Journey to the Library [The Library Saga]

by Amy Cross

  We all stand in silence for a moment.

  "I see no reason to delay matters any further," the Marshal says finally, before turning to the guard who's standing nearby with one hand resting on the large wooden lever. "According to the laws of the Grandapam Council, I declare that sentencing is complete and the condemned are now to face their fates. The matter is now at the discretion of the executioner."

  A cold wind blows past as Carstairs and I stand waiting for the trapdoors to open. It's as if all of time has slowed down, and in some kind of strange way, I feel as if I'm prepared for my fate. Closing my eyes, I try to think of happier times: my family laughing around the dinner table; my parents in the kitchen, cooking dinner; my sister Alice arguing with me, telling me to get the hell out of her room and go play with my own toys.

  Suddenly the trapdoor swings aside and I open my eyes just as Carstairs and I start to drop down.

  Alice Never

  "There's got to be a lever here somewhere," I say, frantically running my hands over the stone wall. "Why would they build a door and not have some way to open it again?"

  "Because it wasn't supposed to be opened again," Table says calmly, standing nearby with our sole remaining torch in her hand. "That's the whole point. When the ancients built these tombs, they didn't intend for them to become tourist attractions."

  "She's right," says Nodby, who in the rush was also trapped down here. "The idea was to trap grave robbers. I doubt there's any way in all the seven worlds to get that thing open."

  "But there must be a back-up system," I continue, still trying to locate some kind of switch that can get us out of here. "They must have done something, in case of an accident."

  "You really don't understand, do you?" Table replies. "Once they sealed this place the first time, they knew that the only people who'd ever come down here again would be grave robbers."

  "What about archeologists?" I ask. "What about historians and scholars?"

  "Grave robbers the lot of them," she says with a smile. "From the point of view of the ancients, anyway."

  "But we're not grave robbers!" I shout, finally losing my cool. "We're not! We're just innocent bystanders!"

  "Speak for yourself," Table says darkly.

  "We're not supposed to be trapped down here!" I shout.

  "Tell him," Table says, turning and looking over at the hole that leads in the dining room. Somewhere in the distance, there's a creaking, splitting sound, as if something or someone is shifting.

  "What's happening in there?" I ask, my heart racing.

  "You saw," Table replies. "He moved."

  "You said he's dead!"

  "He is," she continues, "but sometimes 'dead' has a very loose meaning. The old librarians had some pretty souped-up knowledge. It's often been said that they possessed certain powers of preservation. They could seal their souls inside their bodies and, to a limited extent, bring them back to life again at a later date. Only when strictly necessary, of course."

  "No way," I reply, even as I hear more of the creaking sound from the next room. "There's another explanation! There has to be!"

  "Honestly -" she starts to say.

  "This can't be happening!" I shout, filled with terror at the thought of that old man coming into view at any moment.

  "Go and look for yourself," Table says. "He's shifting about in there, all right. I don't know what kind of mood he's going to be in, but I wouldn't go looking for a hug." She looks up at the ceiling and, after a moment, she reaches up and tugs on one of the tree roots that's hanging down. "We're not dead yet," she continues, clearly lost in thought. "Where there's life, there's a way. We just have to figure something out."

  "How come there are so many roots?" I ask. "I didn't see any trees up there."

  "Trees?" She smiles. "These aren't from trees. They're from the shelves."

  "Shelves have roots?" I ask, trying to ignore the creaking sound from the next room.

  "Duh," she replies. "Where else do you think they come from?"

  Looking over at the hole in the wall, I try not to imagine the mummified old man rising from his seat; unfortunately, the image is too strong and I'm momentarily overcome by the feeling that sooner or later our only torch is going to burn out and then, in pitch darkness, we'll be hunted down one by one.

  "Relax," Table says, almost as if she can read my mind. "He's not gonna suck our blood out or anything like that."

  "Then what does he want?" I ask, feeling as if - just as I've been ever since I came to the Library - I'm in some kind of shocked trance.

  "I don't know," Table replies, "but maybe the polite thing would be to go and ask him." She turns to me and grins. "You're perky. Why don't you go and try?"

  "Me?" I reply. "Hell, no!"

  "Come on," she continues, "you're friendly and happy and all that stuff. He's gonna like you way more than he likes me."

  "He thinks we're robbing his grave," I point out. "He's not gonna like any of us!" I pause for a moment as the absurdity of this conversation sinks in. "Anyway, who says he can even think at all?"

  "Oh, there's a mind in there," Table replies. "I've heard the rumors about this place. Dead books require a dead librarian to watch over them. He might not be much to look at, but old Elder the Second is still in there somewhere."

  "But you said he was cruel," I remind her. "You said he had a reputation for eating people."

  "You say that like it's a bad thing," she replies, before sighing. "Fine. We'll go together. Is that good enough for you? I'll do the talking, but you make sure to look all cute and friendly. I don't know which parts of his body still work, but we might as well try to appeal as broadly as possible, eh?" She pauses. "And whatever you do, try not to look delicious in a culinary kind of way. We don't want to give him ideas."

  "This is insane," I mutter as she turns and heads toward the hole in the wall. "This is totally insane. This is -"

  "Are you coming or not?" Table calls back to me. "I don't want to do this alone, and I don't think our little jack-in-the-box friend is going to be much help."

  Looking down at Nodby, I see that he's withdrawn his arms and legs into his cage, and he seems to be cowering in there, almost as if he's hoping that no-one'll notice him. I guess he's reached the limit of his bravery, and he can't face the creature.

  "I need your help," Table says after a moment. "Alice, please. We need to go in there together. It's our only chance. I'm the brains and brawn of the operation, and you're the looker, so get a move on."

  "Fine," I mutter, walking over to join her. "I guess I'll just have a nervous breakdown later."

  "That's the spirit," she says with a faint smile. "You need to learn how to put your fears and emotions to one side and focus on the task at hand. There's no point blubbing away in the corner. This torch isn't going to last forever, and if we're going to have to have a chat with Elder the Second's reanimated corpse, I'd rather be able to see the whites of his eyes." She smiles. "Well, the wrinkled, hollow spaces where his eyes used to be, anyway."

  I open my mouth to reply, but seconds later I hear a scratching sound from the next room, almost as if a chair is being moved across the dusty stone floor.

  "How polite," Table says, starting to climb through the hole as she holds the torch up. "So few men get to their feet when a lady enters the room these days."

  Trying to ignore her stupid wisecracks, I force myself to climb through after her. The dining chamber is pretty damn dark, and our remaining torch has burned down by at least a third; nevertheless, when I look along to the far end of the table, there's no mistaking the dark, hulking form of a figure standing and watching us, his withered features just about visible in the flickering torchlight.

  "Okay," Table says, taking up position at the opposite end of the table and staring straight at the darkened figure. "Let's see if we can strike a deal with the old guy, huh?"

  Thomas Never

  They say your life flashes in front of your eyes as you die, and to my total sho
ck I find that it's true.

  While I'm falling and the noose gets tighter and tighter, I keep my eyes open but all I can see is images of my family and friends, and all I can really feel is the sense of being back in my old life; emotions rush through my mind: happiness and sadness and pain and sorrow and excitement and joy and hundreds more, all crashing together until finally I reach the extent of the noose and that great cacophony is suddenly replaced by the sensation of the rope tightening, followed by a cracking sound and a sharp pain in my neck.

  And then everything ends.

  Epilogue

  "Go on," the woman says, nudging her son in the back. "Don't be scared. Just do it how we practiced and I promise, everything'll be just fine."

  The boy stares along the aisle, his eyes fixed on the dark shape above the next junction. The sun has begun to set, leaving the Angel as a large, darkened shape with its arms outstretched. Having practiced for weeks, the boy was confident that he'd be able to leave the family's offering without showing any fear, but now he feels his confidence and bravery ebbing away.

  "Hurry up," his father hisses, pushing him forward a couple of steps. "The Angel won't hurt you. It's an honest gift. He'll bless you. Just remember that this is the moment when you become a man. It's a tradition."

  The boy takes a couple more steps along the aisle, clutching the small wicker box in his hands. Up ahead, the angel remains a large, darkened shape, but the boy can't shake the feeling that a pair of fierce eyes has latched onto him. With every step, it's as if he's venturing deeper and deeper into the Angel's influence, until finally he stops just a few meters short of the little makeshift shrine. He takes a deep breath, trying not to shiver, but he's convinced he can feel the air trembling and vibrating as pulse after pulse emanates from the Angel's form.

  "We..." he starts to say, but the words catch in his throat. He takes a deep breath, trying to allay his fears. "We bring this offering as a sign of our gratitude," he says eventually, his voice several notches higher than usual as he pushes past his terror. "We hope that our humble sacrifices meet with your approval, and that you'll continue to bless us... to bless us with good harvests and the knowledge of your warm love and affection."

  He stands in silence for a moment.

  All around him, the air hums and shudders. Even the shelves themselves seem to be trembling.

  Slowly, from deep within the shadow of the Angel, a faint creaking sound emerges, like bone scraping against metal.

  "Here," the boy says, stepping over to the shrine and, with shaking hands, placing the wicker box next to similar boxes that have been left over the years by other pilgrims. The boy can't help but notice that the Angel doesn't seem to have opened the boxes, but he tells himself that it's not his place to question the Angel's choices or to even dare wonder why the Angels acts in this way. Getting to his feet, he takes a step back, but although he wants to turn and run back to his parents, he can't stop staring up at the dark shape of the Angel above him.

  He stands in silence for a moment.

  "From my family to you," he whispers, recounting the age-old prayer that all pilgrims are taught before they complete the journey to the Angel, "I offer a gesture of our absolute faith in every decision that you make, and I beg of you to recognize the sincerity of this gift."

  There's another creaking sound, but the boy can't be certain whether the Angel itself is trying to speak, or whether the wind is merely buffeting the nearby shelves.

  "And if -" the boy starts to say, before suddenly his mind is flooded with an unprecedented burst of warmth. It's as if the Angel is radiating compassion and gratitude, and for a moment the boy is convinced that he can hear a voice twisting and turning through his mind, probing him almost as if it's looking for something. Seconds later, the sense of gratitude begins to change, and the boy takes a step back as he realizes that the Angel seems to have become angry and bitter. A new sense washes over him: the feeling of being inadequate, of being a disappointment.

  "Son!" his father shouts, clearly sensing the change in the Angel's tone. "We must go now!"

  Needing no further encouragement, the boy turns on his heels and runs along the aisle until he reaches the relative safety of his parents, at which point he turns to look back at the Angel. He can no longer feel the powerful emotions that were resonating from the dark figure, but he's shocked by the visceral nature of the experience. All his life, he has been raised to respect and love the Angel; he never expected, though, that this encounter would feel so strong and so physical, and he can't shake the feeling that the Angel, which initially seemed pleased by the visit, was ultimately in some way dissatisfied.

  It was almost as if the Angel was angry that the boy wasn't someone else.

  "You did a good job," his father says, as the three of them start making their way along the aisle, heading away from the Angel. "This has been a good pilgrimage, and I'm sure the Angel will bless our crops for the coming year."

  "The Angel loves you," his mother adds.

  "Yes," his father continues, "the Angel loves you. He loves all of us, and he wants us to live good and happy lives."

  "Are you sure he's not angry?" the boy asks, looking over his shoulder and seeing the Angel in the distance. "He seems..." He pauses for a moment, trying to find the right word. "He seems lonely."

  "Lonely?" his mother replies with a smile. "The Angel? He has pilgrims visiting him every day, offering great gifts! He has the love and reverence of this entire region of the Library! How could he possibly be lonely?"

  "Maybe he doesn't want the crowds," the boy says, allowing himself to be led down another aisle. "Maybe he wants one person in particular, and that person refuses to come."

  "Don't talk nonsense," his father says. "Come on, boy. Save your energy for the journey home. It's going to take a while."

  And with that, the family makes its way along the aisle in silence. They have many days' worth of travel ahead of them, following one of the traditional paths of pilgrimage that wend their way through the Library. For the boy, however, something feels wrong; he was only able to experience the Angel's presence for a few seconds, but in that time he sensed a great deal of unhappiness and loneliness. Despite everything his parents have said, the boy remains quietly convinced that the Angel is waiting for one person and one person only.

  Part Five

  Souls

  Prologue

  His anguished screams fill the night air, but no living creature comes to his aid. Everyone knows that in the Library, it's best to leave others alone, even if they desperately need help.

  No-one wants to get caught up in anyone else's mess.

  Struggling to get free from the burning wreckage of his Spitfire, Carstairs fumbles with the belts that are holding him into the cockpit. His overalls are already starting to burn, and the pain breaks through in waves as his skin sizzles. Finally, however, he's able to get the belts free, at which point he tries to release the cockpit cover; it takes a moment, since the latch is jammed, but through sheer force he manages to shift the cover just enough to allow himself the chance to crawl through.

  And then he falls.

  Slamming into the ground, he immediately feels a cracking sensation in his shoulder, but there's no time to waste. He doesn't know if he blacks out or not, but as soon as he's able to get moving again, he struggles to his feet and stumbles forward before banging face-first into some kind of wall, which sends him crashing back down again. Wracked with pain and unable to do much more than cry out, he once again stands up and staggers forward, reaching out to support himself despite the agonizing pain in his ankle.

  After a few tentative paces, he stops for a moment, trying to catch his breath. There's smoke everywhere, but it's starting to thin a little as he gets further from the plane; finally he's able to see that there's some kind of bookshelf next to him. He hobbles onward, keenly aware that his left ankle feels as if it's broken, but as soon as he's made his way past one bookshelf, he finds another. Looking to one
side, he sees what appears to be a vast, long aisle, lined on either side with bookshelves. He looks up, expecting to find that he's crashed through the ceiling of some vast building, but all he sees is a vast starry sky. For a moment, he just stares; it's as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing, but soon the pain overwhelms him again.

  Time seems to pass in small, hurried rushes rather than with the sleek uniformity to which he's used; he slips in and out of consciousness, sometimes blacking out for short periods, sometimes catching himself just in time. He worries that he might slip away permanently, but the pain seems to be keeping his mind alert. Reaching up, he tries to slip his overalls off but finds that the fabric has melted into his burned flesh.

  Turning, he looks back at his crashed plane. Most of the fuselage is hanging a little way off the ground, with flames roaring across its surface. As Carstairs watches, there's a faint creaking sound and the plane seems to shift its weight a little, as if it might come crashing down at any moment. All Carstairs can do, however, is stand and stare, and wait to see if the mass will finally fall the last few meters and maybe even crush him. He knows he should turn and run, but something about the flames seems to be drawing him closer. He can't help but think of poor Sparks, trapped in the wreckage and burning. He'd hoped to save Sparks, but he wasn't able; in the end, the only person he saved was himself.

  By the time dawn comes, the flames are burning with less intensity and Carstairs has slumped down onto the muddy ground, with his back leaning against one of the bookshelves. He's barely able to think, but in the back of his mind he's dimly aware that this place, wherever it is, seems very unfamiliar. He doesn't ever remember hearing about anywhere in England with a vast outdoor library, but he figures it must be some kind of secret facility. That, or he supposes that he might have somehow flown off course and landed in Ireland, maybe, or even France. Whatever the truth, he knows he won't last long unless he makes contact with someone. If he stays where he is, he'll die.