Monsters

by Peter Cawdron

  They ate thin strips of beef jerky and cold vegetable mash for dinner.

  “Why is there such opposition to reading?” asked Bruce, chewing on the tough, dried meat.

  “Knowledge is more dangerous than any gun, more dangerous than a sword or knife. Even in Eden, knowledge was forbidden.”

  “But why?”

  “Knowledge shapes decisions. Limit knowledge and you limit the choices people can make. Knowledge has always been about power, for better or for worse, for good or for evil.”

  Jane got up and shifted several boxes, looking through the murky, aging plastic, trying to make out the contents. She found what she was looking for, and put one particular box aside before neatly stacking the other boxes.

  “Reading has a sad history,” she said, opening the box and carefully rummaging around for a book. She pulled out a small, worn booklet. It was much smaller than the other books Bruce had seen. Its pages looked brittle. The cover was stiff. Thin strands broke free from the binding. Jane took pains to handle the book with care, opening it but not reading from it.

  Bruce was confused. She seemed in awe of this book, with its small typeface. The print was coarse, the letters were rougher than the clean, clear-cut, crisp sentences he'd seen inside the Dickens' novel.

  “This is Foxes' Book of Martyrs,” she said with reverence in her voice. She closed the book, putting it back in the box and sealing it.

  “You're not going to read from it?” Bruce asked, not sure of the book's relevance.

  “No,” Jane replied. “I read it once, long ago.”

  Bruce was surprised. He could see her mind casting itself back as she weighed her words, thinking about what she was going to say, which intrigued him.

  “How old is it?”

  “The Martyrs was originally written in 1563, but this version is a reprint, dating from the 1800s.”

  She paused.

  “Of all the books here, this is the oldest. It may very well be the last copy in existence.”

  “I don't understand,” Bruce said. “What does it say? Why won't you read it to me?”

  “Foxes' Book of Martyrs is not important for what it says so much as for the history it preserves. It's not like Dickens, with broad, sweeping prose that captures the imagination. It is raw, detailing the cruelty of man to those who desire the freedom to learn. Martyrs chronicles those that died so the Bible could be read in the common tongue.”

  Her eyes were glassy. Bruce could see her reaching back mentally, somewhat lost in thought as she spoke.

  “Their days were much like ours. They would burn men, women and children at the stake, burn them alive for simply reading the Bible aloud in a church. But it wasn't infidels or madmen carrying this out, it was Christians killing Christians. And it wasn't just the Bible they feared, they burned thousands of books, anything that dared stir the imagination, anything that challenged their authority.”

  She looked him in the eye.

  “You see, nothing changes. Everything is the same. Across thousands of years, across countless cultures, across all religions and every nation, they've always burned books. Make no mistake, knowledge has always been dangerous.

  “When the pharaohs ruled in Egypt, they would carve mighty tablets of stone, trying to preserve their knowledge for future generations, but those that followed after defaced them, carving their own stories over them.

  “When the Persians took Athens they burned the Acropolis, destroying the writings of the Greeks. Alexander retaliated, sacking Persepolis and razing the city to the ground, burning thousands of manuscripts.

  “When the Roman emperor Aurelian conquered Egypt, he burnt down the great library of Alexandria, destroying almost a hundred thousand books, most of them lost forever in the mists of time.”

  Bruce had no idea about the names and places she described, but he was in awe at the magnitude of destruction. From her words, he got a sense of the vast time scales involved.

  “Such mindless waste,” she said, reflecting on her thoughts, thinking aloud. “In Nazi Germany they burned books, saying they were cleansing the country, ridding it of filth, but that's not the worst of it.”

  “What could be worse than burning books?” Bruce asked, curious at her reasoning.

  “Replacing them. Substituting them with counterfeits.”

  “They did that?” he asked.

  “Yes. Once there were schools in every town, places where children were taught to read, to write, to reason. But when it came to biology, there were religious factions that changed the textbooks. Instead of teaching kids about how life branched out from the humblest of origins, they spread lies. Oh, they didn't see it that way, but that was the effect. Instead of spanning billions of years, they said the Earth was just a few thousand years old, that all of nature sprang forth miraculously in just a few days.”

  “Why would they say that? Why would they lie?” Bruce asked.

  “Why indeed,” Jane replied. “And this cuts to the core of the problem that has plagued mankind since he first stood upright on the grassy plains of Africa.

  “Knowledge is power, the power to craft the lives of others, the power to direct and control. It probably sounds strange, but there is a base instinct in man, a desire to dominate, and knowledge is a tool to that end.

  “Knowledge, by itself, is harmless, but knowledge can be used either for good or evil. And so here we are, still burning books.”

  “You really love books, don't you?”

  “Oh, yes. For me, books cheat time.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, chewing on the jerky in the soft light of the lantern.

  “Think about Charles Dickens. What do we know about him personally? Nothing really. Oh, there are facts and figures in the forward to the book telling me he was born across the ocean in a land called England, that he married a lady called Catherine, that he had ten children, that he wrote dozens of books, short stories, poems and plays, but what does that really tell me about him as a person? Nothing.

  “Millions of people lived in that era, and all that they are has perished with time. But here, in these pages, I have the soul of Charles Dickens poured out on paper, perfectly preserved in that moment. His words are as fresh as if he finished writing this tale yesterday.

  “I've often wondered what it would be like to go back in time and meet Charles Dickens, but the reality is, I understand him far more through his writing than I ever could meeting him in person. To shake his hand, to sit with him over dinner or to walk through the woods with him, listening to him talk, would not give me as much pleasure as reading this book.”

  Such concepts were heady for Bruce. He could see Jane drawing upon her vast knowledge as easily as he would fire an arrow or build a fire. He wanted that same confidence.

  “Why would anyone not read?” he asked.

  Jane smiled, “Oh, Bruce. If only they all did, how different our world would be. If only we could stop for a moment and read about others instead of thinking about ourselves, the world would begin anew.”

  “Perhaps it can,” he said. “Perhaps given time, the world will see reading is no threat and we can change the world.”

  Jane laughed. “You're so sweet,” she said. “No. We are cursed. We live such short lives. Our view of life is so narrow, so shallow. We are like plow horses with blinkers shaping our view, keeping our sight on the muddy field ahead. We are so focused on keeping our row straight that we are ignorant of everything else around us. Man is not a pack horse. Man should not be harnessed with a bridle and bit. Even in the days when everyone read, the world would not be changed. Life is not so simple.

  “Think about everyone that went before us. How many lives were there? They say there were billions. I don't know what that means, as a number it is too large for me to comprehend, but I know each of them was as real as you. And yet what became of them? I know not, for it is lost. But here, in the pages of Charles Dickens, there is a shimmer of light, a glimpse into life from another era.”<
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  Her eyes were staring straight ahead, looking at the flickering light. Jane looked and sounded lost in thought.

  “Our lives burn bright like a lantern, and we think all this will continue forever, but the truth is our lives are like the flowers in the field. We bloom in summer, and the summer sun seems eternal, but all too soon the autumn winds blow and winter descends quickly, far too quickly. And all these lives that have gone before us, all the lost memories, the love, the heartache and triumph, they crumble like the buildings around us. Even these printed words will fade one day.”

  She was sad. Bruce couldn't understand why, he was entranced by her reading. This was more than he imagined. Being here in the library, with the plastic sheets flexing in the changing draft, he felt like he was in another world.

  The cool of the night descended and darkness fell around them, closing in on their one dim light. Outside, monsters roared in the distance. The lantern flickered, casting long shadows out into the pitch black beyond the plastic sheets.

  “I want to read like you,” Bruce said.

  Jane looked into his eyes, the light of the gas lantern reflected off her dark brown pupils. She had tears in the corner of her eyes, not enough to roll down her cheek, but enough to glisten in the soft light. Bruce reached out, wiping them away. She touched his hand. Her fingers were cold.

  “We should get some sleep,” she said, dropping her hand away from his.

  Bruce leaned in, making as though he would kiss her on the cheek.

  “You can't do this,” she said, pulling back.

  “Why not?” he asked, taking her hand in his.

  “You're lost in a dream.”

  Jane gestured to the stacks of plastic containers around them, adding, “All this is just a fantasy to you, a brief respite from slaving in the fields or hunting in the forest, but the moment will pass and reality will return. I'll go back to the village, and you'll winter in the hills. Spring will come and the fields will call and all this will be but a novel memory.”

  “It doesn't have to be that way,” Bruce said.

  “I will not be your conquest for a night,” Jane said. “I will not raise a child alone.”

  “You won't have to,” Bruce said, resting his arm on her good hand.

  “Bruce Alexander Dobson,” Jane cried formally. “Do not play with a woman's heart so lightly.”

  “Jane Blacksmith Jane,” Bruce replied, with mock formality in his voice. “I would not dare.”

  “My name is–”

  Bruce put his finger over her lips, saying, “Your name is Lisa Jane Smith. Although I'm not sure why you prefer Jane over Lisa. Or should I call you Elizabeth Bennet?”

  “I need to talk to my father,” Jane said, as Bruce ran his hand over her cheek and down her neck.

  “I already have.”

  “Oh, have you now?” she said, sitting bolt upright.

  “Yes,” Bruce replied, mimicking her posture. “Although, I must say, he's much easier to talk to than you.”

  She slapped at his thigh, realizing he was mocking her. A grin lit up her face.

  “And what if this is not what I want?”

  “Then you would not have brought me here,” Bruce said, smiling. He paused, the tone of his voice lightened. “Marry me, Jane. Be my wife. Teach me to love reading, just as you do.”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks. She reached out, touching his face. Her fingernails reached through his beard, scratching softly at his skin. He rested his hand on her lap, gently touching her thigh, running his fingers over the coarse cloth. She started to speak, but stopped herself. He wasn't sure what she was going to say, but he knew what he wanted to say. The words were burning inside his mind.

  “I've been looking for more than just someone to teach me to read,” he said. “For years, I thought I knew what I wanted, but I didn't think I'd ever meet someone like you, someone that understands not only the facts and figures, the theories and concepts, but the heart of what it means to read. I've fallen in love with you, and for all the right reasons.”

  Bruce leaned in, wanting to kiss Jane but she pushed him away, saying, “Hold on, Romeo. Let's see if I make it through the winter first. Nero may yet have condemned me to death.”

  “Oh,” Bruce replied, somewhat stunned at the thought she could be so cruelly taken away from him. He looked down at the blood-soaked bandages on her arm. The prospect of losing her to some hideous disease he barely understood seemed incongruous with reality, and yet he knew she was right. That their lives could be overruled by some unseen, creeping sickness was a curse, it was dark magic, something cruel without reason.

  Jane laughed, reading the sense of concern on his face. She ran her right hand through his hair and around the side of his beard.

  “You're very sweet. And, yes, when spring comes, I will take your hand in marriage.”

  Bruce smiled.

  As the cool of the evening settled inside the library, creeping in through the broken skylight, they huddled together under a couple of blankets. They talked idly before falling asleep in each other's arms.

  Chapter 03: Caught

  In the morning, Jane picked out a few books to take with them so she could teach Bruce to read back in the village. They’d have to be careful, discrete.

  “What is this book about?” he asked, picking up a flimsy paperback and looking at a cartoon drawing of an animal he didn't recognize. Why would this imaginary creature have a red bow tie and a striped hat? Although Bruce couldn't read the words on the cover, he could see there were simple words in the title, none more than three letters in length.

  “It's The Cat in the Hat,” Jane replied, smiling as he flicked through the pages. She must have read his change in mood, perhaps from the slight scowl on his face.

  “This is for children,” Bruce said, feeling indignant.

  “Oh,” she said, seeing his pride was wounded. “This book was loved by both children and adults alike. It's one of the classics.”

  Bruce glanced at her sideways, not convinced.

  Jane took the book from him, saying, “Everyone has to start reading somewhere, and Shakespeare is probably a little beyond you at this point.”

  She read the first few pages, running her finger beneath the words as she read so he could follow along.

  “It's silly,” Bruce replied.

  “Yes. I think that's the point,” she offered, trying to lighten the mood. She picked up another book. “This is The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. Listen carefully to the cadence, the natural rhythm that comes from each of the sentences.”

  Jane began reading, slowly at first, immersing herself in the narration, gradually increasing her tempo until she was rushing through the prose. She continued until she began tripping over her tongue, stumbling and stuttering as she came to a stop, laughing like a child.

  Bruce laughed as well, appreciating how the rhyme and rhythm had driven her on.

  “Oh, reading is so much fun,” she said. “Wait until you read this to a child. Wait until you see their eyes light up with excitement.”

  Jane packed the books carefully in plastic, wrapping them and placing them in her backpack.

  Bruce looked around at the fallen, empty shelves stretching to the end of the floor.

  “How many books were there?”

  “Oh,” Jane replied, pulling her hair back into a ponytail. “This library probably held around ten thousand books and magazines, not to mention the music discs and moving pictures. And all of it was free.”

  “Free?”

  “Yes. Free to anyone that desired to learn.”

  “They didn't charge for any of this?” Bruce replied, trying to imagine row upon row of shelves filled with books, magazines and newspapers.

  “No. So long as you brought your book back within a month or so there was no charge.”

  “So knowledge was free?” He had to ask again. He had to be sure he'd heard her correctly. The concept seemed so radical.

  Jane smiled. “Y
es, knowledge was free.”

  Bruce was silent. Jane could see his eyes flickering around, his mind processing that realization.

  “There were even larger libraries in the major cities, and universities that held anywhere up to a hundred thousand books and research papers.”

  “Get out of here,” Bruce exclaimed. “Are you serious?”

  “I'm serious,” Jane said, picking up her backpack and walking to the central stairwell.

  Bruce followed along behind her. “So how many books were there? I mean, in total?”

  “Oh, well that depends on how you count them. If you tried to count every copy of every book that has ever existed, there would be more than all the leaves on all the trees you've ever seen. I once heard there were over three hundred million different books, but some of them had print runs that would run into the millions as well.”

  “Really?” Bruce replied. “You're saying there would be millions of copies of just one book?”

  “Yes. It seems quite remarkable, doesn't it?”

  Bruce barely realized they were walking down the stairs, past fallen roof beams and crumbling internal walls.

  “How could there be three hundred million different books? Who could write so many books?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Who could ever read them?”

  Jane laughed. “Not me.”

  “It's sad, isn't it?”

  Jane listened. Bruce figured she knew where his train of thought was leading him and was happy to hear him reasoning through this for himself.

  “Hundreds of millions of books reduced to just a few small stacks squirreled away in run-down buildings. Will we ever get it back? The past, I mean. Will we ever recover what was lost?”

  “No,” Jane said as they walked through the lobby. “Those books are gone forever. But we can write new ones. We can build a new future.”

  “How many books are there?” he asked. “How many are left?”

  “In this town?” Jane replied, thinking about it. “Roughly four hundred, plus the magazines and newspapers you saw upstairs.”