The Crownsil meets on Lastday and decides which name to give it. The year that has just gone past was recently named The Year the Black Ewe Had Twins. Before that there was The Year of the Big Plums. Then The Year of the Caterpillars. Then The Year of the Great Wind. Then …”
Ellery followed him back, back, back … through The Year of the Lost Harvest, The Year the Earth Shook, The Year of the Great Rains, The Year the Teacher Took Barzill to Wife, and so on; until, finally, The Year of the Eastern Pilgrimage, when the Quenanites had made their exodus from San Francisco. Which, indeed, had been 1873.
“So you see ( smick! ), we have been in our Valley years to the number … seventy, yes! ( smick! ) seventy. That’s how many years I have counted for you. And the number may be confirmed by the old writings.” The Chronicler gestured toward the scroll. The writing was in the same strange “Chancery hand” Ellery had seen the Successor employ in the scriptorium. Was it possible that some Teacher or Successor in a long-gone generation had been employed by a London law firm—perhaps even before the days when Dickens was reporting parliamentary debates?
Possible? In this place, Ellery thought, anything was possible.
“The old writings,” Ellery murmured. “Do they record anything, Chronicler, about the fifty silver dollars?”
Up jumped the Chronicler, stuffing the scroll into its jar and replacing the cover. “They do, they do!” He trotted back, replaced the jar on its shelf, took down another jar, and trotted back with it. “Let me see ( smick! ) ‘Year of the Last Pilgrimage’—yes, hmm, hmm.” He ran his finger down a column, failed to find what he sought, rolled the scroll up on one side, unrolled it on another. “Hah! Look—”
There it was, in the same archaic writing, on the yellowed paper, this year the crownsil debated what to do with the fifty silver dollars, which some suggested that, we possessing greater wealth than this which needs be counted, it be buried and forgotten, but instead the crownsil voted that it be deposited in the sanquetum, there to lie until such time as may be otherwise decided .
The strange letters danced before his eyes. Ellery drooped. He was exhausted again. What was the matter with him? He struggled with his thoughts.
Fifty … He had failed to count the coins in the two columns. But surely they hadn’t been as many as fifty?
“What happened to the rest of the silver dollars, Chronicler?”
The old official looked puzzled. “Rest of them ( smick! )! Nay, Guest, I know nothing of that. Only the Teacher—blessed be the Wor’d for his continuing presence amongst us—is permitted to enter the forbidden room. The dollars are kept there, with the holy book.”
“Yes, the holy book. What does its title mean?
“The Book of Mk’n?”
“Mk’n? I thought the Teacher called it Mk’h?”
The Chronicler frowned at his own error. “According to the old writings—and all is written with the pen of remembrance—the lost book was thought to be the Book of Mk’n. That is, by those who held that there was such a book. Others ( smick! ) have held that there was not. But so the Teacher called it, and his father before him—Mk’n. Then, five years ago, in The Year of Many Birds, the Teacher found the lost book; and after he had studied the old writings again, he believed that we had always misread or miswritten the title—that it was Mk’h and not Mk’n. And since then we have called it the Book of Mk’h. For all is as the Teacher says.”
“But what does the title mean ?”
The old man shrugged. “Who knows? Do names always have a meaning?”
After a while Ellery left and sought out the Teacher. He asked if he might borrow a donkey and take a brief leave of the Valley.
“You will be back,” the patriarch said. It was neither a question or a request.
“Of course.”
“Then go, Elroï, and the Wor’d go with you.”
Ellery had not been certain of
Ellery followed him back, back, back … through The Year of the Lost Harvest, The Year the Earth Shook, The Year of the Great Rains, The Year the Teacher Took Barzill to Wife, and so on; until, finally, The Year of the Eastern Pilgrimage, when the Quenanites had made their exodus from San Francisco. Which, indeed, had been 1873.
“So you see ( smick! ), we have been in our Valley years to the number … seventy, yes! ( smick! ) seventy. That’s how many years I have counted for you. And the number may be confirmed by the old writings.” The Chronicler gestured toward the scroll. The writing was in the same strange “Chancery hand” Ellery had seen the Successor employ in the scriptorium. Was it possible that some Teacher or Successor in a long-gone generation had been employed by a London law firm—perhaps even before the days when Dickens was reporting parliamentary debates?
Possible? In this place, Ellery thought, anything was possible.
“The old writings,” Ellery murmured. “Do they record anything, Chronicler, about the fifty silver dollars?”
Up jumped the Chronicler, stuffing the scroll into its jar and replacing the cover. “They do, they do!” He trotted back, replaced the jar on its shelf, took down another jar, and trotted back with it. “Let me see ( smick! ) ‘Year of the Last Pilgrimage’—yes, hmm, hmm.” He ran his finger down a column, failed to find what he sought, rolled the scroll up on one side, unrolled it on another. “Hah! Look—”
There it was, in the same archaic writing, on the yellowed paper, this year the crownsil debated what to do with the fifty silver dollars, which some suggested that, we possessing greater wealth than this which needs be counted, it be buried and forgotten, but instead the crownsil voted that it be deposited in the sanquetum, there to lie until such time as may be otherwise decided .
The strange letters danced before his eyes. Ellery drooped. He was exhausted again. What was the matter with him? He struggled with his thoughts.
Fifty … He had failed to count the coins in the two columns. But surely they hadn’t been as many as fifty?
“What happened to the rest of the silver dollars, Chronicler?”
The old official looked puzzled. “Rest of them ( smick! )! Nay, Guest, I know nothing of that. Only the Teacher—blessed be the Wor’d for his continuing presence amongst us—is permitted to enter the forbidden room. The dollars are kept there, with the holy book.”
“Yes, the holy book. What does its title mean?
“The Book of Mk’n?”
“Mk’n? I thought the Teacher called it Mk’h?”
The Chronicler frowned at his own error. “According to the old writings—and all is written with the pen of remembrance—the lost book was thought to be the Book of Mk’n. That is, by those who held that there was such a book. Others ( smick! ) have held that there was not. But so the Teacher called it, and his father before him—Mk’n. Then, five years ago, in The Year of Many Birds, the Teacher found the lost book; and after he had studied the old writings again, he believed that we had always misread or miswritten the title—that it was Mk’h and not Mk’n. And since then we have called it the Book of Mk’h. For all is as the Teacher says.”
“But what does the title mean ?”
The old man shrugged. “Who knows? Do names always have a meaning?”
After a while Ellery left and sought out the Teacher. He asked if he might borrow a donkey and take a brief leave of the Valley.
“You will be back,” the patriarch said. It was neither a question or a request.
“Of course.”
“Then go, Elroï, and the Wor’d go with you.”
Ellery had not been certain of
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