‘Thank the first sands,’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s—’ I choked off. The light was coming from the flames burning in the sockets of a bloodred skull.
I cried out, stumbling away, and my back hit a rough, dusty wall. I moved along it, scrambling in the darkness, but ran forehead first into another wall at the corner. Trapped, I spun around, watching the skull grow closer. The fires in its eyes soon illuminated the creature’s robe-like cloak and thin skeleton arms. The whole body – skull, cloak, even the flames – seemed faintly translucent.
I had met my first Curator of Alexandria. I fumbled, reaching into my jacket, remembering for the first time that I was carrying Lenses.
Unfortunately, in the darkness, I couldn’t tell which pocket was which, and I was too nervous to count properly.
I pulled out a random pair of spectacles, hoping I’d grabbed the Windstormer’s Lenses. I shoved them on.
The Curator glowed with a whitish light. Great, I thought. I know how old it is. Maybe I can bake it a birthday cake.
The Curator said something to me, but it was in a strange, raspy language that I didn’t understand.
‘Uh . . . I missed that . . .,’ I said, fumbling for a different pair of Lenses. ‘Could you repeat yourself . . .?’
It spoke again, getting closer. I whipped out another pair of Lenses and put them on, focusing on the creature and hoping to blow it backward with a gust of wind. I was pretty sure I’d gotten the right pocket this time.
I was wrong, of course.
‘. . . visitor to the great Library of Alexandria,’ the thing hissed, ‘you must pay the price of entry.’
The Lenses of Rashid – Translator’s Lenses. Now, not only did I know how old it was, I could understand its demonic voice as it sucked out my soul. I made a mental note to speak sternly with my grandfather about the kinds of Lenses he gave me.
‘The price,’ the creature said, stepping up to me.
‘Uh . . . I seem to have left my wallet outside . . .,’ I said, fumbling in my jacket for another pair of Lenses.
‘Cash does not interest us,’ another voice whispered.
I glanced to the side, where another Curator – with burning eyes and a red skull – was floating toward me. With the extra light, I could see that neither creature had legs. Their cloaks just kind of trailed off into nothingness at the bottoms.
‘Then, what do you want?’ I asked, gulping.
‘We want . . . your paper.’
I blinked. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Anything you have written down,’ a third creature said, approaching. ‘All who enter the Library of Alexandria must give up their books, their notes, and their writings so that we may copy them and add them to our collection.’
‘Okay . . .,’ I said. ‘That sounds fair enough.’
My heart continued to race, as if it refused to believe that a bunch of undead monsters with flames for eyes weren’t going to kill me. I pulled out everything I had – which only included the note from Grandpa Smedry, a gum wrapper, and a few American dollars.
They took it all, plucking them from me and leaving my hands feeling icy and cold. Curators, it might be noted, give off a freezing chill. Because of this, they never need ice for their drinks. Unfortunately, since they’re undead spirits, they can’t really drink soda. It’s one of the great ironies of our world.
‘That’s all I have,’ I said, shrugging.
‘Liar,’ one hissed.
That isn’t the type of thing one likes to hear from undead spirits. ‘No,’ I said honestly. ‘That’s it!’
I felt the freezing hands on my body, and I cried out. Despite looking translucent, the things had quite firm grips. They spun me about, then ripped the tag from my shirt and from my jeans.
Then, they just backed away. ‘You want those?’ I asked.
‘All writing must be surrendered,’ one of the creatures said. ‘The purpose of the Library is to collect all knowledge ever written down.’
‘Well, you won’t get there very fast by copying down the tags off T-shirts,’ I grumbled.