Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

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.”