Exquirentibus Veritatem (Truth Seeker)

Exquirentibus Veritatem (Truth Seeker)

“Here I am, thousands of miles from home, wandering the streets of a strange city looking for a shop that doesn’t exist … and talking to myself!” A laugh escaped her lips, which she was sure were blue by this time.

Kris pulled up the collar of her tweed jacket, trying to protect her neck from the frigid wind that whistled down North 9th Street. Besides being cold, it smelled of fish as it cascaded over the East River and was funneled between warehouses and tenements. She passed a collection of locals gathered at the corner warming their hands over a fire sputtering in an old barrel.

Now that’s something you wouldn’t see back home. Kris had begun her adventure in a small village just east of Leeds in England Two days later and here she was, walking through Brooklyn, New York City, U.S.A. She shook her head. What the hell am I doing? crossed her mind for the hundredth time. She'd had a good job in the Russian section of the British Library Document Supply Centre, a steady boyfriend, and a future. And you gave it all up for a dream! she scolded herself.

She glanced at her reflection in a dirty window. At five foot ten, she was tall but lithe. Her short cropped blonde hair was stylish in a pixie sort of way. I look great, crossed her mind ... although she was aware that her 30th birthday was quickly approaching.

With a sigh, she looked around to orient herself. She quickly ducked into a doorway to get out of the gale and fumbled in her pocket. Finding the small folded map, she peered at the red circled area with “Exquirentibus Veritatem" scrawled next to it. “Truth Seeker,” she translated to herself. “A strange name even for a book store.” Then again, this whole journey has been strange.

Kris had always been interested in ancient history and read anything she could find. With the advent of the internet, her access to information had blossomed. It was there that she became … obsessed was a good word … with the Dome of the Rock shrine in Jerusalem and, in particular, the cave beneath it: The Well of Souls. The name was derived from a medieval Islamic legend that at this place, the spirits of the dead could be heard waiting for Judgment Day. The same name had also been applied more narrowly to a depression in the floor of the cave and to a hypothetical chamber that may exist beneath the floor.

She had traced its origins from the first mention of it in 333 A.D. through to the present. There wasn’t much to find but fables, conjecture and dead ends. It was during her research that she started to note cryptic references to a book store that contained manuscripts supposedly exposing the hidden secrets of many of the ancient legends she had read about.

She began to painstakingly trace its whereabouts, tracking it from Constantinople to Jerusalem to Cairo to Berlin and finally to New York. Two things consistently showed up. The name “Exquirentibus Veritatem” and the owner, one Jacob Cohen.

This is ridiculous. was her first thought. A book store and an owner both of which are seventeen-hundred years old? That’s totally impossible! Still, the clues were all there and they were, as far as she could tell, real. She became focused on finding out all she could but to no avail. “It’s just another urban myth,” she finally said out loud and put the matter to rest. Until …

Three weeks before, the dreams arrived. Not just general dreams but very specific dreams. She saw herself in New York City walking down a street. By the third night, she saw the street name: North 9th Street. “Just how crazy am I?” she complained, all the while planning how to get there.

Her reverie was interrupted by a dark shadow and the smell of body odor and alcohol moments before a gravelly voice said, “Hey lady. Spare a buck fer a vet?” She looked up, startled and confused.

“I’m … I’m sorry. What?” she answered, pulling back from the man and his torrent of unintelligible words.

Rheumy eyes stared at her, perched in a lined face framed by grey stubble. He looked her up and down as though measuring her. “Say, I’ll bet you’re lookin’ fer that book place aintcha?” The eyes narrowed and Kris could see a sly shiftiness transform his face. “Well, fer a fiver I could tell ya how to git there.”

His words finally translated in her head. I’d give him a “fiver” just to have him back off! “You know where it is?” she finally responded, digging in her pocket for money. She pulled out a few crumpled ones. “This is all I have.”

As if by magic, the bills disappeared from her hand. “Hey!” she yelped, startled by the speed of his movement.

“Keep yure panties on, little lady. Old Joe ain’t one not to keep his word,” he laughed. “Turn around. Seems you found it, or …” He paused to give a gurgley cough. “Or, it found you.”

Kris turned and there, in fine gold leaf lettering on the door, was the name “Exquirentibus Veritatem.” Nothing else was visible. I wonder if they’re open. There are no hours posted. There’s nothing to even indicate it’s a book store. She stopped in mid-thought. “Wait. How did I even find this place?” She turned back, not really expecting an answer and found she was alone. She glanced up and down the street but, Old Joe had vanished. A chill slivered down her spine.

“Okay, Kris. This is what you wanted. There’s no time for cowardice.” She reached out and tried the doorknob. To her surprise, the door easily pushed inward and Kris found herself standing in a huge room lined with books and dotted with colorful maps.

“Ahh. Ms. Robertson. Right on time, I see,” a disembodied voice said.

“Eeeek!” Kris jumped, stumbling into a table piled with tomes. She quickly grabbed the edge as the book piles seemed to teeter but nothing fell.

A gentle laughter seemed to come from all sides until movement caught her eye behind a small counter to her right. It resolved itself into a portly bearded man. He was wiping his steel rimmed eyeglasses and squinted at her. “I am Jacob Cohen. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“On time? Wait, how did you know my name?”

“I have you scheduled,” he said, patting a thick book lying on the counter top.

From her vantage point, Kris could see a leather-bound book with the name “ригорий Ефимович Распутин” inscribed. “Is that …? No, it can’t be.”

The small man laughed. “Do you read Russian?”

“Enough to know it says Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin! But that’s impossible. His works have never been collected and published.”

“Very good! Actually, he did transcribe his works in his private journal. This is the original. It’s interesting that not all of his prophecies are known … or are written yet.”

Kris looked confused. “Not written … yet?”

“I check each day and find new writings seem to appear.”

“That’s ridiculous. Are you saying …”

He pointed at an entry, the ink glistening in the light. “Ms. Kris Robertson will arrive the morning of March 19th.”

Kris was dumbfounded. “What is this place?” she finally whispered.

Jacob laughed again. “A mystery, indeed. Every branch of human knowledge, if traced up to its source and final principles, vanishes into mystery. But to answer your question, I like to think of this as a lending library.”

“Lending library?”

“Yes. If the truth you seek exists, it’s here and will be revealed to you. Once done, you must agree to return the document. Truth and knowledge are not only for one person but must be shared.”

Kris rubbed her temples. “This isn’t real, is it? This is all a hallucination.”

“Hallucination? No. Real? Reality is subjective. That’s for you to decide. Follow me.” He led her down several aisles before stopping. “I believe this is what you came for.” He pulled out a large volume, handing it over.

Kris peered at the book and read, “The Book of Souls.”

“I think you’ll find the answers you seek in here but, be forewarned, the truth is a dangerous thing. Be sure you want to know the answers before you ask the questions.”

Kris nodded, not really listening. She gingerly opened the cover and stared at the page. The words, in some strange language, seemed to move, to change shape, to rearrange themselves. She touched the page, partly to reassure herself that it was real, and was startled by the texture.

“This book is printed on a very ancient form of parchment,” Jacob said, noticing her slight recoil. “Take the book home. If you are ready for the truth, it will all make sense to you.”

Kris looked up. “I’m sorry but I don’t have a lot of money.”

Jacob laughed again. “There’s no monetary charge, Ms. Robertson. That said, you know that the truth always comes at a cost. Now, on your way. There’s a cab out front waiting to take you back to your hotel.”

The trip to the hotel was a blur.

Kris sat at the small desk in her room and carefully opened the book. “The Book of Souls,” she murmured as she watched the ink on the pages begin to move. The ink itself began to change, transforming into a dark muddied red. Quickly, she attempted to pull her hands back … but it was too late. The words liquefied, moving to cover her hands. She could feel their burn as they invaded her veins, a caustic inferno of meaning. She could hear the ancient words as a deep thrumming within; voices crying incantations from a place within her fears. She held the aged paper tight and watched as it stained with tears – her tears.

There was the sacking of Constantinople; there was the creation of the Dome of Rock and the myth of the well of souls, no more than a resting place for the book that now held her. There was the dying of millions during the building of the Pyramids, the great battle and destruction of the Library of Alexandria, the tortured history of mankind written in cruelty, blood and pain. It was more than she could bear.

Kris could feel her soul melt and join in the falling drops, trapping her as she slowly disappeared from this plane into a universe of nightmares and chaos. She knew, now, the cost of truth: Damned with no hope of reprieve.

Jacob arrived at the shop earlier than usual. Pushing open the door, he saw the book lying on the counter. “Well, that was quicker than normal,” he said to the empty room. He opened the book and noted, with a smile, a new page had been added. He lightly touched the page. It felt like human skin but he knew, with time, it would age into a parchment-like paper.

Yes, the truth always comes with a cost, he thought as he carried it back to its place. He smiled as he recalled Edgar Allen Poe’s warning, Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality. “So true, so true.”

An entry for "Short Shots: Official WDC Contest" 
Prompt: Image (see the story cover above )
Word Limit: 2000
Word Count: 1873