Alcatraz (35 page)

I lowered the note, then pulled out the Lenses.
I quickly swapped them on, then glanced about the hut.
They put a glow about anything I focused on – a kind of whitish shine, like you might get from sunlight reflecting off of something very pale.
Except the shine was different for different objects.
Most of the boards in the hut were actually downright dull, while the velvet pouch in my hand was rather bright.

Age
, I thought.
They tell me how old something is – the boards were created and put there long ago.
The pouch was made recently
.

I frowned to myself.
Why couldn’t he have left me another pair of Firebringer’s Lenses?
True, I’d broken the first pair – but that sort of thing tended to happen a lot around me.

The thing is, Grandpa Smedry tended to place little value on offensive Lenses.
He thought information was a far better weapon.

Personally, I felt that being able to shoot superheated beams of light from your eyes was far more useful than being able to tell how old something was.
But, I figured I would take what I was given.

I left the hut, walking over to the others, who were talking about Australia’s discovery.
They looked up as I approached, waiting for me again, like they had before.

Waiting for leadership.

Why look to me
?
I thought with annoyance.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I don’t even want to be in charge
.

‘Lord Smedry,’ Draulin said, ‘should we wait for your grandfather, or should we go in after him?’

I glanced down at the pouch and was annoyed to find that the strings had unraveled as I was walking.
My Talent, acting up again.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.

The others looked at one another.
That hadn’t been the response they’d been expecting.

Grandpa Smedry obviously wanted me to lead the group into the Library.
But what if I gave the order to go down below, and something went wrong?
What if someone got hurt or got captured?
Wouldn’t that be my fault?

But, what if my father and Grandpa Smedry really needed help?

That’s the problem with being a leader.
It’s all about choices – and choices are
never
very much fun.
If someone gives you a candy bar, you’re excited.
But, if someone offers you two
different
candy bars and tells you that you can have only one, what then?
Whichever one you take, you’ll feel that you missed out on the other one.

And I
like
candy bars.
What about when you have to choose between two terrible things?
Did I wait, or lead my group down into danger?
That was like having to choose to either eat a tarantula or a bunch of tacks.
Neither option is very appealing – both make you sick to your stomach, and both are tough to choke down without catsup.

Personally, I like it much better when someone else does the decision making.
That way you have legitimate grounds to whine and complain.
I tend to find both whining and complaining quite interesting and amusing, though sometimes – unfortunately – it’s hard to choose which one of the two I want to do.

Sigh.
Life can be so tough sometimes.

‘I don’t want to make that decision,’ I complained.
‘Why are you all looking at me?’

‘You’re the lead Oculator, Lord Smedry,’ Draulin said.

‘Yeah, but I’ve only known about Oculators for three months!’

‘Ah, but you’re a Smedry,’ Kaz said.

‘Yes, but .
.
.’
I trailed off.
Something was wrong.
The others looked at me, but I ignored them, focusing on what I was feeling.

‘What’s he doing?’
Australia whispered.
By now, she’d gone back to looking just like her old self, though her hair was a bit messy from sleep.

‘I don’t know,’ Kaz whispered back.

‘Do you think that last comment was him swearing, do you?’
she whispered.
‘Hushlanders like to talk about our posteriors .
.
.’

He
was coming.

I could feel it.
Oculators can sense when other Oculators are using Lenses nearby.
It’s something built in to us, just like our ability to activate Lenses.

The sense of wrongness I felt, it was like that of someone activating a Lens.
But, it was twisted and dark.
Frightening.

It meant someone was activating a Lens nearby that had been created in a terrible way.
The hunter had found us.
I spun, searching out the source of the feeling, causing the others to jump.

There he was.
Standing atop a hill a short distance away, one arm too long for his body, staring down at us with his twisted face.
All was silent for a moment.

Then he began to run.

Draulin cursed, whipping out her sword.

‘No!’
I said, running toward the hut.
‘We’re going in!’

Draulin didn’t question.
She’d just nodded, waiting for the others to go first.
We dashed across the ground, Kaz pulling out a pair of Warrior’s Lenses and slipping them on.
His speed immediately increased, and he was able to keep up with us despite his short legs.

I reached the hut, waving Kaz and Australia inside.
Bastille had taken a detour and was in the process of grabbing one of the packs.

‘Bastille!’
I yelled.
‘There isn’t time!’

Draulin was backing toward us; she glanced at Bastille, then at the Scrivener’s Bone.
He had crossed half the distance to us, and I saw something flash in his hand.
A line of whitish blue frost shot from it toward me.

I yelped, ducking into the hut.
The structure shook as the burst of cold hit it, and one wall started to freeze.

Bastille skidded in a second later.
‘Alcatraz,’ she said, puffing.
‘I don’t like this.’

‘What?’
I asked.
‘Leaving your mom out there?’

‘No, she can care for herself.
I mean going down into the Library in a rush, without planning.’

Something hit the frozen wall, and it shattered.
Bastille cursed and I cried out, falling backward.

Through the opening I could see the hunter dashing toward me.
After freezing the wall, he’d thrown a rock to break it.

Draulin burst in through the half-broken door.
‘Down!’
she said, waving her sword toward the stairs, then bringing it back up to block a ray from the Frostbringer’s Lens.

I glanced at Bastille.

‘I’ve heard terrible things about this place, Alcatraz,’ she said.

‘No time for that now,’ I decided, scrambling to my feet, heart thumping.
I gritted my teeth, then charged down the steps toward the darkness, Bastille and Draulin following close behind.

All went black.
It was like I had passed through a gateway beyond which light could not penetrate.
I felt a sudden dizziness, and I fell to my knees.

‘Bastille?’
I called into the darkness.

No response.

‘Kaz!
Australia!
Draulin!’

My voice didn’t even echo back to me.

I’ll take one chocolate bar and a handful of tacks, please.
Anyone got any catsup?

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 had 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.

Oh, very clever.
Now you’ve got it upside down.

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 just 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 robe-like 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, of course.

‘.
.
.
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 just 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 just 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 down 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 deepened.

‘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 it was.
It seemed to extend forever.
Lamps hung from pillars that – extending 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-like 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.