by Rich Hayden
Down the first few rows, Amil methodically plodded and double checked the identity of each door. His fists were curled with anger and his face twisted fore and aft between visages of outrage and disgust. He kicked the doors, which all remained indifferent to his assault, and shouted his displeasure to the empty heavens above. As he thought about the task before him, one that was of the cruelest vulgarity in its utter simplicity, he felt cheated, and allowed a tumor of self-pity to develop. It trailed behind him like a medicine ball of regrets, and slowly, from the evolution of this cancerous grief, was Amil’s rage made to crack.
The wounds opened upon his psyche were small at first, tiny fissures that only glinted at the devastation that lay beneath. But they grew, were forced open and bred new faults with every thunderous beat of his furious heart. Eventually, the incendiary cloak of ferocity that he wore began to split at its seams. Like an insect purged from a spent cocoon, Amil’s own facade fell from him in slivers and was lost upon the nothingness. His strength and his will, a will that was only supported by his rage, were gone, and all that remained was the broken and vulnerable remnants of a man.
This new condition festered for much longer a time than the initial burst of madness had flamed. It clung tightly to him, and soaked his skin in a lugubrious film that made all movement, and just the notion of perseverance, seem too lethargic a weight to drag behind. Like a mechanized beast that developed only the intelligence necessary to contemplate the taking of its own life, Amil lifted his little stone up to each barrier that he faced. His head would then solemnly bow in defeat, as he was made to acknowledge their predictable answers.
At last, centuries into his troll, he had found something solid and very much alive among all of Aphelianna’s deathly leftovers and ruin; the root of true hopelessness. It had become his lone and most loyal companion. It dogged Amil’s every step and constantly whispered reminders to him of the unforgettable facts of his bleak and interminable situation. He couldn’t stay, but to pick the wrong door was to stray from the path to Isadora. A path that would evaporate like breath into wind were he to forsake the mission he once so passionately begged to be awarded.
Deep into the rows he traveled, until only a narrow world of perfect repetition surrounded him. Put behind Amil were a million lines of like doors, and to his face was an arrangement of many more. No matter the direction in which he stared, his eyes viewed innumerable passages, doors that gradually devolved into smaller and smaller objects as they floated out to the nevermore. He had become a lost little rat, trapped within a maze of straight lines that rose from the most abandoned sector of the black abyss. He wanted to run. He wanted to flee this damned cause and suffer the consequences that awaited his failure. He even experienced a souring of his memories for Ali, for it was her unforgettable face that was responsible for his being here. But it was too late to indulge the slothful pleasures of quitting. Giving up wouldn’t free him from this task. Neither would a marathon sprint that endured for centuries serve to liberate Amil from this path of his own choosing. He had ventured too deep into the back catalog of time to escape. He was ensnared, a whimsical plaything for the ages.
At some indefinable moment into his walk, he started to shed the basic characteristics of his humanity. Sleep forgot who he was, and the desire for food, the action of chewing, became entirely foreign to Amil. Speech died from his tongue and his mouth dried into a hollow desert that was home to nothing more than discontented grunts and the occasional scream. The sharpness of his vision softened to a rudimentary function, as no stimuli higher than the dull doors and the stone in his palm were present to keep his eyes keen. A mental genocide was brought down upon him from the virulent tentacles of a far-reaching insanity. Madness was the only essence held within his skull, but this too died away with time, and was replaced by something even more punishing.
After his inner meltdown, Amil’s body became a shell that held the dusty fragmented reminders of a life deserted eons before. He could still remember earth and the places upon its face, but they came to him in fuzzy collections of dream-like flashes. Reality had become a failed experiment, as he scarcely recalled his own name and heavily doubted the validity of loved ones and the events which once shaped his life. He could still see Ali’s face if he squeezed his eyes shut tight enough, but the memory of her, too, precariously bobbed over the ever-widening sea of uncertainty that had washed over Amil’s mind.
Like a face that looks up from a photograph of faded paper was how Ali looked to him. He could see her, but it was without a clear definition. The color of her eyes came into question and the curve of her smile was a shipwrecked treasure, sunken and gone. Her hair was brown, possibly it was, or maybe this was just a reasonably good guess given the lack of chromatic variety that sprouts from the human head. Like the still image that tarried in Amil’s mind, Ali no longer had a voice, and her movements went unremembered. It was as though the notion of individual personality was ludicrous, and the love, joy, and tears which she once so intimately shared with him were all forgotten. As the last scraps of her generosity, kindness, and of her very being unwound their hooks from his soul, Amil strained to remember why he was looking for door 18514 in the first place. The urgency to find Isadora ebbed away, and as he was stripped of all he once was, his fingers closed over the chain around his neck.
His pale hand, ripe with veins and fragile bones, tugged at his key. Amil wanted so much to tear the key away from his flesh and cast it into the enveloping black, but not even the smallest flare of defiance was left to him. His fingers instead hung meekly from the fine links of the rope, and dreamt woefully of the days when they possessed the constitution of vigorous action. Bent over by the gravity of guilt, Amil rattled on like a slave being whipped by an invisible entity who never tired of sadism.
It looked like all the others, and with no fanfare or prick of excitement did Amil pass his medallion over the door called 18514. What he had suffered so habitually for the last eternity or so had become a routine so unbroken, that his numbed mind, or what remained of that pile of mush inside his skull, had failed to recognize his destination. Like a farm bird that is slow to view its own doom as it stares up at the axe still crimson-slicked with the blood of its family, Amil kept on going. He walked on slowly in his defeated gait for miles, centuries, and down untold rows. He still checked his stone, but barely saw the numbers that surfaced as anything of significance. It wasn’t until much later that the grand discovery did finally settle inside the dulled areas of his mind.
Once the full impact was felt, Amil sensed a return of thought. Imagination crept back inside him, and nervousness jerked through his skin which awakened deadened sensations. Like a clock of perpetual motion which at last feels the sting of failure, his body stopped. He turned and sent his eyes down the rows, and deep into the dark fabric of space and of times never to be written. It was back there somewhere. Far away, but not lost, the gateway to emancipation. He thought not of Ali or Isadora; Amil only thought of himself, and of a release that finally felt attainable. It was enough to set his feet in motion again, and with a renewed sense of hope, bitter and sickly as it was, he retraced his steps.
The pathetically small jubilation which percolated through his heart was quickly extinguished. It was a fluke really, the happiness he felt. It came like a hiccup, and left with all the mourning which follows the end of winters’ cold. The long trek back to the door he had so foolishly ignored earlier was the final ingredient needed to achieve self-disintegration. There was no more Amil Young. All the same, the hollow man who endured finally stood before door 18514, and walked out of The End of Time.
Part 9. The Endless Library
From an incalculable number of moments, and from the maw of infinity itself, Amil emerged from the abyss. He lay exhausted and empty, crumpled into a heap upon a floor of hardwood. It flowed outward, like the ocean as it recedes from the shore. Though faded and scraped by the multitudes which once stepped over them, the boards still fit neatly toge
ther and were thoughtfully decorated with a generous assortment of rugs. Their fibers held dust, but they also still retained their colorful designs, which gave each a unique flair. Most of the stitched creations were woven with nothing more than a common circle for inspiration. Upon the rugs, small tables, rocking chairs, and writing desks, complete with wetted ink wells, rested quietly.
Placed upon the many desks and other pieces of ornate furniture were oil lamps. They burned low, and gave the enormous room a comfortable light. To view such a display from high above would return to the eyes, not a warmly lit room, but rather, an elaborate constellation. The walls, which seemed to delicately breathe with the wavering light, were dressed in stretched layers of heavy paper. Stained the color of blood after it has been left to dry upon cotton, this craftsman’s parchment was given fantastic detail by trails of black ink that never exceeded the width of a human hair. Laid down by some genius brush, the strokes arrived in dizzying swirl patterns and line work, so intricate, that to stare at them for too long would call about the disorienting effects of vertigo.
The ceiling above, moderately high in its rise, was formed entirely of hammered copper plates. In various spots, the metal panels separated from one another, open to the air, like the promise of a welcoming embrace. The hollows they formed allowed for the growth of staircases, straight and spiraled, which led to places unknown. As the copper shapes hung in the cold air above, much too distant to receive warmth from the fire of the lamps, they gazed down at collections of shelves that seemed to know no extinction.
Fortified by the ancient union of wood, nails, and stain, thick shelves streaked the floor in arrangements of perfect lines, diagonal settings, and crossing patterns that sharply cut through the room. More of their kind lined the walls. Grouped in differing formations that appeared quite odd, the placement of each collection of shelves undeniably knew a true order. Bizarre symbols of arcane origin, which appeared meaningless to modern eyes, were carved into the wooden spines of the shelves. The curious glyphs had been devised to direct an inquisitive reader down the aisles and inside the pages of the many books held therein.
Every inch of each shelf was called upon to support the many tomes. Some were quite thick, while others were so pitifully thin, that to print and sort them seemed wholly extraneous. Most volumes were of a respectable size, and all looked to pridefully carry cosmetic changes that hinted at their age and told of their usage. The bindings were plain and of subdued coloration. The corners of many had frayed, while nothing more than a few printed words graced the covers. But there was something in their collective banality that spoke to an elevated purpose. The covers had no need to lure a reader over with intriguing images, for what they held inside was so fascinating that to further trumpet the subject matter would have been an exercise in the superfluous.
This labyrinth of knowledge sprawled out for years untold. The shelves carved their paths like rivers through mountain ranges, and much akin to the nature of water, they spawned smaller, stranger versions of themselves. Some shelves were placed so tightly together that to squeeze between them would require an intimate familiarity with the emaciating effects of anorexia. Even more still were so tall that to reach their uppermost portions would demand the assistance of a Titan. In a truly perplexing situation, a band of rogue shelves conspired to curve together and form a ring. The inner circumference was that of a small house, one which possessed no means for entry, and extended almost to the copper above. The books placed on the outside gave themselves freely to a voracious reader, but to access the titles that slept within the ring was a riddle as thick as the pages were many.
Further on into the room, the walls continued to reflect the greatness that detailed them as the light from the ignited oils continued to bleed in a soft glow. Artistic visions of landscapes, and portraits, of individuals whose names had been forgotten by time, were rendered on canvas and hung from the walls. There they clung, in a complementary fashion, beautiful and utterly devoid of the malice that slept under the paintings that decorated The Hall of Worship.
Staircases of tight spirals, and ones that widened into cascades of carpeted steps, rose to floors above and sunk to darker levels below. Charming alcoves could be spotted with an observant eye and furniture designed to accommodate a thinker and his thoughts no longer depended on the construction of wood alone. Deep sofas that practically oozed sleep rested over the rugs, as did complete beds. Massive pillows, which sat whimsically like low-slung clouds, catered to the sensibilities of the playful.
But Amil was yet to view anything that sat on display within Aphelianna’s library. He remained on the floor, passed out at the foot of the door that had spat him out. He saw nothing more exciting than the insides of his own eyelids, and, as his mind lay nearly devoid of activity, reason suggested that he might finally die away from humanity altogether. Not from bodily trauma, and not even at the murderous clutches of a Waste, but rather it appeared likely that Amil’s being would pass away just to have something to do.
Deathly silent, but peaceful in its lack of sound, the air of the library finally became the home of a quaint noise. As pleasing as warm honey over fruit, chattering tones arrived to displace the former silence. The air was brushed aside by the flapping of wings, and soon a melody was formed as a pair of fanciful little creatures came to inspect the unconscious man. Two figures, notably female given the abundance of silky curls which sprouted from their heads, stood no more than three feet in height. Lazily, they floated above Amil on the support of fleshy wings. The skin of these appendages was dark, an elusive variant of purple, and tightly stretched over minute bones below.
Darkness swept over Amil as one of the women fluttered down and knelt beside his head. She brushed her golden hair aside with a hand of pale green fingers, and stared at the comparatively giant man. Her companion reached into the folds of her thin dress and withdrew a small vial. Whatever it contained, the substance was lighter than air, for when the bottle was uncorked, the fluid inside rose up and threatened to drift away like a balloon carelessly let loose by a child. The one that gazed upon Amil with a pair of unblemished white eyes collected the escaped potion with her spined fingernails and delicately rubbed it onto his face. It stuck to him in a thin film, but disappeared with immediacy, as though terrified of the world outside of the glass. As they waited for whatever was next to come, the creatures garrulously communicated with one another. In a language of clacks, their conversation was orchestrated by the sounds of teeth as they slap against one another.
Their treatment served to unfetter Amil from the chains of abyssal sleep, and as his eyes slowly opened, he hazily gathered the description of his saviors. Seeing him flirt with consciousness, the chatter stopped and the fairies held still, as though allowing Amil time to study them.
Although they both had blonde hair, one was colored in a complexion of green, while the skin of her friend was of a burnt red. The vibrancy of her red flesh appeared to glow with a fire held just beneath the surface, a conflagration barely contained. Their lips were fat, their short bodies voluptuous, and they seemed to both share an affinity for light dresses that any earthly man could admire. But for this collection of pleasantries, the women certainly didn’t share a bloodline with the gentle fairies of children’s lore.
Beyond the hesitations brought about by the rigid wings and vacantly white eyes, the beings held a plethora of features usually reserved for malevolent creatures. Horns grew out from the sides of their faces and swept backwards behind the head. These hardened slivers of keratin continued their run until they coiled around the small necks of their masters like barbaric necklaces. The teeth responsible for the fairies’ speech were long, and many took the appearance of fangs. They were black, not from filth, but rather they shined like water as it lay still under the weight of midnight. Their tiny feet had only four toes each, and, curled like talons, they harbored claws that looked fully capable of shredding the thickest of hides.
As Amil’s vision returne
d to him in full, he nervously absorbed the finer points of the fairies’ forms. Small pins protruded from the skin upon their backs, and the short barbs twinkled with a liquid that acutely alerted any curious fool to the virulency of the venom contained within. This field of spikes swam over the shoulders, and crawled across the chest, until it finally ceased along the arches of the breasts. Down the outsides of each thigh were rows of scales. Though harmless at rest, it seemed likely that the sharpened flaps could spring up at any moment and bloody the source of an unwelcome touch. Amil studied their mouths as the females resumed their cryptic conversation. Between the gauntlets of teeth, he witnessed a dual set of tongues. Each was forked, and behind the clicks and clacks of their language, Amil watched the muscles as they twitched in spastic motion, to taste the air of the world around them.
He was about to speak. He felt the urge to resist their ominous touch, but the morbid nymphs decided otherwise. One under each of his shoulders they flew, and with a strength that Amil could have never imagined, the fairies elevated him from off the floor. Floated like a feather by wind, he was guided deeper into the library, toward a destination unknown. At first he struggled, meekly as it was, but it was still enough for Amil to earn a kiss from the poisoned pins. He complied under pain’s suggestion, and allowed his body to settle, but apparently not fast enough for the mercurial pair. Quickly, his sides were given an intimate brush from the jagged scales, and Amil fell into disorientation as fog shrouded his mind.
He felt as a foreign substance was released into his dead body, but whatever its purpose was, it was not designed to cause discomfort. Amil didn’t feel a burn at the site of his many punctures, nor did nausea wiggle into his gut. He sensed no sweating or misfiring of his nerves. Everything was made serene and unreal. The scenes around him melted away in runs of color, as if everything had been carved from candle wax. The floor below twisted into a swirl, as though the material upon which the whole library drifted was made liquid and left to drain away. He could hear the voices of the lights, and felt as their vibrations passed through the pores in his skin. Every vocal clack of his escorts shot along the paths of his veins and ran in pulsations of euphoric adrenaline. Though he still knew to fear the possibility of truly dying, Amil was ready to accept it, for if that is where his destiny awaited, at least the journey there would be a beautiful one.
