He slumped forward in the canoe, spent. He gasped, trying to feed his starving lungs. His whole body was shaking, both from exertion and frustration. Would it ever end? Could he ever have a life without somebody after him? He knew his only choices were to figure out what was going on or get out of town for good. The first seemed impossible; the second was to admit defeat. He pulled the canoe up onto shore, still gasping, bathed in sweat. The woods were strangely quiet around him. The heat scorching. He started walking into the cool of the trees. His body had gotten what it needed, a grueling workout. Now he needed to clear his mind. He would hike into the woods and go over it all again in his mind, hoping this time something new would surface. He started into the trees, hopeful that he would find an answer.
(51)
Mossy stepped hesitantly through the doors of the Haven Public Library. He stood for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the light. Though sufficient, it was dim in comparison to the glaring sun that remained high in the sky outside. After the incident at the lake he had gone back to his room, blanketed with despair. The temptation to stop at a local liquor store for a bottle had been overwhelming. Somehow he had forced himself to go straight back to his room. He had crawled into bed and been overcome with emotion. He had shuddered under the blankets, consumed with hate, anger, shame and guilt. His body wracked with the mental anguish he felt and the physical need for a drink. Finally, he had fallen into a fitful sleep. When he awoke, his mind was swimming with another new memory, as if it had come to him in a dream. He knew immediately it was real and was filled with a new sense of purpose. He felt an unnatural calm as he showered and shaved and put on clean clothes. He couldn’t erase what he had done in the past, as no man can, but he could put an end to it.
Though he had cleaned up and looked more than presentable, just another older man spending a lazy afternoon at the local library, he felt as conspicuous as if he was wearing his street rags and carrying a brown bag in the suspicious shape of a bottle. Filled with resolve, he walked confidently past the desk, nodding to the woman who was stamping the cards of returns, and continued on into the research room. The library hadn’t changed in all the years Mossy had been away. Of course it had been remodeled and painted and the furniture updated, but it was still the same. Mossy took a deep breath, letting that delicious smell of the books, of knowledge, fill his senses. As a boy, he had spent countless hours on days like this in the library soaking up anything he could get his hands on. He longed to go to the stacks and just grab a book and sink into one of the soft couches and drift wherever the book took him. But he had another reason to be here. Maybe someday, after this was over, there’d be time for imagination. Not now, though.
He began looking at the volumes on the shelves, quickly familiarizing himself with the system in which they were arranged. It wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for. Among the many titles under the World War I category, he pulled a single book from the shelf. It was entitled The End of the Great War. He held it for a moment, afraid to open it. Afraid that what he thought to be a real memory might just be something his own imagination conjured up to help him through his pain. Finally he took the book over to a nearby table and sat down. He opened to the table of contents and found a chapter called Submarines: Monsters of the Deep. It couldn’t be his imagination. Here was the exact book and chapter he had remembered. But that only proved he had read this book; the real proof remained to be seen. With trembling hands, he flipped open to the chapter. Swallowing hard, his mouth and throat like sandpaper, he began to turn the pages, his eyes moving up and down each page, more frantically as he turned each page and didn’t find what he was looking for. When he came to the end, he shook his head and started over. It had to be here. After his second time through, he slammed the book shut. His stomach rolled and he felt dizzy. It was impossible. His mind could not have invented this whole thing.
The memory that had come to Mossy in his room, the one that had saved him from returning to his old life, was a spin-off of the one he had about the underground cave. When the experiment had started, it had been exciting. A little scary but ultimately good. When he and Tony had begun to realize that Gunlinger had different motives for the product of their work, the two had taken matters into their own hands. They had done research of their own, followed by exhaustive experimentation, often lasting throughout the night, even when they had full days of work to do after. But they had done what they set out to do. They had discovered a simple fail-safe to end the experiment if it got out of control. Mossy had written the formula in this book, in this chapter. He put his head in his hands, staring down at the book that he had thought to be his salvation. How could it be? The canisters he found in the safe deposit box were proof that it wasn’t some booze-induced false memory. Suddenly his eyes widened as he read the cover. At the bottom of the book were words that were magical to Mossy. “Fifth reprint” was stamped on the lower part of the cover. Quickly he flipped to the copyright page and found what he was looking for. This edition of the book was printed in 1965—twenty years after Mossy had written in it.
His momentary relief was replaced by a new sense of dread. The original must be gone, replaced by this newer edition. He leaped up, overturning his chair in his haste to get back to the shelves. Luckily nobody else was in the research room. Mossy scanned the shelves eagerly, but he knew what the result would be.
“Can I help you?”
Mossy jumped at the sound of the voice behind him. It was the librarian. She must have heard the commotion and made no effort to conceal her dissatisfaction with the tipped-over chair.
“Oh, ah, yes, perhaps you can,” Mossy stuttered as he bent to upright the chair. “I’m looking for an original copy of this book, printed in the forties. I did considerable research in it some time ago. Now that I read this volume, it seems to have changed. Is there any chance the original is still around?” He stopped, wondering if he sounded as absurd to her as he did to himself.
Apparently not. She moved toward the table to look at the title of the book. “We usually don’t throw any books away unless they are in too poor condition, and even then we would donate them somewhere. We typically archive older editions if there are no significant changes; otherwise we keep both versions on the shelf.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I’ve already checked the shelf but can’t find it. Would you be able to check your archives?” He flashed a smile that at one time had quite an effect on the ladies.
She returned his smile, seeming pleased to have such a knowledgeable person in her library.
“Of course, I’ll check right away.” She strode off through a door between the stacks that Mossy hadn’t even noticed until she disappeared through it. Mossy glanced up at the old clock on the wall. The hands seemed to be moving slower than real time. It seemed like an eternity before the librarian returned. In her hand was a very old, beaten up book. Mossy looked at the clock again, and realized she had only been gone five minutes. They must have a very efficient archiving system, he thought. She handed the book to him.
“This is the only other copy we have. It might be a little dusty. Please be gentle with it and return it to me at the desk when you are through with it.” She smiled again and disappeared back into the main part of the library.
Quickly, Mossy flipped the book to the same chapter as before. There it was, just as he remembered. In black ink at the bottom of the page was a very long, seemingly meaningless string of letters and numbers. To anyone else it was gibberish. To Mossy, it was redemption.