gold mine. I didn’t mean literally—this text was much too precious to sell, and I was proud if my family had been smart enough to hang on to 68
it. It almost balanced out the gigantic ick factor of the jars, whip, and knife that had also been hidden in the column.
Bellum Omnia Contra Omnes.
The War of All Against All.
My friends in Portland already knew I was a philosophy geek. I read the classics almost as loyally as I did comics. I guess my online friends were about to get a big dose of Shay’s nerdy side too.
Sitting on my bed, I ran my fingers over the words of the title, noticing the way the letters were indented in the cover.
“Hey there, Mr. Hobbes,” I said. “Why didn’t this book of yours get published?”
69
twelve
W
i needed to brusH uP on my Latin if I was serious about reading the text. And I’d definitely need to unpack my Latin-English dictionary. This book was a beast. from the little I’d gleaned, it was history . . . or maybe philosophy. The book itself was broken up into three sections that I thought were related, but I didn’t know how. I couldn’t quite figure out what it was. And it didn’t sound like Hobbes, which was disappointing. I worried that maybe the book was a Hobbes knockoff that one of my ancestors had found without bothering to investigate the book’s origins. Was I the heir of aspiring but failed philosophers? That wouldn’t be very encouraging.
Even if it wasn’t Hobbes, it was unusual enough to hold my interest. One of the first things that caught my attention, besides the title, was that the book didn’t start with text. The first pages were all maps.
There were four different maps, their sites and topography described in Latin. I’d searched the book for a publishing imprint or a publica-tion date but hadn’t been able to find one. from the style of the maps and the illuminations on the title pages I guessed it was from sometime in the Middle Ages. Not exactly precision dating.
I’d spent the most time gazing at the first map. Something about it bothered me, but I hadn’t quite figured out why that was. I needed to post another video and get some feedback, but first I thought I’d clear my head with a serious hike, the kind that would eat up most 71
of my day and make my legs feel like they were about to fall off. If I was exhausted enough, maybe I’d sleep through the nightly crash.
I pulled out the map where I’d marked out the trails I wanted to hit. I stared.
“No way,” I said.
I stared some more.
finally I opened Hobbes’s book to the first map.
The terrain was identical. But that was impossible. The map in the book I’d found had to be at least five hundred years old. And it was European.
It had to be a coincidence. for the next hour I pored over the two maps, searching for some discrepancy. Another mountain here, a different river there. But there was nothing. It was unmistakably the same place. The only difference was that my current map was filled with towns, but of course those wouldn’t have been around when the medieval map was created. But who could have made it? And why?
I guessed I had another video to make.
My phone rang when I was right in the middle of setting up the shot. I grabbed it, having had enough of phantom calls.
“Leave me the hell alone!”
“Excuse me?” My uncle’s voice was more amused than shocked.
“Oh . . . Uncle Bosque,” I said. “Sorry. I’ve been getting prank calls.”
“Do you want me to have the phone company look into it?”
“No,” I said. “I’ll work it out. I should have checked the number before I answered the call. I would have known it was you.”
“No apologies needed, my boy,” Bosque said. “I haven’t been in touch as often I should have been. Is all well at Rowan Estate?”
“Uh—”
He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Excellent. I’m sure you can guess why I’m calling.”
“Uh—”
72
“The Mountain School is ready for you to join them,” he
it. It almost balanced out the gigantic ick factor of the jars, whip, and knife that had also been hidden in the column.
Bellum Omnia Contra Omnes.
The War of All Against All.
My friends in Portland already knew I was a philosophy geek. I read the classics almost as loyally as I did comics. I guess my online friends were about to get a big dose of Shay’s nerdy side too.
Sitting on my bed, I ran my fingers over the words of the title, noticing the way the letters were indented in the cover.
“Hey there, Mr. Hobbes,” I said. “Why didn’t this book of yours get published?”
69
twelve
W
i needed to brusH uP on my Latin if I was serious about reading the text. And I’d definitely need to unpack my Latin-English dictionary. This book was a beast. from the little I’d gleaned, it was history . . . or maybe philosophy. The book itself was broken up into three sections that I thought were related, but I didn’t know how. I couldn’t quite figure out what it was. And it didn’t sound like Hobbes, which was disappointing. I worried that maybe the book was a Hobbes knockoff that one of my ancestors had found without bothering to investigate the book’s origins. Was I the heir of aspiring but failed philosophers? That wouldn’t be very encouraging.
Even if it wasn’t Hobbes, it was unusual enough to hold my interest. One of the first things that caught my attention, besides the title, was that the book didn’t start with text. The first pages were all maps.
There were four different maps, their sites and topography described in Latin. I’d searched the book for a publishing imprint or a publica-tion date but hadn’t been able to find one. from the style of the maps and the illuminations on the title pages I guessed it was from sometime in the Middle Ages. Not exactly precision dating.
I’d spent the most time gazing at the first map. Something about it bothered me, but I hadn’t quite figured out why that was. I needed to post another video and get some feedback, but first I thought I’d clear my head with a serious hike, the kind that would eat up most 71
of my day and make my legs feel like they were about to fall off. If I was exhausted enough, maybe I’d sleep through the nightly crash.
I pulled out the map where I’d marked out the trails I wanted to hit. I stared.
“No way,” I said.
I stared some more.
finally I opened Hobbes’s book to the first map.
The terrain was identical. But that was impossible. The map in the book I’d found had to be at least five hundred years old. And it was European.
It had to be a coincidence. for the next hour I pored over the two maps, searching for some discrepancy. Another mountain here, a different river there. But there was nothing. It was unmistakably the same place. The only difference was that my current map was filled with towns, but of course those wouldn’t have been around when the medieval map was created. But who could have made it? And why?
I guessed I had another video to make.
My phone rang when I was right in the middle of setting up the shot. I grabbed it, having had enough of phantom calls.
“Leave me the hell alone!”
“Excuse me?” My uncle’s voice was more amused than shocked.
“Oh . . . Uncle Bosque,” I said. “Sorry. I’ve been getting prank calls.”
“Do you want me to have the phone company look into it?”
“No,” I said. “I’ll work it out. I should have checked the number before I answered the call. I would have known it was you.”
“No apologies needed, my boy,” Bosque said. “I haven’t been in touch as often I should have been. Is all well at Rowan Estate?”
“Uh—”
He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Excellent. I’m sure you can guess why I’m calling.”
“Uh—”
72
“The Mountain School is ready for you to join them,” he
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