Journey to the Library [The Library Saga]

by Amy Cross

  "Come on, then," Nodby says, turning and starting to walk along the aisle. "You'd better make sure you can keep up, though. I don't want to have to keep stopping to wait for you!"

  Pausing for a moment, I turn to Table. "Is it just me," I say after a moment, "or is this a little weird?"

  "I spent the past two years of my life being a table," she replies blankly. "Standing up straight seems weird to me, so... I guess I don't really have proper terms of reference." She glances along the aisle. "He's getting ahead of us. We should catch up."

  I look over at Nodby, who's shuffling along at a moderate pace.

  "What the hell," I mutter, as Table and I set off after him. Maybe I'm dreaming and I'll eventually wake up, or maybe this is real and the entire world has become totally crazy. Either way, I guess sitting still isn't an option. I've got to get back to my brother. He needs me.

  Thomas Never

  "If anyone here present knows of any reason why this man and this woman should not be joined in holy union," says the bespectacled vulture, perched on top of a nearby shelf, "let him speak now, or forever hold his piece". He pauses, before peering more closely at the book. "No, I think that's a typo. Should be 'peace', shouldn't it? Let him speak now, or forever hold his peace".

  Standing beneath the vulture, Ana beams with happiness as she turns to Bomrag. They certainly look like a convincing and happy couple, which is hard to believe given that a few hours ago they seemed to hate one another with unbridled passion. Still, right now they're looking at one another as if they're childhood sweethearts rather than lifelong enemies, and as I glance over at Carstairs, I can't help but wonder how he managed to bring about such a huge change.

  "Excellent," the vulture continues. "There being no impediment, I take great pleasure in pronouncing you husband and wife. Mr. Bomrag, you may now kiss the bride."

  Needing no second exhortation, Bomrag leans closer to Ana and kisses her passionately on the lips.

  "Marvelous!" Carstairs says, clapping loudly and furiously, and in the process startling the vulture and causing it to take off and start circling high above us. "I've been to many weddings over the years, including a fair few in the Library, and I've never seen such a happy couple." Checking his pockets, he seems momentarily confused. "I'm afraid I have no gift to give you," he mutters, before turning to me. "Did we bring a gift?"

  I shake my head, still totally bemused by the situation.

  Nearby, the vulture lands on a different shelf.

  "You've already given us the greatest gift imaginable," Bomrag says, hurrying over to Carstairs and shaking his hand with great enthusiasm. "To think, this morning I had no love in my heart, and now I have the most beautiful, the most perfect woman in the world on my arm."

  "We can never thank you enough," Ana adds, leaning closer and planting a kiss on Carstairs' cheek. "You're always welcome in our home. Always! Any time you're passing, you must drop by and we'll serve up the greatest meal of your life! I make a great tick stew, based on a recipe that's been handed down through my family for generations!"

  "That's very nice of you," Carstairs says, "and I shall certainly keep it in mind, although I'm sure you'll appreciate that my travels make it very difficult for me to pass through the same section of the Library more than once or twice every decade."

  As they continue to discuss their new life together, Bomrag and Ana turn and head over to a nearby table, where Bomrag begins to roll out various documents for Ana to examine. It's crazy to see how enthusiastically they're planning their life together, given that just a few hours ago they hated one another with a fiery passion.

  "How?" I ask after a moment.

  "How what?" Carstairs asks.

  "How did you do this?" I continue, turning to him. "They're in love. Like, they're genuinely in love. But that so-called magic dust was just dirt from the ground, so..." Staring at him, I see the faint grin on his lips, and it's impossible not to be impressed. "How?" I ask again. "Just... how?"

  "You don't want to know the mechanics of magic, do you?" asks the vulture, watching us from the top of the shelf. "Those who seek such answers are, by and large, usually consigned to an unfortunate demise."

  "The boy is only curious," Carstairs replies, with a smile that suggests he finds the whole thing amusing. "It's my understanding that young Thomas comes from a place where magic is a term used exclusively to describe mystical occurrences that no-one can properly explain. He's utterly unused to a world where magic can be a working tool along the same lines as a hammer or a chisel."

  "But how did you do it?" I ask, looking over at Bomrag and watching as he continues to show Ana his documents. "They're really in love, aren't they? How did you make that happen?"

  "They already had strong feelings for one another," Carstairs replies. "I merely reversed the polarity of those feelings, from negative to positive." He pauses. "Yes, I suppose that's a good way to describe the process. It's must be easier to convert an existing feeling than to create a new one from scratch. And then all it took was a liberal sprinkling of magic powder -"

  "That was just dirt!" I point out.

  "Nothing wrong with a bit of dirt," the vulture chimes in. "Without dirt, what would we all be standing on?"

  "I'll tell you a little trick," Carstairs says. "You take two people who already feel strongly about one another, and you make them sit and stare at each other in complete silence, close up, for up to twenty-four hours, and more often than not, the result will be..." He turns and looks over at Bomrag, who has an arm around his new wife's waist. "Remarkable," he mutters after a moment. "Absolutely remarkable."

  "That doesn't make any -" I start to say.

  "Sense?" the vulture interjects. "You must be human. Your lot are always going on about whether things make sense. What are you doing in the Library, anyway? You're a long way from home. I can't remember the last time I saw a human around here." He narrows his eyes. "I can't say your species is very good news."

  "Carstairs!" Bomrag calls out. "Come and see the designs for our new home!"

  I watch as Carstairs wanders over to the table.

  "So?" the vulture says after a moment, keeping his voice low. "What are you doing in the Library, human?"

  "I'm looking for my family," I reply. "Carstairs is going to help me find them."

  "Seriously?" the vulture replies. "Carstairs helping someone? I never thought I'd see the day!"

  "He seems nice enough," I point out, "and he says he knows where my family have probably been taken."

  "Doesn't necessarily mean he's gonna take you there, though," the vulture replies. "Still, it's probably better than wandering the place aimlessly by yourself." He pauses for a moment. "You want some free advice, human? The first time you start to get suspicious of Carstairs, I mean the very first time you start to think he's doing something other than helping you, or the first time you get a chance to go with someone else, anyone else, you should take it. Carstairs has his merits, but traveling through the Library is a dangerous job, and I doubt he'd be helping you out simply because he wants to get you back to your family. Have you offered to pay him?"

  "No," I reply. "I just... He's doing it because he wants to be helpful."

  "And that," the vulture replies, smiling as much as a vulture can smile, "is the biggest deception of all."

  "What are you two grumbling about?" Carstairs asks as he comes back over to us. He closes the door on the side of his cart and slides a latch across. "Come on, Thomas. We don't have time to waste standing around here, chatting to someone whose only interest is the search for carrion." He glances at me. "He is a vulture, remember. Vultures never change their spots."

  "Sure," the vulture mutters, "I'm the dangerous one here."

  "We need to find somewhere to sleep," Carstairs adds, clearly a little annoyed by the vulture's continued presence. "I doubt there are any ticks or mites in this part of the Library, but one can never be sure. Their breeding trails change from year to year, especially now that the
Grandapams are hunting them for meat. Disgusting creatures, both sides."

  "Which way are you headed?" the vulture asks. "Out of idle curiosity, of course."

  "I thought we'd head toward the medical reference section," Carstairs replies, "and then strike out west. We have to catch up to this boy's family, and if I'm right, they're being taken to the citadel."

  "West?" the vulture replies with a frown. "Well, in that case, you should be careful which route you take. I don't know how long it's been since you were last in this part of the Library, Carstairs, but I've heard that the Setters of Papyr are almost gone. In fact, there are rumors -"

  "I'm not interested in rumors," Carstairs replies bluntly as he grabs the handles of his cart.

  "They also say the angel is talking again," the vulture continues.

  Clearly shocked by the news, Carstairs looks up at the vulture, and it's as if all the color has drained from his face.

  "I thought that might get your attention," the vulture adds. "I've heard it from more than one person, you know. They say the angel has got its voice back, after all these years. No-one has stuck around long enough to hear what it has to say, but the good news is that it hasn't moved at all. It's still right where it fell, so you should be okay as long as you keep well away. If I were you, Carstairs... in fact, especially if I were you... I'd keep at least a hundred aisles away from the damn thing. You wouldn't want to hear its voice, would you?"

  "What's the angel?" I ask, unsettled by the look of fear in Carstairs' eyes.

  "The angel and Carstairs go back a long way," the vulture replies.

  "Nonsense," Carstairs says, clearly a little flustered. "You don't know what you're talking about. This is all just stuff and nonsense wrapped together as gossip!"

  "They say the voice of the angel gives men nightmares," the vulture says, turning to me, "but when a man already has such dark nightmares that he screams in his sleep, what then will the voice do next?"

  "This is just superstition," Carstairs says, starting to pull his cart along the aisle. "Come on, Thomas. There's no time to lose. If you'd prefer to stick around and listen to a sad old vulture, that's your choice, but if you have any hope of ever seeing your parents again, you'd better hurry along with me and let me do what I can to help you. It's your decision to make, though!"

  "Be careful of the angel's voice," the vulture continues. "If you hear it, even from afar as it floats through the aisles, you might be lost forever." With that, he takes flight, soaring above the shelves and flying in circles for a moment before taking off toward the setting sun.

  Turning, I hurry after Carstairs.

  "A wise choice," he says as I reach him.

  "So when that vulture said -"

  "Forget anything the vulture told you," he replies darkly, clearly still annoyed. "He's just a stupid, stringy old bird. The fool doesn't know a damn thing."

  "But -"

  "No more questions!" he shouts. "We have to find somewhere to sleep for the night. That's our focus right now. Tomorrow's another day, and we'll find your parents, don't worry."

  Realizing that he's in a foul mood and that I probably shouldn't push him any further, I decide to stay quiet for a while. It's starting to get dark, and I've got a feeling that this place might not be too much fun when the sun has gone down. I just hope the vulture was wrong, and that Carstairs really is going to help me, because otherwise I have no idea what I'm going to do. I don't even know if I could find my way back to the Eastern Gate, and even if I could, I don't know what I'd do if I got there. As Carstairs and I take a left turn and start trudging along a dark, empty and rather cold aisle, I figure that - for better or for worse - I need to stick close to this madman. For now, at least.

  Epilogue

  The earwig stopped for a moment, convinced he had heard a noise in the distance.

  Most creatures, in such a situation, would glance over their shoulder and check that they weren't being followed. The earwig, though, was unable to do so, since he didn't really have a neck. He liked being an earwig, but sometimes he looked at other creatures and felt a little jealous. After all, if they heard a noise, they could just turn their head and take a look, but earwigs faced a much more disruptive process. Still, he had to check, just in case. After a moment, therefore, he was forced to turn his entire body and look back along the empty, darkening aisle.

  Nothing.

  He waited, all ears, but there was no sound of anything nearby.

  Figuring that he must have just been a little paranoid, the earwig turned his body back again and continued on his way. With the sun going down, he knew he should probably get some sleep, but he was in a desperate hurry to get to the river and, besides, he was fairly sure that the horror stories were all false. At the grand old age of three weeks, this was a fairly old earwig, and he felt that he'd got a good understanding of the Library by now. Sure, the place could seem very creepy and spooky by night, but that didn't mean there were any real dangers about. He only had a small head, and he felt he didn't have any spare capacity in his mind for superstitious nonsense. Really, he only had space for important earwig business, such as finding food, looking for a mate and getting from A to B. All other thoughts were superfluous.

  And then he heard it again.

  The same sound as before.

  Earwigs can't frown, but he managed it anyway.

  He paused, convinced this time that he wasn't imagining anything. There had definitely been a faint noise, like a distant whistling sound floating along the aisle. Granted, a whistling sound wasn't particularly menacing, but the earwig was worried about any unexpected encounters. As an earwig, he was very much aware that larger creatures posed a menace. If some huge foot came stomping along the aisle, the earwig could easily end up being crushed into the dust. He'd seen the same fate befall too many of his friends over the past few days, and it had taken him a long time to get over the moment when he'd seen his own father crushed by a passing merchant. The Library was a dangerous place, especially for such small creatures.

  Taking a deep breath, or as deep a breath as an earwig can take, he decided to keep going. Based on the map he'd memorized, he was certain he couldn't be more than a half mile or so from the river, and he knew that once he reached his destination he'd have the rest of his life to relax and have fun. Ever since leaving his breeding point, he'd been consumed by the thought of a new life at the river; the other earwigs had told him to be patient, to wait so that they could all travel together, but this particular earwig was determined to make the journey as soon as possible, even if that meant traveling alone. For an earwig, this was the greatest possible trek, with a heavenly life on the horizon. He just needed to be brave for a little longer, so he continued to scuttle along, eventually reaching a junction and hurrying across the open space, headed for -

  This time, the sound was much, much louder.

  The earwig froze once again, as the whistle seemed to curl through the air. Now that he could hear it properly, he realized that it was less of a whistle and more of a groan, as if it came from a living creature. Once again worried that he might be set upon at any moment, the earwig turned his body and looked along the next aisle, but there was nothing to see; once again, he reminded himself that he was just letting his imagination run out of control. Feeling pretty tired, he turned again and looked the other way.

  And that's when he saw it.

  High above, as if trapped by the shelves, there was a shape. With the sun setting in the distance, the earwig couldn't make out any of the shape's features, but overall it seemed to have a long, thin body with outstretched arms, almost like a cross or an angel. The earwig stared for a moment, and although he kept telling himself that he should turn and run, he felt as if he was frozen in place, unable to do anything other than listen to the whistling, groaning sound as it continued to fill the air. Having been alive for only a few weeks, the earwig had never experienced anything so strange, and after a moment he realized that somewhere in the whistled g
roan, there seemed to be a ghostly voice, calling out to him using words he didn't understand. Like all earwigs, he spoke French and had only a very limited understanding of English.

  And like all earwigs, he had a tiny brain that simply couldn't cope with this kind of thing.

  Still, the sound of the voice alone was enough to drive him insane. As fear gripped his little insect body, the earwig tried not to be drawn in by the whistling groan, but it was too late. His little mind was already being stretched beyond its limits, filling up rapidly with hideous nightmares. One by one, the ropes of his sanity began to break until, finally, his conscious mind was ripped from its moorings and sent tumbling through the void. He tried desperately to stay strong, but the sound was too powerful and the nightmares chased him through his own mind. His little pincers snapped hopelessly in the wind, and his antennae were flexing over and over again. Finally, he summoned the strength to start running, but he couldn't pick a direction and so he ended up running around and around in a circle, by which point his mind was ruined and all hope was lost.

  In the air around him, the voice continued to whistle and groan, emanating from the huge angel-like shape atop the shelves. The rumors, which had been running rampant across this part of the Library for many weeks, were true after all. The angel had, indeed, begun to speak again.

  Part Three

  The River

  Prologue

  June 1943

  "Right over there!" shouted a man, turning to point as a large shape flashed overhead.

  Nearby, two other men ducked for cover as they waited for the inevitable explosion. This wasn't the first time that a fighter had come down near the village, and on the previous occasion - two months ago, when a Spitfire had crashed on the common - windows had been blown out of several buildings. On this occasion, the spluttering plane was clearly about to crash much closer, and there was no telling how much damage might be caused.