But no.
Today, I had the task of sorting Bookshelf #5687 (“Literature From 1867ENG, Authors A-C). The Investigators had tramped through here in search of a volume, of no use no anyone for it was remarkably dull, and had torn through the entire aisle in their solemn
''Investigation”. They had found it sixteen shelves down (it had only fallen behind into that useless space behind the books and waited patiently in a dusty corner) and returned it proudly its place on Shelf #657. Of course, that was not really its place, but no one had the heart to tell them and it was left for some unfortunate Librarian’s Assistant to find and make the two hour trip to its rightful place -not two feet from where it had been originally found.
The Investigators weren’t a bad sort, they did neatly place every book they tore off back on the shelf. In the entirely wrong order, of course, but back on the shelf all the same.
I tugged out a hardcover wedged in an awkward, half tipped back position. The spidery title caught my eye.
One Thousand Leagues Uncharted.
My eyes lingered for a moment on the diamond-shaped groove in the center of its cover. I would remember this book. I would come back and Read it.
Soon.
A minute later the book was correctly placed two paces away and a few more found its sequel (Two Thousand Miles To Wander) nestled beside it.
An hour later, eight more similar volumes were lined beside them (the author had worked up to Ten Thousand Words To Say) and many others had been properly restored to their place. A break was well deserved, I had finished nearly half the Bookshelf. It had to be completed by lunch, yet it was only nine o’clock.
I withdrew my notebook from my Bookbag, fresh from the Notebook Nook only this morning. I flipped the cover open. The crisp first page glared blindingly blank at me, so empty and simple. Not a trace of story, of thought or muse. Simply there to be filled with meaningless dates and facts. Glaring back at it, I wrote in a cramped (yet legible) script
When I finished the Bookshelf, I’d drop the report off at a Librarian’s Desk, but for now it returned to my Bookbag. And just like that, I was free.
Hitching the Bookbag strap higher on my shoulder, I exited the aisle, slowing only to snatch One Thousand Leagues Uncharted on the way out.
Now to find a corner to Read in…
The Hall was simply brimming with odd nooks and crannies, the occasional hidden passage under a loose floorboard, and plenty of hidden doors behind sliding bookcases. When I first began prying into dusty corners and exploring the ins and outs of The Hall, I had discovered new places nearly every day. Now, my findings were limited to only about once every one to two weeks. I had many spots I favored, from the roomy alcove in the rafters overlooking the new releases to the confined chamber underneath The History Of Beleriand in the East Fiction Nonfiction Wing.
Today, however, my restless mind would simply not settle for any of the usual spots. I needed something new, even if it would cut out of my valuable Reading time.
A couple of hours of freedom.
And one thousand halls uncharted.
🕮 💎🕮
The highest level of The Hall Of Stories was rarely used. Its inconvenient placing found it only reachable by climbing dozens of stair flights (the Elders talked often of creating a contraption to make the higher floors more reachable. Then again, talking is a world away from doing), venturing through several pitch-black hallways, and rotating the correct code into the padlock chaining the door. No one bothered to remember the code, the books in that level were of little interest to anyone but their authors, and therefore the chances of anyone venturing into that place were one to a thousand. Not even the Keepers bothered to clean the shelves anymore or dust the books. And that was exactly why I chose it for my venture that morning.
Climbing the stairs took more time than I should have liked, yet I had avoided exploring the highest level for that very reason for far too long. When I arrived at the top, winded and rather sore, I found the door to be closed and the padlock twisted into a confusion of randomly selected numerals. Why the highest level of the Hall should be locked into such confinement was a mystery to all but whoever locked it. Who locked it was indeed a puzzle, but who ordered it locked was another matter altogether. All Readers in the Hall were under strict orders from the king himself not to remove the padlock under any circumstances, whether emergency, necessity, or disobedience (breaking the law was strictly against the law, after all). The only way to gain access to the books beyond the door which was bound by both chain and law was to request special permission and be accompanied by two of the King’s Guards the entire time you browsed the dusty selection. That nearly never occurred, few Readers were interested in the invention of the doorknob as such were the books in that area. It was, after all, dull as a doorknob.
No one bothered to violate this rule, no one bothered to question it, and so the oddity of the restriction was ignored and the pondering of its reason was lost in the darkness of disinterest and forgetfulness.
But... not to me. Finding the reason for the secrecy had always been an object of desire to my curiosity. The coded lock was no trouble to me, I had my ways of stealing into places unnoticed and unhindered.
A small hole was drilled into the door and another close to it in the doorframe. A slender chain ran through the door and back out through the other hole. There, the two ends of the chain met in the padlock.
The lack of a doorknob amused me.
I crouched by the door, glancing quickly back down the staircase to assure myself I was alone, and carefully ran the chain through my probing fingers. Every chain has a weak link, after all. This one was no different. One link was smaller than the rest, and better yet, thinner and nearly… brittle. Rust streaked various places on the chain and on the weak link it was most apparent. I could not snap it, I knew that quite clearly, and I had come prepared. Weapons or sharp things of any kind were forbidden to be possessed by any Reader (The King’s Guards excluded) yet some tools were allowed for they were of necessity to daily life. I withdrew from my Bookbag worn pliers I had borrowed from the Architects. I set the teeth of the pliers to the small link and twisted slowly. The loop bent out of proportion and, with a satisfying snap, broke loose altogether. The rattling of the chain was inevitable as I pulled it from the hole, and I winced at every clank that echoed down the empty stairs. In a moment, the chain lay coiled on the ground like a contented snake. I pressed my hand to the door, then hesitated. Did the door open outward or inward? I did not want to risk rattling it at a mistaken guess. I stepped back and studied it. No hinges on this side. The door must open inward. I pushed it gently and it swung wide open soundlessly.
The top floor was just like any other. Wood floors, paneled ceiling, and Bookshelves neatly lined in orderly rows.
And yet it was different.
It’s so… silent. A silence that had rested here for days on end. An… ancient silence.
My shoes scuffed the floor noisily as I crept, breathless, down the aisles. The dust layered every standing surface, undisturbed. I trailed my finger through it as I walked, and I felt as if I had marred a great work of time itself.
I shook myself from my trance and glanced at my surroundings. A world of possibility lay itself neatly before me. A whole floor untrod was sure to be brimming with fake panels and hidden nooks.
Before I could take another step, a high pitched hum speared the quiet. My hands flew to my ears reflexively.
What in The Hall could make such an awful sound?
I slid to my knees, wishing desperately for a hiding place. Almost as if comprehending my thoughts, the shelf behind me shifted ever so slightly. My breathing fell in paralysis for a moment as I perceived the meaning of the shift. Many times I had felt it, after delicately probing a peculiar notch for a time one hairbreadth short of eternity. It was the movement of a hidden catch, the slight turn of a secret knob, - in short - the sign of a concealed passage or room.
I wasted no time in leaning further back into the shelf, bracing my feet against the floor so as to promote more force. The whining noise grew unnervingly closer. I felt something snap behind me and, a split second after seeing my folly, I tumbled back into darkness.
🕮 💎🕮
It was not a long fall. In fact, you could hardly call it a fall at all. A tumble would better suit the painful experience, for I only descended perhaps half a foot. As soon as my head struck the floor - a disturbingly wet floor - the shelf fitted itself back in place, thus shutting off the entrance (and, to my dismay, the exit as well).I shuddered, as was only proper to do in such a dark and wet place. One of the first things that struck me was that I still heard the horrid whining noise even though a wall separated me from it was. So the chamber was not soundproof, in fact, it seemed the opposite for no ordinary wall would allow such clarity in outside noises.
Perfect for eavesdropping. I mused and was suddenly chilled by the thought that that could very well be what it was for. After all, why had these secret places been built? I pushed the thought from my mind for it had invited in after it a fear that alighted possibilities that made my heart quake to think of.
I pushed myself up, slowly for I could not tell how low the ceiling was. Whatever wetness that had dampened the ground now clung to my hair in unsettling clumps. I tried to withstrain myself from wondering what it was, but not before half a dozen alarming possibilities sprang uninvited into my head.
Focus. I ordered myself, shaking my head vigorously to free myself of the greasy clods in my hair. They passionately held on like fleas to a dog’s coat.
The sound outside seemed to be right next to me now, scraping painfully in my ears like off-key singing. By a chicken. Who was being strangled.
Suddenly, without warning, the noise stopped altogether... almost as if someone had abruptly killed the chicken.
I waited rigidly, for something was taut in the air as if whatever it had been was not gone but waiting silently just outside. The seconds that passed seemed to be prolonged by the dread that permeated the air they moved through. Then with a faint whirring noise, like wheels moving across the floor, and whatever it was finally moved away.
I released a breath that I had not known had been imprisoned in my fear. My lungs burned to be refilled. What could that noise have been?
Perhaps Eldars are finally building a contraption to make mounting the levels less trialsome. The sound could have easily been some sort of test. Somehow, however, I could not make myself believe that explanation.
Once a tedious minute had crawled by (among many other things that crawled or slithered by in that cave), and finally deemed it safe to move. Slipping my hand into my Bookbag, I groped till I clasped something hard and round. I extracted it. I felt raw cold from the Globe bite the hollow of my palm, as it always did. I rubbed it vigorously till the presence of warmth tingled in my fingertips. A pale light pulsated in its core and grew to fill it, spreading heat through my body. Globes provided two essentials to a Reader, light and warmth.
I lowered the Globe to the ground, casting its shine upon the mysterious moisture. The liquid was jet black and pooled in various gorges in the floor. My hands had been smeared with it, but now I discovered that it had rapidly dried and, no matter how hard I scrubbed with the cuff of my other sleeve, it had no apparent notion of coming off.
I scrutinized my stained fingertips. They had a familiar look to them, one that I could not place. They reminded me… of when I was jostled while writing a log and my pen would skid off the page of my notebook and mark my finger.
Ink.
It was ink.
What in the Hall…? I had never experienced something as peculiar as this in one of the hidden rooms. Not even when I found a nest of squirrels under the Pest Control section.
I straightened and brushed myself off. A familiar thrill ran down my spine.
Another new nook to explore.
I swung the Globe in a circular fashion in front of me as I had seen so many characters do with a torch in my Reading. It only served to give a brief glance of my surroundings, however, and I grudgingly admitted the books had likely not been accurate. Slowly this time, I stretched out my arm and moved the Globe about.
I seemed to be standing on a small overhang above in a rather crudely carved out room. Or perhaps a tunnel would better suit the area for it extended back into the embrace of darkness.
I slid carefully down from the ledge, making use of the odd juttings of rock - the results of poor craftsmanship. There were deeper pools of ink in that part of the room, I carefully avoided them as I made my path into the blackness. The passage seemed to drink in the light greedily as if it had been parched of light for a longer than time could stretch back to. I felt a sickness hanging on the walls like webs that caged the darkness from healing. Yet healing had found it. The restoring light of the Globe slashed away the webs of brokenness like a gleaming two-edged sword.
I crept further and further down the tunnel, each moment expected to see a door or passage branching off. I had not long to wait, for the light of the Globe soon glinted on something ahead. Drawing closer, I observed an elegant dark wood door sealing the passageway. Two swirling engravings twisted up the entry like curling stems. Near the top of the door was a plaque etched with a flowing script. The words were alive with a cold turquoise as if the essence of the sea had been poured into them.
