by Amy Cross
Finally, filled with a kind of strength that seems to come from deep within, he hauls himself to his feet. His whole body is filled with pain, but he reminds himself that as long as he's alive, he can still contribute to the war effort. He's known so many good men who've died over the past few years, and he figures it would be very much remiss of him not to make an effort and at least try to get home. Hobbling along on his broken ankle, trying to ignore the agony of his burned shoulder and back, he can only move at a snail's pace, but still he keeps going. As a man, he wants to stop and just find a quiet place to die, but as a soldier and as an Englishman, he knows he has to push until the end.
When he gets to the end of the aisle and finds himself confronted with yet more rows of bookshelves, he pauses for a moment. There's a part of him that wants to turn and look back at his crashed plane, but he forces himself to stay strong and keep moving. Nostalgia and sentiment feel painfully useless right now. Looking up at the brightening sky, he reminds himself that if he keeps pushing, he might get back up there one day. He's always preferred flying to walking, and he's always believed that when his number's up, he'll die in the air, not on the ground.
And so he keeps struggling along, determined to find his way home.
Alice Never
"Okay," Table says, as we cautiously make our way across the room. "Remember what I told you?"
"Let you handle this," I reply, keeping my eyes fixed on the old, mummified figure at the other end of the table. Whereas a few minutes ago he was seated, now he's managed to rise to his feet, and in the gloom of the flickering torchlight it's clear that his eyes - or the sockets where his eyes used to be - are fixed on us. I swear to God, it's almost as if he's waiting for something.
"Don't make any sudden movements," Table continues. "I doubt we've got much more than a couple of hours' light left on this torch, and I'd rather get out of here before everything goes dark."
"I'm not arguing with you," I reply. "Just get on with it."
"Who are you?" the figure says suddenly, his voice sounding old and frail. "Why have you entered my tomb? You must identify yourselves immediately."
"We didn't disturb you by choice," Table says, stepping a little further forward but keeping her distance from him. "We were forced down here by a group of men who sought to steal your riches. When they tried to escape, they left us behind, but we're not with them, not really. We're not thieves. We're just trying to find someone who -"
"Where is your soul?" he asks, interrupting her.
"My..." She pauses. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Your soul is missing," he continues slowly. As he tilts his head a little, he reminds me of our family dog.
"I have a soul," Table says defensively. "I'm alive, remember? You're the one who's struggling in that department."
"Your companion has a soul," the figure says, turning to look at me. "She has traveled far, and she does not belong here. But you..." He turns back to look at Table. "You are of this world, yet you have no soul. It has been entirely emptied away, leaving nothing but emptiness."
"I really don't think that's any of your business," Table says firmly. "We're just -"
"I cannot deal with you," he replies. "How am I to judge the purpose of your words, or the value of your promises, when your soul is elsewhere?" Once again, he turns to me. "You, however, have something of value. So does your little friend, who hides beyond the wall. I would like to take a scrap of each of your souls. Just a very small piece, you understand. Enough to remind me of the taste. It has been so long."
I look over at Table, and I can see the worried look in her eyes.
"I was prepared for such a moment," the old man continues, turning and shuffling over to one of the nearby bookcases. "I knew that thieves would come to my tomb and seek to steal my treasures, but I also knew that they would never be able to understand what is truly important." His bones creaking with every movement, he reaches out and takes first one, then another, and finally a third leather-bound book from the shelf, before turning and placing them on the table. "All the gold and silver was merely a distraction, to blind them so that they would not see the true treasures that were buried with me."
"And what might those be?" Table asks cautiously.
The old man doesn't reply.
"He's pretending he can't hear me," Table says with a sigh, turning to me. "He's trying to make a point about my soul. Can you ask him the same question?"
"This is ridiculous," I whisper.
"So? You want to get out of here, don't you?"
Looking over at the old man, I realize that I don't have much choice. "What are the real treasures that were buried with you?" I ask, before adding a question of my own: "And how can we get out of here?"
The old man slowly opens one of the books to reveal its blank pages.
"Oh, no," Table mutters. "I read about this, but I never thought it was true."
"What?" I ask.
"I will have a fraction of each of your souls," the old man continues. "Those of you who have any to give, at least. Once I am satisfied, I will be more than happy to allow you to leave this place, on the condition that you promise to seal this tomb, speak to no-one of its location, and never return." He looks over toward the nearest bookshelf. "I have so many soul fragments down here with me. They keep me company in the silence and darkness."
"We refuse," Table says suddenly. "Give us another challenge."
"It is not a challenge," he replies. "It is the price I expect for your freedom."
"What does he want us to do?" I whisper.
"He wants us to write in these stupid books," she replies. "The ancient librarians believed that whenever a person writes something, they leave a little of themselves on the page. It's some kind of phony-baloney garbage that was popular a bunch of centuries ago, but it's just a load of rubbish."
"So he just wants us to write... what? Stories? About ourselves?"
"Anything'll do," she replies, "but we're not going to play this stupid game." She steps forward, getting ever closer to the old man. "We demand another option," she says firmly, "or we'll -"
"Wait!" I hiss, hurrying over to her. "Why do we demand another option? This really doesn't seem too bad."
"You don't understand," she replies dismissively.
"How much of our souls will he take?" I ask, looking down at the empty books.
"A shaving," she replies. "That's all. But it's still too great a price to pay."
"You only say that," the old man continues, "because you know that you have no soul to give. You traded it away long ago. Might I ask, for what?"
"Go to hell," Table spits back at him.
"I think we should do this," I say, figuring that writing a few pages in a blank book shouldn't be too difficult.
"You have no idea what you're getting into," Table whispers. "Back off and let me handle things, okay? Like we agreed?"
"There is no other way out of this place," the old man says, as a smile slowly creeps across his face. "This tomb was specifically built in order to engineer this trap, and I have waited so long for someone new to come to me. If you are going to contribute a book to my library of souls, however, I would suggest that you do so while you still have light from your torch. Once that light is gone, I can provide no other, and I shall have to take a scrap of your souls in some other way."
"I'd like to see you try," Table says darkly.
"I'm going to do it," I say, grabbing one of the books and flicking through it. "If this is what he wants, then let's give it to him. I mean, he's only asking for a small part, right? It's not like he's asking for our entire souls."
"No," she says firmly.
"Why not?"
"Because -" She pauses, and it's clear that she's reluctant to say what's on her mind.
"What's wrong?" I ask with a half-smile. "You worried you really don't have a soul after all?"
"There's no such thing as a soul," she replies bitterly, "so how could anyone have o
ne? It's all just superstitious crap."
"But he believes it," I whisper, leaning closer. "So what? If it's what he wants, then we'll give it to him. If it's superstitious crap like you say, then that's even more reason to just scribble some words in one of these books and hand it over."
She sighs, but I can see I'm starting to wear her down.
"That torch isn't going to last forever," I continue, glancing at the flame. "I'd rather give him part of my soul than have him try to tear it away in the dark. If you've got a better plan, then let's hear it, but right now I figure we might as well just get on with filling these books." Spotting something tucked into the spine of the book in my hands, I slip a long, rough-looking piece of lead from a thin slot. "I guess these are pencils," I continue, before turning to Table. "Do what you want, but I'm gonna get started, and I think you should do the same. Nodby too."
"The girl without a soul has nothing to give," the old man says, his voice like a low, dry growl. "Just be glad that I ask for so little."
"Screw you," Table snaps at him, grabbing one of the books before turning to me. "And screw you too. This isn't going to work."
Without saying anything, I turn and head over to the hole in the wall. I know this whole situation seems crazy, but since I arrived at the Library I've learned to be quite accepting of crazy things. All that matters is that we get the hell out of this tomb, and if the best approach is to fill some books for a mad old man, then that's fine by me. Unlike Table, I do believe in souls, but I also believe that they can't be torn up and given out to other people. I just hope that the old man keeps his word and that, once we've written a few pages in these books, he'll let us get on our way.
Thomas Never
"No!" I shout, sitting up suddenly and reaching for my neck, desperate to get the noose untied. I fumble for the rope, before realizing with a flash of shock that it's not there. Turning, I look across the aisle and see that I'm no longer up on the gallows; I'm on the ground, between two towering bookshelves, and Carstairs is sitting cross-legged a little way away, examining one of the ropes that were earlier tied around our necks.
"Ah," he says with a smile, not looking at me as he focuses on the rope. "There you are. I was starting to worry."
I stare at him, trying to work out what happened. The last thing I remember is being up on the gallows, with the rope around my neck, and then the lever was pulled and... I remember the hatch opening, and I remember falling, and I remember the noose tightening, and then...
And then...
"There's good news and bad news," Carstairs continues, still fiddling with the rope in his hands. "The good news, as you've no doubt noticed by now, is that you're not dead. Neither am I. Now, as news goes, I'd say that's better than good. It's absolutely fantastic."
I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out.
"The bad news," he adds, finally looking at me, "is that we're not quite out of danger. Not yet. I'm afraid there are some very angry Grandapams looking for us, and if there's one thing Grandapams are good at, it's hunting escaped prisoners. That and bureaucracy. If there are two things Grandapams are good at -"
"I get it," I say, interrupting him, "but what happened? How did we end up here?" Getting to my feet, I look along the aisle in both directions. "And where are we?"
"That's a lot of questions," he replies, standing up and placing the rope on a nearby shelf. "The short answer, and I understand that this might not entirely satisfy your curiosity, is that magic came through for us."
"Magic?"
He nods.
"But I thought..."
"What?" he asks after a moment, with a faint glint in his eye. "You thought I couldn't perform magic?" He smiles. "You doubted me, didn't you? You thought I was a foolish old man wearing a scavenged wizard costume, and you thought there was absolutely nothing I could do to help us get out of that mess. Well, Thomas Never, that is rich. I'd have thought you might have been able to trust me. I mean, you have to trust someone, and I don't see as if you've got too many other options."
"But you..." I stare at him as I try to work out what he means. Is it possible that he was able to use magic after all?
"I think we're going to have to establish some ground rules from now on," he continues, unable to wipe a self-satisfied smile off his face. "You need to promise that you'll trust me. No matter how bad things seem, and no matter how scared you get, always trust me to get us out of a fix, okay?"
"But you told me you couldn't do magic," I reply. "You... You looked right into my eyes and told me that I was wrong to believe in that kind of thing."
"I had to say that," he continues. "The Grandapams were listening. Probably, anyway. Either way, I didn't want to give the game away." He pauses, and for a moment there's a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, as if he's not sure that he believes everything he's saying. "Anyway," he adds, "as I said earlier, we're not quite out of the woods yet. I'm pretty sure there are plenty of angry Grandapams headed this way, and I'd rather not run into them."
"You can always use magic to get rid of them," I point out.
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that, eh?" he replies, grabbing my arm and starting to lead me along the aisle. "The thing about magic is that you never really know whether it's going to work. Besides, my batteries need recharging, and it's always preferable to slip away quietly rather than risk a big scene or -" He stops suddenly, coming to a halt and standing in silence for a moment. "Other way," he says finally, pulling me back the way we came. "Don't worry," he adds with a worried smile, "I'm just being cautious."
"Did you hear something?" I ask.
"Just a few telltale signs," he replies. "Maybe. I'm not -"
Again, he stops, and again he seems to be listening out for something.
"Are they coming?" I whisper.
"Hang on," he hisses, looking first one way, then the other.
"Why don't we go up?" I ask, glancing at the top of the shelves.
"What do you mean?" he replies with a frown.
"Why don't we climb up there?" I continue, pointing to the top of the nearest shelf. "We could see where they are, and we could probably get away more easily."
"Absolutely not," he says, as if I just made the craziest suggestions he's ever heard. "Promise me, Thomas, that you'll never even think of doing something so foolish again. The tops of the shelves are a dangerous place; they're another world, really, fit only for the very worst creatures that have ever drawn breath in the Library."
"But why -"
"This way," he continues, dragging me back along the aisle until suddenly several figures appear in the distance, blocking our way.
"Grandapams?" I ask, squinting in an attempt to make out their features from this distance.
"Yes, but -" He turns, and we immediately see that more Grandapams are approaching from the other direction.
"Use your magic," I say, starting to get worried again. "Carstairs? What are you waiting for?"
"I'm not sure if that's a good idea," he says hesitantly.
"You'd rather go back to the gallows?" I ask.
He looks down at me, and I can see the same helplessness in his eyes that I remember from earlier.
"Carstairs!" I say firmly. "What's wrong with you? You did it once, so do it again! Please?"
"Well..." He pauses, and it's as if there's something he can't quite bring himself to tell me, even though the Grandapams are rapidly getting closer. "That's the thing, Thomas. Magic's very difficult to control, and it's not always a matter of snapping one's fingers and making it happen. In fact..." He pauses again. "I don't suppose you know any magic, do you?" he asks eventually. "Anything at all?"
Alice Never
"I'm smaller than you, remember?" Nodby mutters, reaching out through the bars of his box and scribbling something in his book. "I've got less soul to give away."
"I don't think it works like that," I mutter, turning to the next page in my book and starting to write a few lines about my time at school
. Since the old man gave us no guidelines about what to write, I figure I should just write about myself, and about my life to date. I haven't really lived a very exciting life, not until I entered the Library anyway, but I guess I need to at least write about real things, including all those little victories and tragedies that filled my schooldays; I'm starting to realize that before I came to the Library, my life was quite dull and uneventful, even if I felt at the time that it was full of drama.
Glancing over at the torch, which is leaning against a nearby shelf, I realize that we don't have long left. Within an hour, the last of the light will be gone.
"You don't even know that this is going to work," Nodby continues. "All the legends say that Elder the Second was a cruel man, obsessed with food and souls. Do you really think he'll just take a look at what we've written and then swing open a door so we can leave?"
"Have you got a better idea?" I ask.
Sighing, he carries on working in silence, while I jot down some more ideas and turn to the next page, only to find that I've come to the end of my book. There were only a dozen or so pages stitched between the covers, so I figure that maybe I'm done. Flicking back through everything I've written, I realize that although it's not particularly great literature, I'm kinda proud of myself. I mean, anyone who reads this would at least get kind of an understanding of who I am and where I come from. I guess that's as close as I can get to giving away a slip of my soul.
"You done?" Nodby asks after a moment.
"I don't know," I reply. "I guess so."
"Lucky you," he mutters bitterly. "Try being raised in a pond with five thousand brothers and sisters. It's not the kind of childhood that exactly gears you up for feeling like an individual."
"You look like you're doing okay," I say, watching as he flips the page and continues with whatever he's writing. After a moment, I look across the gloom and spot the dark, still figure of Table crouched in the shadows over in the corner. It doesn't look as if she's writing anything; she just seems to be sitting there, staring at the blank pages in her book. "Wait here," I say to Nodby, before getting to my feet.
