“Why not just let people live their lives, and live yours?”
Sing looked taken aback. “Alcatraz, the Hushlanders are enslaved! They’re being kept in ignorance, living only with the most primitive technologies! Besides, we need to do something to fight. Back at the Council of Kings, some people are starting to talk about surrendering to the Librarians completely!” He shook his head. “I’m glad for people like your grandfather, people willing to take the fight into Librarian lands. It shows that we won’t simply sit back and slowly have our kingdoms taken from us.”
Up ahead, Bastille glared back at us. “Would you two like to chat a little more?” she snapped. “Perhaps sing a little tune? If there are any Librarians in front of us, we wouldn’t want them to miss out on hearing us coming.”
Sing looked at his feet sheepishly, and we fell silent—though a part of me wanted to yell something like, “What did you say, Bastille?” as loudly as I could. You see, that is the sad, sorry, terrible thing about sarcasm.
It’s really funny.
But I just walked quietly, thinking about what Sing had said—particularly the part about the Librarians only letting Hushlanders have the most “primitive” of technologies. It seemed ridiculous to me that the Free Kingdomers considered things like guns and automobiles to be “primitive.” They weren’t primitive, they were … well, they were what I knew. Growing up in America, I’d come to assume that everything I had—and did—was the newest, best, and most advanced in the world.
It was very unsettling to be confronted by people who weren’t impressed by how advanced my culture was. I wanted to huff and think that whatever they had must not be all that good either. Except the problem was that I’d seen that they had self-driving cars, glasses that could track a person’s footprints, and armored knights. All were, in one way or another, superior to what I’d known. (Admit it, knights are just cool.)
I was coming to realize something very difficult. I was slowly accepting that the way I did things—the way my people did things—might not actually be the best way.
In other words, I was feeling humility.
I sincerely hope that you never have to feel this emotion. Like asparagus and fish, it’s not really as good for you as everyone says it is. Selfishness, arrogance, and callousness got me much further than humility ever did.
Have I mentioned that I’m not really a very good person?
Our small group reached the end of the unmarked hallway, Bastille still in the lead. She paused, holding up a hand, peeking around the corner. Then she continued onward, her platform sandals making a slight noise as she stepped onto a carpeted floor. Sing and I followed. The room beyond was filled with books.
Really filled.
Perhaps you’ve never experienced the full, suffocating majesty of a true library. You Hushlanders have probably visited your local libraries—you’ve perused the parts that normal people are allowed to see. These places tend to have row upon row of neat bookshelves, arranged nicely. They are presented attractively for the same reason that kittens are cute—so that they can draw you in, then pounce on you for the kill.
Seriously. Stay away from kittens.
Public libraries exist to entice. The Librarians want everyone to read their books—whether those books are deep and poignant works about dead puppies or nonfiction books about made-up topics, like the Pilgrims, penicillin, and France. In fact, the only book they don’t want you to read is the one you’re holding right now.
Those aren’t real libraries, however. Real libraries take little concern for enticement. You who have visited the basement stacks of a university library’s philosophy section know what I’m talking about. In such places, the shelves get squeezed closer and closer together, and they reach higher and higher. Piles of books appear randomly at junctions and in corners waiting to be shelved, like the fourth-generation descendants of a copy of Summa Theologica and an edition of Little Women.
Dust settles on the books like a gray perversion of rain forest moss, giving the air a certain moldy, unwelcome scent faintly reminiscent of a baledragon’s lair. At each corner, you expect to turn and see the withered, skeletal remains of some poor researcher who got lost in the stacks and never found his way out.
And even those kinds of libraries are but pale apprentices to the enormous cavern of books that I entered that day. We walked quietly, passing shelves packed so tightly together that only an anorexic racing jockey could have squeezed between them. The bookshelves were easily fifteen feet high, and enormous plaques on the ends proclaimed, in very small letters, the titles each one contained. Long wooden poles with pincerlike hooks leaned against some shelves, and I got the impression that they were used for reaching between the shelves to pull out books.
No, I thought, it would take a ridiculous amount of practice to learn to do something like that. I must be wrong.
You may have guessed that I wasn’t actually wrong. You see, Librarian apprentices have plenty of time to practice things that are ridiculous. They really only have three duties: First, to learn the incredibly and needlessly complicated filing system used to catalog books in the back library stacks. Second, to practice with the book-hooks. Third, to plot ways to torture an innocent populace.
That third one is the most fun. Kind of like gym class for the murderously insane.
Sing, Bastille, and I crept along the rows, careful to keep an eye out for Librarian apprentices. This was undoubtedly the most dangerous thing I’d ever done in my short life. Fortunately, we were able to get to the eastern edge of the room without incident.
“We should move along the wall,” Bastille said quietly, “so Alcatraz can look down each row of books. That way, he might see powerful Oculatory sources.”
Sing nodded. “But we should move quickly. We need to find the sands and get out fast, before the Librarians realize they’ve been infiltrated.”
They looked at me expectantly. “Uh, that sounds good,” I finally said.
“You’ve got this leadership thing down, Smedry,” Bastille said flatly. “Very inspiring. Come on, then. Let’s keep moving.”
Bastille and Sing began to walk along the wall. I, however, didn’t follow. I had just noticed something hanging on the wall above us: a very large painting that appeared to be an ornate, detailed map of the world.
And it looked nothing like the one I was used to.
Chapter
8
At this point, you’re probably expecting to read something like, “I suddenly realized that everything I thought I had known was untrue.”
Though I’ll likely use that exact phrase, I should warn you that it is misleading. Everything I knew was not untrue. In fact, many of the things I’d learned about the world were quite true.
For instance, I knew that the sun came up every day. That was not untrue. (Though, admittedly, that sun shone on a geography I didn’t understand.) I knew that my homeland was named the United States of America. That was not untrue. (Though the U.S.A. was not actually run by senators, presidents, and judges—but instead by a cult of evil Librarians.) I knew that sharks were annoying. This also was not untrue. (There’s actually nothing witty to add here. Sharks are annoying. Particularly the carnivorous kind.)
You have been warned.
I stared up at the enormous wall map and suddenly realized something. Everything I thought I’d known about the world was untrue. “This can’t be real.…” I whispered, stepping back.
“I’m afraid it is, Alcatraz,” Sing said, laying a hand on my shoulder. “That’s the world—the entire world, both the Hushlands and the Free Kingdoms. This is the thing that the Librarians don’t want you to know about.”
I stared. “But it’s so … big.”
And indeed it was. The Americas were there, represented accurately. The other continents—Asia, Australia, Africa, and the rest—were there as well. They were collectively labeled INNER LIBRARIA on the map, but I recognized them easily enough. The difference, then, was the new conti
nents. There were three of them, pressed into the oceans between the familiar continents. Two of the new continents were smaller, perhaps the size of Australia. One, however, was very large. It sat directly in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, right between America and Japan.
“It’s impossible,” I said. “We would have noticed a landmass like that sitting in the middle of the ocean.”
“You think you would have noticed,” Sing said. “But the truth is that the Librarians control the information in your country. How often have you personally been out sailing in the middle of what you call the Pacific Ocean?”
I paused. “But … simply because I haven’t been there doesn’t mean anything. The ocean is like kangaroos and grandfathers—I believe that other people have seen it. Ship captains, airplane pilots, satellite images…”
“Satellites controlled by the Librarians,” Bastille said, regarding the map through her sunglasses. “Your pilots fly guided by instruments and maps that the Librarians provide. And not many people sail boats in your culture—particularly not into the deep ocean. Those who do are bribed, threatened, brainwashed, or—most often—carefully misled.”
Sing nodded. “Those other continents make sense, if you think about it. I mean, a planet that is seventy percent water? What would be the point of that much wasted space? I’d never have thought people would buy that lie, had I not studied Hushlander cultures.”
“People go along with what they’re told,” Bastille said. “Even intelligent people believe what they read and hear, assuming they’re given no reason to question.”
I shook my head. “A hidden gas station I can believe, but this? This isn’t some little cover-up or misdirection. There are three new continents on that map!”
“Not new,” Sing said. “The cultures of the Free Kingdoms are quite well established. Indeed, they’re far more advanced than Hushlander cultures.”
Bastille nodded. “The Librarians conquered the backward sections of the world first. They’re easier to control.”
“But…” I said. “What about Columbus? What about history?”
“Lies,” Sing said quietly. “Fabrications, many of them—the rest are distortions. I mean, haven’t you always wondered why your people supposedly developed guns after more technology-advanced weapons, like swords?”
“No! Swords aren’t more advanced than guns!”
Sing and Bastille shared a glance.
“That’s what they want you to believe, Alcatraz,” Sing said. “That way, the Librarians can keep the powerful technology for themselves. Don’t you think it’s strange that nobody in your culture carries swords anymore?”
“No!” I said, holding up my hands. “Sing, most people don’t need to carry swords—or even guns!”
“You’ve been beaten down,” Bastille said quietly. “You’re docile. Controlled.”
“We’re happy!” I said.
“Yes,” Sing said. “You’re quiet, happy, and completely ignorant—exactly like you’re supposed to be. Don’t you have a phrase that says ‘Ignorance is bliss’?”
“The Librarians came up with that one,” Bastille said.
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “This is too much. I was willing to overlook the self-driving cars. The magic glasses … well, they could be some kind of trick. Sneaking into a library, that sounded fun. But this … this is ridiculous. I can’t accept it.”
And likely, you Hushlanders are thinking the very same thing. You are saying to yourself, “The story just lost me. It degenerated into pure silliness. And since only silly people enjoy silliness, I’m going to go read a book about a boy whose dog gets killed by his mother. Twice.”
Before you embark upon your voyage into caninicide, I’d like to offer a single argument for your consideration: Plato.
Plato was a funny little Greek man who lived a long time ago. He is probably best known for two things: First, for writing stories about his friends, and second for philosophically proving that somewhere in the eternities there exists a perfect slice of cheesecake. (Read the Parmenides—it’s in there.) At this moment, however, the reader should be less interested in cheesecake and more interested in caves.
One cave, to be specific. Plato tells a story about a group of prisoners who lived in a very special cave. The prisoners were tied up—heads held so that they could only face one direction—and all they could see was the wall in front of them. A fire behind them threw shadows up on this wall, and these shadows were the only things the prisoners ever knew. To them, the shadows were their world. As far as they knew, there was nothing else.
However, one of these prisoners was eventually released and saw that the world was much more than just shadows. At first, he found this new world very, very strange. Once he learned of it, however, he returned and tried to tell his friends about it. They, however, didn’t trust him—and didn’t want to listen to him. They didn’t want to believe in this new world, because it didn’t make sense to them.
You Hushlanders are like these people. You have, through no fault of your own, lived your entire life believing in the shadows the Librarians have shown you. The things I reveal in this narrative will seem like nonsense to you. There is no getting around this. No matter how logical my arguments are, they will seem illogical to you. Your mind—struggling to find ways to hold on to your Librarian lies—will think of all kinds of ridiculous concerns. You will ask questions such as, “But what about tidal patterns?” Or, “But how can you explain the lack of increased fuel costs created by airplanes flying around these hidden landmasses?”
Since nothing I can say would be able to pierce your delusions, let the fact that I make no arguments stand as ultimate proof that I am right. As Plato once said that his friend Socrates once said, “I know that I’m right because I’m the only person humble enough to admit that I’m not.”
Or something like that.
I stood for a long moment, staring up at that map. Part of me—most of me—resisted what I was seeing. And yet, the things I had experienced bounced around in my head, reminding me that many things—like gas station coolers and young men who set fires to kitchens—were not always as simple as they appeared.
“I’ll deal with this later,” I finally said, turning away from the map. “Let’s keep moving.”
“Finally,” Bastille said. “You Hushlanders. Honestly, sometimes it seems like it would take a hammer to the face to get you to wake up and see the truth.”
“Now, Bastille,” Sing said as we walked by a long row of low sorting carts. “That really isn’t fair. I think young Lord Smedry is doing quite well, all things considered. It isn’t every day that—
“Gak!”
Sing said this last part as he suddenly, and without apparent reason, tripped and fell to the ground. I frowned, looking down, but Bastille burst into motion. She hopped dexterously over Sing, then grabbed me by the arm and threw me to the ground behind the sorting cart. She ducked down beside me.
“Why—” I began, rubbing my arm in annoyance. Bastille, however, clapped a hand over my mouth, shooting me a very hostile, very persuasive silencing look.
I fell quiet. Then I heard something. Voices approaching.
Bastille removed her hand, then carefully peeked out over the sorting cart. I moved to do likewise, and Bastille shot me another glance—I could see the glare even through her sunglasses. This time, however, I refused to be cowed.
If she can look, so can I, I thought stubbornly. I didn’t spend thirteen years being a troublemaker so I can get pushed around by a girl my age. Even if she is a pretty good shot with that handbag of hers.
I peeked over the cart. In the distance, moving between two lines of enormous bookshelves, I could see a group of figures. Most looked like they were wearing dark robes.
“Librarian apprentices,” Sing whispered, peeking up beside me. “Doing their tasks. Somewhere in this room, the Master Librarians have placed one misfiled volume. The apprentices have to find it.”
I eyed t
he nearly endless rows of tightly packed bookshelves. “That could take years!” I whispered.
Sing nodded. “Some go insane from the pressure. They’re usually the ones who get promoted first.”
I shivered as the group moved off. There were a couple of much larger figures following them, and these weren’t dressed in robes. They were entirely white, and their bodies moved in a not-quite-natural manner. They lumbered as they stepped, arms held too far to the sides. They trailed behind the Librarian apprentices, moving with ponderous steps, some carrying stacks of books.
I squinted, looking closer. The whitish figures glowed slightly, giving off a dark haze. The apprentices and the white figures turned a corner, disappearing from view.
“What were those?” I whispered. “Those white things that were with them?”
“Alivened,” Bastille said, shivering. She glanced at me, standing up. “When Sing trips, Smedry, always duck.”
“You trip whenever there’s danger?”
“Of course not,” Sing said. “I only trip when there’s danger and when tripping will be helpful. Or at least that’s usually the way it works.”
“Better than your Talent, Oculator,” Bastille said with a snort. “Do you want to tell me how you managed to break the carpet?”
I glanced down. The carpet lay unraveled around me, separated into individual strands of yarn.
“Come on,” Bastille said. “We should keep moving.”
I nodded, as did Sing, and we continued along the perimeter of the musty library chamber. We walked in silence; the sight of the apprentices had reminded us of the need for stealth. However, it quickly grew apparent to me that searching through that room wouldn’t lead us to the Sands of Rashid. Despite the room’s many alcoves (the thousands upon thousands of bookshelves made it feel like a cubicle-filled office for demonic bibliophiles) it didn’t seem like the kind of place where one kept objects of great power. I figured that the sands would be in a locked room, or perhaps a laboratory. Not a vast storage chamber.