Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

Chapter 9

I would like to try an experiment. Get out some paper and write a 0 on it. Then I want you to go down a line and put a 0 there. You see, the 0 is a magic number, as it is—well—0. You can’t get better than that! Now, on the next one, 0 isn’t enough. 7 is the number to put here. Why isn’t the 0 good enough here? 0 is not magical now. Once great, the 0 has been reduced to being nonsense. Now, take your paper and throw it away, then turn this book sideways.

Look closely at the paragraph above this one. (Or, uh, I guess since you turned the book sideways it’s the paragraph beside this one.) Regardless, you might be able to see a face in the numbers in the paragraph—0s form the eyes, the 7 is a nose, and a line of 0s form the mouth. It’s smiling at you because you’re holding your book sideways, and—as everyone knows—that’s not the way to read books. In fact, how are you reading this paragraph anyway? Turn the book around. You look silly.

(For those of you reading the electronic version, please lock your device rotation and adjust your font size up or down until the spacing in the first paragraph of this chapter looks correct on your screen. This is a vital part of the reading experience. I swear.)

There. That’s better. Anyway, I believe I talked in my last book about how first impressions are often wrong. You may have had the impression that I was done talking about first impressions. You were wrong. Imagine that.

There’s so much more to be learned here. It’s not only people’s first impressions that are often wrong. Many of the ideas we have thought and believed for a long time are, in fact, dead wrong. For instance, I believed for years that Librarians were my friends. Some people believe that asparagus tastes good. Others don’t buy this book because they think it won’t be interesting.

Wrong, wrong, and so wrong. In my experience, I’ve found it best not to judge what I think I’m seeing until I’ve had enough time to study and learn. Something that appears to make no sense may actually be brilliant. (Like my art in paragraph one.)

Remember that. It might be important somewhere else in this book.

I forced myself to my feet in the complete darkness. I looked about, but of course that did no good. I called out again. No response.

I shivered in the darkness. Now, it wasn’t just dark down there. It was dark. Dark like I’d been swallowed by a whale, then that whale had been eaten by a bigger whale, then that bigger whale had gotten lost in a deep cave, which had then been thrown into a black hole.

It was so dark I began to fear that I’d been struck blind. I was therefore overjoyed when I caught a glimmer of light. I turned toward it, relieved.

“Thank the first sands,” I exclaimed. “It’s—”

I choked off. The light was coming from the flames burning in the sockets of a bloodred skull.

I cried out, stumbling away, and my back hit a rough, dusty wall. I moved along it, scrambling in the darkness, but ran forehead first into another wall at the corner. Trapped, I spun around, watching the skull grow closer. The fires in its eyes soon illuminated the creature’s robelike cloak and thin skeleton arms. The whole body—skull, cloak, even the flames—seemed faintly translucent.

I had met my first Curator of Alexandria. I fumbled, reaching into my jacket, remembering for the first time that I was carrying Lenses. Unfortunately, in the darkness, I couldn’t tell which pocket was which, and I was too nervous to count properly.

I pulled out a random pair of spectacles, hoping I’d grabbed the Windstormer’s Lenses. I shoved them on.

The Curator glowed with a whitish light. Great, I thought. I know how old it is. Maybe I can bake it a birthday cake.

The Curator said something to me, but it was in a strange, raspy language that I didn’t understand.

“Uh … I missed that…” I said, fumbling for a different pair of Lenses. “Could you repeat yourself…?”

It spoke again, getting closer. I whipped out another pair of Lenses and put them on, focusing on the creature and hoping to blow it backward with a gust of wind. I was pretty sure I’d gotten the right pocket this time.

I was wrong.

“… Visitor to the great Library of Alexandria,” the thing hissed, “you must pay the price of entry.”

The Lenses of Rashid—Translator’s Lenses. Now, not only did I know how old it was, I could understand its demonic voice as it sucked out my soul. I made a mental note to speak sternly with my grandfather about the kinds of Lenses he gave me.

“The price,” the creature said, stepping up to me.

“Uh … I seem to have left my wallet outside…” I said, fumbling in my jacket for another pair of Lenses.

“Cash does not interest us,” another voice whispered.

I glanced to the side, where another Curator—with burning eyes and a red skull—was floating toward me. With the extra light, I could see that neither creature had legs. Their cloaks kind of trailed off into nothingness at the bottoms.

“Then, what do you want?” I asked, gulping.

“We want … your paper.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Anything you have written down,” a third creature said, approaching. “All who enter the Library of Alexandria must give up their books, their notes, and their writings so that we may copy them and add them to our collection.”

“Okay…” I said. “That sounds fair enough.”

My heart continued to race, as if it refused to believe that a bunch of undead monsters with flames for eyes weren’t going to kill me. I pulled out everything I had—which only included the note from Grandpa Smedry, a gum wrapper, and a few American dollars.

They took it all, plucking them from me and leaving my hands feeling icy and cold. Curators, it might be noted, give off a freezing chill. Because of this, they never need ice for their drinks. Unfortunately, since they’re undead spirits, they can’t really drink soda. It’s one of the great ironies of our world.

“That’s all I have,” I said, shrugging.

“Liar,” one hissed.

That isn’t the type of thing one likes to hear from undead spirits. “No,” I said honestly. “That’s it!”

I felt the freezing hands on my body, and I cried out. Despite looking translucent, the things had quite firm grips. They spun me about, then ripped the tag from my shirt and from my jeans.

Then they backed away. “You want those?” I asked.

“All writing must be surrendered,” one of the creatures said. “The purpose of the library is to collect all knowledge ever written down.”

“Well, you won’t get there very fast by copying the tags off T-shirts,” I grumbled.

“Do not question our methods, mortal.”

I shivered, realizing it probably wasn’t a good idea to sass the soul-sucking monster with a burning skull for a head. In that way, soul-sucking monsters with burning skulls are a lot like teachers. (I understand your confusion; I get them mixed up too.)

With that, the three spirits began to drift away.

“Wait,” I said, anxious not to return to the darkness. “What about my friends? Where are they?”

One of the spirits turned back. “They have been separated from you. All must be alone when they enter the Library.” It drifted closer. “Have you come seeking knowledge? We can provide it for you. Anything you wish. Any book, any volume, any tome. Anything that has been written, we can provide. You need but ask.…”

The robed body and burning skull drifted around me, voice subtle and inviting as it whispered. “You can know anything. Including, perhaps, where your father is.”

I spun toward the creature. “You know that?”

“We can provide some information,” it said. “You need but ask to check out the volume.”

“And the cost?”

The skull seemed to smile, if that was possible. “Cheap.”

“My soul?”

The smile broadened.

“No, thank you,” I said, shuddering.

“Very well,” the Curator said, drifting away.

Suddenly, lamps on the walls flickered to life, lighting the room. The lamps were little oil-filled containers that looked like the kind you’d expect a genie to hold in an old Arabian story. I didn’t really care; I was just glad for the light. By it, I could see that I stood in a dusty room with old brick walls. There were several hallways leading away from the room, and there were no doors in the doorways.

Great, I thought. Of all the times to give away my Tracker’s Lenses …

I picked a door at random and walked out into the hallway, immediately struck by how vast the library was. It seemed to extend forever. Lamps hung from pillars that—stretching into the distance—looked like a flickering, haunting runway on a deserted airfield. To my right and to my left were shelves filled with scrolls.

There were thousands upon thousands of them, all with the same dusty catacomb feel. I felt a little bit daunted. Even my own footsteps sounded too loud as they echoed in the vast chamber.

I continued for a time, stepping softly, studying the rows and rows of cobwebbed scrolls. It was as if I were in a massive crypt—except instead of bodies, this was the place where manuscripts were placed to die.

“They seem endless,” I whispered to myself, looking up. The pockets of scrolls reached all the way up the walls to the ceiling some twenty feet above. “I wonder how many there are.”

“You could know, if you wanted,” a voice whispered. I spun to find a Curator hovering behind me. How long had it been there?

“We have a list,” it whispered, floating closer, its skull face looking more shadowed now that there was external light. “You could read it, if you want. Check it out from the library.”

“No, thank you,” I said, backing away.

The Curator remained where it was. It didn’t make any threatening moves, so I continued onward, occasionally glancing over my shoulder.

You may be wondering how the Curators can claim to have every book ever written. I have it on good authority that they have many means of locating books and adding them to their collection. For instance, they have a tenuous deal with the Librarians who control the Hushlands.

In the United States alone, there are thousands upon thousands of books published every year. Most of these are either “literature,” books about people who don’t do anything, or they are silly fiction works about dreadfully dull topics such as dieting.

(There is a purpose to all of these useless books produced in America. They are, of course, intended to make people self-conscious about themselves so that the Librarians can better control them. The quickest way I’ve found to feel bad about yourself is to read a self-help book, and the second quickest is to read a depressing literary work intended to make you feel terrible about humanity in general.)

Anyway, the point is that the Librarians publish hundreds of thousands of books each year. What happens to all of these books? Logically, we should all be overwhelmed by them. Buried in a tsunami of texts, gasping for breath as we drown in an endless sea of stories about girls with eating disorders.

The answer is the Library of Alexandria. The Librarians ship their excess books there in exchange for the promise that the Curators won’t go out into the Hushlands and seek the volumes themselves. It’s really a shame. After all, the Curators—being skeletons—could probably teach us a few things about dieting.

I continued to wander the musty halls of the library, feeling rather small and insignificant compared with the massive pillars and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows of books.

Occasionally I passed other hallways that branched off the first. They looked identical to the one I was walking in, and I soon realized that I had no idea which way I was going. I glanced backward, and was disappointed to realize that the only place in the library that seemed clear of dust was the floor. There would be no footprints to guide me back the way I had come, and I had no bread crumbs to leave as a trail. I considered using belly button lint, but decided that would not only be gross, but wasteful as well. (Do you have any idea how much that stuff is worth?)

Besides, there wouldn’t be much point in leaving a trail in the first place. I didn’t know where I was going, true, but I also didn’t know where I’d been. I sighed. “I don’t suppose there’s a map of this place anywhere?” I asked, turning back to the Curator who followed a short distance behind.

“Certainly there is,” he said in a phantom voice.

“Really? Where is it?”

“I can fetch it for you.” The skull smiled. “You’ll have to check it out though.”

“Great,” I said flatly. “I can give you my soul to discover the way out, then not be able to use the way out because you’d own my soul.”

“Some have done so before,” the ghost said. “Traveling the library stacks can be maddening. To many, it is worth the cost of their soul to finally see the solution.”

I turned away. The Curator, however, continued talking. “In fact, you’d be surprised by the people who come here searching for the solutions to simple puzzles.” The creature’s voice grew louder as it spoke, and it floated closer to me. “Some grow very attached to a modern diversion known as the ‘Crossword Puzzle.’ We’ve had several come here looking for answers. We have their souls now.”

I frowned, eyeing the thing.

“Many would rather give up what remains of their lives than live in ignorance,” it said. “This is only one of the many ways that we gain souls. In truth, some do not care which book they get, for once they become one of us, they can read other books in the library. By then, of course, their soul is bound here, and they can never leave or share that knowledge. However, the endless knowledge appeals to them.”

Why was it talking so loudly? It seemed to be pushing up against me a bit, its coldness prodding me on. As if it were trying to force me to walk faster.

In a moment I realized what was going on. The Curator was a fish. If that was the case, what was the shoes? (Metaphorically speaking. Read back a few chapters if you’ve forgotten.)

I closed my eyes, focusing. There, I heard it. A quiet voice calling for help. It sounded like Bastille.

I snapped my eyes open and ran down a side hallway. The ghost cursed in an obscure language—my Translator’s Lenses kindly let me know the meaning of the word, and I will be equally kind here in not repeating it, since it involved eggbeaters—and followed me.

I found her hanging from the ceiling between two pillars in the hallway, letting out a few curses of her own. She was tangled up in a strange network of ropes; some of them twisted around her legs, others held her arms. It seemed that her struggles were only making things worse.

“Bastille?” I asked.

She stopped struggling, silver hair hanging down around her face. “Smedry?”

“How did you get up there?” I asked, noticing a Curator floating in the air upside down beside her. Its robe didn’t seem to respond to gravity—but then, that’s rather common for ghosts, I would think.

“Does it matter?” Bastille snapped, flailing about, apparently trying to shake herself free.

“Stop struggling. You’re only making it worse.”

She huffed, but stopped.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” I asked.

“Trap,” she said, twisting about a bit. “I triggered a tripwire, and the next moment I was hanging up here. If that wasn’t bad enough, the burning-eyed freak here keeps whispering to me that he can give me a book that will show me how to escape. It’ll just cost my soul!”

“Where’s your dagger?” I asked.

“In my pack.”

I saw it on the floor a short distance away. I walked over, watching out for tripwires. Inside, I found her crystalline dagger, along with some foodstuffs and—I was surprised to remember—the boots with Grappler’s Glass on the bottoms. I smiled.

“I’ll be right there,” I said, putting the boots on and activating the glass. Then, I proceeded to try walking up the side of the wall.

If you’ve never attempted this, I heartily recommend it. There’s a very nice rush of wind, accompanied by an inviting feeling of vertigo, as you fall backward and hit the ground. You also look something like an idiot—but for most of us, that’s nothing new.

“What are you doing?” Bastille asked.

“Trying to walk to you,” I said, sitting up and rubbing my head.

“Grappler’s Glass, Smedry. It only sticks to other pieces of glass.”

Ah, right, I thought. Now, this might have seemed like a very stupid thing to forget, but you can’t blame me. I was suffering from having fallen to the ground and hit my head, after all.

“Well, how am I going to get up to you, then?”

“You could throw me the dagger.”

I looked at her skeptically. The ropes seemed wound pretty tightly around her. They, however, were connected to the pillars.

“Hang on,” I said, walking up to one of the pillars.

“Alcatraz…” she said, sounding uncertain. “What are you doing?”

I laid my hand against the pillar, then closed my eyes. I’d destroyed the jet by touching the smoke … could I do something like that here too? Guide my Talent up the pillar to the ropes?

“Alcatraz!” Bastille said. “I don’t want to get squished by a bunch of falling pillars. Don’t…”

I released a burst of breaking power.

“Gak!”

She said this last part as her ropes—which were connected to the pillars—frayed and fell to pieces. I opened my eyes in time to see her grab the one remaining whole piece of rope and swing down to the ground, landing beside me, puffing slightly.

She looked up. The pillar didn’t fall on us. I removed my hand.

She cocked her head, then regarded me. “Huh.”

“Not bad, eh?”

She shrugged. “A real man would have climbed up and cut me down with the dagger. Come on. We’ve got to find the others.”

I rolled my eyes, but took her thank-you for what it was worth. She stuffed the boots and dagger back in her pack, then threw it over her shoulder. We walked down the hallway for a moment, then spun as we heard a crashing sound.

The pillar had finally decided to topple, throwing up broken chips of stone as it hit the ground. The entire hallway shook from the impact.

A wave of dust from the rubble puffed around us. Bastille gave me a suffering look, then sighed and continued walking.