Free Iron Chamber of Memory by John C. Wright Page B

there, as recently as 1977.”
    “A real ghost?”
    Manfred smiled again. “I am glad you did not say
a real, live ghost
.”
    Hal laughed with joy. Manfred was the only man he’d met in Oxford who took the older tales and yarns completely seriously. Even the other students of history and ancient literature seem to regard the past as dead, or, worse, as absurd. They almost seemed like amnesiacs, unaware of the true glory of their ancient and richly-fabled island even while they vivisected the records of it.
    Not Manfred. He seemed to Hal to be a living relic of the days of yore, of the times of myth, like a wizard who had stepped out of an enchanted sleep into the modern world.
    Manfred was by far the most open-minded man Hal had ever met. Hal could have an honest conversation with him without ever once having to worry about stepping onto the invisible landmines and pitfalls of forbidden topics and unspoken thoughts with which every other man he knew surrounded his conversation.
    Best of all, he was as deeply interested in the topic of Hal’s dissertation as Hal was in his. It was a joy to converse with someone who valued all the old, strong, beautiful things that Hal himself so cherished.
    There was one other topic upon which they agreed, as well; they were the only two men either of them knew who still believed in the wisdom of chastity.
    “Surely such things are just stories told by hysterics?” said Hal, returning to their conversation after emptying his ale.
    “All of them?” Manfred looked skeptical. “Every story ever, even those told by sober men with nothing to gain by it? That may be more farfetched than believing in ghosts.”
    “What else could ghost stories be?”
    “Something mankind has never seen before, or, far more likely, something our ancestors lived with daily, but which we forget. Perhaps a ghost is an echo from that time: a psychic residue. Perhaps it is the senility of the world trying to remember old and terrible tragedies and crimes, but not able to bring them clearly enough into focus to materialize them.”
    As if a small, inner voice were urging him, Hal said, “That reminds me! I just read a fascinating book on mnemonics. It is the art of building a memory mansion so that nothing is ever forgotten. You simply must read it.”
    “I am rather busy, between my schoolwork and my legal tribulations–”
    “It is fascinating! It will help with your schoolwork—how could it not?” Hal was half surprised to see his hands had, as if without consulting him, unzipped his rucksack, and pulled the book out, proffering it across the table. “Please! For me! I insist!”
    Manfred looked puzzled. “You seem rather keen on–”
    “You must read it! It is that good!”
    Manfred eventually agreed to take it, to make the time to read it. But he muttered, “I am not sure abolishing forgetfulness is a help. Perhaps we should be grateful that the world has amnesia.”
    “To the contrary! If the world could recollect Arthur in all his glory, manifest his ghost as a physical reality in broad daylight, surely he would set to rights all the wrongs of England of which you so complain. In any case, why list the victory of Arthur as an evil akin to the Invasion of Ireland?”
    “I did not call it an evil, but said it was a cause for grief.”
    “Why would anyone be grief-stricken at the victory of Arthur?”
    “Surely Mordred, for one.” Manfred smiled again, and again it seemed to be an ironic smile, a mocking smile. “As for who else, you are the one writing the paper on Arthur. Who did he overthrow?”
    “The pagan kings of Saxony.”
    “And did they practice polygamy, pederasty, slavery, and human sacrifice, and all the other delights of the true and honest pagans of yore?”
    “Of course.”
    “Now, tell me this, who keeps a grudge longer? Good men who forgive and forget? Or wicked men who every day dream about returning to the sins and brutalities that civilization, sanity, and Holy Mother