The Library of Antiquities
He’s sitting at the desk, staring out at the stark lines of the landscape through the window, wishing it were strange to him, that something different would happen today. The sky is the same flat dull silver, the ground the same dusty blue. There is very little vegetation on Semavall, but he keeps a cutting of a droshi plant on his desk, as a reminder of what it’s like out there. Out there. Outside the library grounds.
He’s counting the tickets he keeps in the drawer, seven colors for the seven different collections. Same as it was yesterday and the day before. They’re not labeled or anything, but it would be pretty hard to mess it up. The doors are all color coded, after all. He wonders sometimes if he’s over qualified for this job. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He’s never handed out a ticket; all the stacks line up neatly one with another along the side of the drawer. All the visitors who have ever come to the Library of Antiquities have their own passes, authorized access to all areas. He locks the drawer with the key he keeps in his pocket.
He’s walking through the blue collection, on what he thinks of as his daily rounds. Most of the items don’t require any real care or maintenance - even dust avoids this place - but it makes him feel better to move through the whole place. Once he caught an intruder, he recalls. Hauled the miscreant through the halls by his jacket and tossed him out into the dust, just like that. The nerve. He was extra vigilant for a time after that. Now, the silent whispers of the orphaned books keep him company.
He’s reading The Demiurge Letters again, with a little smile on his face. Of course the context - or lack of it, rather - is interesting, too, but really he just likes to read the strange one-sided dialog, to imagine what or who might have penned the letters, and why. Questions eternally without answers. That’s rather the point. He folds them gently and replaces them in the dented tin box on the pedestal, gives the plaque a little shine with his sleeve and moves along. The halls seem to go on forever.
He’s eating his dinner, frowning down into the bowl. It’s all part of the benefits package. Meals, lodging, good pay. It’s a good job. It’s so quiet here, though. He feels stranded on this strange world - how long has he been here and yet it still seems strange? - among all these strange things. Things without origin. He wonders sometimes if even the food is part of the collection. Everything else on the grounds seems to be, even if it’s not neatly labeled or displayed. From his point of view it’s certainly without origin. It’s not as though the natives bring supply drops or anything. The food is just there, in the cupboard, when he goes to eat dinner. Sometimes it strikes him as odd. He takes another bite and resolves to leave soon. The pay may be good, but this place is getting to him.
He’s staring down into the crate, hands on his hips, wondering if he should just leave the stack of round stone discs here in the jumbled chaos of the sorting room. This particular shipment didn’t come with verified research notes, or even a color coding for what section these things should be in. It’s really quite frustrating. He doesn’t see how it should be possible for so many things to be stranded in time, without beginnings that can be divined through any means, especially when there are so many means available. Still, the boxes come frequently, appearing in the sorting room - but only when he isn’t looking. Most of them have research notes attached, sometimes a pithy little summary of what isn’t known. He takes them to their sections, displays them nicely. It’s all in the job description. He muses that maybe it’s because time keeps going forward, and so there’s always more of it to be lost behind us. He shakes his head. That may be the case, but he still doesn’t have a place for these rocks.
He’s laying in his narrow bed, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the press of so much time all around him, seeping through the walls, settling onto his skin like snow. Is it even fair to say these things are old, though? Yes, yes it is, for most of them. Older than anything, it seems. Others are just sort of strange. He wonders if he ought to feel old, or just sort of strange. He’s trying to remember something. He can remember his first day on the job, certainly. He has the vague idea that someone told him to come here, that there was good work available. He remembers reading the training material, walking around the green collection with the old Librarian. Nice guy, he was. Kind of odd. But what about before?
He’s explaining to one of the visitors that ‘access to all areas’ does not include the sorting room. If he wants to see the new items in the collections, he’ll have to come back at some future date. It’s for employees only. Feeling frustrated at the way the stubborn fellow won’t take ‘no’ for an answer, he asks him if he’d like to become an employee of the library, if he’s so interested in what goes on in the private areas. The man declines, politely but forcefully, and leaves very soon after that. He stands in front of the sorting room for a long time, tapping one foot, quelling his anger. Thinking. Why didn’t he want to be an employee? Being the Librarian was a good job. It was.
He’s playing with the bell he keeps on his desk, turning it over in his hands, rubbing his fingertips along the curved metal and wood. The clapper looks like it’s made of glass, or perhaps cut crystal. This, too, is a part of his little rituals. Before he goes on his rounds, he picks up the bell, turns it over and over in his hands while he thinks about what path he’ll take through the halls and rooms and stacks. Eventually he’ll place it squarely in the middle of the desk, in front of the white handwritten note that reads ‘ring for service’ in Symbolic Alactar. It always surprises him to hear the bell, its sweet clear tone ringing like a ray of sunlight through the silence. He can hear it anywhere in the Library, but it doesn’t ring very often. He wonders why it is that visitors seem more likely to show up when he’s on his rounds. He computed it once on a sheet of paper, long ago, the frequency of this versus that. He lost the paper, though, and he can’t remember any more how many people have come, and when. It’s always such a thrill, hearing the bell. It wouldn’t feel right to ring it himself, though. He sets it down, goes about his business.
He’s standing, arms outstretched, turning slowly while the music flows around him. The auditory galleries usually make him melancholy. Strange sounds or broken fragments of what might have once been music echoing through the halls. There’s one item in the collection, a strangely plaintive woman’s voice desperately whispering… he doesn’t like to think about that one. This particular song, though, is different. It is so odd, so distinct and strange, that he’s caught up in its curious twists and turns and sounds. He wonders at times like this what it must be like to find such a thing in the wild, a bit of song, a snatch of sound, a creation alienated from any creator. He wonders what most people would think, coming upon a sourceless sound like that. The rhythms settle into a slow but complicated beat and he adds his footsteps to it, leaving the room to visit another.
He’s blinking against the light, looking out the window. There’s a man on the Library Grounds, about halfway to the door now. He only just now spotted him against the horizon, lost in his own thoughts. Curiosity is etched deeply into every line of his face. He’s carrying a little potted droshi plant in one hand, walking slowly, sizing things up. Their eyes lock through the glass, for just a moment, and then he looks away. He looks vaguely familiar. He stands up, fetches the reference material for new hires from the locked drawer. Puts the key on the desk. It is time.
“Hello. I’m here about the job…”
He’s counting the tickets he keeps in the drawer, seven colors for the seven different collections. Same as it was yesterday and the day before. They’re not labeled or anything, but it would be pretty hard to mess it up. The doors are all color coded, after all. He wonders sometimes if he’s over qualified for this job. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He’s never handed out a ticket; all the stacks line up neatly one with another along the side of the drawer. All the visitors who have ever come to the Library of Antiquities have their own passes, authorized access to all areas. He locks the drawer with the key he keeps in his pocket.
He’s walking through the blue collection, on what he thinks of as his daily rounds. Most of the items don’t require any real care or maintenance - even dust avoids this place - but it makes him feel better to move through the whole place. Once he caught an intruder, he recalls. Hauled the miscreant through the halls by his jacket and tossed him out into the dust, just like that. The nerve. He was extra vigilant for a time after that. Now, the silent whispers of the orphaned books keep him company.
He’s reading The Demiurge Letters again, with a little smile on his face. Of course the context - or lack of it, rather - is interesting, too, but really he just likes to read the strange one-sided dialog, to imagine what or who might have penned the letters, and why. Questions eternally without answers. That’s rather the point. He folds them gently and replaces them in the dented tin box on the pedestal, gives the plaque a little shine with his sleeve and moves along. The halls seem to go on forever.
He’s eating his dinner, frowning down into the bowl. It’s all part of the benefits package. Meals, lodging, good pay. It’s a good job. It’s so quiet here, though. He feels stranded on this strange world - how long has he been here and yet it still seems strange? - among all these strange things. Things without origin. He wonders sometimes if even the food is part of the collection. Everything else on the grounds seems to be, even if it’s not neatly labeled or displayed. From his point of view it’s certainly without origin. It’s not as though the natives bring supply drops or anything. The food is just there, in the cupboard, when he goes to eat dinner. Sometimes it strikes him as odd. He takes another bite and resolves to leave soon. The pay may be good, but this place is getting to him.
He’s staring down into the crate, hands on his hips, wondering if he should just leave the stack of round stone discs here in the jumbled chaos of the sorting room. This particular shipment didn’t come with verified research notes, or even a color coding for what section these things should be in. It’s really quite frustrating. He doesn’t see how it should be possible for so many things to be stranded in time, without beginnings that can be divined through any means, especially when there are so many means available. Still, the boxes come frequently, appearing in the sorting room - but only when he isn’t looking. Most of them have research notes attached, sometimes a pithy little summary of what isn’t known. He takes them to their sections, displays them nicely. It’s all in the job description. He muses that maybe it’s because time keeps going forward, and so there’s always more of it to be lost behind us. He shakes his head. That may be the case, but he still doesn’t have a place for these rocks.
He’s laying in his narrow bed, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the press of so much time all around him, seeping through the walls, settling onto his skin like snow. Is it even fair to say these things are old, though? Yes, yes it is, for most of them. Older than anything, it seems. Others are just sort of strange. He wonders if he ought to feel old, or just sort of strange. He’s trying to remember something. He can remember his first day on the job, certainly. He has the vague idea that someone told him to come here, that there was good work available. He remembers reading the training material, walking around the green collection with the old Librarian. Nice guy, he was. Kind of odd. But what about before?
He’s explaining to one of the visitors that ‘access to all areas’ does not include the sorting room. If he wants to see the new items in the collections, he’ll have to come back at some future date. It’s for employees only. Feeling frustrated at the way the stubborn fellow won’t take ‘no’ for an answer, he asks him if he’d like to become an employee of the library, if he’s so interested in what goes on in the private areas. The man declines, politely but forcefully, and leaves very soon after that. He stands in front of the sorting room for a long time, tapping one foot, quelling his anger. Thinking. Why didn’t he want to be an employee? Being the Librarian was a good job. It was.
He’s playing with the bell he keeps on his desk, turning it over in his hands, rubbing his fingertips along the curved metal and wood. The clapper looks like it’s made of glass, or perhaps cut crystal. This, too, is a part of his little rituals. Before he goes on his rounds, he picks up the bell, turns it over and over in his hands while he thinks about what path he’ll take through the halls and rooms and stacks. Eventually he’ll place it squarely in the middle of the desk, in front of the white handwritten note that reads ‘ring for service’ in Symbolic Alactar. It always surprises him to hear the bell, its sweet clear tone ringing like a ray of sunlight through the silence. He can hear it anywhere in the Library, but it doesn’t ring very often. He wonders why it is that visitors seem more likely to show up when he’s on his rounds. He computed it once on a sheet of paper, long ago, the frequency of this versus that. He lost the paper, though, and he can’t remember any more how many people have come, and when. It’s always such a thrill, hearing the bell. It wouldn’t feel right to ring it himself, though. He sets it down, goes about his business.
He’s standing, arms outstretched, turning slowly while the music flows around him. The auditory galleries usually make him melancholy. Strange sounds or broken fragments of what might have once been music echoing through the halls. There’s one item in the collection, a strangely plaintive woman’s voice desperately whispering… he doesn’t like to think about that one. This particular song, though, is different. It is so odd, so distinct and strange, that he’s caught up in its curious twists and turns and sounds. He wonders at times like this what it must be like to find such a thing in the wild, a bit of song, a snatch of sound, a creation alienated from any creator. He wonders what most people would think, coming upon a sourceless sound like that. The rhythms settle into a slow but complicated beat and he adds his footsteps to it, leaving the room to visit another.
He’s blinking against the light, looking out the window. There’s a man on the Library Grounds, about halfway to the door now. He only just now spotted him against the horizon, lost in his own thoughts. Curiosity is etched deeply into every line of his face. He’s carrying a little potted droshi plant in one hand, walking slowly, sizing things up. Their eyes lock through the glass, for just a moment, and then he looks away. He looks vaguely familiar. He stands up, fetches the reference material for new hires from the locked drawer. Puts the key on the desk. It is time.
“Hello. I’m here about the job…”