Mr Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore

Clark Moffat (1952–1999) was a writer who lived in Bolinas, California. He is best known for the bestselling The Dragon-Song Chronicles, as well as Further Tales of Fernwen, a book for children. He graduated from the United States Naval Academy and served as a communications specialist aboard the nuclear submarine U.S.S. West Virginia.

Something occurs to me. It’s something I’ve never done before—something I’ve never thought to do, not in all the time I’ve worked here. I’m going to search for someone in the logbooks.

It’s logbook VII I want, the one I smuggled down to Google, because it runs through the mid-eighties and early nineties. I find the raw text on my laptop and command-F a particular description: someone with shaggy blond hair and a beard.

It takes a while, trying different keywords, skimming through false positives. (There are a lot of beards in here, it turns out.) I’m looking at OCR’d text, not handwriting, so I can’t tell who wrote what here, but I know some of these must be Edgar Deckle’s notes. It would be nice if he was the one who— There.

Member number 6HV8SQ:

The novice takes possession of KINGSLAKE with thanks and good cheer. Wears a white T-shirt celebrating the bicentennial. Levi 501 jeans and heavy work boots. Voice rough with smoke; package of cigarettes, approximately half-empty, visible in pocket. Pale blond hair is longer than has ever been recorded by this clerk. Upon remark, the novice explains: “I want it wizard-length.” Monday the 23rd of September, 1:19 in the morning. Clear skies and the smell of the ocean.

That’s Clark Moffat. It’s got to be. The note is after midnight, which means the late shift, which means “this clerk” is indeed Edgar Deckle. There’s another one:

The novice is moving quickly through the Founder’s Puzzle. But even more than his speed, it is his confidence that is striking. There is none of the hesitation or frustration that has characterized other novices (this clerk included). It is as if he is playing a familiar song or dancing a familiar dance. Blue T-shirt, Levi 501s, work boots. Hair is longer still. Receives BRITO. Friday the 11th of October, 2:31 in the morning. A foghorn sounds.

It goes on. The notes are concise but the message is clear: Clark Moffat was a savant of the Unbroken Spine. Is it possible … was he the dark moss constellation in the visualization? Was he the one who raced around the Founder’s whole face in the time it took other novices to trace out an eyelash or an earlobe? There’s probably some way to link specific notes to the visualization and—

The bell tinkles and I jerk my head up out of the endless scrolling text. It’s late, and I expect to see a member of the fellowship, but instead it’s Mat Mittelbrand, hauling a black plastic case. It’s huge, bigger than he is, and it’s stuck in the doorway.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, helping to pry it loose. The case’s surface is tough and knobby and it has heavy metal buckles.

“I’m here on a mission,” Mat says, breathing hard. “This is your last night, right?”

I’ve been complaining to him about Penumbra’s neglect. “Maybe,” I say. “Probably. What’s all this?”

He tips his case over on the floor, flips the buckles (they make a serious-sounding snap snap), and opens it wide. Inside, cushioned in a bed of gray foam, there’s photography gear: crystalline lights with sturdy wire shields, thick collapsible aluminum stalks, and wide coils of bright orange cable.

“We’re going to document this place,” Mat says. He sets his hands on his hips and peers appreciatively around. “It must be recorded.”

“So, what, like—a photo shoot?”

Mat shakes his head. “No, that would be selective recording. I hate selective recording. We’re going to take a picture of every surface, from every angle, under bright, even light.” He pauses. “So we can re-create it.”

My mouth hangs open.

He continues, “I’ve done photo recon on castles and mansions. This store is tiny. It’ll only take three or four thousand shots.”

Mat’s intention is completely over-the-top, obsessive, and maybe impossible. In other words: it’s perfect for this place.

“So, where’s the camera?” I ask.

On cue, the bell over the front door tinkles again, and Neel Shah comes barreling through with a monstrous Nikon hanging from his neck and a bottle of bright green kale juice in either hand. “Got some refreshments,” he says, holding them aloft.

“You two are going to be my assistants,” Mat says. He taps the black plastic case with his toe. “Start setting up.”

*   *   *