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The Macabre

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Om Targhar

To the man in the desert driven mad by thirst, the sandscraper might easily be mistaken for a castle rising out of the sands. Its steep walls are painted dark to reflect the oppressive suns, its towering lookouts and minarets not unlike buttresses and fortifications, the constant flurry of activity on the topdeck much like defenders preparing to fend off an invasion. But once the great machine crests the dunes and its sets of stiff, shuddering metal legs come into view, all doubt is erased in the mind of the dying man.

The typical sandscraper is low to the ground, proportionate to its size and tonnage. Too high and it risks being top heavy; too low and it might well become trapped in a sand drift. The sweet spot for most scrapers is four scims, roughly twice as tall as the average man. The number and type of legs vary from scraper to scraper, largely dependent on weight and length. The Om Targhar rests on ten wide-footed feet, not unlike those of a pa'ask. Each pair supports one segment of its chassis, amounting to five cabins, each with the traditional three decks.

The foremost cabin is, of course, the bridge. From here the Kharmar of the particular scraper issues orders to the piloting staff. I am unfamiliar on how many pilots a scraper requires; the Om Targhar was controlled by four men in addition to the Kharmar, the topmost two decks having been combined into one superlarge bridge. The bottommost level of the first cabin contains the Blair of that scraper.

To those unfamiliar, Blairs are individuals blessed — some say cursed — with a kiss of fire. Their insides are eternally aflame, and they can produce massive spouts of heat and fire from their hands and mouth. Blairs are feared and ignored in common society; using their natural gifts to satisfy the immense energy requirements of the sandscraper is often the only work they can find. There, they receive interaction and admiration, not to mention food and board.

The bridge is the only constant across sandscrapers; everything onward is simply indicative of my own experience on the Om Targhar.

The cabin immediately following the bridge was the center of activity for the trawlers. It contained the mess hall, the food stores, the sandfarms, the pipe room, the bathrooms — and of course, the armory. In my entire two year stretch aboard, there wasn't a moment the second cabin was completely silent.

The middle cabin contained quarters for the trawlers; packed two apiece, the rooms were largely utilitarian in design. Some trawlers decorated their quarters with pictures of family, collections from their travels, trophies. Most did not.

The final two cabins aboard the Om Targhar were by far the most important. The work and storage cabins, constantly buzzing to keep the scraper fulfilling its main purpose - to dredge for reserves of Tears under the dunes. Massive nets hung from the bottoms of these two sections, half-submerged in the deep sand using heavy weights. As the Om Targhar moved achingly across the landscape, these fine nets would gather veins of Tears, those precious semi-solid clumps. Tears are the basis of almost all power in Qarawz. Under high temperatures, Tears can be shattered to release enormous, if dangerous, energy. A sandscraper can, on the average voyage of 2 years, gather hundreds of thousands worth of Tears.

One would question then, why every poor laborer would not sign up for a voyage on a sandscraper. Working on a sandscraper is incredibly dangerous, likely one of the most dangerous non-military occupation in the country. Dredging up the Tears into the hot desert sun puts them under the necessary high temperatures; even the slightest hard touch could set off a chain reaction and destroy the entire train. But for the few, skilled, talented individuals able to safely process Tears, a fortune awaits just scims under the desert sands.

The Macabre

The following note was found tucked into the inside cover of The Macabre, the magnum opus of reclusive author Keller Vvardens.

Hi.

If you're reading this, then I'll start but congratulating you on your good taste. The Macabre is both my most and least favorite book I've ever read. And having spent as much time in the Library as I have, I've read my fair share of books.

The Macabre follows a young twentysomething photographer and artist in late 20th century France. He moves to Paris to begin his creative life, and the novel starts from there. It ends with him two years later, jumping off a roof headfirst into the pavement.

It doesn't really pull any punches, as you can tell. Very grim, morbid, haughty book, the kind of book you can imagine a wealthy woman in a jeweled evening dress reading in her otherwise empty apartment, sucking the smoke from her cigarette.

What's interesting about it is how it manages to convince you to fool yourself. Jean — that's the protagonist — is a generally good person. He makes mistakes, we all do, but generally he tries to be the best he can be to the world around him. Despite this, he is continually and unendingly beat down by the world around him. In the final act of the novel, he is quite literally lying in a ditch by the side of the road, seeing what he thinks is God, only to realize that no, even in his darkest moment God doesn't see fit to grace him with some blinding epiphany of his purpose. Just a concerned vagrant, peering down into a pothole with a man in it.

But every shitty thing that happens to Jean, its tinged with just enough of a hint, a spectre of good. Hints of a better future on the horizon, mirages of a comfortable life, never enough to satisfy him, only to whet his appetite. The book gets you hopeful before shattering your dream in its fist and letting the dust rain down on the world. And every single time it happens you fall into the same pattern of asking yourself why you fell for it before doing it again. Jean is a tragic hero; his fatal flaw was his blinding ambition that he was, truly, anointed for a higher purpose in life.

In a lot of ways I think The Macabre is representive of life. Mine, anyway. You think things are going well before they're taken and destroyed before your very eyes. How good of a person you are doesn't matter because your fatal flaw will be the death of you and there's fuck all you can do to change it.

That's been my take on life, recently. You fool yourself into thinking that thr universe is fair. You got fucked over that one time so its fair when the guy that fucked you over gets shunned by his friends for unrelated behaviour. When you do something good and it goes unappreciated, you're okay with telling yourself that the act of doing it is what mattered. Humans will try everything to form connections between data sets except when they tell us something we don't like.

So one day I decided I'm sick of waiting for the good times to sit on the horizon, inviting me forward yet running away when I near them. I decide to chase thm down. My journey went about as far as the next day before giving up.

And just in that day I decided there was nothing of worth in the news.

If you're reading this you probably found it either on top of a shelf or at the botton. So I hope you treat everyone and everything in the Library with the same patience used to read me. I hope you're making money or whatever however you like.

I keep thinking back to a scene where Jean explores the catacombs and has a panic attack, violently confronted with the terror of his own mortality and inevitable death. I am the Jean of my story, and life had not treated me well. I am not the protagonist in anyone else's story, and barely even in mine.

If you find this, read the book. I think you'll like it.

I'll see you guys in front of whatevers waiting for me.

The Wanderer's Library is infinite, which makes meeting other people while browsing the shelves relatively uncommon. Alcandar and Cai met while looking through the same section of the shelves. Cai was looking for a treatise on Way formation; Alcandar wanted a creation myth about his homeland. Seeing the scroll tucked underneath a stack of books, he grabbed it. The Library's shelves are treacherous, and often give way when even the smallest lynchpin is removed. The bookshelf collapsed, books cascading onto him. By the time the docents dug him out of the mess, Cai was doubled over on the floor with laughter. She stopped when she noticed the scores of cuts and bruises marking his skin.

She cleaned and dressed his wounds, and they introduced themselves. He was scholar, having stumbled across a Way just a few months prior and fallen in love with the Library. Cai was a rare Child of the Library; she'd been born and raised in the halls, devouring books as soon as she could learn to read. She said she'd never known her parents, and been cared for by the librarians. He asked where she got her manners from; she just laughed. She had a nice laugh, like windchimes.

She brought him to a Way leading to the Front Desk and sent him along, giggling at the silly, carefree young man. She might've been too open about herself with someone she'd just met, but at least they'd never see each other again.

The next time they saw each other was at the Sea of Words.

The Sea of Words is one of the Library's greatest curiosities. A freshwater sea, planted right in the between the bookshelves. It's said that more bookshelves lie beneath it, containing knowledge on the various species of fish that inhabit it, but no one has bothered checking. Several vessels roam the surface of the large sea, transporting Wanderers from one side to another, or sometimes just enjoying the scenery. Alcander was one of the latter; everything in the Library was considered shared property, and he'd taken one of the small ships out, something that resembled a Chinese Junk. The air was clear and the clouds rolled across the roof of the library, the nearest bookshelf so far that it was barely a speck on the horizon. The clouds continued rolling and rolling and rolling, until they had rolled themselves into a storm.

Sheets of rain hammered the deck of the ship, and waves rocked the ship back and forth. Lightning made night into day. Alcander sought refuge in the cabin of the ship, huddled in a bunk with a stack of books. The pounding on the door of the ship interrupted his reverie. The door opened to reveal the girl he remembered from that day weeks ago in the shelves.

Her smaller boat had capsized in the storm, and she had clung to one of the boards for dear life. Eventually, it struck another ship, and she had climbed aboard to avoid death.

The pair hid from the storm in the cabin, listening to the rain batter the boards. After Cai had changed into a dry set of robes, they took to discussing the love of every Wanderer — books. They whiled away the hours discussing the strengths of Varnassi literature and classical Librarian fables, and everything in between. They slept in neighboring bunks.

The storm was still pounding when they woke up. The weather of the Library is just as fantastical as the Library itself, and it doesn't bow to anyone else's understanding of it. That particular storm would be remembered as one of the longest in the Library's history, at a full seven days and nights.

On the second day, the pair talked about each other, more than just their childhoods. Cai was a skilled flutist, and played songs from her youth for them. Alcander taught her to play card games, and lost his pouch of gold in only four rounds.

On the the third day, they wondered when the storm would end. They both said they hoped it was soon; neither wanted to admit they were enjoying where it had put them.

On the fourth day, they were spending the night playing dice games. Alcander brought out a bottle and two cups, and they spent the night drinking and laughing. They woke up in the same sheets.

Alcander was trying to disentangle himself, blushing, when Cai kissed him and pulled him back in.

The next three days flew by. When the storm ended and the sky of the Library once again grew blue and bright, they made dock and parted with a kiss and a promise.

The next few months rolled by like that — meeting every few days to explore different nooks and crannies in the Library. They'd tour the gardens, the crypts, the canopies, and spend the nights in Cai's cozy room in the Stacks. Small and lit by yellow hanging lights, it doubled — in the number of inhabitants, the amount of toothbrushes in the bathroom, how much time was spent inside it.

Seven months after the shelf collapsed on Alcander, he sat on the top of the same shelf with Cai. The gondola ride lasted a few minutes, and they reached the top just in time to watch the shades of the roof go from blue, to pink, to orange, to a brilliant red. As it turned to purple and the bright stars embedded in the roof began to twinkle, the pair nestled into each other and exchanged sips from a glass bottle. All was well.

The desert was cool at night. The shrieking wind raked across the dunes, kicking up sand like an angry viper. His cloak whipped against his chest and face. He didn't pin it down.

He'd been walking for hours. The corpse of his mount lay miles behind him now, along with the mass of his supplies. He carried only a canteen of water and a small silk pouch strung around his neck. His feet bled onto the sand.

Ahead, through the dust-filled skies, he sighted it. A dark impression in the surrounding mountain. He tightened his cloak and pressed forward.

Half an hour later, he reached the mouth of the cave. The sandstorm had worsened. His every pore felt clogged with sand. Sand choked his throat and decorated his hair. It filled his veins and arteries.

He ignored it and entered the cave.

Only a few paces inside, the sound and fury of the storm faded. He didn't know whether this was part of the enchantment or whether the storm had really ceased. He didn't turn around to check.

Braziers in the walls illuminated his path with a yellow crackling glow. Gradually, the seeping cold in his bones was replaced by comforting warmth. The path curved downwards to the right, and he followed the rock walls.

Eventually, he came to an antechamber with sloping stone walls. A small alcove was dug into the ground in the centre, and filled with a reddish-orange powder. Five figures stood at the edges of the room.

He stripped off his cloak, folding it neatly with his pin inside. One by one, he removed his garments and folded them on the floor until he was naked and pure. He knew what to do, like he'd done it a thousand times before. He walked forward and stepped into the powdered alcove, unshrinking. The figures stepped forward.

Each was cloaked in black, with shreds of white rags pinned at random on their garments. Their only visible features were their hands. They were knotted hands, gnarled and misshapen by Mother Nature. But they worked swiftly, reaching down and throwing powder across him. Rubbing it into him, covering every inch of his skin with the fine red grains. They didn't speak. Soon it was done, and the braziers lit up,