contest!
Word Count: 4446
It's about an Indiana Jones style librarian. Puns happen.
SWEETHEART SOUTH: SCOURGE OF THE STACKS
Once upon a time there was a little girl whose parents loved her so much they named her Sweetheart. In direct retaliation, she became a librarian. A smart girl with an ear for unnecessary noises and hair that was made to go up in a bun, she quickly learned the Dewey Decimal System and began to move up the library ranks. By the time she was twenty, Sweetheart had become the youngest head librarian ever recorded. She wasn't Sweetheart anymore, though. Everyone called her Ms South.
One fateful day, a child asked her for a book. It's hardly important what book it was. The only thing that matters is that Ms South stood up, closed her eyes, walked directly to a shelf, and pulled the book out. The child's eyes went wide. Ms South was mistress of her library. She knew its secrets and its hiding places. The very next day, the Pagens came for her.
Ms South was sitting at her desk, sorting through a pile of newly-returned books, when a shadow fell over her. She looked up, fixing the owner of the shadow with an icy stare through her glasses. "May I help you?" She was surprised to find herself looking at a tall, thin, and extremely pale man. He wore a dark velvet cloak that muffled the sound of his footsteps, and he too wore thin, silver glasses. His stare was enough to make Ms South feel as if she had something overdue. She didn't show her discomfort, although it was a near thing. The only sign of weakness she gave was a subtle curling of her fingers around a large rubber date stamp. "Yes?" she said, a little more politely.
"Ms South?" the man enquired.
"That's me, yes."
He looked her over -- the smooth, wavy, shining brown hair tied aggressively back into a bun; the full, red lips compressed into a strict line; the thin, lovely body oppressed by force of turtleneck. "You're young."
Ms South, who hated to be reminded of this, gripped the stamp a little more tightly. "I work hard. Sir."
"I expect you do," he said. "And some young blood may do us good. I have come to collect you."
"I'm sorry, but who are you?"
The man deposited a large, black, leather-bound book on her desk. "I am a Pagen. This should explain everything." His hands looked wrong, shiny and reddened. The book was ancient and untitled. It had no decimal number on the side. Ms South's fingers itched to check it in, but she wasn't really sure how she would go about it. It really belonged in a case, or a rare book room. Somewhere far away from sweaty fingers and soda cans.
"Read it," the man said. "I'll be here to pick you up tomorrow, if you decide to come."
Ms South nodded automatically and opened the book. She scanned the first page, then looked up. "Is this some sort of -- "
But the man was gone. Ms South, who could not stop being a librarian, waited for a few minutes, then began to read the book. In neat, precise handwriting, so old it appeared to have been done by quill, the first page said:
A HISTORY OF THE PAGENS
It was some sort of living document, Ms South decided. The handwriting changed every few pages, as though a new writer were taking over. All were neat, legible, and careful -- the writing of librarians. And the dates ranged from the eighteen hundreds to the stamped-on ones of present day. A two-hundred year old secret society of librarians? Ms South could hardly believe it, but neither could she stop reading.
… A newly-indoctrinated Pagen will be shown our ways, given a mentor, and, after completing training, take on a mission of his or her own…
Ms South didn't know what to think. The first chapter of the book was all she managed to read, what with her busy day at work, and when she got home she was entirely exhausted. She stepped carefully over one of the piles of books on her floor -- she'd run out of shelf space earlier that year -- and got into bed, the black book left sitting on her dining room table.
The next day found Ms South seated at the reference desk, a carefully packed suitcase nestled under her chair. When, at three o'clock, she turned around to find the man in the velvet cloak -- the Pagen, she corrected herself -- behind her, she was hardly surprised.
"I see you've decided to come with us," he said.
Ms South folded her arms in front of her. "I have some questions first." When he raised an eyebrow, she continued, "What's going to happen to my library?"
"One of your employees will take care of it. If none of them can be trusted, one of our clerks will be sent for."
"And if I don't trust your clerks?"
"We don't need you," the man said severely. "This is an offer. One very few people get."
Ms South stroked the spine of one of the books in front of her as she thought. "Where will I be going?"
"Between the stacks. I couldn't show you on a map."
She had no idea what that meant, but it was never good form to show that. Between the stacks? She was having a hard enough time believing in the Pagens. But she'd known that book was real, in the way only people who love books can know, she was sure it wasn't a trick. She felt it in her fingertips. "And the job is…?"
The man sighed heavily and adjusted his glasses. They glinted formidably. Ms South was impressed. "You're inquisitive. Unfortunately, it's a trait we look for. You'll be working with books. As an apprentice in our library, and later in the field."
"In the field?"
He rested against the reference desk. For the first time he lowered his glasses, and Ms South saw that he had tired, old eyes. She also finally recognized the reddened skin on his hands for what it was -- old burn scars. "We are librarians, Ms South, and you must know we have our enemies. There are certain things that would, to us, be unconscionable, but to other people are all too easy. Working in the field, you will put yourself in great danger, but you may reap great rewards. Not just for yourself, but for history. For your library, Miss."
Ms South squared her jaw, tightened her bun, and nodded. They left almost immediately, right after Ms South put one of her more promising assistants in charge. She wasn't going to leave her library to some clerk who knew nothing about it. They went down two aisles of technical books, past cooking, past geography, dictionaries, fiction, and straight into fantasy. The man -- Ms South stopped abruptly in her tracks. "Hold on."
"If we stop, we'll have a hard time getting there," he warned her.
"What's your name?"
He laughed in a quick, surprised way. "I'm sorry. I'm Mr Alexander."
"It's nice to meet you," Ms South said, mollified, and they walked on. The books, Ms South knew, weren't hers any longer. She knew her library, and these tall, narrow shelves didn't belong to her. The books here were old. Many were water- and sun- damaged. The smell of old books wafted around her, and she inhaled deeply through her nose. Mr Alexander smiled almost imperceptibly. They kept walking. She saw short, squat shelves groaning under the weight of their books, glass-fronted shelves with pristine classics collections inside, shelves made of concrete blocks and wooden beams. One shelf was nothing but colorful paperback romances, all apparently bought at the supermarket check-out. The thing that made them all similar was the feeling of them. These weren't collections or displays. These were like her library. Someone loved them.
"We're here," Mr Alexander said. He led her around a corner and into a row of massive black bookcases. The library they entered was beautiful. It spiraled downwards on a gentle slope, a bit like a shell. The floor was one long ramp, lined along one side with bookcases and with a rail on the other. There were rolling ladders scattered along the length of the ramp -- the bookcases were very tall -- with locking mechanisms to keep them from sliding downwards while someone was climbing. It seemed to go on forever. Hanging lamps lit up every few feet, but most of the light was currently coming from the huge, circular skylight that made up the top of the room. Because the ramp spiraled inwards as well as downwards, all of the ramp got the same amount of light, but the books themselves were protected from the sun by the overhang of each ramp.
The ramp was littered with Pagens, ranging from apprentices to masters. Some wore the dark velvet robes that Mr Alexander had on. All of those were headed the same way -- down the spiral. The two of them started to go downwards. As they walked and the turns of the ramp became tighter and closer together, the books began to look older. There were differences in the bindings, too -- One of the books was bound in something leathery that Ms South tried not to look at. Some were buckled shut. As they went further down, she saw books with rings set into the bindings chained to the shelves.
Ms South's fingertips itched. She would have done almost anything to get her hands on one of those strapped-shut books, or any of the ones chained down, but Mr Alexander just kept walking.
"The Restricted Section?" she said irritably.
"You are young, aren't you," Mr Alexander marveled. Ms South gritted her teeth and turned slightly pink, but he continued on as if he hadn't noticed. "They aren't restricted. Who would restrict books? No, if you can open these, if you can understand them, you're more than welcome to read them."
They arrived at a large door. "These are the elder Pagens," Mr Alexander said without prompting. "The Head Librarians here. You'll appear before them briefly, then be introduced to your mentor."
"All right," Ms South said. She adjusted her bun and polished her glasses, straightened her turtleneck and pencil skirt, and tried to subtly make sure that her pantihose were even. Deciding she was presentable, because a good Head Librarian never backs down, she went into the chamber.
She was quickly reminded that here. she wasn't Head Librarian. She was just a novice compared to these Pagens. They sat at the top of a tall, spindly desk, three of them lined up in a row. There were two women and one man. All of them were old -- ancient -- and as severe-looking as librarians can be. These were people to be feared and respected. These were people who would not tolerate whispering or the crinkling of chips packages. They were true Head Librarians. She had no doubt they could find any book in this library without a second thought. As she entered, the three of them as one fixed her with a stare.
"Don't interrupt," the woman on the end, who had a tweed jacket and glasses on a beaded chain, admonished her. Ms South felt suddenly that her pantihose could not possibly be in proper order, and also that her glasses had most likely smudged in the last three seconds. She was fidgeting anxiously when Mr Alexander put a hand on her shoulder.
"Don't let them get to you," he whispered.
"No whispering during report time," the middle librarian, who was balding and mustachioed, commanded. Mr Alexander chuckled very quietly under his breath. Ms South had to fight the urge to tell him to hush up.
The people before them were some young Pagens, back from a mission. As Ms South watched, they finished giving their report and saluted.
"Thank you. That will be all. Ms South?"
Three sets of eyes, magnified by three sets of glasses, fixed suddenly on her.
"She's very young," said the third Head Librarian.
"I'm right here," Ms South said.
"You're very young," she repeated. She was a short, plump woman with cat hair on her grey jacket. Her hair, blonde fading to white, was surprisingly long. She had left it down, and it went down beyond the desk, past where Ms South could see. "Are you certain you're a Head Librarian, dear?"
"Yes, I'm certain," Ms South seethed underneath her fear. Who did these people think they were? They had no right to look at her like that -- she'd never returned a book late in her life.
The first Head Librarian nodded approvingly. "She certainly looks like a librarian. I'll approve it."
"I don't think I can agree," the last one said, with a little smile that made Ms South want to fine her. "It's a dangerous job. Underneath those glasses, how old are you? Still a teenager?"
"I'm twenty," Ms South muttered.
"I can't possibly approve it," the librarian with the long hair said, and settled back in her chair. Now there was one person left to decide if she'd become a Pagen or not, and Ms South's neck was starting to get a crick in it from all the looking upwards. The man in the middle of the desk wrinkled his nose.
"Such a young girl to be a Head Librarian -- it's practically unheard of. But the circumstances, we must agree -- I approve it. As long as she's put on probation." The excitement that had been filling Ms South's head over being able to live here and access the wonderful library drained quickly away, leaving her chilly and small. She shoved those feelings aside and called up one that suited her better: Indignation.
"Probation?" She planted her feet apart and glared through her glasses. "I haven't done anything to -- "
"Precisely," the third librarian, whose hair Ms South's hands were itching to pull, said. "You've done nothing. If she is really to become a Pagen, she should be apprenticed to someone who can take care of her. Those are my terms."
The other two nodded, although the strict-looking woman in the tweed winked at Ms South. Then the doors behind her opened again and Mr Alexander pulled her out. "Well done," he said. "Come on, I'll show you to your room."
"What was all that talk about my mentor?" Ms South asked.
"You'll be apprenticed to someone, of course. I don't think Ms Freed took to you. Mind, she doesn't take to many people. You should watch out, though."
"For what?" Ms South rolled her eyes and wished she hadn't -- it was a habit she despised in other people. "She can't hurt me." There was a question mark tacked subtly to the end of that sentence.
"She can give you a mentor you won't like. Someone who will keep you safe but could easily make you quit." Mr Alexander stopped in front of a black door with the number 856 on it. They were between two shelves, high up the spiral. There was another door every fifth shelf.
"I don't mean to quit," Ms South said, taking the little bronze key he offered her and opening the door. "This place is -- "
"It's really rather wonderful," Mr Alexander agreed quietly. "Well. I hope you can keep that resolve."
She turned to tell him precisely how much resolve she had, but he had left while she wasn't looking. He had a habit of doing that, and it was annoying her more and more with every time. She checked that he'd locked the door behind him -- he had -- and sat down on the small bed on one side of the room. It was a nice room, really. She seemed to be behind the five shelves of books to the left of the door. The room had a flat floor, thankfully -- as wonderful as the library was, she wouldn't want to sleep in there -- and a large window on the wall opposite the door. There was a wooden desk directly across from her bed, as well as two small bookshelves, one marked NEW and the other RETURNS. The blue rug on the light wooden floor matched her bedspread. the ceiling was white. It wasn't a bad room, she thought, at least as dorms went, and at least it was clean. It smelled pleasantly of library.
When did they eat? Where did they eat? Ms South found herself wishing Mr Alexander had stayed around just a bit longer. She decided it'd be best to walk around for a while and get the lay of the land. As she went down a hall, entirely minding her own business, a warm, husky voice said, "Hey -- fresh meat." Ms South turned to see a woman with black hair up in a sloppy bun and narrow, obviously plastic glasses. The top button of her dress shirt was extremely undone, and her high heels were a little more elevated than Ms South thought could be really practical. The woman flashed white teeth at her in a friendly smile. When she spoke, Ms South thought she saw the glint of something metallic. She didn't immediately think "tongue ring". but it was only because she worked very hard not to.
"I'm Mary," the woman said. "Although most people just call me ma'am."
"I didn't think there was anyone close to my age here," Ms South said. Mary looked just a little older than her.
"Nobody cares about my age. They've got better things to get all bent out of shape about," Mary said.
"I can't imagine why," Ms South said delicately.
"You don't seem all that young."
"Thank you," Ms South patted her bun.
"That's not I meant," Mary said, "But different strokes, you know. Want to go get lunch with me?"
Ms South consented quickly, glad she wouldn't have to admit she didn't know where the lunch room was.
The lunch room turned out to be more of a dining hall, in keeping without he grand presentation of the library. Mary informed Ms South that the look of the place said virtually nothing about the food. "I've eaten better in middle school cafeterias. The apples are good, though."
"The apples?"
"Yeah, there's an apple orchard outside. On the roof. Fruit of knowledge, you know?" Mary winked at her. "And Eve was the original temptress."
They sat down at a small wooden table, their plates loaded with pasta, tea, and an apple each. Ms South picked her way through her overcooked spaghetti, staring critically at each strand. Mary undermined all of her previous complaints by eating her own in a matter of minutes. She was just fitting into her apple -- Ms South was halfway through her pasta -- when she stood up abruptly and began to wave at someone across the room. She bounced slightly on her toes as she waved. Two male librarians dropped their trays. The ensuing clatter was finally enough to get the attention of the woman Maery was waving at. She didn't really look like a librarian. Mary looked libber a librarian, or at least a certain version of one. This woman was tall, willowy, and tanned in that way that gardeners are tanned. She drifted over to the table. Her long, reddish hair was loose and gently corkscrewed erat the ends. She ha cloudy green eyes and wore jewelry to complement them, sea-glass-green necklaces and bracelets. Her tanktop was loose and her long, dyed skirt swished around her ankles. She sat down and smiled vaguely in Ms South's direction. "Hello."
"This is Gabrielle," Mary said. "Kind of like the archangel."
"You're new here,' Gabrielle said.
"Gabrielle is forty, but she's really cool," Mary explained.
"I'm Mary's mentor." Gabrielle took a napkin out, spread it on the table, and began to cut up her apple. "Who's your mentor? What's your name, for that matter?"
"I'm Ms South."
Gabrielle nodded slowly, cutting her apple into eighths and coring each piece neatly. "I never liked calling everyone Miss This and Mr That. I would much rather everyone call me by my given name. And your given name is?"
Ms South bit the inside of her mouth very hard. "I'm sorry. I'd rather be called Ms South, really."
Gabrielle did not seem to care very much either way. She cut the apple eighths into smaller pieces, dipped them in honey, and popped them into her mouth one by one. "Who's your mentor?"
"I don't know yet," Ms South admitted. "I went up before the heads and they didn't tell me. Mr Alexander didn't say anything, either, except that it wouldn't be easy."
"They'll be giving you someone nasty." Gabrielle licked honey off the tip of one of her fingers. "I just barely got Mary, you know. They don't like innovation, places like this. We hold very tight to history."
"Who do you think I'll be apprenticed to?" Ms South asked, trying not to make it obvious that she really meant, "How bad could it possibly be?"
"Mr Raleigh, I expect," Gabrielle said. "He hasn't had an apprentice in quite some time." Mary grimaced sympathetically at her. Ms South remained skeptical.
"He's not really as bad as all that, is he? I'm sure we'll get along." But there was a feeling in the pit of her stomach that said otherwise.
"If you say so," Mary said doubtfully. "You act pretty... mature. He could like you."
"Todd doesn't like anyone," Gabrielle said placidly. "I'm sorry, dear, I'm sure you're very nice, but it's just the truth. That man is very full of hate."
"Why is he full of hate?" Ms South asked, resting her head on her hands.
"I can't say I know for sure. It could just be who he is. He's an excellent agent, though," Gabrielle had the tones of someone who wants to be fair to everyone but can't quite bring themselves to outright lie. "You'll get a very good training out of him."
"If you get past week one," Mary added helpfully. Gabrielle looked at her with fond exasperation.
"Is there anything I should know?" Ms South had finished her pasta, but she still toyed with the food left on her plate. Another childish affectiation that she hated but could not put an end to -- fidgeting. She hated it when people fidgeted, but when she was nervous, it just seemed to come out. It marked her as young, impatient, immature, and so she tried her best to stop.
"Don't call him Todd," Gabrielle said after a long moment of deliberation. "Don't get underfoot."
"I think I'm capable of that."
"That's a very good start, then."
Ms South didn't meet Todd -- Mr Raleigh, she couldn't stop thinking of him as Todd ever since Gabrielle had told her not to say it -- that night. She went to bed at about nine, because as she told herself, early to bed and early to rise were the keys to living a long, fulfilling life. Also, the stress of getting adjusted to the new library had laid her out flat, and by the time nine rolled around she'd been more than ready to go to bed.
It turned out to be very good that she had, because Mr Raleigh came into her room at 6am and woke her up by yanking all her covers off of her. There was no time for Ms South to wake up with dignity, have a morning cup of tea, and take a nice shower. That was how she usually got up, easing herself into the day, getting herself into the right frame of mind to remain calm, mature, and practical all day. This was not the case when Mr Raleigh woke her up. Her eyes snapped open, she grabbed for the quickly-receding covers, and she screamed, absolutely unintentionally, "What the fuck?"
Mr Raleigh stood over her, looking down imperiously at this stupid girl, this college-age girl sleeping in an oversized t-shirt with her brown hair down and mussed by the pillow, squinting because her glasses were off. He smirked, not that Ms South could see it. She was too busy being shocked that someone was in her room. That he'd seen her with her hair down and without her turtleneck on. What must he think of her? She looked like some run of the mill student, sleeping the day away. It was not a way to make a first impression.
She struggled to her feet, made an abortive attempt at a curtsey in a wild bid to get back some of her dignity, and introduced herself. "Hello. I'm Ms South. You're Mr Raleigh, aren't you? My mentor?" She was too thrown for a loop by his early morning wakeup call to take control of the conversation. Instead she asked as many questions as she dared and threw herself on his mercy.
"Indeed I am," Mr Raleigh said. He had short black hair, a graying wash of stubble across his chin, and old eyes. A badly-healed burn scar decorated half of his face. He was heavy, not in the way that lazy men are heavy but in the way a drill sergeant can be -- muscle fueled entirely by fat. He had a look on his face of horrible, horrible joy. There are some people in this world who, out of anything they could possibly have, derive the most pleasure from shouting at someone who has no choice but to silently cower. Mr Raleigh was one of those people. He was a bit like the third head librarian, actually, but she'd been subtle and catty about it. Mr Raleigh appeared to revel in it. "This is a nice way to meet my student, don't you think? I come in here and wake you up -- You having overslept and missed the beginning of our very first lesson -- and you scream curse words at me. Is that how you greet your teacher? Are you trying to set some sort of record for being kicked out of our society, Ms South? Because I feel I must tell you -- this is behavior completely unfitting of a head librarian. If you really had that spot, I would be shocked -- shocked. I just don't see how a girl of your maturity could be promoted so high above her own capabilities. Do you see what I mean?"
Ms South gaped.
"Do you see what I mean?" he thundered.
"Yes!" Ms South said. "Sir. I'm very sorry."
It's about an Indiana Jones style librarian. Puns happen.
SWEETHEART SOUTH: SCOURGE OF THE STACKS
Once upon a time there was a little girl whose parents loved her so much they named her Sweetheart. In direct retaliation, she became a librarian. A smart girl with an ear for unnecessary noises and hair that was made to go up in a bun, she quickly learned the Dewey Decimal System and began to move up the library ranks. By the time she was twenty, Sweetheart had become the youngest head librarian ever recorded. She wasn't Sweetheart anymore, though. Everyone called her Ms South.
One fateful day, a child asked her for a book. It's hardly important what book it was. The only thing that matters is that Ms South stood up, closed her eyes, walked directly to a shelf, and pulled the book out. The child's eyes went wide. Ms South was mistress of her library. She knew its secrets and its hiding places. The very next day, the Pagens came for her.
Ms South was sitting at her desk, sorting through a pile of newly-returned books, when a shadow fell over her. She looked up, fixing the owner of the shadow with an icy stare through her glasses. "May I help you?" She was surprised to find herself looking at a tall, thin, and extremely pale man. He wore a dark velvet cloak that muffled the sound of his footsteps, and he too wore thin, silver glasses. His stare was enough to make Ms South feel as if she had something overdue. She didn't show her discomfort, although it was a near thing. The only sign of weakness she gave was a subtle curling of her fingers around a large rubber date stamp. "Yes?" she said, a little more politely.
"Ms South?" the man enquired.
"That's me, yes."
He looked her over -- the smooth, wavy, shining brown hair tied aggressively back into a bun; the full, red lips compressed into a strict line; the thin, lovely body oppressed by force of turtleneck. "You're young."
Ms South, who hated to be reminded of this, gripped the stamp a little more tightly. "I work hard. Sir."
"I expect you do," he said. "And some young blood may do us good. I have come to collect you."
"I'm sorry, but who are you?"
The man deposited a large, black, leather-bound book on her desk. "I am a Pagen. This should explain everything." His hands looked wrong, shiny and reddened. The book was ancient and untitled. It had no decimal number on the side. Ms South's fingers itched to check it in, but she wasn't really sure how she would go about it. It really belonged in a case, or a rare book room. Somewhere far away from sweaty fingers and soda cans.
"Read it," the man said. "I'll be here to pick you up tomorrow, if you decide to come."
Ms South nodded automatically and opened the book. She scanned the first page, then looked up. "Is this some sort of -- "
But the man was gone. Ms South, who could not stop being a librarian, waited for a few minutes, then began to read the book. In neat, precise handwriting, so old it appeared to have been done by quill, the first page said:
A HISTORY OF THE PAGENS
It was some sort of living document, Ms South decided. The handwriting changed every few pages, as though a new writer were taking over. All were neat, legible, and careful -- the writing of librarians. And the dates ranged from the eighteen hundreds to the stamped-on ones of present day. A two-hundred year old secret society of librarians? Ms South could hardly believe it, but neither could she stop reading.
… A newly-indoctrinated Pagen will be shown our ways, given a mentor, and, after completing training, take on a mission of his or her own…
Ms South didn't know what to think. The first chapter of the book was all she managed to read, what with her busy day at work, and when she got home she was entirely exhausted. She stepped carefully over one of the piles of books on her floor -- she'd run out of shelf space earlier that year -- and got into bed, the black book left sitting on her dining room table.
The next day found Ms South seated at the reference desk, a carefully packed suitcase nestled under her chair. When, at three o'clock, she turned around to find the man in the velvet cloak -- the Pagen, she corrected herself -- behind her, she was hardly surprised.
"I see you've decided to come with us," he said.
Ms South folded her arms in front of her. "I have some questions first." When he raised an eyebrow, she continued, "What's going to happen to my library?"
"One of your employees will take care of it. If none of them can be trusted, one of our clerks will be sent for."
"And if I don't trust your clerks?"
"We don't need you," the man said severely. "This is an offer. One very few people get."
Ms South stroked the spine of one of the books in front of her as she thought. "Where will I be going?"
"Between the stacks. I couldn't show you on a map."
She had no idea what that meant, but it was never good form to show that. Between the stacks? She was having a hard enough time believing in the Pagens. But she'd known that book was real, in the way only people who love books can know, she was sure it wasn't a trick. She felt it in her fingertips. "And the job is…?"
The man sighed heavily and adjusted his glasses. They glinted formidably. Ms South was impressed. "You're inquisitive. Unfortunately, it's a trait we look for. You'll be working with books. As an apprentice in our library, and later in the field."
"In the field?"
He rested against the reference desk. For the first time he lowered his glasses, and Ms South saw that he had tired, old eyes. She also finally recognized the reddened skin on his hands for what it was -- old burn scars. "We are librarians, Ms South, and you must know we have our enemies. There are certain things that would, to us, be unconscionable, but to other people are all too easy. Working in the field, you will put yourself in great danger, but you may reap great rewards. Not just for yourself, but for history. For your library, Miss."
Ms South squared her jaw, tightened her bun, and nodded. They left almost immediately, right after Ms South put one of her more promising assistants in charge. She wasn't going to leave her library to some clerk who knew nothing about it. They went down two aisles of technical books, past cooking, past geography, dictionaries, fiction, and straight into fantasy. The man -- Ms South stopped abruptly in her tracks. "Hold on."
"If we stop, we'll have a hard time getting there," he warned her.
"What's your name?"
He laughed in a quick, surprised way. "I'm sorry. I'm Mr Alexander."
"It's nice to meet you," Ms South said, mollified, and they walked on. The books, Ms South knew, weren't hers any longer. She knew her library, and these tall, narrow shelves didn't belong to her. The books here were old. Many were water- and sun- damaged. The smell of old books wafted around her, and she inhaled deeply through her nose. Mr Alexander smiled almost imperceptibly. They kept walking. She saw short, squat shelves groaning under the weight of their books, glass-fronted shelves with pristine classics collections inside, shelves made of concrete blocks and wooden beams. One shelf was nothing but colorful paperback romances, all apparently bought at the supermarket check-out. The thing that made them all similar was the feeling of them. These weren't collections or displays. These were like her library. Someone loved them.
"We're here," Mr Alexander said. He led her around a corner and into a row of massive black bookcases. The library they entered was beautiful. It spiraled downwards on a gentle slope, a bit like a shell. The floor was one long ramp, lined along one side with bookcases and with a rail on the other. There were rolling ladders scattered along the length of the ramp -- the bookcases were very tall -- with locking mechanisms to keep them from sliding downwards while someone was climbing. It seemed to go on forever. Hanging lamps lit up every few feet, but most of the light was currently coming from the huge, circular skylight that made up the top of the room. Because the ramp spiraled inwards as well as downwards, all of the ramp got the same amount of light, but the books themselves were protected from the sun by the overhang of each ramp.
The ramp was littered with Pagens, ranging from apprentices to masters. Some wore the dark velvet robes that Mr Alexander had on. All of those were headed the same way -- down the spiral. The two of them started to go downwards. As they walked and the turns of the ramp became tighter and closer together, the books began to look older. There were differences in the bindings, too -- One of the books was bound in something leathery that Ms South tried not to look at. Some were buckled shut. As they went further down, she saw books with rings set into the bindings chained to the shelves.
Ms South's fingertips itched. She would have done almost anything to get her hands on one of those strapped-shut books, or any of the ones chained down, but Mr Alexander just kept walking.
"The Restricted Section?" she said irritably.
"You are young, aren't you," Mr Alexander marveled. Ms South gritted her teeth and turned slightly pink, but he continued on as if he hadn't noticed. "They aren't restricted. Who would restrict books? No, if you can open these, if you can understand them, you're more than welcome to read them."
They arrived at a large door. "These are the elder Pagens," Mr Alexander said without prompting. "The Head Librarians here. You'll appear before them briefly, then be introduced to your mentor."
"All right," Ms South said. She adjusted her bun and polished her glasses, straightened her turtleneck and pencil skirt, and tried to subtly make sure that her pantihose were even. Deciding she was presentable, because a good Head Librarian never backs down, she went into the chamber.
She was quickly reminded that here. she wasn't Head Librarian. She was just a novice compared to these Pagens. They sat at the top of a tall, spindly desk, three of them lined up in a row. There were two women and one man. All of them were old -- ancient -- and as severe-looking as librarians can be. These were people to be feared and respected. These were people who would not tolerate whispering or the crinkling of chips packages. They were true Head Librarians. She had no doubt they could find any book in this library without a second thought. As she entered, the three of them as one fixed her with a stare.
"Don't interrupt," the woman on the end, who had a tweed jacket and glasses on a beaded chain, admonished her. Ms South felt suddenly that her pantihose could not possibly be in proper order, and also that her glasses had most likely smudged in the last three seconds. She was fidgeting anxiously when Mr Alexander put a hand on her shoulder.
"Don't let them get to you," he whispered.
"No whispering during report time," the middle librarian, who was balding and mustachioed, commanded. Mr Alexander chuckled very quietly under his breath. Ms South had to fight the urge to tell him to hush up.
The people before them were some young Pagens, back from a mission. As Ms South watched, they finished giving their report and saluted.
"Thank you. That will be all. Ms South?"
Three sets of eyes, magnified by three sets of glasses, fixed suddenly on her.
"She's very young," said the third Head Librarian.
"I'm right here," Ms South said.
"You're very young," she repeated. She was a short, plump woman with cat hair on her grey jacket. Her hair, blonde fading to white, was surprisingly long. She had left it down, and it went down beyond the desk, past where Ms South could see. "Are you certain you're a Head Librarian, dear?"
"Yes, I'm certain," Ms South seethed underneath her fear. Who did these people think they were? They had no right to look at her like that -- she'd never returned a book late in her life.
The first Head Librarian nodded approvingly. "She certainly looks like a librarian. I'll approve it."
"I don't think I can agree," the last one said, with a little smile that made Ms South want to fine her. "It's a dangerous job. Underneath those glasses, how old are you? Still a teenager?"
"I'm twenty," Ms South muttered.
"I can't possibly approve it," the librarian with the long hair said, and settled back in her chair. Now there was one person left to decide if she'd become a Pagen or not, and Ms South's neck was starting to get a crick in it from all the looking upwards. The man in the middle of the desk wrinkled his nose.
"Such a young girl to be a Head Librarian -- it's practically unheard of. But the circumstances, we must agree -- I approve it. As long as she's put on probation." The excitement that had been filling Ms South's head over being able to live here and access the wonderful library drained quickly away, leaving her chilly and small. She shoved those feelings aside and called up one that suited her better: Indignation.
"Probation?" She planted her feet apart and glared through her glasses. "I haven't done anything to -- "
"Precisely," the third librarian, whose hair Ms South's hands were itching to pull, said. "You've done nothing. If she is really to become a Pagen, she should be apprenticed to someone who can take care of her. Those are my terms."
The other two nodded, although the strict-looking woman in the tweed winked at Ms South. Then the doors behind her opened again and Mr Alexander pulled her out. "Well done," he said. "Come on, I'll show you to your room."
"What was all that talk about my mentor?" Ms South asked.
"You'll be apprenticed to someone, of course. I don't think Ms Freed took to you. Mind, she doesn't take to many people. You should watch out, though."
"For what?" Ms South rolled her eyes and wished she hadn't -- it was a habit she despised in other people. "She can't hurt me." There was a question mark tacked subtly to the end of that sentence.
"She can give you a mentor you won't like. Someone who will keep you safe but could easily make you quit." Mr Alexander stopped in front of a black door with the number 856 on it. They were between two shelves, high up the spiral. There was another door every fifth shelf.
"I don't mean to quit," Ms South said, taking the little bronze key he offered her and opening the door. "This place is -- "
"It's really rather wonderful," Mr Alexander agreed quietly. "Well. I hope you can keep that resolve."
She turned to tell him precisely how much resolve she had, but he had left while she wasn't looking. He had a habit of doing that, and it was annoying her more and more with every time. She checked that he'd locked the door behind him -- he had -- and sat down on the small bed on one side of the room. It was a nice room, really. She seemed to be behind the five shelves of books to the left of the door. The room had a flat floor, thankfully -- as wonderful as the library was, she wouldn't want to sleep in there -- and a large window on the wall opposite the door. There was a wooden desk directly across from her bed, as well as two small bookshelves, one marked NEW and the other RETURNS. The blue rug on the light wooden floor matched her bedspread. the ceiling was white. It wasn't a bad room, she thought, at least as dorms went, and at least it was clean. It smelled pleasantly of library.
When did they eat? Where did they eat? Ms South found herself wishing Mr Alexander had stayed around just a bit longer. She decided it'd be best to walk around for a while and get the lay of the land. As she went down a hall, entirely minding her own business, a warm, husky voice said, "Hey -- fresh meat." Ms South turned to see a woman with black hair up in a sloppy bun and narrow, obviously plastic glasses. The top button of her dress shirt was extremely undone, and her high heels were a little more elevated than Ms South thought could be really practical. The woman flashed white teeth at her in a friendly smile. When she spoke, Ms South thought she saw the glint of something metallic. She didn't immediately think "tongue ring". but it was only because she worked very hard not to.
"I'm Mary," the woman said. "Although most people just call me ma'am."
"I didn't think there was anyone close to my age here," Ms South said. Mary looked just a little older than her.
"Nobody cares about my age. They've got better things to get all bent out of shape about," Mary said.
"I can't imagine why," Ms South said delicately.
"You don't seem all that young."
"Thank you," Ms South patted her bun.
"That's not I meant," Mary said, "But different strokes, you know. Want to go get lunch with me?"
Ms South consented quickly, glad she wouldn't have to admit she didn't know where the lunch room was.
The lunch room turned out to be more of a dining hall, in keeping without he grand presentation of the library. Mary informed Ms South that the look of the place said virtually nothing about the food. "I've eaten better in middle school cafeterias. The apples are good, though."
"The apples?"
"Yeah, there's an apple orchard outside. On the roof. Fruit of knowledge, you know?" Mary winked at her. "And Eve was the original temptress."
They sat down at a small wooden table, their plates loaded with pasta, tea, and an apple each. Ms South picked her way through her overcooked spaghetti, staring critically at each strand. Mary undermined all of her previous complaints by eating her own in a matter of minutes. She was just fitting into her apple -- Ms South was halfway through her pasta -- when she stood up abruptly and began to wave at someone across the room. She bounced slightly on her toes as she waved. Two male librarians dropped their trays. The ensuing clatter was finally enough to get the attention of the woman Maery was waving at. She didn't really look like a librarian. Mary looked libber a librarian, or at least a certain version of one. This woman was tall, willowy, and tanned in that way that gardeners are tanned. She drifted over to the table. Her long, reddish hair was loose and gently corkscrewed erat the ends. She ha cloudy green eyes and wore jewelry to complement them, sea-glass-green necklaces and bracelets. Her tanktop was loose and her long, dyed skirt swished around her ankles. She sat down and smiled vaguely in Ms South's direction. "Hello."
"This is Gabrielle," Mary said. "Kind of like the archangel."
"You're new here,' Gabrielle said.
"Gabrielle is forty, but she's really cool," Mary explained.
"I'm Mary's mentor." Gabrielle took a napkin out, spread it on the table, and began to cut up her apple. "Who's your mentor? What's your name, for that matter?"
"I'm Ms South."
Gabrielle nodded slowly, cutting her apple into eighths and coring each piece neatly. "I never liked calling everyone Miss This and Mr That. I would much rather everyone call me by my given name. And your given name is?"
Ms South bit the inside of her mouth very hard. "I'm sorry. I'd rather be called Ms South, really."
Gabrielle did not seem to care very much either way. She cut the apple eighths into smaller pieces, dipped them in honey, and popped them into her mouth one by one. "Who's your mentor?"
"I don't know yet," Ms South admitted. "I went up before the heads and they didn't tell me. Mr Alexander didn't say anything, either, except that it wouldn't be easy."
"They'll be giving you someone nasty." Gabrielle licked honey off the tip of one of her fingers. "I just barely got Mary, you know. They don't like innovation, places like this. We hold very tight to history."
"Who do you think I'll be apprenticed to?" Ms South asked, trying not to make it obvious that she really meant, "How bad could it possibly be?"
"Mr Raleigh, I expect," Gabrielle said. "He hasn't had an apprentice in quite some time." Mary grimaced sympathetically at her. Ms South remained skeptical.
"He's not really as bad as all that, is he? I'm sure we'll get along." But there was a feeling in the pit of her stomach that said otherwise.
"If you say so," Mary said doubtfully. "You act pretty... mature. He could like you."
"Todd doesn't like anyone," Gabrielle said placidly. "I'm sorry, dear, I'm sure you're very nice, but it's just the truth. That man is very full of hate."
"Why is he full of hate?" Ms South asked, resting her head on her hands.
"I can't say I know for sure. It could just be who he is. He's an excellent agent, though," Gabrielle had the tones of someone who wants to be fair to everyone but can't quite bring themselves to outright lie. "You'll get a very good training out of him."
"If you get past week one," Mary added helpfully. Gabrielle looked at her with fond exasperation.
"Is there anything I should know?" Ms South had finished her pasta, but she still toyed with the food left on her plate. Another childish affectiation that she hated but could not put an end to -- fidgeting. She hated it when people fidgeted, but when she was nervous, it just seemed to come out. It marked her as young, impatient, immature, and so she tried her best to stop.
"Don't call him Todd," Gabrielle said after a long moment of deliberation. "Don't get underfoot."
"I think I'm capable of that."
"That's a very good start, then."
Ms South didn't meet Todd -- Mr Raleigh, she couldn't stop thinking of him as Todd ever since Gabrielle had told her not to say it -- that night. She went to bed at about nine, because as she told herself, early to bed and early to rise were the keys to living a long, fulfilling life. Also, the stress of getting adjusted to the new library had laid her out flat, and by the time nine rolled around she'd been more than ready to go to bed.
It turned out to be very good that she had, because Mr Raleigh came into her room at 6am and woke her up by yanking all her covers off of her. There was no time for Ms South to wake up with dignity, have a morning cup of tea, and take a nice shower. That was how she usually got up, easing herself into the day, getting herself into the right frame of mind to remain calm, mature, and practical all day. This was not the case when Mr Raleigh woke her up. Her eyes snapped open, she grabbed for the quickly-receding covers, and she screamed, absolutely unintentionally, "What the fuck?"
Mr Raleigh stood over her, looking down imperiously at this stupid girl, this college-age girl sleeping in an oversized t-shirt with her brown hair down and mussed by the pillow, squinting because her glasses were off. He smirked, not that Ms South could see it. She was too busy being shocked that someone was in her room. That he'd seen her with her hair down and without her turtleneck on. What must he think of her? She looked like some run of the mill student, sleeping the day away. It was not a way to make a first impression.
She struggled to her feet, made an abortive attempt at a curtsey in a wild bid to get back some of her dignity, and introduced herself. "Hello. I'm Ms South. You're Mr Raleigh, aren't you? My mentor?" She was too thrown for a loop by his early morning wakeup call to take control of the conversation. Instead she asked as many questions as she dared and threw herself on his mercy.
"Indeed I am," Mr Raleigh said. He had short black hair, a graying wash of stubble across his chin, and old eyes. A badly-healed burn scar decorated half of his face. He was heavy, not in the way that lazy men are heavy but in the way a drill sergeant can be -- muscle fueled entirely by fat. He had a look on his face of horrible, horrible joy. There are some people in this world who, out of anything they could possibly have, derive the most pleasure from shouting at someone who has no choice but to silently cower. Mr Raleigh was one of those people. He was a bit like the third head librarian, actually, but she'd been subtle and catty about it. Mr Raleigh appeared to revel in it. "This is a nice way to meet my student, don't you think? I come in here and wake you up -- You having overslept and missed the beginning of our very first lesson -- and you scream curse words at me. Is that how you greet your teacher? Are you trying to set some sort of record for being kicked out of our society, Ms South? Because I feel I must tell you -- this is behavior completely unfitting of a head librarian. If you really had that spot, I would be shocked -- shocked. I just don't see how a girl of your maturity could be promoted so high above her own capabilities. Do you see what I mean?"
Ms South gaped.
"Do you see what I mean?" he thundered.
"Yes!" Ms South said. "Sir. I'm very sorry."