To Fight the Black Wind

Chapter 3

I grew up moving about the United States. My father was a rail man and traveled from station to station, inspecting, improving, and managing them until they met Union Pacific standards. Then, we moved on. The longest we remained in a single location was two years.

This travel allowed me to discover and fall in love with the University of Chicago. One of the more progressive universities when it came to women, I completed my undergraduate work with distinction—and an open mind that many on the East Coast do not possess.

By the time I was ready for my graduate work, my family had settled down in Boston, Massachusetts. This allowed me to choose Pembroke College for my continued studies. I wanted to be close to my family. Throughout my university years, I had occasion to visit the Orne Library at Miskatonic University in search of research material for my thesis.

The University of Chicago has a wonderful library—as does Pembroke College—filled to the brim with books. But it does not have the sensibility, the atmosphere, or the reverence for books that the Orne Library possesses. It is the kind of library bibliotaphs dream of, with its dark woods, huge stacks, and quiet atmosphere.

Entering Miskatonic University’s Orne Library was like walking onto hallowed ground. A preternatural hush lay over the large, open room and the scent of old books permeated the air. Even my steps against the marbled floor were muted. I sighed a happy sigh. This library was home.

My feet knew the way to the card catalog. I slipped through the large wooden tables and nodded to the reference librarian, Ms. Mayer. If I could not find what I wanted, I would ask her. However, the librarian had taught me that I needed to search on my own first because it was likely I would come across something I had not considered before.

My first round of catalog searching did bear fruit, although I was uncertain if any of it would be useful. I had four books to begin with: Five Wounds: The First Case of Stigmata by Davidson, 1720; The Phenomena of Stigmata, Divine and Diabolic by Spring and Mayhew, 1895; Stigmata: An Investigation by Hunt and Mead, 1901; The Miracle of Stigmata by Harrington, 1910. Although none of them were medical in nature, they would begin to give me an idea of whether or not Josephine’s marks could be from stigmata.

While I was collecting the four books, I chanced upon one called Written in Blood by Sutherlin and Drury-Crusett, 1919. It was new and, at first glance, appeared to be far more analytical than the first four books. I added it to my pile. When I returned to the large wooden tables, I found myself choosing what had once been my usual seat—a table in the back corner that gave me a good view of the rest of the room. One that would limit the number of people walking behind me.

As progressive as both my universities were, that did not stop some of the less enlightened of my peers from “pranking” the women of my class. Twice I had water dumped on me from behind while I was in the library doing research, hours of work ruined. Twice I walked back to my room, soaked and flushed with classmates snickering behind my back. Twice was enough. I learned to sit where I could watch the room, the people, and my back.

Hours later, I had pages of notes on stigmata, but I was not sure if any of it would assist me with Josephine. There were no cases of stigmata appearing while the sufferer slept. There were no cases, or even stories, of the stigmata wounds spelling out words in any language. Not even stories of stigmata making a design within the flesh.

All of the research—if you could call it that—was steeped in religious mysticism and always led back to the Christ figure. Even the promising Written in Blood book came up empty with the exception of referencing another book, Anomalistic Thinking in Regards to Miracles by Avi Zunger, a Jewish scholar. There was no date given for the book and I could not find it in the card catalog.

It was time to see Ms. Mayer.

I approached the reference desk with the same quiet reverence one gives respected professors. A librarian is the caretaker of the books and knows their secrets. Treat both well, and you will be rewarded with knowledge. That was what I needed now.

Ms. Mayer was an older woman; her thick hair, held at the nape of her neck in a chignon, was more grey than black. She wore an impeccable polka-dotted dress and a sweater. She also had reading glasses on a long chain about her neck.

Ms. Mayer waited until I was at the reference desk to look up. Her eyes brightened with familiarity. “Miss Fern, I saw you come in. Is it ‘Doctor’ now?”

“Doctor,” I confirmed.

“Well done.”

“Thank you.”

“What may I do for you?”

“I am looking for this book.” I showed her the book’s name and author. “However, it does not seem to be in the card catalog. It was mentioned in another book as reference material for the psychology behind miracles and magical thinking in regards to stigmata.”

The librarian looked away for a long, silent moment, consulting her mental card catalog. She nodded to herself. “If we have it, there are a couple of places it could be. I won’t be long.”

With that, she left me at the reference desk. I knew better than to follow her around like a lost puppy. Instead, I returned the books I pulled to their rightful places within the stacks. I also gathered up my things. Either Ms. Mayer would find what I needed or I would be done here.

By the time I returned to the reference desk, the librarian was waiting for me. She was bent over a large tome of handwritten notes—a ledger, perhaps, or a manifest. I waited quietly until she straightened. “This is an interesting book you’ve requested. It’s in the Rare Book Room.”

“I see. Will I be allowed to look at it?” I was not certain. As one of the visiting staff from the asylum, I was permitted some access to the library, but I was not sure what privileges that afforded me.

Ms. Mayer nodded. “Yes, but you will be required to stay within the Rare Book Room and to use cotton gloves. I trust you have some?”

“Yes, ma’am. I do.” I showed her my gloved hands. I had kept the habit of storing cotton gloves, along with my usual gloves, in my handbag at all times—a holdover from spending many hours working with pen and paper at the university. Of course, I wore gloves outside of the asylum, but such formality was not needed within it.

She wrote something on a note card. “The Rare Book Room is on the second floor to your left at the end of the hallway. Keep that card with you. It is both reference and…” she gave me a knowing smile, “…a permission slip to be in the room. You will find what you seek on the third bookcase, the second shelf. While it isn’t particularly old, it is rare and fragile. Do be careful.”

I knew the admonishment was automatic. “Of course. Thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome. Remember that the library closes at seven tonight, sharp.”

“I shall remember.” As I turned toward the stairs, I glanced at my watch. It was already just past five. I had been here for hours without realizing how much time had passed. That was the way research was. But my patient list was light and my duties would continue in the morning. For now, I was on the trail of something that might help my newest patient.

At the end of the second-floor hallway stood an imposing set of double doors. Above the doors, a sign proclaimed this to be the Ruggles Rare Book Room. To the side of the closed doors, a gold and black plaque hung at eye level. I approached it with wary curiosity.

I touched the raised bronze letters of the last two names. Alonzo and Nina were the names of Josephine’s parents. At first blush, it appeared to be an unbelievable coincidence. Then I remembered that Josephine was the heiress to the Ruggles Publishing fortune. Of course her grandfather—if that was who Thomas Ruggles was—and her parents supported the university and its library.

I opened the doors to the Rare Book Room and took a breath, looking around. Rather than the greys and whites and dark wood of the lower floor, this room was decorated in lighter shades of brown and beige. I turned up the lights. Heavy russet drapes blocked all natural light from the delicate books. The temperature was cool but dry. I closed the doors to preserve the climate.

Ochre bookcases with glass fronts lined the walls with two sets of standing shelves that stood alongside three large tables. Each set of shelves had a brass number on top of it. So much esoteric knowledge. It made my head spin. Even the floor was mixture of light and dark woods in a spiraling pattern; a striking contrast to the lower level’s marble floor.

Knowing that time was of the essence, I moved to the third bookcase and opened the glass doors. Each of them could be locked, it seemed, and I wondered if the librarians locked the shelves or just the Rare Book Room door at night. The unmistakable scent of antique books greeted me like an old friend. Even as I scanned the second shelf for the book I wanted, I noticed that there was no dust. The librarians tended this room, and its valuable contents, well.

My treasure found, I settled in at one of the tables to read.

Anomalistic Thinking in Regards to Miracles by Avi Zunger had been written in Hebrew and translated into English. Most likely, this had been a student’s graduate project. Written from back to front, a page of neatly typed English translation had been stuck between the book’s pages with marks of corresponding work in the original writing. The student had probably been a linguistic major rather than a philosophy or psychology student.

I dug into the text. Avi Zunger had an interesting way of explaining the mental calisthenics the mind went through to accept the impossible. While a child could accept everything presented, no matter how improbable, Zunger questioned what could cause an adult to do the same. Perhaps there was a bound translation of the book I could order. It would be an expensive indulgence, but this book belonged in my personal library as valuable reference material.

Even as the minutes ticked by and I wrote out notes to consider when approaching Josephine and her wounds, I wondered if I had accepted the idea of stigmata too easily. I rolled this idea over and over in my mind as I gazed at the floor. Something about it was familiar…and alien.

My vision blurred. I’d stopped taking notes, stopped reading the text. The wooden pattern spiraled and undulated as if alive. The darker russet brown shapes morphed and flowed through the wood in a way not dissimilar to the marks on Josephine’s back.

I pulled the note of the three symbols I’d scrawled as reference from my handbag and held it up just left of my eyes. As I compared the design of the floor to the symbols, I let my eyes relax. The marks on the floor and my note blurred in the same manner, almost becoming one design.

Was this room somehow related to my patient’s malady?

I considered the answer as I put the paper away. Of course Josephine would have seen this room when it was dedicated to her family member. Of course it would have affected her. Was all this a delayed response of grief to her grandfather’s passing? I would have to talk to her about this. What had her relationship been with Thomas Ruggles? And why would it have taken more than two years for the grief to manifest in such an overt and bloody manner?

Checking my watch, I saw it was already half past six. I needed to clean up and bid Ms. Mayer a good evening. Perhaps she would know who the designer of this room was, and I would be able to link the marks on Josephine’s back to her grandfather through the designer.