Alcatraz versus the Scrivener's Bones (10 page)

The Lenses of Rashid – Tr
anslator'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 boo
ks, their notes, and their writ
ings 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 Smed
ry
, a
gum wrapper, and a few American dollars.

They took it all, plucking them from me and leaving
my hands feeling icy and cold.
C
urators, it might be noted,
give off a freezing chill. Because of this, they never need ice
for their drinks. Unfortuna
tely, since they're undead spir
its, they can't really drink soda. It's one of the great ironies
of our world.

"That's all I have," I said, shrugging.

"Lia
r,”
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. "
Y
ou 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 a
r
e 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 i
t for you. Anything you wish. An
y
book, any volume, any to
me. Anything that has been writ
ten, we can p
rovide. 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, shudder
ing
.

"Very well," the Curator said, drifting away.

S
uddenly, l
amps on the wails flickered to life, light
ing the room. The lamps were little oil-filled containers
that looked like the kind you'd expec
t
a genie to hold in
an o
ld Arabian story. I didn't reall
y care; I was just glad
for the light. By it, I could see that I stood in a dusty room
with old brick walls. T
here were several hallways lead
ing away from the room, and there were no doors in the
doorways.

Great
,
I
though
t.
Of all
the times to give away my Tracker
’
s
Lenses
. . .

I picked a door at rand
om and walked out into the hallway,
immediately struck by how vast it was. It seemed t
o
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 soft
l
y, 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
c
ontinued 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 upo
n
thousands of books publis
hed every year. Most of these are
either "literature," books about people who don't do any
thing, or they
are silly fic
tion works about dreadfully dull
topics, such as dieting.

(There
is
a purpose to all of these useless books produc
ed
in America. They are, of course, intended to make peopl
e
self-conscious about themse
lves so that the Librarians can
better control them. The
quickest way I've found to feel
bad about yourself is to re
ad a self-help book, and the sec
ond quickest is to read a de
pressing literary work intended
to make you feel terrible about humanity in general.)

Anyway, the point is
that the Librarians publish hun
dreds of thousands of books each year.
W
hat
happens to all
of these books? Logically, we should all be overwhelme
d by
them. Buried in a tsunami of texts, gasping for breath as w
e
drown in an endless sea of
stories about girls with eating
disorders.

The answer is the Library of Alexandria. The Lib
rarians
ship their excess books t
here 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
Curator
s – 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
i
nsignificant 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 supp
ose 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 disc
over
the way out, then not be able to use the way out becaus
e
you'd own my soul."

"Some have done so bef
ore," the ghost said. "Traveling
the library stacks can be maddening. To many, it is wort
h
the cost of their soul to finally see the solution."

I turned a
w
ay.
The c
urator, however, continued talk
ing. "In fact,
you'd be su
rprised the people who come here,
searching for the solutio
ns to simple puzzles." The creat
ure's voice grew louder as
it spoke, and it floated closer
to me. "
S
ome old wo
men grow very attached to a modern
diversion known as the '
C
rossword Puzz
le.' We’ve
had several come here, l
ooking for answers. We have their souls
now."

I frowned, eyeing the thing.

"Many would rather gi
ve up what remains of their
lives than live in ignorance," i
t said. "This is only one of the
many ways that we gain so
uls. In truth, some do not care
which book they get, for
once they become one of us, they
can read other books in the Library. By then, of
course, t
heir soul is bound here, and they can never leave or share
that knowledge. However, the endless knowledge appeals
to them."

Why was it talking so loudly? It seemed to be pushing
up against me a bit, its coldness prodding me on. As if it
were trying to force me to walk faster.

In a moment
l realized what was going on. The Curator
was a fish. If that were the case, what
w
ere the shoes?
(Metaphorically speaking, of course. Read back a few
chapters if you've forgotten.)

I closed my eyes, focusing. There, I heard it. A quiet
voice, calling for help. It sounded like Bastille.

I snapped my eyes open and ran down a side hallway.
The ghost cursed in an obscure languag
e – my Transla
tor's Lenses kindly let me know the meaning of the word,
and I will be equally kind here in not repeating it, since it
involved eggbeaters
–
and followed me.

I found her hanging f
rom the ceiling between two pil
lars in the hallway, letting out a few curses of her own. She
was tangled up in a strange network of ropes; some of them
twisted around her legs, others held her arms. It seemed
that her struggles were only making things worse.

"Bastille?" I asked.

She stopped struggling, silver hair hanging down
around her face. "
S
medry?"

"How did you get up there?" I asked, noticing a Curator
hanging in the air upside down beside her. Its robe didn't
seem to respond to gravity
–
but
, then, that's rather com
mon for ghosts, I would think.

"Does it matter?" Bastille snapped, flailing about,
apparently trying to shake herself free.

"Stop struggling. You're only making it worse."

She huffed, but stopped.

“
Are you going to tell me what happened?" I asked.

"Trap," she said, twisting about a bit. "I triggered a trip
wire, and the next moment I was hanging up here. If that
wasn't bad enough, the burning-eyed freak here keeps
whispering to me that he can give me a book that will show
me how to escape. It'll just cost my soul!"

"Where's your dagger?" I asked.

"In my pack."

I saw it on the floor a short distance away.
I walked over,
watching out for trip wires. Inside, I found her crystalline
dagger, along with some foodstuffs and
–
I was surprised
to remember - the boots with Grappler's Glass on the
bottoms. I smiled.

“
I'll be right there," I said, putting the boots on and
activating the glass. Then, I proceeded to try walking up
the side of the wall.

If you've never attempted this, I heartily recommend it.
There's a very nice rush o
f wind, accompanied by an invit
ing feeling of vertigo, as you fall backward and hit the
ground. You also look something like an idiot
– but
for
most of us, that's nothing new.