We are statues, you and I.
The halls of the Library are filled with statues, from the smallest figurines and busts to towering sculptures and graven images. The history of our people is intertwined with that of the Library itself - our home. Every shelf of the Library is dedicated to a Patron who has contributed to the collection or the culture, and what better way to show that dedication than their likeness, set into stone?
This is how we began. I know not of whose likeness I am carved in. I do not have the memories, the knowledge, the identities of whatever Wanderer the Library chose to honor forevermore. I was simply birthed into consciousness one day, with a simple instruction: "Watch over your shelf." And that instruction I have executed without a moment of weakness or distraction. From my perch at the front, I observe all who come and go, memorizing their appearances and purposes - save for myself.
Without a mirror, my form is a mystery to even me. All I have are fleeting glimpses, collected over the decades, of myself in a patron's eyes, in their bronze-shields, in their glossy clothing. I treasure the memories closely - they are likely the closest I will ever have to a conception of myself, my appearance. Who I am.
I am perched on a platform - from there, I can see you. A portion of you — your full body is obscured by the mahogany of your own shelf. But I see a slice of your form - beige and indistinct. We have been neighbors for centuries, yet never so much have seen each other in our full. I can move, when no one is around - nothing prevents me from walking over to see and speak to you, who have lingered just out of view for as long as I can remember. Presumably, so can you. But we don't. Your reservations do not bother me - and, by appearances, the feeling is mutual. We were birthed to protect our shelves, to protect the Library. What else is there for statues to do?
We are similar, you and I.
We only noticed by chance. It was a quiet time in the Library - there is no true day or night, but every so often the sky darkens and dims and pinpricks of light appear where a roof should be. They dance around and around, forming constellations that Wanderers have gone on to write treatises cataloguing. I enjoyed watching these pseudostars - it was a pleasant reverie from the monotony of guard duty.
But I heard a crash, and turned my attention back down. It took but a moment of investigation to conclude what I already know - it was not from my shelf. I would have noticed if something had been out-of-place in my domain. Yes, this was a different shelf, and a different statue's problem.
Then I saw it in front of me. A hideous feathered creature, weaving in and out of your shelf - a Magpie, doing what Magpies are fated to do: lie and steal stories, sewing chaos in the Library. They were banned long ago, but keep finding their way in, pests that they are. The nearest Docent was at a distance - I prepare to summon it when suddenly, the Magpie is stilled.
A large concrete fist crashes down upon its skull, almost as if the swirling stars above sent a meteor down to our little section of the Library. But no, that fist was connected to a full statue; you.
Every glance of myself, in a holographic helmet or silver fang, coalesced in you. A perfect image, idealized.
Did you see me? Your beautiful, painted eyes don't move. Neither do mine. I think.
I hope you didn't. I hope you did.
We are dancers, you and I.
In all my centuries I had never considered leaving my plinth. The Shelf behind me was all I knew, and all I cared to know. Seeking knowledge, something greater, that wanderlust, is not for those of my ilk. That is what I believed.
The first time I came to see you, it was migration day for the cromwells, and many of the patrons had departed from the usual perusing and musing to watch the flocks. I was sure I had the Stacks to myself.
I look down. I can sense my podium is only several inches above the flooring, but it seems so far.
I look up. The migration must've just started, as I can see the yellow and browned plumage of the very first cromwells soaring through the Rafters. Soon enough, I wouldn't be able to see the ceiling, instead replaced with the avians. I noticed one staring down at myself, all the way at the top of my Shelf.
After a brief moment, it took off and joined its brethren. If it could jump from such heights and soar, certainly I could take a step.
So I did.
I took another, and another, and another until before I knew it I was standing beside you.
So we stood, a perfect duo, in unity.
That is until you stepped off of your podium and moved to the center of the walkway between our shelves. You turned to me and beckoned.
Almost in a trance, I stepped into the walkway as well.
There was no way to know what you were thinking, nor you I, but it was as if we were sculpted from the same stone. We locked hands, we swirled and twirled to the music of thousands of wings flapping far overhead, both keeping an eye locked on our own shelf.
Once, a book was read to me where happiness was described as a fluttering of the heart, and I imagine in that moment it is the closest I'll ever be to that feeling.
Suddenly, we both stopped in our tracks, frozen by sight. Only a few shelves down the walkway, a young wayward wanderer stood watching, its eyes wide and its mouth shaped into a small "o." It stammered out a quick apology and ducked into a passageway between the shelves.
So we continued our dance.
We are in love, you and I.
And everyone knows it.
It turned out that news of our dance spread quickly, assuredly attributable to the young wanderer that we saw the night before.
It turned out that our dance had scraped the flooring, creating a pattern of loops and geometry, but as a Docent attempted to begin replacement of the wood a contingent of Wanderers stopped it from doing so, strange, sentimental creatures that they are.
As years and years passed, the Library grew in tandem with the wanderers' imaginations. The walkway between us grew a little larger, seating appeared overnight, and they day the shelf blocking my view of you shifted just a few inches to the right was the best day of all.
A poet sat at your feet once, drafting an ode to our first night together. Xe folded it and placed it behind my podium, a secret between us and any who find it. Wanderers confessed to each other with the blessing of you and I. The Chief Archivist told us to stay dedicated to our purpose, but I could see the pride in his eyes.
And the dances, neither of us could forget the dances. The soft colored lights, the living instruments, a true celebration of partnership. All who attended would turn away, allowing us to take the first dance of the night. When we were done, we would return to our respective podiums and the patrons would take their turn, dancing along the lines we made so very long ago. It was nice to watch them, but I couldn't stop myself from watching you every time.
My love for you is their love.
We are in danger, you and I.
I do not know what is going on. It is dark, and fiery - there is smoke rising throughout the air no matter where I look. Screaming and shouting in the distance. A loud, characteristic popping. As darkness fell on the Library, a Way opened - an unfamiliar Way, a peculiar scent to it. Animals rushed out, all black hair and reflective eyes. I cannot see you. There is a mass of people and violence in every direction - I cannot move. I am afraid.
We are separated, you and I.
As the light rises and bathes the Library in its glow, the devastation became visible again, lit in yellow rays instead of orange flames. Our shelves, and two or three surrounding us, had been devastated. Scorch marks decorate the wood, and blood pools in swathes on the hardwood. The carpet simply soaked it up - the Library did not let such things go to waste.
Librarians stalk up and down the shelves, picking books up off the floor where they had been strewn into piles during the chaos. Many were missing, and even more were simply damaged. Patrons and Wanderers help them how they can: only the Librarians truly knew how to organize the tomes, but their job was made easier by the people collecting and separating books by whether they could be salvaged. Even more aided directly - for every Wanderer helping, there are two on the ground: one injured and leaning against the base of a shelf, and another tending to the wounds. I am unfamiliar with the internal anatomy of living things, but I can tell the variety of the injuries was only outweighed by the variety of those who had arrived to help. It was an outpouring of community in our home - everyone was there. Save for one. Your platform was conspicuously empty. Seeing the stone circle without you on top of it was… unfamiliar. I didn't like it. This was the feeling that they call concern.
I scan the throngs of people, hoping for a stray glimpse of your stone head. None came, so I stood at my perch, ever-waiting. As the Wanderers pass below me, paying me no mind, I hear snippets of conversation and discussion, and piece together an image of what had happened. The Jailors had opened a Way into the Library in the dead of night. How, I have no idea. But they had rushed in, hoping to seize this rare opportunity, and begun taking things. Stories, textbooks, Wanderers. Statues.
They had been quickly beat back by the Docents, and retreated through the Way before it closed - and not before losing many of their men. We simply had the misfortune of being in front of them. And so the damage was done - they took you.
A second later, it could have been me. But I took no solace in it. You were - you are the first to ever make me look at myself. See myself. Develop myself. And now I had lost you, all for the greed of the Jailors. Over the following weeks, I withdraw. Back to how I had started - a cold stone exterior, guarding my shelf and myself. I grow bitter. Troublemakers in my territory quickly felt a stone presence behind them, out of the corner of their eye.
You were a fighter, I know that. The Jailors may have taken you, thrown you in a cell, but they could not keep you. I would wait for you, no matter how long it took. You would fight, and scream, and violate however you could until you had your freedom back. Until you could escape your containment and return to me.
"I want a coffee."
"What kind of coffee, sir?"
"A normal coffee, please."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Sir, we're a coffee shop, you're going to have be a little bit more specific."
He sighed.
"I just want a normal coffee. Water, coffee. No mocha-frappe-shit. Don't put sprinkles or ice cream or caramel ejaculate on my goddamn coffee, please."
They stared at each other for a moment over the counter. Marsh could hear the patron behind him, something with one eye and less patience, tapping its scaled foot impatiently.
"… Whatever you say, sir. That'll be-"
A crack sounded through the ceiling. All the experienced patrons ducked or kissed the floor, while the fresh faces flipped their heads from side to side like goldfish at a tennis match. Marsh squatted on the tiled floor of the coffee shop, fishing in his coat for something. The cyclops behind him in line was agape at the sudden black hole in the ceiling until Marsh grabbed its fur overcoat and pulled the fellow to the floor.
"What is this, your first time? Come on."
A split second later a red-and-brown blur came flying through the new hole in the wooden ceiling. The patrons who had been dumb enough to look at the ceiling were knocked on their asses by the sudden gust of wind in the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. The blur froze and straightened itself out, a hundred little hands all dusting off the spherical segments they were attached to.
Everything was silent for a moment. Everyone was staring at the insectoid daisy-chain dangling from the hole in the ceiling. Everyone except Marsh, who was trying futilely to light a cigarette.
The part of the centipede creature extruding from the ceiling ended in a larger sphere, bug-eyes and mandibles. Mandibles that were now clicking together, producing a soft skittering noise that, if one listened closely, could be heard to say-
"It's on me, Bronna. Oh, and could I get one of those, the cups with the whipped cream and the chocolate? I forget the name."
"… Sure, Archivist."
The head of the Rounderpede turned to face the lean man in the black trenchcoat desperately trying to conjur a flame for his cigarette.
"It won't work, Mr. Marsh. This whole wing is a fire hazard so the Library simply suppresses any fire made, magic or otherwise. It's quite beautiful, really."
"It's quite a pain in the ass."
"That stuff is poison anyway, we're doing you a favor."
"Yeah…"
Marsh tousled his rat's nest of black hair. At seeing the creature's familiarity with the clerk, most of the other patrons had either walked out into the Stacks or tentatively returned to their drinks, shooting furtive glances at the pair and whispering.
Bronna returned to the counter. Her employees had never even stopped working - the Rounderpede liked to take advantage of the perks afforded to him by his position, and the easiest way to do that was to stop by during his rounds to pick up a scone or two.
She slid two cups at them across the counter - one tall and filled with a steaming liquid darker than Marsh's coat, and the other a dainty little thing containing a whipped cream sundae drizzled with chocolate. Marsh grabbed his, and the Rounderpede swung forward to grab his in a loose claw.
"Where are we sitting?"
"Over here."
Marsh weaved between the tightly-packed chairs and tables, most empty at this time of day. That was a misnomer - there were no actual day-night cycles in the Library, but the lights seemed to dim in a regular pattern, and is the hour system really the thing you want to split hairs over in an infinite Library? Knowing the average Wanderer, a thousand treatises had probably already been written on the matter, all of them increasingly verbose ways to say "I have no idea, but here's what I think!"
"I'm sensing some pent-up resentment there, Morgan."
"Oh. Did I say that out loud?" he said, setting his cup down in the booth table. Overhead, the Rounderpede sidled out of the hole in the ceiling and twirled and wrapped through the coffee shop, mostly sticking to the ceiling, until he came down at the booth. It didn't look like he was any closer to revealing the rest of his body.
"How long are you, even?"
"Gosh, Morgan. You can't just ask people how long they are!"
"Shut up."
A fast-gravelly skittering noise erupted from the Rounderpede's mandibles. Marsh, sliding into his seat, froze to stare at the bug-faced creature in front of him for a second before realizing he was… laughing. He snorted and reached into his overcoat, pulling out a metal flask.
"Morgan…"
"Hey, relax, it's just to take the edge off."
He dumped the entire flask into the coffee cup, smiling as the concoction popped and sizzled before turning a pleasant orange-brown.
"Elrichian Fire-whiskey. Fancy."
Marsh raised an eyebrow.
"How'd you know that?"
The two foremost arms shrugged.
"I know things, Morgan. It's my job. And you've got a thing on your face."
"Where? Here?"
"No, it's kind of-"
The Rounderpede used an arm to rub the area beneath its eyes and surrounding its mouth.
"Kind of dark and furry?"
Marsh raised the other eyebrow.
"My beard?"
"Oh, is that what it's called? Fun."
Marsh sipped from his brew, which had settled down to idle bubbling.
"So, bugbrain. How you been?"
Rounderpede took a lick using the small pink spoon.
"Oh, you know, same shit different day. Wrangling the Pages and Docents, hashing it out with Malaise. The Scavenger Hunt tuckered me out - I didn't even know I could get tired! Had to nest up for a week after that."
"Yeah, it's been kind of a mess up at Planasthai too. Editor, bless him, wants us to start preparing for the Bookworm awards already."
"You've got month-"
"Yeah, I know. It'd be better to focus on the Wallwalking Tourney next week, but you know how he feels about sports."
"No? I don't?"
"Oh. Well, he thinks if someone's not being beaten to death or beating someone else to death, it's a waste of time."
"Bit of a narrow worldview. You know, I went to a world once, Salyrium. Sports are literally the religion du jour there, referees-"
"Please, I don't want to be bored to death. I have a family."
"No, you don't. But I digress."
Another sip, followed by another bite. A small child sitting a couple tables away stared at the pair, wide-eyed. Rounderpede waved a few arms at him, and Marsh lightened his glower for a moment.
"You're not very good with kids, Morgan, are you?"
"I work for a fallen celestial and eat demons for power. I could bend the bones of anyone in here-"
"I have an exoskeleton."
"- any person in here into a balloon animal."
"Aw. So why are you afraid of them?"
"I'm not, I just… y'know."
Rounderpede cocked his head.
"It's weird, the idea."
"The idea of children."
"Yeah. Little people all running around, being shaped by their circumstances."
"I suppose it is a bit strange, isn't it?"
"You're lying to make me feel better, bug. I know you."
Rounderpede threw up its arms in mock surrender, nearly spilling Marsh's drink.
"Nothing is strange to me anymore, Morgan, but I can see where you're coming from. I feel much the same way sometimes."
"Yeah? Can't say I've ever seen any baby 'pedes running around the Stacks. Seems like the kind of thing I'd remember."
"Well, maybe not exactly… but there is much to be said about the Library taking that role for me?"
Marsh drew another flask from inside his jacket, and starting dumping it into his half-finished coffee.
"You know next time you should just get them to put two shots of espresso in your beer to save time."
"This is top… mid-shelf whiskey, excuse you. But keep talking."
A gurgle of air escaped from the centipede's chitinous jaws as he gestured around him, to the couples and Wanderers enjoying their drinks. Through the facade, outside, countless more Wanderers could be seen in the Main Hall and in the Stacks beyond. All selecting, picking, reading their books.
"Oh, you know… things weren't always this lively, you know."
"I have a hard time imagining that."
"Yes, I'm sure. But me and Malaise were there all the way back when most of the wings had fallen into disrepair. Collapsed shelves, ruined books, empty atriums and halls. Sad state of affairs. Took a truly stupid amount of time and effort to get it here."
"Yeah, I know, you tell everyone you know for more than 5 minutes."
"The Planasthai was little more than an empty office block, half the Ways had gone defunct. It was on life support. And now look at it!"
He pointed a clawed hand at the grand crowd outside.
"And it's still not where I'd like it."
"You have a distinct vision for the Library?"
"Yes. Many! Some that conflict, even, but that's how it is. It's my job to get it there."
"Dunno, chief. You've got a lot of shoulders but I don't think they can hold the weight of the world."
"Well, I didn't choose the Library, the Library chose me. It's not like I have much of a choice."
"Oh, come on. 'You always have a choice. Sometimes the choice is do or die, but even that's a choice.'"
"Don't quote me to myself, that's classless."
"Yet correct."
"… Maybe."
"Oh, don't get wistful on me, you overgrown cockroach. You've got a lot to look forward to. Hell of a lot more than most mortals do, at least."
An antenna on his head twitched.
"Just how old are you, Morgan?"
"That's not important," the mage replied sheepishly. "We've had some crazy times, but even I don't know a way to turn back the clock. No way to go but forward."
"Still, never hurts to remember where you came from. Like how I dragged you out of that Jailor ambush-"
"- or how I taught you the hexes to get rid of the bookrot infestations."
The red scales of the Rounderpede lightened to a pink, drifting out from his head.
"Point taken. But I still can't help
and worry. I used to know the names of every Wanderer that came in!"
"What, you're worried the most important work you've ever done is paying off?" Marsh blew onh is coffee.
"No, I just-"
"I know, bugbrain. You're an an infinitely long eldritch creature of unknown origin who knows more than any other single sapient in here. You're too smart to be acting this dumb. Don't be scared thiangs are changing; be glad they're changing for the better. A pretty smart Librarian told me that once."
"Yeah, yeah. Classless. But thank you, friend."
"Naturally." Marsh smirked and picked up his whiskey-coffee, giving it an experimental sniff before turning it up and placing it in front of him. He raised his hands and chanted for a moment before slamming his fist on the cup and through to the table. The cup was gone.
"Saving it for later?"
"Yep. Have a meeting with Greene to get to."
"Who's Greene?"
"New partner. She's a knight."
Rounderpede's eyes narrowed.
"She?"
"Shut up. You better finish that up too, no way you don't have some dumb menial crap to be doing."
Rounderpede grumbled but picked up the paper cup, still floating a mix of whipped cream, and tossed it straight down the gullet, spoon and all.
"Wow, that was disgusting."
"Thank you. It was nice catching up, Morgan. I'll see you around, yes?"
"Yeah, sure…"
"Wait. What's in your pocket?"
"What? Oh, nothing… important."
"Morgan? Is that… a notepad? Dammit Marsh, were you interviewing me?!"
Marsh paused at the exit to the coffee shop.
"Man's gotta eat. Later, bug!"
"Morgan! If I see this in tomorrow's Planasthai I'll eat you, I swear! Morgan!"
The massive stone corridor stretches out in front of you. Countless ittle pigeonholes carved into the stone, each filled with… something. Your eyes can't quite focus in the dim lamplight coming from… where is it coming from? It doesn't matter. That's not what you're here for.
It took some doing, but you managed it; you've sneaked in. It takes a particularly skilled individual to outwit not only the Librarians, but the Library itself. Not that it was easy; getting the Docents and Pages distracted was a labor in and of itself. Then conning the Archivists into letting you behind the Desk, and conveniently "getting lost". The Wrights that you passed in the hallways just looked at you with sad, hollow eyes — it's probably been years since they saw a Patron.
But you succeeded, and the Five Archives lay open before you. Well, not quite open. The gargantuan stone — stone? in the Library? — doors lay sealed and engraved. Each carries a carving, rendered in stunning detail five times your height. You run your hand across one. Smooth and uncomfortably warm. It shudders at your touch. Then your lantern goes out.
The cavern is bathed in darkness for a moment — and then you see them. Glowing blue letters, inset into the marble door. They swim across your vision, painting a portrait for you. You admire.
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,
The Sea of Words: 29 Spring 20004
Author: Aleksander Thorpe Eastward Editor
The Sea of Words is a hallmark of the Library. It lies roughly south and down from the Archivists Desk, and is often the first major natural formation that a new Wanderer will lay eyes on. It's a massive freshwater sea peppered with a variety of seafaring vessels and bordered with bookshelf beaches. Though it has its own weather systems, by and large it's known to be a calm, tranquil body of water, perfect for a calming day of reading on the sea.
Which is why it was so shocking when the corpse of a Docent was dredged from the seabed and dragged ashore.
It was a fine sunny morning on the deck of the Markkanen, a converted ship not unlike a catamaran. Wood-lined, canvas sails, and a roomy interior space, the vessel is the property of one Thom Vanniker, also its skipper.
On the morning of the discovery, Vanniker was alone on the boat. By his own admission, he prefers to sail alone—he claims it's the way people were meant to sail. "It brings clarity, focus, concentration, things you can't get in the presence of othere," he explained when I sat down with him on the Markkanen, about two weeks after the discovery.
Vanniker was dredging the seabed on the day of. By dropped a weighted net with a series of curved angular hooks from the Markkanen, he can usuallt dependably raise something interesting from the sea floor. He remembered that whatever he was pulling that day was giving him trouble — resistance, as if it was pulling back. He considered leaving it, but curiousity got the better of him and he managed to winch the net back up.
Though it took him a second to realize what the black mass knotted up in the net was, he instantly felt a sense of unease about him. Further inspection revealed all the signs of a Docent.
Music of the Month: February -1, 202020
Author: Corvinae Spektre Conspicous Critic
This decades's been a wild one in the world of music. Kicking off with the attempted suit against the inventor of the guitar and ending just last week with the deaths of the entire 61st Shelf Orchestra (and their families), we've had a lot of new and innovative pieces from all genres to reflect on. As the new year opens, the Planasthai is happy to present the top albums of the decade, across space and time, right to your ears.
#10
The Harrow - Debutante
#9
OH MY F*CKING GOD - OH MY F*CKING GOD
#8
the velociraptors - holy shit a velociraptor
#7
Blackenwhite - Tacoma
#6
Paikal - San Banme
#5
Gorzanna - Greatest Hits
Gorzanna remains one of the most divisive personalities in music, equally likely to inspire adoring fanaticism as much as utter derision. But let's put the headline-making controversies to the side for a moment - because the songs here are absolutely amazing. On Greatest Hits, Gorzanna is at her full power, with decade-defining tracks that flooded the subwaves to nearly every corner of the multiverse. From the captivating, explosive dance-floor banger "Weightless" to the sultry R&B jam "Hittin' It In The Library," which memorably caused riots upon release, this collection is pure pop perfection front to back. But even with an artist of this caliber of craft and popularity, nobody could have predicted the events that led to where we are today - her landslide election as Premier of her native planet of Zotrolla III, her involvement in the assassinations of her political opponents, and her subsequent self-declaration as Emperor-for-Life. Still, even galactic war crimes couldn't stop Gorzanna's momentum, as her first single after her censure by the Galactic Assembly, the electronic throwback "Throne Of Skulls (F*ck The Haters)" went platinum in seventeen worlds.
Ultimately, Greatest Hits and its bright, maximalist, unapologetically joyful pop solidifies her status as an icon and a consistent purveyor of great songs. Whenever I throw it on, I almost feel like all that other stuff doesn't even matter. Don't get me wrong, I don't endorse authoritarian dictatorships, but fuck, everything here is such a bop. I mean, look, I just don't think we should be so quick to judge her, the music in here is just so damn—uh…I'm digging my own grave here, aren't I? Right, sorry then. Let's move on.
#4
Kev Mackey - Snake Eyes
#3
The Constructors - Road Wine
#2
Omnidrone - Omnidrone
#1
⥑Suggested Soundtrack⥏
The figure teetered on the edge of the roof. Up here, the air was thin. Oneiroi Tower was the tallest thing in this quadrant of Eurtec — the city was laid out like a map below, all grids and isometric skyscrapers. A neon haze blanketed the neocity even at this time of night, riddled with moving lights.
He blended into the night sky. All matte black plastic and synthsteel. The angular body armor was built on top of the nervesuit, seamless — the suit itself was skintight, but it wasn't going to break on him, not today, not without an artillery gun at point-blank range. The helmet finished the ensemble, a smooth black thing with no openings and only one identifying feature — a green light, always on, dead center of the face.
The comm inside hummed to life.
"Niner? Thirty seconds to drop, over."
The transparent display in the helmet lit up with a countdown. He took a step closer to the edge. He was almost 3/4 of a mile above the streets. The cost of a mistake was self-evident.
"Twenty."
The target was a few hundred feet north of his position, directly in front of him. Another megatower, though dwarfed by its gargantuan neighbor. "MITYAKOSOV AUTOCORP", the glowing letters raid.
"Ten."
He zeroed in, and his display lit up with information. The glass windows on the top floor had been recently replaced — with faulty materials. They would shatter like china the moment a big enough force hit them.
"Five."
Security: minimal. Should be clean — in, out, gone.
"Three."
"Two."
"One."
He stepped off the roof and plummeted.
Gravity took over and he flipped forward, head pointing straight down. The air screamed as he rocketed downward