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It spoke again, getting closer. I whipped out another pair of Lenses and put them on, focusing on the creature and hoping to blow it backward with a gust of wind. I was pretty sure I'd gotten the right pocket this time.
I was wrong, of course.
". . . visitor to the great Library of Alexandria," the thing hissed, "you must pay the price of entry."
The Lenses of Rashid – Translator's Lenses. Now, not only did I know how old it was, I could understand its demonic voice as it sucked out my soul. I made a mental note to speak sternly with my grandfather about the kinds of Lenses he gave me.
"The price," the creature said, stepping up to me.
"Uh . . . I seem to have left my wallet outside . . .," I said, fumbling in my jacket for another pair of Lenses.
"Cash does not interest us," another voice whispered.
I glanced to the side, where another Curator – with burning eyes and a red skull - was floating toward me. With the extra light, I could see that neither creature had legs. Their cloaks just kind of trailed off into nothingness at the bottoms.
"Then, what do you want?" I asked, gulping.
"We want . . . your paper."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Anything you have written down," a third creature said, approaching. "All who enter the Library of Alexandria must give up their books, their notes, and their writings so that we may copy them and add them to our collection."
"Okay . . . ," I said. "That sounds fair enough."
My heart continued to race, as if it refused to believe that a bunch of undead monsters with flames for eyes weren't going to kill me. I pulled out everything I had – which only included the note from Grandpa Smedry, a gum wrapper, and a few American dollars.
They took it all, plucking them from me and leaving my hands feeling icy and cold. Curators, it might be noted, give off a freezing chill. Because of this, they never need ice for their drinks. Unfortunately, since they're undead spirits, they can't really drink soda. It's one of the great ironies of our world.
"That's all I have," I said, shrugging.
"Liar,” one hissed.
That isn't the type of thing one likes to hear from undead spirits. "No," I said honestly. "That's it!"
I felt the freezing hands on my body, and I cried out. Despite looking translucent, the things had quite firm grips. They spun me about, then ripped the tag from my shirt and from my jeans.
Then, they just backed away. "You want those?" I asked.
“All writing must be surrendered," one of the creatures said. "The purpose of the Library is to collect all knowledge ever written down."
"Well, you won't get there very fast by copying down the tags off T-shirts," I grumbled.
"Do not question our methods, mortal."
I shivered, realizing it probably wasn't a good idea to sass the soul-sucking monster with a burning skull for a head. In that way, soul-sucking monsters with burning skulls are a lot like teachers. (I understand your confusion; I get them mixed up too.)
With that, the three spirits began to drift away.
"Wait," I said, anxious not to return to the darkness.
"What about my friends? Where are they?"
One of the spirits turned back. "They have been separated from you. All must be alone when they enter the Library." It drifted closer. "Have you come seeking knowledge? We can provide it for you. Anything you wish. Any book, any volume, any tome. Anything that has been written, we can provide. You need but ask. . . “
The robed body and burning skull drifted around me, voice subtle and inviting as it whispered. "You can know anything. Including, perhaps, where your father is."
I spun toward the creature. "You know that?"
"We can provide some information," it said. "You need but ask to check out the volume."
“And the cost?"
The skull seemed to smile, if that was possible. "Cheap."
"My soul?"
The smile deepened.
"No, thank you," I said, shuddering.
"Very well," the Curator said, drifting away.
Suddenly, lamps on the wails flickered to life, lighting the room. The lamps were little oil-filled containers that looked like the kind you'd expect a genie to hold in an old Arabian story. I didn't really care; I was just glad for the light. By it, I could see that I stood in a dusty room with old brick walls. There were several hallways leading away from the room, and there were no doors in the doorways.
Great, I thought. Of all the times to give away my Tracker’s Lenses . . .
I picked a door at random and walked out into the hallway, immediately struck by how vast it was. It seemed to extend forever. Lamps hung from pillars that – extending into the distance – looked like a flickering, haunting runway on a deserted airfield. To my right and to my left were shelves filled with scrolls.
There were thousands upon thousands of them, all with the same dusty, catacomb-like feel. I felt a little bit daunted. Even my own footsteps sounded too loud as they echoed in the vast chamber.
I continued for a time, stepping softly, studying the rows and rows of cobwebbed scrolls. It was as if I were in a massive crypt – except, instead of bodies, this was the place where manuscripts were placed to die.
"They seem endless," I whispered to myself, looking up. The pockets of scrolls reached all the way up the walls to the ceiling some twenty feet above. "I wonder how many there are.”
"You could know, if you wanted," a voice whispered. I spun to find a Curator hovering behind me. How long had it been there?
"We have a list," it whispered, floating closer, its skull face looking more shadowed now that there was external light. "You could read it, if you want. Check it out from the Library."
"No, thank you," I said, backing away.
The Curator remained where it was. It didn't make any threatening moves, so I continued onward, occasionally glancing over my shoulder.
You may be wondering how the Curators can claim to have every book ever written. I have it on good authority that they have many means of locating books and adding them to their collection. For instance, they have a tenuous deal with the Librarians who control the Hushlands.
In the United States alone, there are thousands upon thousands of books published every year. Most of these are either "literature," books about people who don't do anything, or they are silly fiction works about dreadfully dull topics, such as dieting.
(There is a purpose to all of these useless books produced in America. They are, of course, intended to make people self-conscious about themselves so that the Librarians can better control them. The quickest way I've found to feel bad about yourself is to read a self-help book, and the second quickest is to read a depressing literary work intended to make you feel terrible about humanity in general.)
Anyway, the point is that the Librarians publish hundreds of thousands of books each year. What happens to all of these books? Logically, we should all be overwhelmed by them. Buried in a tsunami of texts, gasping for breath as we drown in an endless sea of stories about girls with eating disorders.
The answer is the Library of Alexandria. The Librarians ship their excess
books there in exchange for the promise that the Curators won't go out into the Hushlands and seek the volumes themselves. It's really a shame. After all, the Curators – being skeletons – could probably teach us a few things about dieting.
I continued to wander the musty halls of the Library, feeling rather small and insignificant compared with the massive pillars and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows of books.
Occasionally, I passed other hallways that branched off the first. They looked identical to the one I was walking in, and I soon realized that I had no idea which way I was going. I glanced backward, and was disappointed to realize that the only place in the Library that seemed clean of dust was the floor. There would be no footprints to guide me back the way I had come, and I had no bread crumbs to leave as a trail. I considered using belly-button lint, but decided that would not only be gross, but wasteful as well. (Do you have any idea how much that stuff is worth?)
Besides, there wouldn't be much point in leaving a trail in the first place. I didn't know where I was going, true, but I also didn't know where I'd been. I sighed. “I don't suppose there's a map of this place anywhere?" I asked, turning back to the Curator who followed a short distance behind.
"Of course there is," he said in a phantom voice.
"Really? Where is it?"
"I can fetch it for you." The skull smiled. "You’ll have to check it out, though."
"Great," I said flatly. "I can give you my soul to discover the way out, then not be able to use the way out because you'd own my soul."
"Some have done so before," the ghost said. "Traveling the library stacks can be maddening. To many, it is worth the cost of their soul to finally see the solution."
I turned away. The curator, however, continued talking. "In fact, you'd be surprised the people who come here, searching for the solutions to simple puzzles." The creature's voice grew louder as it spoke, and it floated closer to me. "Some old women grow very attached to a modern diversion known as the 'Crossword Puzzle.' We’ve had several come here, looking for answers. We have their souls now."
