And likely, you Hushlanders are thinking the very same thing. You are saying to yourself, “The story just lost me. It degenerated into pure silliness. And since only silly people enjoy silliness, I’m going to go read a book about a boy whose dog gets killed by his mother. Twice.”
Before you embark upon your voyage into caninicide, I’d like to offer a single argument for your consideration: Plato.
Plato was a funny little Greek man who lived a long time ago. He is probably best known for two things: First, for writing stories about his friends, and second for philosophically proving that somewhere in the eternities there exists a perfect slice of cheesecake. (Read the Parmenides – it’s in there.) At this moment, however, the reader should be less interested in cheesecake and more interested in caves.
One cave, to be specific. Plato tells a story about a group of prisoners who lived in a very special cave. The prisoners were tied up – heads held so they could only face one direction – and all they could see was the wall in front of them. A fire behind them threw shadows up on this wall and these shadows were the only things the prisoners ever knew. To them, the shadows were their world. As far as they knew, there was nothing else.
However, one of these prisoners was eventually released and saw that the world was much more than just shadows. At first, he found this new world very, very strange. Once he learned of it, however, he returned and tried to tell his friends about it. They, however, didn’t trust him – and didn’t want to listen to him. They didn’t want to believe in this new world, because it didn’t make sense to them.
You Hushlanders are like these people. You have, through no fault of your own, lived your entire life believing in the shadows the Librarians have shown you. The things I reveal in this narrative will seem like nonsense to you. There is no getting around this. No matter how logical my arguments are, they will seem illogical to you. Your mind – struggling to find ways to hold on to your Librarian lies – will think of all kinds of ridiculous concerns. You will ask questions such as, “But what about tidal patterns?” Or, “But how can you explain the lack of increased fuel costs created by airplanes flying around these hidden landmasses?”
Since nothing I can say would be able to pierce your delusions, let the fact that I make no arguments stand as ultimate proof that I am right. As Plato once said that his friend Socrates once said, “I know that I’m right because I’m the only person humble enough to admit that I’m not.”
Or something like that.
I stood for a long moment, staring up at that map. Part of me – most of me – resisted what I was seeing. And yet, the things I had experienced bounced around in my head, reminding me that many things – like gas station coolers and young men who set fires to kitchens – were not always as simple as they appeared.
“I’ll deal with this later,” I finally said, turning away from the map. “Let’s keep moving.”
“Finally,” Bastille said. “You Hushlanders. Honestly, sometimes it seems like it would take a hammer to the face to get you to wake up and see the truth.”
“Now, Bastille,” Sing said as we walked by a long, low filing cabinet. “That really isn’t fair. I think young Lord Smedry is doing quite well, all things considered. It isn’t every day that –
“Gak!”
Sing said this last part as he suddenly and without apparent reason, tripped and fell to the ground. I frowned, looking down, but Bastille burst into motion. She hopped dexterously over Sing, then grabbed me by the arm and threw me to the ground behind the filing cabinet. She ducked down beside me.
“Why –“ I began, rubbing my arm in annoyance. Bastille, however, clapped a hand over my mouth, shooting me a very hostile, very persuasive silencing look.
I fell quiet. Then I heard something. Voices approaching. Bastille removed her hand, the carefully peeked out over the filing cabinet. I moved to do likewise, and Bastille shot me another glance – I could see the glare even through her sunglasses. This time, however, I refused to be cowed.
If she can look, so can I, I thought stubbornly. I didn’t spend thirteen years being a troublemaker so I can get pushed around by a girl my age. Even if she is a pretty good shot with that handbag of hers.
I peeked over the cabinet. In the distance, moving between two lines of enormous bookshelves, I could see a group of figures. Most looked like they were wearing dark robes.
“Librarian apprentices,” Sing whispered, peeking up beside me. “Doing their tasks. Somewhere in this room, the Master Librarians have placed one misfiled volume. The apprentices have to find it.”
I eyed the nearly endless rows of tightly packed bookshelves. “That could take years!” I whispered.
Sing nodded. “Some go insane from the pressure. They’re usually the ones who get promoted first.”
I shivered as the group moved off. There were a couple of much larger figures following them, and these weren’t dressed in robes. They were entirely white, and their bodies moved in a not-quite-natural manner. They lumbered as they stepped, arms held too far to the sides. They trailed behind the Librarian apprentices, moving with ponderous steps, some carrying stacks of books.
I squinted, looking closer. The whitish figures glowed slightly, giving off a dark haze. The apprentices and the white figures turned a corner, disappearing from view.
“What were those?” I whispered. “Those white things that were with them?”
“Alivened,” Bastille said, shivering. She glanced at me, standing up. “When Sing trips, Smedry, always duck.”
“You trip whenever there’s danger?”
“Of course not,” Sing said. “I only trip when there’s danger and when tripping will be helpful. Or, at least, that’s usually the way it works.”
“Better that your Talent, Oculator,” Bastille said with a snort. “Do you want to tell me how you managed to break the carpet?”
I glanced down. The carpet lay unraveled around me, separated into individual strands of yarn.
“Come on,” Bastille said. “We should keep moving.”