winced as if someone had spit in her eye. “Oh, yes they are obvious.”

“Well, maybe the people would want an annotated version -”

“I don’t care what the people want!” The only time she ever raised her voice during the interview. She was breathing heavily, ending it with a sigh.

He realized she was pressing her hands over her pants often, although they seemed immaculate, creaseless. Her fingers were pencils. Short, chipped, unkempt nails. Brittle, like the rest of her. What was she like before? he asked himself, not sure if he hadn’t said that last part aloud.

“You may wonder,” she said quietly, “if I am a mere shell of my former self. Simply put, yes, I am.”

“Then why not just give the book to this, uh, so-called ‘Dark Brotherhood’? Why publish it at all? The money?”

“The money?” She laughed, perhaps too much, nearly mocking him. “No, I told you. They will make me rich beyond my wildest dreams should the book fail to sell.”

“Yes?”

She stared up at him from beneath her brows, just this side of madness. “No, you see, they want this book shoved rather rudely into the public eye. They want others to read it. To infect them.”

“But… but,” he stammered. “That’s damnable!”

“Interesting choice of words. Yes, that’s exactly what it is. Damning them all.” He rose and extended his hand. She stood, glad that this part was over, shook his hand, and asked him, “Do you know what the preface was in the beginning of the book?”