All the world's a stage ….. And one man in his time plays many parts"
A voice asks, "Who are you?" Within his heart he replies... The one who will succeed the Bookman.
We are the wind, going everywhere, touching everything (everyone) and feeling nothing. We keep wandering. Eventually we leave no trace.
He sighs, thinking, too old- yes too old. Too many years, too many wars and more names than … positively ancient. Then smiles. Days of wandering through a distant memory of home, bereft and in the briefest of griefs. As a Bookman it is all he allows himself. He's been travelling the world since for twenty-five years. Down from Manchu, Mongolia and across China. Distancing himself from the event in time as well as in geographical location, clinging onto his code and tenet with all his soul. It is all back to his records and assessing historical political climes for rumours of wars. It is his duty. Staying several nights at one of the missions on the island. Fort Zeelandia, Formosa.
The boy felt alone, but he was not lonely, not really. He could amuse himself enough with the reading material he's been allowed access to. He experienced a slight tinge of pride that he was the only child that the Sisters would let near any of the books that was not teaching material for the other children. It was not much but he took what he could get. The Mission was all he knew in his life. No one, not even the sisters knew where he came from, who his parents were and hence not his parentage. His skin was fair enough to make him out somewhat European, the red mop, and green eye, but the paleness was just slightly off that he could be partly Asian too. Plus there was the question of the other eye. Bad enough to be marked by the hair alone, gwai lo, but an additional cursed eye. Doubly cursed he thought.
The old man is speaking to the Sisters in attendance, to thank them and inform them that he must away as his business in place ends - when a loud altercation amongst the children of the Orphanage interrupts them. The shouts tearing into the hush between the stone walls. Hurrying after the nuns into the courtyard, they catch sight of the ring of children surrounding the one lone child. He patiently watches the scene as it unfolds. Of course, children will pick on those who are different, and when your lot in life is already hard, it makes them feel better to make someone else hurt harder crediting the boy that he stands ramrod straight, refusing to surrender, staring them all down.
Evil and mean, these stupid children, his fists balled by his side posture stiffened in pride. What did they know? Nothing. They were nothing. All of them, otherwise they wouldn't be here. Unwanted. Rejected. They dared to tease and mock because he was different. They were stupid because they could not comprehend they were ALL the same. Thus not worth his time, and definitely not his tears.
The Sister in charge breaks it up, shoo-ing them all away to teatime. She beckons to the protagonist to check for signs of any physical hurt or injury and finds none. Then sends him off to the others, even though he protests at having to join them, he looks behind her staring curiously. With a start, she realises that the old man is still there and apologises. Most find homes or get apprenticed to merchants and guilds, but she whispers behind a hand,"They believe he is cursed see - that hair, the colouring and the eyes." The man's interest is piqued and requests for some moments with the boy.
How old are you boy? The man asks in Mandarin Chinese
Five or six, he shrugs, I don't really know for sure
How long have you been here?
'S'long as I can remember.
Can you read?
Yes I can read. The boy affronted and indignant.
Chinese and English, - he hesitates momentarily - I can speak Dutch and Portugese too, and I've read the all the books here in in the mission, the history books, the bible and whatever else there is to read.
Even, he says with some pride, some Latin, his eyes shine.
Hmmm… the old man is thoughtful and contemplative, in his mind he is turning an idea over in his head.
Who taught you?
The nuns at first - he says dismissively - but they do not have time for me, the others keep away from me anyways. So I learnt more on my own.
Do you have a name?
Does "you boy" count? The boy asks sheepishly.
The man chuckles with him.
You're old, akin to a grandfather.
Now it is the man who is affronted.
Why? The boy asks. Are you speaking to me? He is shyly hopeful, worrying his right thumb and fingers behind his back.
Will you take me with you when you go? Do you need someone like me?
The man hesitates, does not reply only narrows his eyes, looking down on the boy (because then he could).
Steadfastly he says, I won't be afraid.
Bookman does not say, yes you will be, because he knows. The other certainties are the doubt, the misgivings in his mind and wondering if he will be up to the path he is about to choose - for them both. Still, he feels he must take the chance that is given him, he is afraid too. Afraid of failure. Failing them both.
The man remains a week longer, after more talks with the Sisters at the mission to take the boy into apprenticeship. To supply both himself and his new charge with provisions and to make a start on some of the training he plans for the boy.
The boy only made one request, to cover his right eye. I don't want people to see, stop, look and stare.
The man supposes that it is fine, uncertain if the power within the will lie dormant forever or will awaken somewhere along the boy's future. Whatever is to be, will be.
There are secret histories, Bookman explains, those parts buried within events that have transpired. Strange phenomena, the unnatural and that yet cannot be explained, not truly. These are recorded, handed down person to person and are excluded from historical fact. To understand the things that others are unaware of. To be a Bookman, to learn the code, not just the language, but their writing and their personal maxim. To hold nothing, the practice of non-attachment, especially to people. Bookmen, he stresses to the boy time, time and time again, have no need of a heart.
The old man taught him a lot of things that first week. Some he understood, the rest, he was still uncertain of. Especially to the 'Why?' It was all very interesting and in his curiousity, drank it all. The exciting, the new and different to anything he'd ever known in his short life thus far. Also the promise of leaving and travel. Everywhere. That would be wondrous and he was glad that he'd not been adopted or taken into care by someone else. If he believed in such things then, he would have said that either Lady Luck smiled on him, or may be the Fates had it all planned. His own thoughts pertained to the old man? Just that he was a little strange and wondered about the eyes. He learned later that it was make up, just never found out why. His new guardian was not unkind, fair and a little strict. The boy assumed, that that was parenting.
We are the wind, wandering everywhere, eventually leaving no trace.
The boy looked out upon a field of gold, his white scarf billowed out and the seeds danced about in the wind, the idealist who wanted to understand the histories that no one knew about.
Bookman gives the boy his first name Hong Fa, with that he initiates the boy to the life of Bookmen. They take a barge to the mainland and from there man's wanderings resume, this time with apprentice in tow. The boy learns to adapt quickly, to ever changing climes and countries, crossing borders and boundaries. Travelling overland sometimes, up rivers, across mountains and a lot of sea. He learns more foreign tongues and cannot say which is one he can be native of, save that of the Bookman code. Which he learns is a tribal language which has ceased to exist since about two centuries ago.
He will have many names the boy is told. Not just one. It's one of the things that he is not sure he grasped the why of it truly yet. Another 'Why?' He's accepted that there will be many of them.
Bookman also teaches that part of the skills set is not just the world of books, words, histories, the duty to record, in on paper, but also the herbal arts of medicine, needle acupuncture and martial arts. He is content with the lad's progress and ability absorb, understand any material he teaches and is gifted with amazing recall.
So Junior, with some amount of glee, found an outlet for his physical energies in learning how to kick, punch and dodge. They're for survival purposes he's told. To be able to get out in a pinch. He understood that. He agreed wholeheartedly with the philosophy of self preservation. (He acceded that acupuncture is a thing left to the expert, because he could not get comfortable with poking in too deeply into folk, with steel or otherwise)
Bookman trains Junior to people watch, to pick up nuances in body language and to determine the lay of the land in their conversations and discussions. He tells Junior to practice using the mantle of others to create different people with different personalities for himself. Junior discovers that acting is a skill he develops rather well, and enjoys putting in play. Initially it is a game. Just as many times as they wander, every small skirmish, every big battle, he acquires as many names. Different personae each with their own set of habits and mannerisms, cloaks himself in them, donning a second skin then shrugging it off as a snake sheds its skin.
Learning has always been easy for the him, he was a quick study and remembered things easily. He's learnt to watch people and put his observations to use on both himself and others. He's learnt to hold his true nature from the people he has contact with. That really is hard at first, however over time, he developed the knack for it and refined his techniques. Again it is a game for him. He has always enjoyed games. Even with no one to play.
They travel across China into Indochina. The Tây Sơn uprising is winding down into the last months, brother against brother. Bookman signs them up as medic and assistant. He is still small then, he goes by the names Dac Kien, Phuoc Huu and Sa 'ang. As they wander post to post and observe the hostilities from both sides. Three days here, a week there, overnight someplace else. This is the template. As many names as places. Bookman is heartless. Throws him at the deep end and watches as the young heart is rend to pieces. This is part of the training.
When Junior's first exposed to a battle he is sickened. Horrified and saddened. Carnage seemed to be everywhere. The assault on his young mind, on all his senses. Even from the sidelines. The wounded and the maimed. The smell of gunpowder and blood a strange alloy of saltpetre, copper and iron. He is left wondering how not to feel about any of the things he witnessed.
Crossing back into China overland over mountain passes, it is here during the White Lotus Rebellion where there is far, far too much death for a protest against poverty and taxes. Death seem to pervade everywhere and the inevitable happens. The boy is hit with a stray bullet. Bookman's skill for survival ensures that the boy is safe from harm but perhaps the helter skelter life takes a toll on the little boy. They have to lay low here while the boy recovers from a fever, clinging on to the old man as a drowning man would a lifeline. The man swears to himself he is just the master ensuring the survival of the boy, because he cannot afford the time nor the effort to look again for a new pupil. Nothing to do with attachment. That one week is the longest they remain anywhere. His name then is Le Yang.
The boy was wounded once by a bullet once in those early days. The bullet had passed through cleanly and only into flesh. During recovery though he developed a high temperature. In delirium he faintly recalled pulling on master's top-knot, clinging to it as if it were some kind of lifeline. Don't leave me, don't leave me. I promise to be a good Bookman. He whimpered softly in his fevered sleep. Terrified of being alone again.
He recovers and they move on. After which they travel through Sichuan and into Tibet, heading towards Lhasa. From there to Nepal, famous for their mountain ranges and peace and tranquility only to run smack bang into the great hand of the belligerent British East India Company in a nasty border dispute with the Ghurka.
More war, more battle, the guns pounded in his ears and the flashes seared behind his eye in a cacophony of after-images and sound. Even with it shut and hands squeezed tight over his ears, he could not unsee the images. The cries, the cries of cruelty, and of pain. The cries of peoples who believed that theirs was the just cause. Who was there for them to say which is the side of right, those with might on their side? He questioned his master… Why? WHY? Why do humans do this to each other.
Having taken Asiatic names for some time now, Bi Ming, Fai and Cheng An, as well as such names as Anil and Narayan. The master deems that it is time for a change. It is time for a good old British name. The British invasion is all about greed and gaining more wealth.
Junior has always wondered how these names simply appeared out of nowhere, a rabbit pulled out of a magician's hat. He is called Lewis. Whatever his personae in that moment, whatever quirks and foibles, he's learnt already glibly to speak to folk and subliminally wheedle information out of them. Whether they're casualty, or supply chain officers, or even (when he played his character and charm cards right) higher ups. No one thinks twice about that child with a nonchalant air, and by the time anyone's thought about it, usually it is far too late and they are gone into the wind, no one any the wiser.
From the high Himalayas and the source of the Ganges they follow the great river all the way to the Bay of Bengal. Robbie, Jack, Tom, Perry and Ben in turn. India is hot and humid, hot and dry, hot even hotter. The sights and sounds fascinate the boy. It is a myriad of colours, textiles, spices, music and languages and the history. He is a sponge, soaking up and learning, it is a thirst that he can never truly slake. Meanwhile, At the same time that he is feeling a little pride over how well his charge is doing, Bookman worries. There are whisperings and rumours. In times of war it is not unusual, for there to be talk about ghosts and hauntings. Soldiers can be a very superstitious lot. Still, once can never be too sure so he keeps more or a vigilant eye on the records and especially of the casualties, where they fell, how they were found and how many are missing. Missing-in-action is so very common, so no one pays these lists any real mind. A casualty is a statistic. A number and no more. But to the senior Bookman the deaths are a harbinger of something more sinister.
Ben noticed a change in the Bookman's behaviour recently. He is worried. Master? He asked. What is wrong? He recalled that the man gave him a long sideways look then turned away shrugging, "Nothing," he said. So nothing is what Ben thought of it, he put it down to his still tender years and perhaps not knowing enough of the code to be trusted. Now more than ever he's determined to learn the secret histories, to become the next Bookman. His curiosity is piqued and learning everything becomes a be all and end all of things. He would be a be better Bookman-in-Training.
All across India. There is a trail of devastation. The British lay siege to citadels and cities, as a strategy, they are long and arduous. Effective though. Men, women and children cry out, there is a delay in the rainy season, and the result is death, disease and tragedy upon tragedy. Bookman knows that tragedies can birth and give rise to to more tragedy and wonders if some larger unseen hand is at work. Still he keeps it from Junior. The Mysore Wars, the Maratha Wars, and the Pindari War. Again in as many places and on as many sides as they are able to insinuate themselves into, Bookman continues his travels with Simeon, Arjit, Neerav and Vian.
Disillusionment with the human race made it easy to put up walls around his heart. He wrapped it up and put it away on a shelf, from thence it sat. Dust collected over it, kept it hid. The shell he created, distanced himself from them all. The eye that could once see forever is now only for himself, with his sly silver tongue he painted his clever words which cloaks the glassy eye becoming a mirrored surface. It reflected the sun and everything in the light, but showed nothing of who he was. He had been so many now. He chuckled to himself oft', 'tis a game and even he with that detailed memory is hard put to recall that frightened boy that he left behind so long ago on Formosa in Zeeland Fort. Not because he did not want to, perhaps he did not want to. Not anymore
They sail from Madras to Ceylon in a fast dhow. To record the ongoing wars there. The Portuguese living on the island, are mostly missionaries and church administrative staff, cross-cultural marriages have long been in existence since the sixteen hundreds. The arrival of the Dutch shatters the harmonious peace, and a tussle breaks out between the Dutch East India Company and the British East India Company wanting to control the routes to the Spice Trade. The Anglo Dutch War claims the lives of many nationalities on all sides. The greed that pushes the war forward explode in a kind of firework that leaves no one unscathed. Nowadays Bookman lets the boy choose his own names. Adao, Clemente, Daavi and Ferao.
The boy grew. Once of a height with his master, he now surpassed it. The old man said that he's not overtaken his top knot yet, so it did not count. Ferao smiled at that mere technicality. They have learnt to be more comfortable with each other, working round and together. They fit, a hand-in-glove and the boy's happiness is boundless. Of course he knew better than to mention it to his teacher, he would have been clocked one on the head for sure.
Bookman decides to go Eastward once again, heading across the Sea of Bengal to Sumatra. The Anglo-Dutch wars continue in Batavia and Suriname. More skirmishes, more battles and more wars. It is an insane world where greed breeds tragedy and the warring factions cannot see beyond the ends of their noses, and the stage it is setting. It is here that Bookman crosses paths with an acquaintance from way back when. He clutches at himself (and his non-existent heart) and they walk on by each without acknowledging the other. Bookman wonders if it is mere coincidence or that coupled with the recordings of the wars especially those with the more unusual casualties and how some of the events seem pivotal in the general evolution of how the world moves forward - that it is not. No coincidence at all. Bookman hopes the boy, now taller than him does not notice, or will not ask. It is not the right time yet. No - the time is not yet. He is only ten. John, Frank, Edward, Henry, Andries, Diederik, Zaan, and Steffen. - Is progressing nicely. Easy to dismiss him as his assistant, and with a diligence and natural love for books. Whilst not afraid to be around adults, constantly praising him for his mostly quietly and serious demeanour, he can be shy with other children. Which is just as well. A Bookman's life is better, easier that way.
All this travelling, he did not really get a chance to be with other children, and with the memory of that awkward boy from the orphanage - he's quite happy that way. Besides it was more fun to sit and parse sense from parchment, from one language into another. Another of the games he loved to play. Old paper, heavy ink, maps and history. Bookman is always at ease with others - it is that air and the gravity with which he carried himself. But when we saw that man in the uniform the old man was startled. They'd never avoided anyone before. It was part of who they were. Bookman had said sometimes to blend in you had to be unafraid and unassuming. But this time it was almost as if he didn't want to be seen. He'd recognise any uniform anywhere, their crests, rank and file, but this black, with the silver crest, was new to him, also not many of the armies he knew had very many female high ranking officers. He wanted to ask but for the way the old man behaved, Steffen thought it wise to leave that question - along with many others he'd thought of over the time - for later.
Sumatra is beautiful with equally beautiful people. It is a shame about the wars that ravage it and the peoples there merely become ink on paper, historical details and data. Not just the Anglo Dutch war, but one war bleeds into another, into another. The Great Java War and the Padri War too.
Kersen discovered that the Dutch East Indies is almost idyllic. If he ignored the wars (and after the records were done), the sea brought cool breezes onto the land that chased away the heat and humidity. The Minangkabau houses were some of the most unusual he'd ever seen and although he was not supposed to, he happened upon coffee. He was too young for coffee of course, but the taste. He savoured it, the rich nuttiness, the low acidity, and the full bodied almost creaminess. Yup, he was probably far too young for coffee.
Bookman decides that it is time they make their way westward. Even he will be the first to admit that maybe a change of scenery will be good for both of them, He doubts that there will be any respite from their task. The whole world seems to be a theatre for war, every act, every scene being put into play and all the actors puppets on strings, with several invisible pairs of hands pushing them this way and that, so as the wind they will weave and wend their way through the thespians.
Ji-ji said that they were headed West! Well they weren't headed West immediately, but eventually they'd get to Europe, and that would be so cool. The weather would be different for starters. They'd be on the ocean for a while too. Being at sea would be nice for a change, or it could be just that they'd used overland routes so often recently that he'd forgotten that being at sea could be fun and did not dwell on the thought that it could be dangerous as well.
They set off from the coastal town of Painan, a trading post belonging to the Dutch East India Coy. A south westerly tide carries the tea Clipper out in good spirits and favourable headwind. The boy is laughing and grinning and for a moment the old man loses himself in the boy's enjoyment. Then becoming serious, the paths that lie ahead will be hard and in spite of rigid tenets, may yet be full of heartache.
For the first time since the Orphanage, he was simply Bookman Junior, the sailors called him Junior with a fondness. It was good for them to be in company of a child to spoil, that reminded them of their own left behind so far away, never knowing if they would ever see them again. They indulged the boy with a mock Crossing-of-the-Line ceremony. The full one would have traumatised him. He took it for the fun it was supposed to be, waved with wild abandon at the Old Man standing on one of the upper decks. They were blessed with good weather and docked into Hyderabad two weeks later.
Being in India again, the boy laughs more amid the swirl of spices and sound. The mix of Urdu, Bengali, Malayalam and half a dozen dialects, the jangle of bangles and the swish of sateens. A heady mix of aural delights, taste and texture. The boy revels in it. The old man cautions the boy on enjoying it too much. It is time,time that the teaching takes a more serious turn. He needs to be more strict and perhaps even heavier handed. Not that exposing the boy to war is not a grave enough method for instruction. A second time in as many months he spots that uniform again, this time a personage that he knows. There is no mistaking that hair. They pass each other by in the bazaar, acknowledgement in the most minute of gestures. If seeing that uniform again is not an indication that the smaller cogs have put in motion larger machinations Bookman is not sure what else is. The Bookmen will continue their task, he will step up his efforts to drill and prepare his disciple for the future.
They have arrived back in India. Fortune smiled upon their ship and brought them safe into harbour. Junior noticed that his teacher has become authoritarian and uncompromising. He reckoned it must be because he is getting older (well both of them) and Junior needs to learn, to feel his responsibility more keenly and to be able to take up the Bookman mantle, code and all the harsh realities that task entailed whenever he is needed. Again he observed his master's behaviour to the man in the black uniform with the silver crest. Again it seemed that the sense of urgency increased. That was curious and curiouser.
The boy is now twelve. Dickie, then Peter and William. It is time that Bookman recounts the secret history of the Great Game, the Tournament of Shadows. To inform him of the Black Order and their exorcists. To acquaint him with The Earl of Millenium, the Noah and the Akuma. That behind these wars there might be a more dastardly scenario truly in play. Against the backdrop of the First Anglo-Afghan War, the Siege of Qalat, the Battle of Bolam Pass and the Massacre of Gundamak Gorge - where out of thousands of soldiers only one manages to reach safety. Perhaps he is a survivor so that he may tell the tale to someone who will record it for posterity.
It is about time, the boy, Hank has been called in to talk with his master. He could tell this was no ordinary sit-down-and-it's-time-to-learn instruction. When it is over with the boy is understandably shaken. To his core. The scope of it all was immeasurable. After the talk he is told to spend time with that lone survivor, an eyewitness account to be recorded. It furnished their purpose as Bookmen with a heaviness in addition to what he'd learned that day. His faith in the human race lost already, resigned to his future, thinking it best to live his life on the sidelines, to be the continuance of the recording of the secret histories. It is not a long interview, both speaking in hushed tones when at the end he asked the broken man if it was worth it. There was no verbal acknowledgment just the dead and unseeing eyes. In and of itself an answer of sorts. As he moved to take his leave, the man grabbed his wrists and pressed into his hands an unusual item. A gift, he supposed for listening, or something to unburden and assuage survivor's guilt and relief.
He shows it to his master. Bookman is curious, it is a miniature of a fifteenth century Indo-Persian war hammer. It is beautiful. The shaft is smooth black lacquered wood with a metal core ending in a graceful diamond shaped finial above the hammerhead. The mallet head was smooth and cylindrical. It had alternate black and white panelling, interestingly there are Chinese character seals on both flat sides. It is a simple but elegant thing. They both suspect that the real deal could pack a punch to armoured foes. Senior allows the boy to keep the gift and accept it with good grace, and adds to his small pack of belongings.
Unbeknown to his chaperon, after he left that lone survivor, after he recorded the testimonial into the journals, he snuck away to look at the ravaged battleground. There was no one there. No sound, no echo and in that stillness, the stage empty devoid of its players. He almost apologised to those ghosts that might have lingered for intruding. There he stood, and in that moment he thought.
Perhaps this is why, when he stood before the aftermath, humanity ripped from everything that was, and the slate bare, rubbed raw, never mind clean. Naked and untilled. He could start again. Is THIS why the Bookman code existed? Easier to be detached and born anew. Distanced - the disconnect allowed for a clarity which cannot otherwise be achieved. If he had family, friends - the heartsickness would definitely cause pain and suffering, colouring judgement and causing imbalance.
He shivered, touched his hand to his heart. His newly acquired mallet lay in a pouch between his poncho and his shirt. The wood warmed by his heat and a reminder that humanity was destined to ruination again and over again. This was his duty. He was the successor to the Bookmen clan now.
Travelling further north and west they encounter the Ottoman-Persian War. Another border dispute, this time between the Persians and the Turks. The Battle of Erzurum overlays the more sinister plot for the Russians to take control of Greek interests in the region. But really it does not matter a whit who the players are any more. It does not matter to Darian, or Farzan nor to Kia, because whatever the causality the result is casualty and more death. Bookman makes the decision not to tarry. No reason for lollygagging, on to the next stage, the next theatre of war.
The boy, thirteen has seen so much of war, death, destruction that it is all mechanized recording, finding that uninvolvement was so easy to maintain. Jaded and disillusioned with the human race, he agreed with Bookman's hurry on to their next destination.
They travel into Constantinople( then, only the high magistrates of the Ottoman's were allowed to call it Istanbul), and if there is a place on Earth that Bookman allows himself to be thrilled, it is here. The echoes of history haunt the cobblestones of the pavement, and the winding streets of the old city. From paganistic beginnings, a millennia of war and various rulers, into its burgeoning to become a centre of trade, culture and education. The gateway to the East from the West. Historical significance coats the the very air here.
Sebastian, noticed how excited his pedagogue, was to be here. He presumed that it must be because this home to the Palace of Antiochos, the Hippodrome, the vast Imperial Library, which contained remnants of the Library of Alexandria. As Bookman, with their secret codes they will be allowed to comb and research to their hearts' contentment (and whatever their strangely haphazard schedule affords them) Truth be told, the stripling himself is anticipatory with the idea of it and cannot wait. He was thankful that here at least there is no war that might lead to the loss and extirpation of such a seat of learning.
Whilst there is a semblance of peace in Constantinople, it is the reverse for Adrianople, according to a historian of the time, the most contested spot on the globe. Here troops marshall, from Russia, Bulgaria and even Greece (who are on the opposing side yet the hostilities are kept at bay and peace hangs by a hair). The drums of war resonate readying the arena for the Russo-Turkish War part of the more grandiose opera of the Great Eastern Crisis. They attach themselves to a messenger unit with a Russian unit, Nicolas, is useful as a runner, and picks up nuggets of information wherever he can and his memory serves them both well, adding volume to the journals they amass all through their travels so far. They cross into Bulgaria, arriving at the capital Sofia and from there they travel to Kosovo by train. They finally reach Montenegro several months after making land in Constantinople. Here the Russians triumph over the Ottomans at the Battle of Grahovac. There is a horrific 'mop-up' to be done, and as soon as they finish with the report, they make for the seaport town of Antivari and sail the Adriatic to the Italian municipality of Bari. If it seems a headlong rush across Eastern Europe, it is. Bookman schools the boy Remus in the proper speech, manner and conduct for an audience with priests of higher office on the train from Bari to Rome via Naples.
The apprentice noted the haste in their travel has gathered momentum, and the scenery changes speedily, a pack of cards shuffled by a croupier. If not for his eidetic memory he would not have even noticed the conveyance. He is instructed in the ways of receiving an audience with high personages of the priesthood. The mantle of Remus that he took on for visiting Rome, is that of a serious study, of somber demeanour and quiet observation. Remus is suited to the task perfectly. It is not the clergy that impressed the boy though, instead (true to a Bookman's nature) he is awed and humbled by the archaic Biblioteca Nazionale di Roma. The hallowed halls, thick with must and age, stone scripture, heavy parchment manuscripts, scrolls of ancient text. He is left to his own devices whilst Bookman undertook his own research in quiet meetings and other secret places in this magnificent edifice.
Bookman gains audience with clergy that he is able to discuss his fears from their findings in the recent histories that they've been recording. What they speak of remains secret. Upon arrival in the Holy City, the sense of urgency dissipates and the pace of travel slows down somewhat. Bookman does not let up on augmenting the boy's knowledge, developing his powers of reasoning and judgement. It connects understanding to a deepening of further cements the fiat of the Bookmen that one does not interfere with the actors on the stage. The participants are merely ink on paper and to maintain adherence to neutrality. To keep all accounts unbiased - in short, Bookmen have no need of a heart.
If the boy thought that the learning had always been serious, he was wrong. The tone and gravity which accompany the tutelage multiplied threefold. It was not enough to be learned, he needed to be able to apply that knowledge. The indoctrination passed on to him in a meditative liturgical chant, People are just ink on paper and Bookmen have no need for a heart. He kept it to himself, that meditation was not his strongest point.
Who are you
I am the Bookman's successor
Why do you distance yourself from others?
So I don't become attached to others - ink on paper, eventually disappearing into the annals of history.
Bookmen have no need of a heart.
We go everywhere we are the wind.
From one seat of learning to another. Rome to Florence, via Arezzo on a train. Tuscany is sunkist country, balmy breezes and orange and pink hues. The wealthiest city of medieval times, birthplace of the Renaissance, the seat of political intrigue and religious revolutions. Erudition made full by the tableau on offer. There is much one can learn from the menage a Medici.
Realisation dawned upon Adamo, a history of war and disaster are the dark essentials of humanity - a proviso for the advancement of science, culture and art. Enlightened counterpoint to the tenebrous sky of a moonless, starless night. Disillusioned as he was, he cannot but feel saddened because that balance is tenuous. The scale could tip into either dominion. What then?
They alight a horse-and-carriage bound for Genoa. The scene of a marvelously offensive siege by the French holding out against the Austrians, impasse breaking due to cunning negotiations and carefully worded treatise to avoid the inclusion of the word "capitulation' thus neither side lose face. From thence to Cinque Terre, snuggly snaking the Italian Riviera on a train towards Marseille, France. Its most famous citizen of the ancients - Pytheas, mathematician, astronomer and navigator - both Senior and Junior Bookmen take the occasion to educate themselves in his books and theorems. Marseille's populace, decimated by the Black Death some two hundred years earlier, and more recently the Revolution, is now a thriving maritime military port once again gearing up for war.
The teenager is excited with the travels from Rome, through Italy, and France. The food and ... and … young people his age. All at once intrigued but uncertain, he gladly still maintained his distance. He is shocked by his own behaviour. He is used to holding up on his own with others, adults, authoritative figures, priests and soldiers but suddenly he was curious for their company. So he watched them intently to learn how they interact, observed for different types, the subtle differences in nuance and body language. In the quiet spaces of his own time he practiced to better insinuate himself among them. The laughter, the smiles, the ways of speech, polite as well as colloquial slurs. It was never truly important to be too different to who he was at his core, because adults tended to take him at face value. They only ever saw the messenger boy, the medics assistant, scribe-in-training, Bookman Junior, whatever name he took. Now though it seemed important to these others that he was 'true' to who he was. It confused him. Benoit is the name he took for this leg of the journey.
They continue the coastal train journey passing by Avignon, Montpellier, Beziers, Perpignan in short order then Girona before finally pulling into Barcelona. The gears of war are turning, the cogs turn. There are a variety of uniforms the boy recognises. The trains and supply wagons are full with women and children that follows the armies. At the bustling station, they observe a band of men, English by their looks and speech, not the familiar red coats, but these men wear green. The old man stays silent, he decides that they may stay here somewhere overnight before moving onwards again, he leaves the Georgie with strict instructions to stay with their belongings at the station and not get into trouble. The boy barely contains his small happiness at the brief respite from his master, even though his teacher clocks him one as a parting shot to behave.
Georgie, intrigued by the leader is determined to stay and watch their leader, what can be gleaned from his carriage and confidence. The men definitely looked up to him, mixed rabble that they were. Though they gave off an air of inattention to the general populace, his calculative mind saw that underneath that relaxed air, they were alert and ready for any trouble that might come their way. He was so intent on watching them that he did not notice the large hand that came down on his collar as he fair jumped out of his skin.
He struggled to get free as he was hauled, legs wriggling 'ere sir, we got us a spy I reckon. The sergeant is Irish and strong, he is not a small child anymore after all.
He was thrown on to his knees in front of their leader
A spy eh? The tall blond squats down to get eye level with the boy. English from somewhere North.
N..nn..no. I'm waiting for someone to come back for me.
Why are you watching us.
It's what I do. He concluded that truth is the best path here. When I'm bored of waiting. Not the whole truth though.
D'ya know who we are boy. Irish asked him.
He made a pretense of scrutinising the uniforms closely, not that he needed to, it's a distinct colour with black leather facings and belts, "The black and the green, the finest colours ever seen" -
You're chosen men, the 95th Rifles.
You want 't watch someone kid, you've gotta be less conspicuous a'right.
Now go on wi' ya and stay out of trouble. Irish smacks him upside.
He rubbed at his sore head in an effort to ease it, what is it with these adults. Stop hitting him on the head. Still, he's learnt more than just advice on spying techniques from those soldiers. He hoped they will pull through whatever the world decided to throw at them.
After a day in Barcelona to take in the sights, Bookman talks to some British army officers, and gets them passage to Madrid with the supply train. It is crowded, and they meet up again with the green jackets from earlier. Bookman watches discreetly from heavy lidded eyes in feigned sleep as the boy makes conversation with the Major and his Sergeant. Occasionally one of the others will tease the boy. Make him blush and laugh. They are trying to get the boy to speak to the daughter of one of the cooks. They are singing something about kissing girls and making them cry, the fools! What do they think they're doing encouraging his apprentice like that?
He's being challenged he knows, and never one to back down, accepted it. Had he always been like this, he was not entirely sure. The girl was pretty, dark haired and sixteen. He is pushed in her direction and she's heard them so she knows what's going on. She follows the army because her mother does and knows what the men can be like, but the boy is an innocent, so she humours him. When he approached she blushed for him, shyly looked at him from under long lashes and dark eyes. Innocent he may be but he reckoned that he can play the game too, he hasn't watched and read people all his life for nothing. Even if, he is slightly nervous. With the men watching, he gained his first chaste kiss on his cheek. Blushing furiously, he returned to the men who laugh at him raucously. Give 'over boys, the Major told them. Leave' im be! Don't corrupt the poor child. For a bit of rough, the Major was actually quite gruffly caring. Between naps and idle conversation the hours flew by, and soon enough they arrived in Madrid.
It seems the army is heading the same way they are and they have to spend some more time with these unkempt soldiers who seem to pay no officer other than their own any mind. Bookman is actually reluctant to continue on with them but he does not wish to make any detours, so he suffers (because he is sure Georgie will not see it as sufferance) the inconvenience. The inconvenience is the disruption in the boy's training, it's hard to teach subterfuge, whilst under the hawkeyed scrutiny of the 95th's Major, despite any air of nonchalance and apparent indolence. They travel a ways together, this time with the battalion supply wagons. Taking up with one of the quartermaster's horse-carriages, the boy bounces around in the back of one with barrels of food and helps himself to an apple with permission of course. In this way they travel through Toledo and Ciudad Real, before the route takes them through Cordoba finally arriving in Seville.
Thrilled to be travelling with his new friends, his enthusiasm isn't curbed by being jostled around in the back of a horse and cart full of food stores and simply helped himself to the fruit availed to him. He's amazed too at being allowed to keep his name. He knew that his master is unhappy about not being able to keep up with the tutelage whilst they're in company. He hoped that being in Seville and gaining access to the more secret papers housed in the Archivo General de Indias, in spite of being muted in ostentation and simpler in design than the Biblioteca in Rome and no less important would dispel that grumpy air.
Major.
Bookman. They shake hands
A pleasure to meet you
Likewise. Take care of yourself
You too, and the boy too. Be careful, he's ain't as tough as you both think he is.
Bookman simply tucks his hands into opposite sleeves and imperceptibly nods.
The men heading off to their war take their leave from the Bookmen. Misgivings bubble from inside him, only for the second time since the start of their travels together. He shakes his head, as if to physically clear cloudy and irrelevant thoughts. Rafael is waiting at the entrance of the archives, ready to see what gems can be found in in the vast library.
Goodbyes were hard. They weren't together for long but it was actually the longest time that he'd had a chance to spend with anyone, and he'd never made friends before. He squeezed his eye shut, and instead focused on meandering his way through manuscripts from days of yore.
Stop wondering about them. It is later in the evening and they're in their quarters for the may be able to lie to yourself, but not to me.
It's nothing. I know I should forget them already.
Yes no attachments remember.
Right, no attachments. There is something in his chest, he resolutely refrains from putting his hand to it. Yes think no more of them, they are soldiers, they will go to their war, they will most like die, at least some of them. He recalls that one lone survivor far away in his memory. People die in war.
Their next stop is a little English village (believe it or not) in Huelva, there's nothing there really except the English who run a mining company, but Bookman nevertheless wants to take a look. This time again it is a horse and cart but a civilian one, as most of the others have been requisitioned by the Anglo- Spanish armies. The point of the village is that it is remote and tranquil, and might allow the boy to find his center and regain his balance.
The boy is a little put out to say the least, but he knew from the outset what the aim of the little side quest for what it was. He was grateful actually. His master was right. He is determined to not let the Bookman down, determined not to let himself down. They are stuck there until the cart that sends the mining company food and equipment arrive and they could get a ride out. So he took the opportunity to put in a bit of physical training as well. He took to running along the River Luxia everyday they were there. The memory of the Green Jackets seemed to fade. Seemed to.
Eventually they get their ride, halfway out of Huelva they switch carts at Aljaraque and head towards the border with Portugal. They pass more coast, and the sea is on their left, a constant companion for this part of their journey.
For exercise, the boy ran alongside the cart, to let his legs stretch. He's taller now. Past marshes and lonely houses, he waved to fishermen taking their boats out. Hair mussed up above his head, sometimes falling over his eye and the covered one. The man on the cart gives the boy a green band with a scale and shell motif. For his hair, he is told. He smiled his thanks. They alighted at Ayamonte, which serves the ferry crossing between that municipality of Andalusia and Villa Real de Santo Antonio, Portugal.
The ferry crossing does not take long at all. From Santo Antonio it is an hour's walk to the seaside town of Faro of the Algarve. A warm summer day, with the warm currents from the Mediterranean Sea crashing into low temperature waves from the Atlantic Ocean, creating giant whirling eddies with steam rising up from their centers. The sheer power of nature on show here gives them a boost in energy.
The boy is fascinated by the strength of the water and wonders what it would be like to be able to harness that energy. On impulse, he dropped his satchel, shrugged off his backpack and ran to the shoreline. He ignored the look of disapproval he felt directed into his back, if anything a small surge of rebellion spurred him on. The wind danced ocean spray into his face as he leapt about as he made the effort to keep his footwear dry and smiled (heart)-felt smiles. A few deep breaths later he went back to where his guardian stood.
Thank you.
Hrrmph… for what …
Everything… you know taking me with you.
Hmm...
Thank you … I … just... thank you.
They fall silent and continue their walk…
Who are you?The one who will succeed the Bookman
We are the wind, we go everywhere.
The walk in to Faro, is in comfortable and familiar silence, master and student falling into a conformable fit. Speaking quietly as they pass the stone houses, cobbled streets and the old medieval sky is a bright bright blue, the sunshine reflecting off the sea sprinkling the view in a shimmering glamour. A spell that neither dares to break. The space between one breath and the next breaks when they arrive at the train station in the town center and Gramps taking charge again, gets seats on the next train to Lisbon. Jonas is a portrayal of serious and slightly cheeky mien and the master is approving.
On the train to Lisbon Jonas made the effort to mix a little more with others his own age. Words smoothly fell off his tongue that he needed to practice the languages. It came easier now, he even tried on some flirtatious tricks he'd seen the Major use to good effect.
Lisbon is the oldest city in Western Europe, pre-dating London, Paris and Rome by several centuries. The architecture here is a breathtaking mix of Ancient Roman, and Baroque churches and playhouses. The atmosphere at present is heavy and coagulates with the preparation for war. Drums beating time to the soldiers march. The military here is the British redcoats and Portuguese Line Infantry in their blue tunics with white facings and red sashes, insignia and militia from Russia, the Black Watch tartan of the Highland Fusiliers and the red-and-green of Irish. A keg of gunpowder on a lengthy slow fuse. The port is humming, a hive of activity, a mass of movement of men, canon and horses. Everyone, everything is heading to Porto, to wrest it from French occupiers. The Bookman requests an assignation to a British unit for the purpose of observing the oncoming battle. With reluctance Wellesley grants them attachment to the 1st Division of his own 3rd Brigade.
Deke is amazed at the helter skelter that reigns when they get to the maritime port. Every European army on the side of the Anglo Portuguese force is represented here, he recognises them all, but does not sight at all any Green Jackets, but he figured that might have been for the best. He wondered at the Old Man's negotiative powers that secured them pole position to record observations in the Commander-in-Chief's own battalion no less. They traveled with the amassed army, artillery and armour toward Porto.
Together with the column they take their places, Senior trusting Deke to take down the numbers, the armies on both sides of the conflict. They approach from the East and West, with the help of resistance fighters a third of the army cross the River Douro in boats that the French occupiers think are 'destroyed'. There are reports that the opposing Marshall is asleep at the time hostilities start proper. Artillery and mortar pound the walls of the city from across the river, whilst the defenders are busy with the invading force which crossed the river earlier, light foot infantry rush across the unguarded bridge.
There was so much to see and note, the flash of musket and rifle fire, the boom of cannons, and the steady thrum of drumming designed to instill fear. His sharp eye took in and his mind memorised every detail. In spite of his lack of depth perception. In the midst of the assault on the bridge he spotted the Green Jackets, he counted seven in all. Sharp shooters all, they were there to take down officers stupid enough to stand on the ramparts of the beleaguered city. He is momentarily taken back to his first battle all those years ago. How he shivered to shut out the sounds, the sights and smells. How has humanity remained unchanged. He stood in soundless shock still documenting events as they happened, as he counted, one, no … two … and a third Green Jacket, as they fell to the enemy. At fifteen he stood resolute. Just ink on paper, just ink on paper.
Wherever you go, there is war after war.
I've counted forty eight so far.
They just keep repeating it, over and over.
The French are routed and they beat a hasty retreat. A victory celebration is already underway. Bookman and his apprentice decide that it is best that they be on their way too, in the jubilation no one notices the two melt away, shadows before the setting sun. The make their way seaward and they board a carrack loaded with casualties headed for home, for the naval base Portsmouth, England. Due to inclement weather, the seafarers take two weeks to get to Portsmouth. In that time, Bookman aids the casualties, doing what he can to ease any suffering.
Deke, with his easy-going manner, doubled up as cabin boy and medic's assistant. He is kept busy, with the weather being what it was and the nature of their human cargo. Whilst not unfriendly he upheld his indifference throughout the journey. Finally they arrive in England. Deke could feel it in his bones, in his core that great change was afoot and this was the road he's meant to be on from the path he took his first step all those years ago, when he was an ignorant innocent. He wondered if his guardian knew what the next stage was.
They take a steam locomotive of the London & South Western from Portsmouth and into Victoria Station. Bookman is on the lookout for someone who wears a white uniform belonging to an army everyone might not know of. He might be short, a disadvantage here, but he is a Bookman and his eyes are as sharp as Junior's eye. He finds them soon enough and soon enough they find who they need for the next play in both their lives, and whether or not it turns out that it will be folly on their end or their end - as it were, it still remains to be seen.
Bookman located the 'finders' he was looking for and they followed the two 'finders' on a strange runaround through secret tunnels, underground staircases and onto a waterway where they boarded a small boat.
Humans are really stupid. My eyes are wide open to that now.
But this next war may not go as you think, for the first time we will be soldiers - we will be chronicling from their perspective. This might be your first real trial.
Don't worry Gramps, I'll be friendly and sociable - as always.
Don't forget that no matter which side you're standing on your role as a Bookman is to document the true history and to not interfere. So don't make undue trouble, Deke.
Deke was my 48th name remember, now I'm Lavi.
A voice asks, "Who are you?" Within his heart he replies… The one who will succeed the Bookman. We are the wind, going everywhere, touching everything (everyone) and feeling nothing. We keep wandering. ….
What happens to the power of the wind when it is harnessed with nowhere to go?
~FiN~
Notes:
1) I'm not a historian - Almost everything that is true sounding I found on the internets, the rest I made up
2) Everything I found on the internets, IS NOT IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER, BECAUSE ... 48 names, 48 wars from the age of 6 to 16 ... and to chart a reasonable journey from one end of the world to the other ... I couldn't do it, I did try at first but gave up crying
3) Again - everything is speculative and conjecture and because I spent time on it ... I inflict it upon the general populace - So con-crit if any is welcome,
4) Lastly I hope at least someone somewhere enjoys this piece of something. ( ^_^)
5) Sparkly rainbows everyone -
Zan
- ps The Green Jackets appear, just cos' ^_~ why not