The Briar Archive

6. The Mountaineers

The Mountaineers

“Didn’t they say that we were stronger together?”

Mordiscas

To any outsider, the Mountaineers would have seemed, in a word, crazy.

They discussed magic, other dimensions, and the malevolently altered history of the world with complete conviction. On their message board they claimed to have solved cryptic clues about what happened to the lost books and our knowledge of magic. I joined, hoping that at some point, once I’d earned their trust, what they had learned would tell me more about what happened to Sebastian and maybe how I could fix it. Fix him.

They talked obliquely about casting spells, performing rituals, and assembling strange and mysteriously sourced devices as ways for them to “learn the truth.” At the time, I dismissed any overt talk of magic simply because my journalistic skepticism demanded I do so. But deep down, I believed—or wanted to, at the very least. Had I not witnessed my very existence being erased from my son’s mind, and had that not coincided with my sudden memory of the unnamed book’s contents, I would have written them all off as kooks and gone on my merry way. As unhinged as it all seemed, there was something about what they were doing, what they were learning, that ate away at the edges of my skepticism and anchored me to their particular brand of nuttiness. I was on their side.

They vaguely recalled six magical “houses” that related to the books, each one representing a particular type of magic and a navigational direction on something they called a chronocompass, an object some of them had drawn from murky memories of its appearance on a Lost Collection book cover. It was somehow both a compass and a clock, but they weren’t sure of its purpose or import. Though the Lost Collection was the Holy Grail the Mountaineers were searching for, they wanted to know everything about the magical “old time,” our history before it changed—because if a series of books could somehow be erased out of existence, what else might have been altered? And why? Every bit of memory, the houses, the compass, were all steps in putting the puzzle together.

As far I could tell, and as much as they were willing to share, the group hadn’t found much on Ackerly Green Publishing beyond what little I myself had already discovered, but I was able to confirm that the publishing house filed for bankruptcy in ’61 and sold off all of its assets. Yet when I went through the bankruptcy records I found no mention of any “briar books” as part of the liquidation.

And it turns out the Mountaineers weren’t the only ones interested in magimysticism or the only ones using the Internet to discuss it. I found there was a broad, secretive online community devoted to researching and discussing anything related to magic. They called themselves the Low World, or just “the Low.” Their sites were hard to find and even harder to contact. A loosely organized group of websites rife with arbitrary rules about membership, access, and the sharing of their knowledge—they were the original “dark web.”

In time I had endeared myself to the Mountaineers as a casual recruit who remembered one of the books and believed in their cause, but at some point, in my eagerness to insinuate myself to prove I could help, I made the mistake of mentioning that I was a journalist. Many of them were hesitant to talk with me after that. I assumed they were worried I was trying to expose or ridicule their cause in print. They had no idea about Sebastian, no idea how badly I needed what they needed. The truth.

I think it was because of my reveal that I never reached the “inner circle,” but I did become friends with a few who I helped on occasion with research and virtual legwork. I was never much of a joiner, but befriending the Mountaineers was a way to feel like I was doing something to help my son. It was also a respite from the state of my life. I had barely been hanging on. Jobless, drinkless, drifting and rudderless . . . and then I found a group of people who understood and accepted me. Accepted a part of me that I myself hadn’t really accepted: the part that believed in magic.

I made a few friendships in my time orbiting the Mountaineers through idle online banter and shared stories. Knatz had been the most open to chatting with me; she trusted me, knew I was as committed to the cause as everyone else. There were a few others—Ascender, Augernon, and Saberlane. Though they were kind and jovial, and even asked for my help a time or two, I knew they were keeping something hidden. Whether it was a source or an important clue, I wasn’t sure.

While I tried to help the Mountaineers in any way I could, another online group contacted me. They called themselves the Devoted, and for reasons I didn’t understand, they hounded me for information about Brandon Lachmann, which only served to piss me off. They even offered to pay me for all of my notes, the ones I used for the article I wrote about him for the Times. Pretty soon, I just ignored them, marking their messages as spam.

As for the Mountaineers, by ’97 things had changed. I could still read their posts on the message board, but they’d started using codes and insider references to avoid tipping anyone off to what they were doing, what they were finding. Eventually they scattered their conversations to vaguely referenced email chains and conference calls.

They didn’t consider me one of them. I’d been shut out. I tried to email them, Knatz and my other friends, but never heard back. I’m not ashamed to say it led to my one relapse. Everything I’d needed—friendship, purpose, the truth—had all been taken away from me with a couple clicks of a mouse.

I still heard about them on the Low; someone was leaking information, and I lapped it up like an ex who couldn’t move on. By mid-1998 the Mountaineers seemed to be on the verge of a major breakthrough. They were convinced they were about to learn the truth about the books, magic, and why everything changed. If they did, I hoped they’d maybe allow me back in. And if I was lucky, I might even learn what had happened to my son.

But just as that kindled hope began to burn, the Mountaineers suddenly went completely dark. I reached out on the message board and email, but no one answered.

Two weeks later, there was a post on the message board.

Tinkerdown:We failed. The Storm found us. Everyone’s gone. Scared, scattered to the six corners. Keep your heads down and stay safe.

The lower-level sites of the Low that I had access to were buzzing with theories about what might have happened to the Mountaineers, each more crazy than the next: They opened a portal between dimensions but it closed with them caught in between and consequently cut them in half, or they summoned a shadow demon that feasted on their souls and left them mindless zombies, or one of their own had betrayed them and tried stabbing their leader to death in the middle of the woods.

Whatever did happen, whether it was an interdimensional accident (highly unlikely) or attempted murder (much more likely), there was an obvious undercurrent of fear moving through the Low. Thing was, I wanted to help the Mountaineers. Even though they had been opaque, they hadn’t been unfriendly. I always had the impression they’d have welcomed me, if only their need for secrecy hadn’t outweighed their desire to share. That they’d all gone silent at the same time left me genuinely worried for them.

* * *

Three months later, I got a message from a counselor at a nearby high school, a Dr. Brightwell, who wanted to meet. Something about misappropriated education spending. I had nothing planned, so I agreed.

We met at a small deli in the East Village. The woman was tall, fit, and a sharp dresser, though she appeared to be in a rush. She was clearly nervous. Every time someone made a loud noise, she jumped, scanning the scene for threats. She sat halfway off her stool, one foot on the ground, ready to run at a moment’s notice.

“So, Dr. Brightwell,” I said. “Why’d you want to meet me?”

“I think you’re in danger, Marty.”

“Excuse me?” Up until that moment, danger wasn’t anything I thought would be a concern.

“You’ve been on the message board, asking questions. That’s a bad idea. They’re watching. And now they might be watching you.”

She was a Mountaineer.

“What the hell happened to everybody?” I asked.

“The less you know, the better. I just came here to give you this.”

Brightwell pulled something from her pocket and slid it across the table. It was a coin. Old, with a man holding a walking stick on one side and a coat of arms on the other. It was worn—it had to be a couple centuries old, at least—and the writing embossed along its edges was in a language I didn’t understand.

“What is this?”

“It’s a German thaler. But it’s more than that. It’s a token. It’ll help keep you . . . anonymous.”

“Are you in trouble?”

She peered through the window and watched a stopped cab until it finally drove away.

“Yeah.”

“What about the other Mountaineers?”

She laughed. It was a sad, defeated sound. “No, Marty. They’re not in danger. Not anymore.” She pressed the token into my hand. “Keep it. It’ll do a fair job of keeping you hidden from any magimystical forces trying to find you.”

“Uh, thanks, but if you’re in danger, we need to get you to safety. Maybe call the police—”

“You know the circles we run in, Marty. What are the cops going to do?”

“Are you serious? Who are you running from? Does this have to with what Tinkerdown posted? Are you Tinkerdown?”

“Tink . . . aw, s**t, Marty.” Brightwell turned away, her eyes filled with tears.

“You’ve got to tell me what happened.”

She shook her head.

I put the token on the table in front of her. “Okay, fine, but I won’t take this. Give it to someone else.”

“Don’t you get it, Marty?” She stood and patted my hand. Her fingers were like ice. “There is no one else.”

She walked out the door without another word. I put the token in my pocket and vowed to never be without it.

I never asked who she was. Who she really was. And I didn’t speak to another Mountaineer for nearly twenty years.