[A combination of A Tour of the City and Days in the Lives.]
The nobles are very different from the common folk. They are friendly, outgoing, kind and generous and extremely curious. Every traveler to enter the odd land is greeted, in time, personally by some nobleman or woman. They are always invited to dine at the Castle, and stay as a guest there.
Oddly enough, it is shortly after a guest stays the night at the Castle that meat stew is served at the peasant's tables... well drained of blood.
The common folk do know of portals, and that the travelers do come from those areas recently. They know that there is one portal for each major point of the compass. They don't really care to find out what is beyond. They have everything they need...
The transition through the eastern portal frequently involves an abrupt change from day to night, for the reality on the other side has long nights indeed. Even when the day cycles match, the sudden appearance of ominous Carpathian crags in the distance -- almost invariably wreathed in dark and frequently stormy clouds -- serves notice that one has left the seemingly idyllic environs of the previous realm behind.
A forest of twisted black trees escorts travelers along a rutted dirt road that slowly rises into the brooding mountains. Gnarled branches seem to reach out for passersby with unwholesome longing, and trunks knot into forms disconcertingly reminiscent of human faces that leer or moan. Here and there along the way, the trees will open onto a fog-shrouded clearing filled with forgotten, listing gravestones. And at one point, a side trail curls off like a wisp of smoke from the main road; down it, the sharp of eye might glimpse a campfire surrounded by gypsy wagons painted in garish colors at odds with the general gloom.
Where the westerly road meets its twin passing north to south, the quaint buildings of a small Transylvanian village huddle fearfully in the shadow of the Carpathians beyond. The villagers are friendly with those they know, suspicious of those they don't, and quick to the pitchfork and the torch to those who seem out of the ordinary. And small wonder, for this land is one of the many versions of Transylvania in which the supernatural permeates every cave, castle, and coffin. Vampires brood on the battlements of their mountain keeps, werewolves howl in the deepest tangles of the woods, ghosts flit through shunned graveyards and haunted mansions, and broom-straddling witches cast their shadows across the moon.
One might suspect that having a Nexus interface so close at hand might render the locals less fearful of the supernatural, or at least more able to deal with it. Not so; for the interface near the village is of the sort that does not permit passage of the reality's natives. And while Nexans may pass back and forth freely, few are familiar with this place and fewer still choose to do so.
The truth, however, is not quite so grim and fearful as appearances suggest. For although the peasantry's superstitions are, indeed, a reality in this place, the monsters here do not feed primarily upon the flesh of said peasants. No, the dish they crave is _fear_.
The odd occult ecosystem of this reality allows supernatural beings to live indefinitely so long as the humans -- or "tremblers", as the supernaturals call them, among less flattering names -- fear them. As a result, actual _slayings_ of humans are quite rare, occurring only so often as to maintain the fear of that particular creature in the hearts of the tremblers.
Indeed, the slaying of monster by monster occurs far more often as creatures vie to be the foremost fear of the humans in their territories. In the process, monsters may sometimes actually _protect_ "their" tremblers from supernatural claim jumpers bent on a fear-slaying. (The general level of fear in a given area does help maintain all local monsters, but specific fears are what truly keep the creatures viable. Hence, the local vampire will not want everyone in the area suddenly becoming much more terrified of werewolves.) All of this monster-on-monster violence is kept out of human view, of course, lest the tremblers get the notion that some of the monsters are on their side. Such an idea would lead to an unacceptable drop in fear levels.
The net effect is that this reality poses little in the way of true supernatural peril, unless one counts the possibility of a heart attack from the local specter popping up to offer its best Carpathian "boo!" In fact, according to some Nexus researchers, yearly deaths by monster attack here are exceeded by deaths from both lightning strikes and spider bites. This low danger-to-scare ratio gives the place both its name and function to Nexans: Spookhouse.
Most magics and technologies work perfectly well in Spookhouse, but that doesn't mean their use is advisable. Despite their frequent squabbling, the native spooks can organize swiftly to combat threats to their fear-harvesting. (Alien sources of fear are viewed as just as much of a threat as are magic and tech that might lessen the fear of the tremblers.) And because the native creatures are every bit as powerful -- if not as actively threatening -- as the tremblers believe them to be, Nexan visitors are well advised not to flaunt any unusual abilities at their disposal. In practice, then, Spookhouse technology tops out at the Victorian levels appropriate to this world's current time period, while magic is kept artificially rare and (naturally) fearful by its supernatural inhabitants.
The aforementioned Nexus interface is not the only one in Spookhouse; however, the few other known interfaces are jealously guarded by Spookhouse supernaturals. Despite this fact, a small number of Nexan supernaturals have, of late, found some undiscovered means of egress into Spookhouse, causing no small amount of consternation for both the human and supernatural inhabitants.
*****
For some, the street may seem to go on forever. The journey may seem to trudge on past gas stations, and diners, and malls full of clothing boutiques, food courts, and home furnishing stores. Always leading straight ahead, never veering or wandering from it's course. For others the road might skip along its merry way. Moving from sheltered cove, to highland plataue, to bustling busy industrial zones.
However one gets here, the area is mostly the same. Occasionally, a street will dead end into a blood hued brick wall. A shop will disapear and be replaced by an imposing Victorian house inhabited by a family with many children. You get used to it after awhile, That's how life in Angel City is. Here one day, gone the next.
The neighborhood is offset from the hustle and bustle a few blocks North on Ho street. It's buildings faded, and bearing testimony to the touch of time. A small Greek restaurant sits across the street. It's narrow bulk barely separating a Spanish grocery and an Elven boutique. a few faded doors down a small sign in a dusty window says simply deja(dance). It is faded and worn looking when compared to its neighbors brightly painted sign and sparkling windows. The sign proclaims this to be the home of 'Clay and Shards', a small ivory card hanging from the door welcomes with its greeting of ieiet (enter).
An old brass bell hangs above the door, announcing the entrance of curiosity seekers and strangers both. Its clanging alerts an auburn haired woman who grins as she walks from behind the worn green curtain hanging behind the counter. "Ka iet?" she asks, perhaps forgetting that her store no longer sits in the quiet Latvian neighborhood it and her neighbor used to reside in.
The sunlight that flows in through large windows dances among the pottery found on the shelves along the walls. Creating a vision of colors and shadows along the ceilings,walls, and floors. Here, Annie Hall sells pottery made by the hands of her and her students. Bright teapots, cups and saucers, plates of various shapes, and statues fill the room. There is a slight arrangement of the pots by type. The larger pots and statues sitting directly on the floor.
Behind the curtain is where Annie teaches. The room is lined with shelves full of projects in various forms of completion and dryness. Two large pine tables sit off to one side. Three potting wheels are to the left of the tables. Often with frustrated students trying to mold the clay the way they had been told. A heavy brown door is set in the back wall. Behind which is the small kiln used to bisque fire the finished pottery. There is also a door to the back of the store.
Outside is a dusty yard. an overhang made of corrugated tin shelters the larger bulkier kiln used to fire on the glazes to the finished pieces and a battered metal shelf holds cooling pieces just pulled from the kiln. Across the yard is a small patch of greens and purples and yellows where Annie has a small garden growing along the banks of the stream that runs along the back of the shop.
A low stone wall and the stream are all that separate the yard of the Clay and Shards shop from the rest of Angel City. Yet for as long as it had been in The city, no one had waded the waters of the stream and climbed the wall to steal a few pots to barter with for food.
It is said that once the lovely burbling stream had run through the oldest graveyard outside the city. That it's waters carried the chill touch of death. Old legends and superstition evidently kept out the intruders. And few people dared to eat the fruits that Annie grew in her garden. Even though it was the sweetest found in the area.
*****
[from A Tour of the City.]
It's a hard thing, keeping a secret in Nexus. But that doesn't stop the Mallrachen, an organization of Nexus movers and shakers and would-be government of the clearly ungovernable, from trying.
With the Gallius VI project -- a.k.a. Operation Harvest Moon -- they've so far succeeded.
The next island down the Archipelago from Cuba Nueva is a rather unremarkable chunk of rock and scrub, a mere mile at its widest point. No indigenous animal life, although avians and other fliers from neighboring realities sometimes roost there. Little vegetation, none of it useful for culinary or pharmaceutical purposes so far as anyone has been able to determine.
And certainly, no inhabitants.
Oh, some have tried to settle there a time or two, under that bizarre compulsion so many sentients share to do what's not being done by anyone else. Unfortunately, these attempts have met with remarkable uniform bad luck -- desalinizer malfunctions, sudden illnesses, unexpectedly harsh weather, and other such mishaps. After a while, the general consensus -- which some would call "common sense" -- became: "Why bother?" It was then that the island lost whatever overblown monikers its would-be settlers had given it and became simply: "Folly".
But Folly is far from useless, nor is not truly uninhabited. For well below the surface, a network of tunnels and chambers comprising the staging area for a Mallrachen operation honeycomb the igneous bedrock. Ultratech submarines regularly ply the waters between this base -- code named "Seabeam" -- and the Mallrachen naval base in the Canal's stretch through Babel. The finest in magical and technological defenses protect Folly, but as yet subtle sabotage has been enough to keep visitors at bay.
The reason for the base and its associated secrecy lies in a large portal beneath the waves, tucked in a valley between two massive reefs off Folly's shore and hovering just a few feet off the bottom like a great purple disk balanced on its edge.
Craft passing through this interface find themselves in the deep purple waters of Gallius VI, a Class 5 planet in a system on the far end of the Andromeda cluster.
In truth, "water" does not accurately describe the liquid that covers the face of this planet beneath a sky dimmed to near-permanent night. The analysis of Mallrachen's finest scientists has been inconclusive to date. What _is_ known is that the waters do support life, and of a very unusual sort.
It was the study of this life form that drew the Mallrachen to this dismal place and led them to build Deep Watch, one of the largest floating cities ever conceived. Purple waves slosh languidly at the metal shore of the vast metal disk surmounted by elegant towers on _both_ sides of its surface, while whirring rotorcraft take advantage of the thick atmosphere to whisk employees across the city and to vessels far out to sea. In sheer size, Deep Watch dwarfs many natural islands.
So large is Deep Watch that it sports a full-scale spaceport at its heart. From there, shuttle craft regularly lift crews to the warp capable exploration vessels awaiting them in orbit. Such craft have visited many other planets in the cluster, some offering valuable resources and a fair percentage supporting life. None yet discovered contain _sentient_ life, however, and certainly nothing even remotely resembling the focus of Operation Harvest Moon: the Gels.
These luminous creatures of baleful orange rise to the upper reaches of the ocean only when the distant Gallian sun dips below the horizon, plunging the violet surface from dark twilight to true star-dappled night. Then they drift up from the eternal darkness by the millions, jellyfish-like beings no bigger than a human head lighting the ocean to such an extent that their nightly rise may be seen from space.
And then, they dance. In impossible unison, the entire species cuts delicate glowing patterns beneath the waves. Mallrachen computers have analyzed these patterns and have concluded that they represent some form of intelligent alphabet. What is being said -- and, more importantly, to _whom_ it is being said -- remains a compelling mystery.
The gels sing as well. Sensitive underwater monitors have picked up their music, like droplets of water lightly playing against a succession of steel drums. This, too, is believed to be a form of intelligent communication, and is just as indecipherable as the Gel's graceful dance.
Attempts have been made to capture Gels for closer study, of course, but this has proven futile: the creatures are remarkably fragile, and any tampering at all with one is instantly fatal, causing it to dissolve into a stinking brownish muck.
None of this explains the Mallrachen's extreme interest in the Gels, however. That interest springs from what has been named the Converging.
With no discernible pattern, the Gels have, at times, not performed their stately dance. Instead, they have merged together into one massive globule many miles across. This globule rises above the waves to hover hundreds of meters in the night sky for several hours like a glowing orange moon -- hence the name of the project to study the creatures -- before settling back beneath the surface and disbanding.
And on every night on which the Converging has taken place, a major new reality has come into phase with Nexus.
*****
The street is dark. The light shed by the streetlights is meagre enough that only a small patch of concrete is illuminated by its efforts. That, blended with the pattering of a rain which hadn't had the grace to lighten for days, makes things downright miserable. This is not a night to be out in the streets of Angel City.
A short figure, hardly three feet tall, makes its leisurely way through the rain, going from one patch of light to the other as it heads down the sidewalk. A heavy trenchcoat and fedora cover it, with the hem of the coat dragging on the wet ground. It seems to be pulling something...or perhaps dragging it...but is more burdened by the soggy brown paper bags in its hands than anything else. It pauses.
This building seems, surprisingly, _less_ remarkable than the already unremarkable abodes which line the street. It leans over the street, as if hoping that by glaring at the pavement, it can keep itself from tumbling down towards it. Its windows are dark, except for the lower panes, which shine with the dull, flickering light of a television. If one listens carefully, a thin sigh can be heard from the figure before it makes its way in the front door.
The door creaks, of course. As do the floorboards, which protest vehemently to the sudden weight. A pause from the other room, where voices could be heard only moments before.
"_Java's back!_" squeals one voice, followed by a moment of silence, and then the thunderous stampede of many tiny feet.
Children of all shapes and sizes sweep into the hallway, taking the corner with surprising ease. Some seem to have spines stuck haphazardly up from their backs, whereas others are so furry that their eyes and other features can hardly be made out. And yet, for all their differences, as one, they pounce upon the suspecting target, who throws her arms wide, letting the paper bags drop, and falls to the floor, effectively overwhelmed.
"Great scaly beasties of the Dominance!" Java cries, whirling to one side as her coat and hat are pulled unceremoniously from her by dozens of little hands. Her scales shine dully even in the dim light, and her long tail reaches up to pluck a particularly outgoing youngster from crawling onto her snout, much to the enjoyment of the little girl.
Another voice can be heard from the other room, grumbling good-naturedly. A red-furred vulpine emerges from the room the children have just vacated, admittedly with less haste. He grins toothily and fans the white-feathered wings which sprout from his back. "Safe and sound, Java, just like I told you. They were finishing their supper, the last time I checked..."
The crystalline dragon takes a measuring look about the room, and suddenly all the children seem to shrink in on themselves.
"And to think I brought all these oranges home just to find out that the children couldn't even get their dinners down," she sighs unhappily, looking down at the paper bags on the floor. Indeed, like a misconstrued cornucopia, the one which had tipped over now has several round oranges falling from its mouth.
Just as quickly as they had come, the children are gone, presumably in search of the dinner table. The winged-fox chuckles and moves to take his hat from the coat rack. "Same time tomorrow, then?" he asks. "You know it's no bother minding the children."
"Sure, Jake," replies Java, moving to open the door for him. They both move with the ease of practice, and soon Jake is padding down the steps, sheltered from the rain only by a rather worn-looking bowler, which is perched rather precariously between his two large ears.
The fox pauses to look back at the building and sighs. The "a" in the sign over the door had fallen again, no doubt into the prickly bushes which line the front of the house. He would have to fix that when it stopped raining. As it was, "The Crystal Dragon's Orph-nage" was busy enough that it would be a feat to find enough time to repair it....
Jake sighs. There were worse things in the world, he supposed.
He passes into the darkness between the streetlights, disappearing into the rainy night.
*****
A few buildings down from St. Jude's, a plain-looking brick building stands alone. The only clue to its identity are the faded words upon its front, "Allerton Park." It's a bit of a hidden perk for those who know of it, a place to visit for meditation or fun or just the experience of a place so unlike the city bustling around the building.
A young man walks in the front door. Inside, a stern young woman sits at a desk, her long green hair floating in the breeze from a nearby fan. Behind her are four doors, colored white, light green, dark green, and orange, respectively.
"Which season, please?" the woman asks. "Spring, if you please, m'am," the youth answers. She steps out from behind the desk and pats the young man down. No incendiary articles, no possible hunting weapons, no insects allowed in the Park. Convinced the young man was clean, the woman led him to the light green door and opened it.
"Enjoy your time in the Park, sir" she says with a smile. "We close at sundown their time, with transport available any time from the visitor center. The emergency phrase for today is 'Niggle's Parrish.' Have fun!" The young man waves as he heads through the door. The green-haired woman smiles again as she sees him head out onto a meadow the size of a medium- sized mall. Very few people had ever used the helpword that would transport them back to the building, mostly those not used to hiking in an prairie/wooded park or who had twisted an appendage on one of the trails. All seemed to be calmer and happier when they came back from the Park. A gift and project in time travel from a wizard to an Illinois prairie nymph, the Park had been providing a quiet bit of nature in the middle of Angel City for years. Any season you wanted of a woodland and prairie wonderland, complete with statues, formal gardens, a river, a Chinese garden, and hiking trails for miles and miles.
Some people had a preference of a season, while others would switch around as time progressed. The Park behind each door each moved a day for every City day. A new season would start after three months, give or take a month depending on how fickle Mother Nature was at that time. So one City year was actually four total years in the Park. It was hard on the accountants but it did help the growth in the Park. One elderly gentleman only visited the Park for Indian Summer, remembering when he had first met his wife.
The young woman sighed and went back to her desk. Another season and it'd be her turn to go and work in the Visitor Center on the other side. She waited for the next person to walk in...
*****
"There's only a few of us who're really whatchoo'd call "regulars" at Callan's - there's me, Lefty, the Apes, The Real Thing, and the Boys Upstairs. 'course the Boys Upstairs spend most of their time in here *upstairs*, but what're you gonna do? Grace used to be in here a lot, 'til she and the Catboy broke up. And The Good Doctor, 'til he passed away.
Damn, but we miss the Doc.
Callan's a collector. Not of anything in particular, just whatever catches his eye. The walls of the place are covered in... stuff. Concert posters, medicine bottles, broken swords, stuffed animals, flags, bumper stickers, bumpers, whatever. Story is that the only reason that this place is called the Blue Boar is because back in the day Callan found the sign on a tavern in some medieval chunk and bought it on the spot.
One of the Apes asked why he had all the junk one time. 'course, even the Apes know better than to call it junk, so he didn't exactly phrase it like that. Callan just gives him one of those long looks like he does, and then says "Never know when I might need it." like its the most obvious reason in the world and goes back to wiping the bar.
The bar. Now that's a hell of a thing. It looks like one of those big rocks you see in those pictures of one of those henges, only its turned sideways and lengthwise, and Callan's had the "top" polished up, and the taps mounted to it. So one day, The Good Doctor gets to looking at the "front", an' he clears his throat and says "Mister Callan, I'm sure you're aware that the reason that this stone is concave and grooved at the edges is because it was a sacrificial altar at one time?"
Callan just gives him one of those long looks like he does, and then nods and says "I expect its better for everybody involved being here where I can keep an eye on it, than being left where I found it,don't you think?" Doc allows how that's probably true, and that's the last anybody's mentioned it since.
So we're sitting there in the Boar one night, not too long after Doc passed away - me and the Apes were playing some penny poker, Lefty was sweeping up, and Callan was fiddling with that old radio he keeps behind the bar. One of the pirate stations had hired an announcer out of Gothic York, and it was a real kick listening him get all Edward R. Murrow about stuff in Angel City.
Anyway, so we're sitting there, and all of the sudden the door gets kicked in. Three wetworkers come busting in, and between the three of them we've got five guns bearing down on the room. The Gorilla's got his back to the door, and I put my hand out to keep him from doing anything stupid and get us all shot. Lefty looks over at Callan, and Callan shoots us all a look, so we chilly down and settle back in our chairs with our hands on the table. This sort've thing doesn't happen often in the Boar, but it happens often enough for me to know that he's hit that switch on the floor with the toe of his shoe.
Turns out the bullyboys are looking for the Boys Upstairs. They'd run across somebody who took offense while they were out good-deeding, and this was that somebody's answer.
Callan takes this all in, and a good deal of cursing besides, from the front man. As far as I could tell, he might've had some talent, but he had more cash, decked out in all the latest FogTech and carrying one of the sweetest high-end gauss weapons I've ever seen. The two guys who came in behind him looked like they really knew what they were doing - quiet, professional, they were just here to get the job done. Plus, they were about a foot taller than anybody else in the room.
The front man, though, he likes to hear himself talk, and once he's done cursing us and the Boys Upstairs out, he pokes that gaussgun in Callan's direction and asks the way to the Upper Room. 'course he doesn't exactly put it like that, but Callan just gives him one of those long looks like he does, and then says "Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave before you disturb my customers any further."
The guy's face turns so red I was sure he was gonna pop a vessel and drop dead right then. He walks that gun over to Callan until its just about touching his forehead and yells "And just who the FUCK do you think you are?!"
Callan doesn't make him wait this time. "They call me L.C. Callan, and this is my bar." He says it matter of fact, just like that.
You can see the wheels working in this guy's head, and then something connects. "I've heard of you... you were a gunfighter or something. Pretty fast, until you retired."
Now the loudmouth may have heard something about Callan, but he hadn't heard enough. The two who had his back, on the other hand - they give each other a look, and then they slip their guns, custom jobs, by the looks of them, back into their coats. They make sort of a half-bow towards Callan, then turn around and head for the door.
Bigmouth is still talking, and the barrel of that gaussgun's starting to droop a little. "Yeah, I heard you lost your nerve... hung up your guns..." Then he sees the backs of his help as they head out of the Boar. And he starts screaming again.
"Where the FUCK do you think you're going?! We've got a FUCKING job to do here!" And then he opens up with the gaussgun towards the door. If I had any doubts as to who were the pros in that bunch, I didn't anymore; even when the Apes and I were turning the table over to get behind, and Lefty was dodging behind one of the big support beams, we could still hear the 'zip' sound of the gun, and the 'fwup' sound of whatever kind of body armor the two had eating the force of the bullets. And the guy keeps screaming "What are you scared of?! The guy's just an old man, for FUCK'S sake!"
Now, let's be fair - Callan's in his forties someplace, and he's got some crows feet, and a few gray hairs in the brown, but he's not an *old* man. And he can be *real* quick when he wants to be. For instance, by the time this guy turns back around to him, he's already strapped on those gunbelts he keeps behind the bar. Leather rigs, holding what folks used to call six-shooters. The guy's raving by this time, and damned if I can make out what he screams at Callan, but Callan just gives him one of those long looks like he does, and then says "Your friends there did the smart thing. I'll give you a couple more seconds to do the smart thing too..."
Bigmouth's mouth just drops open, and just by the way he's tensing up, we all know he's not the type to do the smart thing. But Callan gives him one more shot. "I'm telling you now, son..."
We all know what he's gonna say next, and every one of us mouth Callan's words along with him, like a sacred chant, or maybe like when the crowd chants along with one of those professional wrasslers when he hits his catch-phrase.
"...this is your Last Chance."
The guy's last words are something like, "I'll show you what you can do with your last chance". Sad when that's the best you can do for your last words.
By the time Loudmouth's gun cleared his hip, Callan already had one pistol out and put a bullet through his gunhand. That was when I ducked back behind the table. I heard five more shots - apparently he didn't think Bigmouth was enough of a threat to pull both guns. Then Bigmouth's body hits the floor.
Me and the Apes are just getting back on our feet when the door slams in *again*.
Now, nobody in the place is as fast with a gun as Callan, but this time, all of us fill our hands. The Boys Upstairs rush in from outside - Catboy, Patch, Iron Face, the Mirror Mage - and for a long minute everybody looks down their barrel at everybody else before we all put the hardware away.
The Apes and I start picking up the table and the cards, Patch goes over to talk to Lefty, and Iron Face and the Mage give Bigmouth's corpse a looking over. Catboy slides over to Callan, and tells him they saw the Bullet Brothers coming away from the bar, and heard the gunshots, and does he need any help cleaning up? Callan just gives him one of those long looks like he does, and then says "Nope. Got it all taken care of."
And he did. So if you wanna stop by a good bar with some good brew on tap and a quiet poker game, look for the sign with the Blue Boar on it. If you're looking to raise hell, though, you might wanna remember that the God of Gunfighters only gives you one Last Chance, and he's tending bar.
Oh, yeah, and that switch behind the bar? It doesn't call the cops.
It calls a cleaning service."
*****
I'm always one for a story and walking down the streets of Angel City, you can find the best stories. Stories of loss, disillusionment and some of just plain madness. I collect these stories for my books. I am a third, impartial party that stands between the story teller and the audience.
Today, I was down by the old Toluca St. Bridge in Westlake. I saw a man who looked like he was in his late fifties. He was sitting against the mural called "La Ofrenda" if I remember my murals. I think "Ofrenda" means offering. I may be wrong. Anyway, some of these people need some prodding before they'll give you their story but, this man was different. He just started talking. he knew I wanted his story.
He began.
"*sniff* Sometimes, people throw lil' pieces 'o bread or other small food junk. Not that I ain't thankful but, I don' want they food. I don' want a damn thing. Anyway, I done lived most 'o ma life down undah this here bridge. I ain't always been here though. I used to live way down in that there Angel city. *cough* yeah, used to have me a nice place, used to be a shopkeepah. I used to sell lil' trinkets I made in da back room. *heh*
"Anyways, one day some guy done stomps inta my place like he own it. I go, hey, willya keep it down? He gets this smug look on his face like he ain't got a care in the world. Sheeit. I go, look you gon' have ta be more considerate 'o I'ma haveta throw you outa this joint.
"He slaps some stupid lookin' thing on the countertop. He sez it some sorta magicul talizman 'o some junk like dat. Now, I ain't one to put any sorta confidence in what some asshole say. For me, it take some serious convincin' but, this guy wuz the sort I don't want to be anywhere near. An' the guy offers ta sell me that pile 'o junk. I go, get outa ma store and leave me alone.
"The guy gets this funny look on his face and does this thing where he chew'd on his lower lip. Then he turns around an' just walks away.
"If only I'd known he was a rat. Tha' bastard. *sigh*
"So, I'm closing up shop when, guess what I find? Tha' same stupid talisman! The asshole done left it right near the door. So's I'm thinkin' well, his loss an I pick 'er up. Just then, I get this feelin' in tha back 'o my head like tha lil' hairs are standin' on end. I shrug the feelin' off and put the lil' junk in my jacket pocket.
"I brought it to a frien' of mine who knows about these things an' the guy won't touch the damn thing. He acts like I'm holdin' the freakin' plague! I figger I could see the damn thing to someone but, no one buys 'er. The store 's crowd thins out, next thing I know, I'm evicted. I'm out on my ass with nothin' but the stupid piece 'o junk.
"Now, I'm gettin wise to the whole thin'. I figger the damn thing is some sorta bad luck maker o somethin'. I try, I really do try to get rid of the damn thing. But, every mornin' I'd wake up and it'd be right by ma side.
"I paid my friggen' taxes, I went to church, I was a good guy, I had my whole fricken' life ahead o me. Then this sheeit comes along. It's enough ta make ya spit!
"So, here I am. I figger that howevah the asshole managed to pass the thing on to me will happen again. Then I'll be free 'o this crap. Until then though, I ain't lettin' nothin' worse happen ta me. So, I'm livin' here underneath this bridge. been 'ere fo' 'bout thirty years. an' once I get rid 'a this piece of shit, I'ma crawl back ta where I wuz. you'll see."
I took this as my chance to leave. I had to go home anyway and the man's story was incredibly farfetched. The night had been a waste. as I walked away, I heard screeching as someone crashed into the mural. I turned around to watch the old man slump down. I ran to aid him, to help in some way but, I couldn't. He didn't even fight it. He wanted to die.
As I'm writing this, I can't help but look at the small, wooden object I found on my bed the next morning. I had never touched it. I hadn't even seen it until this morning. But, I know what it is.
Who is a librarian?
No, don't give me names. Give me attributes. Like, meticulous. Organized and an organizer. Educated. A lover of books. A lover of information. Someone who loves to collect. Someone who loves to be complete. A perfectionist.
Unfortunately, every single one of these characteristics describes Mary Bates. Six months ago, she graduated from the local university with honors and a degree in General Literature. The library employed her for work study, so she has experience.
But that doesn't mean she was prepared to take on the Central Library Project.
Steven P. Jorgens, a rich and retired real estate manager and investor, founded and funded the project, but he needed someone with library experience, love, and gusto to put it into effect. The purpose? To collect as much literature and information as possible from all realities Nexus and interconnect them. To be the archivist of the stories of Nexus. Or, at least, the person spearheading the experiment. Jorgens had money, yes, but it has been ages since he had youth and energy to spare.
Mary Bates seemed like the perfect candidate. Experienced, she had a degree, and she certainly gave off energy in her interview. Lots of energy. And she seemed quite capable of working with other people and finding solutions to difficult organizational problems. Mary Bates, to put it plainly, was perfect for the job. Except for one minor detail.
There are certain limits, you see, on just how much a human being is meant to handle. And although Mary Bates is an exceptional example of a human being, she has bitten off much, -much- more than she can chew.
It started out beautifully. She wrote letters to libraries, collectors, publishers, and prominant citizens in as many sectors and realities to which she could deliver messages. She used the funds allocated wisely, accounting in detail for all purchases made, including receipts when possible, saving as much money for her purchases as possible. She was eager, convincing, and tenacious.
Material came flooding in. Some of it came in the form of books, some as data cards, some as vocal vids, some as e-books, some as data tubes, and even some as beads. Mary came to work on the weekend.
Not everything, of course, came with a translation, so in the second week Jorgens hired translaters to do the job for Mary. He hired purchasers and accountants to take care of buying the materials so that Mary would be free to do what he really hired her for. Organize. The mess was nothing without order of some sort, and that required piecing things together, classifying them, numbering them, storing them, and recording their titles, subjects, authors, sources, call numbers, and locations.
Mary worked on the weekend once again. Jorgens hired yet more staff to record the information in the computers. Mary took books home. She watched vids whenever her eyesight got blurry from looking at something too closely for too long. She scanned everything, of course, instead of reading every word, but she still found multiple catagorizations, versions, interpretations... you name it. And she recorded everything she found, every connection, before filing each piece away. Despite the high volume of material, she worked remarkably fast.
It was Jorgens' joy. Mary worked on her task with more energy and accuracy than he could have ever expected, and already he was receiving results through commentary from local libraries, researchers, and educators.
By the second month, Mary was working evenings.
By the third, she left the library only when someone dragged her away to eat.
Now, after half a year, she seems to be determined to be the first person ever known to work herself to death in a library. Her hair already is falling out. Her face is haggard, but beware the person to interrupt her frantic efforts! Beware of trying to take some of her work away from her! She was fanatical and possessive. Her people skills went out the window. And still she worked. And worked. And worked.
Catharine, the assistant librarian, found her asleep over a book, drooling. She shook Mary's shoulder, but the younger--but much more worn--woman didn't respond. She called the ambulance.
Mary slept for a week. When she woke, she was just a bit slower, just a bit unsteadier, just a bit quieter. But every evening, Catharine managed to convince Mary she was tired enough to go home and sleep. And sometimes, just sometimes, a desperate researcher could approach the Librarian and ask for a little help without having his head bitten off.
If it lay anywhere in the library, she -always- knew the answer.
*****
What is a library?
By the end of the second month, people whispered that she knew every inch of the library. Every book, every desk, every stain on the beige carpet. She could navigate through the stacks in complete darkness; the touch of her hands against the cold brushed aluminum of each water fountain was all she needed to know where she was. Yes, they said. Every inch.
They are wrong, of course. She does not know every inch. She has not yet found me.
My name? You want to know?
So do I. I lost it long ago. Probably in one of these books.
The laugh of the old man watching you, hunched over the potted spider plant on one of the lesser-used circulation desks, is like the rustle of thousands of pages; it is the sound, suddenly intensified, of thousands of chewing bookworms.
You feel a chill, pull your thin sweater closer about your shoulders. Glance up past the stack of books you study, scrape your chair across the floor before standing, dial a warmer temperature on the thermostat. It is still no warmer.
When you turn back to your chair, you are only half-surprised to see the man perched on your desk, like a parrot with too-bright, too-old eyes.
What are you reading? Ah, Homer. A fine choice. Fine.
You shoot the man a quick, tight expression that fails to be a smile, and take the book out of his hands. One of his fingers brushes against yours; his skin is frail and soft as the wings of the dying moth you once held when you were four. Why am I thinking about that now? you wonder, and bury yourself in the horse races for Patroclus.
You cannot get over the disquieting realization that there is no one else on this floor of the library.
It is very quiet. So quiet that you can hear the intermittent hum of the fluorescent lights.
On...off. Bzzt. Bzztt...ppft. Pop. Bzzt...zzzz...sssss...ssssss.
The man is breathing in your ear, leaning near and reading over your shoulder.
Perhaps...ssss.....you would like to give me your name? Surely you do not need all the ones you have. He looks at the paper where your neat, clear cursive peeks out from underneath the books like a traitor.
No, you say: go away. Go away. You still do not raise your voice. It is, after all, a library.
If I could, dear reader, I would. And oh, I would. He laughs again: bookworms, and the rattle of the dying.
Like the trumpet of heaven, you hear the soft ding of the elevator across the hall, see the numbers slow, settle to a soft glow marking this floor.
One of the librarians, short and with curly brown hair, gets out and wheels a cart towards the shelves. You have never before been so glad to see anyone so sensible.
He is gone.
Excuse me, Ma'am.
She looks up.
She puts the book, a blue hardbound copy of 'The Wonderful O,' down on the cart. Yes. May I help you?
I'm sorry, but I think I feel a little faint. I've seen something a little stran...you nearly fall, clutching at the metal underside of the bookshelf like a lost lover.
Real concern shows in her face now. Are you alright? You do look a bit peaked, dear. How long have you been studying? Let's take you in the elevator, get you some water.
Okay, you say. You let her lead you by the hand into the elevator. She presses a button, and the doors close. You shut your eyes and grab onto the tiny, useless handrail, trying not to fall over again as you wait for the elevator to move.
Huh, the librarian says. That's odd.
You open your eyes.
There are six buttons on the elevator panel. There are five labeled buttons, and one button that is blank. That's the kind of button they save for new floors enabled by generous endowments, the kind they save for the plan that originally called for another floor, the kind you can press and press and still get nowhere.
The light on the button for floor one, the one that the librarian pressed, flickers and goes out.
The blank button lights up, and the elevator starts slowly downward.
But there's no floor below this one, says the librarian.
The cables of the elevator squeak like breathing.
You turn to the librarian, and ask her name.
*****
Hello! Nice to meet you! How are you? I'm very glad. Yes, I'll be happy to answer that question. I'll tell you the whole story, to fill the time. I know how boring it can be back here with no one to talk to.
Many people believe that they can achieve immortality through books, either by writing them or being written about. Since I'm no writer, I only had the second option. It worked exactly as I must have expected--I died, and people read about me, and my memories survived. And survived.
And revived.
I'm not sure just how it happened. No, I haven't met anyone else who has been revived. Not yet, at any event. All I know is that I was suddenly looking at somebody's nose. I remember it was big, red, and snotty. The crooked bump halfway down suggested a rough fight at some point at least a few years ago, although it is possible to simply be born with a crooked nose. Oh yes, and there were eyes, too, sweeping back and forth, examining my face. I was about ready to ask him what he expected to find--after I finished winning the staring contest, of course. I wondered whether he even recognized who he was looking at. I knew I was famous enough.
Then he turned the page.
That was the WEIRDEST thing I've ever known. It's like someone grabbing your nose and ripping it across your face, except your face doesn't move.
Yes, my dear sirs, it -hurt-.
At least, I think it did, because that's when I fell out of the back of the book. Now -that- was weird. Like having a vacuum cleaner suck out your innards through your spine. Hehehe, it tickled, too. Don't you know what a vacuum cleaner is? You should get around more often. The Encyclopedias are two floors down. Most helpful.
Of course, whenever you fall, you expect to hit the floor. Especially when you see it there beneath you. I, unfortunately, didn't. I managed to stop halfway through the ceiling of the floor below and swim my way up. What? I don't know, I'm not a ghost. But -I- have to swim to get around, yes. Hmm? No, it's not tiring. Do you -see- any muscles? That's right, just paper. Now shut up and let me get back to my story.
Books these days.
So once I got over -that- shock, I looked around. I was in a library. This library. No, back then the D's were sorted on the second floor. May I continue? Thank you. I looked around for a while. The guy with the cold was reading a pretty old ragged book titled "The Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle." It was big and heavy. Do I -look- big and heavy? Stop interrupting, then.
I guessed that the book had been here only a few days since I probably would have fallen out sooner otherwise. It's a popular book, after all. And the library was pretty young--two months old, I'd say--because most of the shelf space was empty and there were boxes piled in the corners. I saw a lady in a short skirt (fashions certainly are different these days) putting books from a cart onto the shelves, so I knew the library wasn't closing.
Then, the reader shut the book and I went blind. It took me three days--three days!--to figure out how to see without someone having to actually open my book. Obviously I'm linked to that book in some way--I imagine that after Sir Arthur recorded my life stories in that tome, I was somehow ressurected. Then there's the fact that I only remember the portions of my life actually described in the book. I mean, I remember shocking Watson with my triumphant return when he thought I had died--that was unforgettable!--, but I only have sketchy glimpses at the years between my encounter with Moriarty and my return. Too bad Sir Arthur didn't record it; I would really like to have all of my memories.
Do any of you happen to know more about my life than Sir Arthur wrote? No? Anyone have mysteries for me to solve? Or snuff, or tobacco? I know it's a library, but.... So sorry. Please let me know if someone comes along who does. Especially if they know more about me. I'm strongly curious, and you know how curious minds hunger for food. Be sure to remember his number, if someone of that description shows up.
Let's see.... No, I'm sorry, I can't bring you with me, I don't know how to move anyone else. I have tried. As far as I know, I can only talk to a select few, and they seem to fall right back asleep when I leave. I expect you will, too. Thank you. Sleep well!
And I thought libraries had all the answers. Now, SR 702.847.9-702.849.2. Hello! Nice to meet you! How are you? I'm so sorry, it must be dustier under the air conditioning vent. Ah yes, just the question I wanted to answer. Forgive me if I tell the long story rather than the short. I know how boring it can be back here with no one to talk to.
Many people believe that they can achieve immortality through books....
Geneva refrained from scowling at the young man's back as he walked away. Geneva prided herself on her restraint. The book he had returned (late, of course) was still in her hands. The young man's notable lack of any show of regret was mildly galling. But Geneva had seen him many times and had reason to hope she would get another chance to practice restraint with this particular patron. She looked forward to it with arch coolness.
The book in her hands (a paperback, of course) also mildly galled. This library's all-embracing tolerance for media of every sort ran counter to Geneva's taste. At least this paperback was of that well-made variety produced for academics who needed sturdy, classic materials in the least expensive form.
_The_Dead_and_Other_Short_Stories_by_James_Joyce_ "Not bad," Geneva murmured with a virtuous sense of concession to the young patron's taste. Then again, she thought, he had probably taken the book on assignment from someone else. Joyce is notorious for being complex, even obscure.
She thumbed through the book looking for repairable damage such as pencilled notations or old receipts employed as bookmarks. None. Good, she thought. But in truth, she was a little disappointed. Her eyes fell on the printed word.
Page 161, A Painful Case:
...He took the remark as an invitation to talk.
He was surprised that she seemed so little awkward.
While they talked he tried to fix her permanently in
his memory...
Meeting her a third time by accident he found courage
to make an appointment. She came. This was the first
of many meetings; they met always in the evening and
chose the most quiet quarters for their walks together...
Little by little he entangled his thoughts with hers.
He lent her books, provided her with ideas, shared his
intellectual life with her. She listened to all...
Fascinating, Geneva thought. The riches of this story, in this cheezy paperback form, in the hands of the careless young man who had handed it to her, all struck Geneva as wonderfully ironic.
... He wrote seldom in the sheaf of papers which lay
in his desk. One of his sentences, written two months
after his last interview with Mrs. Sinico, read: Love
between man and man is impossible because there must
not be sexual intercourse and friendship between man
and woman is impossible because there must be sexual
intercourse...
Geneva shook her head. Irish. Suddenly, at the feeling of breath against her ear, she jerked herself from her reverie.
"Good story, huh?" the young man grinned.
"James Joyce," Geneva said tersely. What did he expect?
"Yeah? Whatever her name is, she's a good storyteller."
"What," Geneva said, regaining her sense of balance, "may I do for you?"
"Well, I thought maybe I had left my notebook here. But ya know, to be honest, I been wantin to talk to you for a while." He smiled and shrugged lamely.
"Lost and Found is maintained by the janitorial staff. Their office is on Subfloor 1."
Her tone of dismissal had its intended effect.
"Right," the man said, "Nevermind." And he walked out the door. Whistling. Out loud.
Geneva scowled.
It's dark under the awning, but the pre-dawn light seeps in, and the noise level picks up a little as the birds wake and delivery people begin their rounds. Amber-brown eyes blink once and then remain open. She yawns, sits up and stretches, quietly rustling the pinestraw and bits of torn newspaper that make up most of her nest. She glides neatly down to the pavement and strolls around the corner to the back door. She jumps onto the window ledge. It is dark and quiet inside. She wraps her tail neatly around her legs and waits.
A few minutes pass before the familiar gray bicycle comes into view. It pulls up near the back door. The rider, a tall young man, locks his bike to the rack and smiles at her. "Hello, princess. I'll be with you in just a minute." He unlocks the door, flips the lights on, and takes the milk bottles and other deliveries indoors. Soft clinks, dings and clatters can be heard. The man reappears shortly, now wearing an apron that he didn't have on before. He carefully sets a saucer of warmed milk on the window ledge. "There you go." He watches her lap up the milk for a moment before returning inside.
She is just finishing the last drops when a heavyset woman approaches. On seeing her, the woman stops at the window. She backs away from the empty saucer, and the woman picks it up and takes it inside with her. She hops down from the window and takes off into the air.
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