by Amy Cross
"No," I say, starting to panic. "You said I could save them! They can't die!"
"The Angel used your parents in order to lure a wizard to this part of the Library," the Emissary continues. "Now that the wizard, who has been traveling with your brother, has finally arrived, the Angel is happy to let your parents continue their journey to the next life. In his infinite wisdom, the Angel can sometimes be a little too kind."
"I'm not going to let them die," I say firmly. "I'm going to catch up to them and make sure they don't go across that bridge!"
"It might be better if you let them pass," he replies. "You can go with them, and so can your brother. I cannot claim to know what is beyond the bridge, but I'm sure that death holds its own appeal. Aren't you tired of struggling through life, Alice? Surely your journey across the Library has shown you that there is something else beyond the veil. You, and the rest of your family, could explore that new type of existence together."
"I'm not going to let them die," I say firmly.
Before he can finish, there's the sound of an anguished scream, and it's clear that Table is going through even more pain. My first instinct is to try to find some way to help her, but I know that time is running out and I need to find my parents. Still, why is it so hard to hear Table's cries for help? After everything she did for me, I should be glad that she's being punished.
"Then you should leave now," the Emissary says. "Head toward the mountains, and soon you'll see the glow from the horizon point. I'm sure your parents are moving slowly in this bad weather, so if you can maintain a good pace, you'll have a distinct advantage. The Ceriphs, as you've seen, are small in stature and I doubt they're finding it easy to get through all the mud. The biggest danger for you is that you might lose motivation. Your parents can be rescued, but only if you keep going. Time is running out."
"What about my brother?" I continue. "You said he was here in the Library too."
"I believe he's with the wizard, and that even as we speak, they're approaching the Angel. I never truly believed that the wizard would demonstrate such bravery, and I can't help but wonder how he has been inspired to face his fears. Still, I believe that your brother is with him; if that's the case, I'm sure the Angel will guide him to safety, and I can easily have him picked up."
"And then what?" I ask. "How do I get them back home?"
"There are routes," he replies. "Bring them back here, to Papyr, and I will personally ensure that you're all guided to a bridge that leads back to your world. I can't be certain where in your world you'll emerge, but it will certainly be possible to get you back there."
I open my mouth to thank him, but Table lets out another piercing scream.
"Go," he says with a smile. "I have much to do here."
"You won't hurt her too much, will you?" I ask.
"Such things are not your concern," he replies. "Focus on your parents, and let me focus on Table. She will suffer no more and no less than she deserves."
"Thank you," I say quietly, before turning and hurrying toward the door. I can still hear Table's screams, but I have to focus on finding my parents. Ignoring the sounds of Table's continued torture, I head out through the door and finally her cries fade into the background. Above, a roiling sky threatens rain and lightning at any moment, and a cold wind is gathering pace. In the distance, I can see the mountains that the Emissary mentioned, and I realize that I've only got one choice.
I start running.
Thomas Never
When I was younger, we had a little model angel, about thirty centimeters tall, that we used to put on top of the Christmas tree every year. It was kind of tacky, but I liked it: the angel had beautiful blonde hair and a kind of cherubic, innocent face with blue tinting on her closed eyes, while her arms were clasped together in prayer; above her head, there was a little tinsel halo, and she was wearing a white dress with gold and red trims at the bottom. Behind her back, there was a pair of glittery gold wings, although over the years one of them had become a little wonky. Still, to me, that was always the definition of an angel.
That was what they were supposed to look like.
Standing in the cold, dark aisle, I stare at the Angel of the Library. In truth, it's hard to make too much out, since its form is silhouetted a hundred meters or so away, backed by the churning night sky. It's clear, though, that the Angel is large, at least several times larger than a normal person, and rather than having its hands together in prayer, it seems to be holding them open wide, as if to welcome any visitors. Its feet are the strangest part, though, since they're turned outward slightly. As it rests above the aisle, completely still apart from an occasional tremor than resonates through the shelves and the ground, the Angel looks strangely peaceful, even if the night sky above is filled with dark, angry clouds.
"It's not really doing anything," I say, as Carstairs steps past me.
"You expected a song and dance routine?" he asks, his eyes fixed on the silhouette. "Some kind of welcoming committee? Drinks and nibbles?"
"Should we go closer?" I ask. Glancing down at the ground, I spot what appears to be an earwig walking round and round in circles.
"We've come this far," Carstairs replies. "It'd seem rather rude of us not to go and..." He pauses, before taking a step forward. "Now's not the time to turn and run," he adds. "We're so close, Thomas. A man doesn't turn back once he's decided upon a course of action. Not a real man, anyway, and certainly not an Englishman."
I open my mouth to ask if we should maybe have some kind of escape plan worked out, but before I can say anything, there's a huge roar from the direction of the Angel, and the whole Library seems to shake like never before; a few books come crashing down from the shelves, and it takes a moment before everything goes back to normal. Still, it's clear that the Angel is aware of our presence, and I can only hope that it understands we've come in peace.
"I don't see my parents," I say after a moment, before realizing that there are lots of small baskets and boxes littering the aisle. "What are all these things?" I ask, picking one up and opening it to find that there's nothing inside apart from some rotten corn and a few pebbles.
"Offerings," Carstairs replies. "Over the years, pilgrims have come from all across the Library to leave tokens of their faith. Most of them were too poor to bring anything of real value, but they assumed the Angel would value their faith. It's all rather pathetic, I suppose. I doubt the Angel cares very much one way or another if a bunch of peasants come and leave boxes of food on the ground, but -" He pauses, and suddenly he takes a couple of steps back.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"Nothing," he says quickly, "I just..." He pauses. "I remember this," he adds eventually. "I remember being here before. I remember running, I was..." He reaches up and touched the top of his arm. "I have burns, Thomas," he continues, as if he's lost in memories of something that happened a long time ago. "When I arrived in the Library, there was a terrible fire. I had to fight my way out of the cockpit, and I suffered burns on my arms and chest. I was lucky and they healed without medical attention, but I'd forgotten quite how it felt to be in so much pain."
"Did the Angel cause it?" I ask. "Did he attack you?"
"I don't think so," he replies. "I don't know. It's all so vague." He takes a few steps forward, and I follow, but it's clear that Carstairs is locked in some private moment of reflection.
"Should we call out to it?" I ask, watching the Angel's still, calm silhouette.
"It knows we're here," Carstairs replies, still clutching his arm as if the pain from the fire has returned. "Oh, I remember so much of this now. I remember trying to land, and I remember seeing the shelves from above. It was night, but there was moonlight and... I don't know how or why, but as I was crashing, I suddenly found myself here, in the Library. And then..."
I wait for him to finish. "And then what?" I ask eventually.
"The fire started so quickly," he continues, still making his way slowly toward the Angel. "It started in the fue
l tank, I think. We were lucky that the whole damn thing didn't explode, although... Sparks wasn't so lucky. To be honest, I think poor Jimmy was probably dead before we came down, but I was determined to find a way to save him. I remember trying to radio back to base, and even then I felt as if..." He pauses again. "It was a miracle that I got out of the wreckage. An absolute miracle. I still don't quite know how I did it, but I managed to get the straps off, and then I was able to force the cockpit open, and then somehow I jumped down, still on fire and screaming, and I ran. I suppose I haven't stopped running since."
"What about the Angel?" I ask as we get closer and closer to the dark silhouette. "Is that when you met the Angel?"
"Yes," he replies. "No." He pauses. "Maybe. Yes and no. The Angel has been a part of my life since that moment. I've felt its influence, and I've enjoyed its protection. It was weak at first, but over the years its mind seems to have grown. I tried to ignore it, and at first things weren't so hard, but eventually its influence continued to spread. Sometimes, I even feel as if -"
I wait for him to continue, but after a moment I realize that there's some kind of voice in the air all around us; not a voice, exactly, but a kind of thought that's filling the space and forcing its way into my mind. I'm not sure whether it's trying to greet me or examine me, but either way, it's as if there's a strong, forceful mind reaching its fingers into my head.
"We're being welcomed," Carstairs says eventually. "You too, Thomas. The Angel recognizes you as a friend, although it's me he really wants."
"Why can't we see his face?" I ask, taking a step forward as I stare up at the silhouette.
"Perhaps he prefers to remain in darkness," Carstairs mutters.
"It's as if I can feel his voice," I continue. "I can't hear it, but I can feel it in my mind, like a second set of thoughts. It doesn't really make sense, but he's there." I turn to Carstairs. "That's him, isn't it? He's in my head."
"He's..." He pauses as the sky rumbles above us.
Realizing that Carstairs seems totally stunned by this encounter, I turn and look up at the Angel. We're close now, just a few meters away from the spot where the Angel towers above the aisle, but something seems to be wrong. I'd expected to get a better idea of the Angel's form as we came closer, but instead, I'm starting to realize that the Angel doesn't seem to have a normal body at all. Its arms, for example, are wider and flatter than they should be, and the hands are just curved shapes resting on top of the shelves; the feet, which I'd thought were simply turned outward, seem to be flat panels; and the Angel's head is nothing more than a curved point on top of the main body.
"What is this thing?" I whisper.
Seconds later, a rumble of thunder accompanies a shift in the cloud pattern, and enough moonlight shines through to finally illuminate the Angel.
"That's..." I start to say, staring up in shock and horror at the Angel's true form.
"Oh, no," Carstairs says, dropping to his knees next to me.
"Carstairs..."
"It can't be," he says quietly. "It really can't be..."
"What is this thing?" I ask.
"This is the Angel," he whispers. "All this time, I never realized. This is the Angel of the Library."
"This can't be the Angel," I reply, taking a step back. "Look at it! That's not an angel, that's a..."
We both stare in stunned silence for a moment.
"That's a plane," I say eventually.
It's true. The Angel is, in fact, an old World War Two plane that has landed, or most likely crashed, with its wings buried in the tops of the shelves. From a distance, the wings might look like outstretched arms, but from up close it's clear that the whole thing was just an illusion. The plane's rear section is hanging down, almost like a pair of legs, and on the side of the fuselage there are a few decals and numbers that have survived what must have been a terrible fire. It's hard to believe that so many people could have mistaken this thing for an angel, but I guess planes aren't a common sight in the Library and when this large metal shape came gliding down from above all those years ago, people must have assumed it was some kind of messenger from God. It's not, though.
The Angel is a crashed World War Two bomber.
Alice Never
The sky ripples and shudders above me, and for a moment it's as if the entire Library is starting to shake. Scrambling down the rock-face that leads from the Citadel, I lose my footing and slip against a small outcrop; I try to steady myself, but my right ankle is hurting more than ever and when I reach down, I realize that I can barely even feel any sensation in my foot.
And that's when I hear her.
Looking back up at the citadel, I realize that I can still hear Table's screams, even over the sound of thunder rumbling overhead. I try to tell myself that I'm imagining the whole thing, but seconds later I hear an even louder scream. I can't deny the fact that she's clearly being put through great agonies, and it's all my fault. I sold her out in order to get help finding my parents, and now she's going to spend the rest of her life in agony as her soul is continually sucked dry.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, turning and continuing my slow, tentative descent back down into the aisles of Papyr. I try to pretend that I can't still hear Table's screams, but it's no use: every few minutes, she cries out as if she's in even greater agony than before.
Finally, I stop and stare out at the vast storm that's gathering above the Library. In the distance, I can see a faint light among some of the shelves, and I'm fairly sure that I need to head that way if I'm going to catch my parents before they're taken to the horizon point. Still, with Table's screams still ringing in my ears, I feel as if something's holding me back. Sure, she left me for dead, but that still doesn't excuse what I did to her, and I don't think I can ever live with myself if I just leave her behind to suffer forevermore.
I take a deep breath, as the first drops of ice cold rain begin to fall.
I know I don't have any time to spare.
Then again, I might be able to move faster if I had someone to help me.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to work out the best course of action... The right course of action.
Table screams again.
"Fine," I mutter darkly, turning and climbing back up toward the citadel. I know this might be a terrible mistake, but at the same time, I also know that I'll lose my soul if I leave someone to endure such terrible, never-ending agonies. I have no idea how I'm going to do this, and I'm certain that the odds are stacked against me, but somehow I'm going to find a way to get Table out of this place, and then I'm going to damn well make her take me to the horizon point. My parents always taught me to do the right thing, and if that means going back into the citadel and risking my life to save Table from the fate to which I helped consign her, then that's what I'm going to do.
Above, the sky seems to crack as freezing rain begins to fall more heavily.
Part Eight
The Horizon
Thomas Never
"She was always such a beauty," Carstairs says, standing in the pouring rain as he reaches up to run a hand over the surface of the bomber. "An Avro Lancaster B1 bomber with a Rolls Royce Merlin engine and enough firepower to really hit the Germans where it hurt. Built in Oldham, she was never flown by anyone else. Always mine." He pauses, as if after all these years he's been reunited with an old lover. "We had some times together," he adds quietly, his voice barely audible above the increasing storm. "And then we came down and I abandoned her."
"This can't be the Angel!" I shout, standing a few meters back. I'm soaking wet, and as I stare up at the vast metal bulk of the plane, I find myself unable to quite believe that this is the cause of all the panic and destruction we've witnessed in nearby aisles. "This is just a plane!"
"But such a beautiful plane," Carstairs replies, as a gust of icy wind blasts past us, causing the plane to creak and rock a little above us. "You can understand how people came to the conclusion that she was an angel, can't you? Hanging here with he
r wings outstretched... From a distance, she was always an imposing figure, and the people in the Library have probably never seen a plane before. Even for the ones who dared to come closer and deliver their offerings, she must have seemed so strange and other-worldly. No wonder they worshiped her."
"But..." I pause as a thousand different thoughts seem to rush through my mind. "The Angel's alive! You said it yourself! This is just a plane, so it can't be the Angel, can it?"
"Huh?" He turns to me. "Oh... Yes, I suppose that's a valid point. Maybe everyone just imagined the Angel's voice -"
"No," I say firmly. "Remember the Grandapams? You told me that the Angel was reaching out and protecting you. A World War Two plane can't do that, Carstairs!"
"Well, of course not, but..." He pauses. "I don't know. Maybe -"
"I'm here," whispers a female voice, clear and loud above the sound of the rain. "I've been waiting for you."
"Who was that?" I ask, taking a step back as I stare up at the plane. "Is someone hiding in there?"
"Why did you wait so long?" the voice continues. "I called out to you. I protected you. I did everything in my power to make you come back, but still you ran, Carstairs. Why did you not want to come and be reunited with me? So many other people came. Strangers, pilgrims, warriors... They left gifts and offerings, but I cared nothing for any of them. All I cared about was you, and yet you refused to come."
"I..." Carstairs pauses, before turning to me. "You can hear that voice too, can't you?"
I nod.
"Funny business," he mutters, looking back up at the plane.
"I shouldn't be too harsh," the voice continues. "You used to talk to me, Carstairs. Don't you remember? When we were on missions, you'd talk to me as if I had a mind. That's how my consciousness started, although it was the prayers and faith of all the visitors that truly gave me life once I'd arrived in the Library. They begged me to bless their lives. They treated me as a god. Gradually, over time, I had no choice but to grow..." She pauses, as if she's trying to find the right word. "I can't explain it properly," she adds, "but it started as just the tiniest sense of recognition in my heart, and then it just grew and grew until I was able to think and feel and remember."
