Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

  I snorted. "I'm not that curious. I'd be a fool to give you my soul for information I could never use."

  “Ah, but maybe you could use it," the curator said. "What could you accomplish if you understood your Talent, young Smedry? Would you, perhaps, have enough skill to gain your freedom from us? Get your soul back? Break out of our prison . . ."

  This gave me pause. It made a twisted, frightening sense. Maybe I could trade my soul away, then learn how to free myself using the book I gained. “It’s possible, then?” I asked. “Someone could break free after having been turned into a Curator?"

  "Anything is possible," the creature whispered, focusing its burning sockets on me. "Why don't you try? You could learn so much. Things people haven't known for millennia . . ."

  It is a testament to the subtle trickery of the Curators that I actually thought, for just a moment, about trading my soul for a book on arcane theory.

  And then I came to my senses. I couldn't even control my Talent as it was. What made me think that I, of all people, would be able to use it to outsmart a group as ancient and powerful as the Curators of Alexandria?

  I chuckled and shook my head, causing the Curator to back away in obvious displeasure. I hurried my pace, catching up with the others. Kaz walked in front, leading us as he had before, letting his Talent lose us and carry us toward Australia. Theoretically.

  Indeed, as I walked, I swore that I could see the stacks of scrolls changing around us. It wasn't that they transformed or anything – yet, if I glanced at a stack, then turned away, then glanced back, I couldn't tell if it was actually the same one or not. Kaz's Talent was carrying us through the corridors without our being able to feel the change.

  Something occurred to me...Kaz?"

  The short man looked back, raising an eyebrow.

  "So . . . your Talent has lost us, right?"

  "Yup," he said.

  “As we walk, we're moving through the Library hopping to different points, even though we feel like we're just walking down a corridor."

  "You've got it, kid. I've got to tell you – you're smarter than you look."

  I frowned. "So, what exactly was the purpose of having Bastille scout ahead? Didn't we leave that corridor behind the moment you turned on your Talent?"

  Kaz froze.

  At that moment, I heard something click beneath me. I looked down with shock to see that I'd stepped directly onto a trip wire.

  “Ah, wing nuts," Kaz swore.

  CHAPTER 11

  I must apologize for the beginning of that last chapter. My goal is to write a completely frivolous book, for if I actually say anything important, I run the risk of making people worship or respect me even more. Therefore, I should ask that you will do me a favor. Get out some scissors, and cut out the next few paragraphs in this chapter. Paste them over the beginning of the last chapter, hiding it away so that you never have to read its pretentious editorializing again.

  Ready? Go.

  Once there was a bunny. This bunny had a birthday party. It was the bestest birthday party ever. Because that was the day the bunny got a bazooka.

  The bunny loved his bazooka. He blew up all sorts of things on the farm. He blew up the stable of Henrietta the Horse. He blew up the pen of Pugsly the Pig. He blew up the coop of Chuck the Chicken.

  "I have the bestest bazooka ever," the bunny said. Then the farm friends proceeded to beat him senseless and steal his bazooka. It was the happiest day of his life.

  The end.

  Epilogue: Pugsly the pig, now without a pen, was quite annoyed. When none of the others were looking, he stole the bazooka. He tied a bandana on his head and swore vengeance for what had been done to him.

  "From this day on," he whispered, raising the bazooka, "I shall be known as Hambo.”

  There. I feel much better. Now we can return to the story, refreshed and confident that you're reading the right kind of book.

  I cringed, tense, looking down at my foot on the trip wire. "So," I said, glancing at Bastille, “is it going to do any –“

  "Gak!"

  At that moment, panels on the ceiling fell away dumping what seemed like a thousand buckets full of dark, sticky sludge on us. I tried to move out of the way, but I was far too slow. Even Bastille, with her enhanced Crystin speed, couldn't dodge fast enough.

  It hit, covering us in a tarlike substance. I tried to yell, but the sound came out in a gurgle as the thick, black material got into my mouth. It had a rather unpleasant flavor. Kind of like a cross between bananas and tar, heavy on the tar.

  I struggled and was frustrated to feel the goop suddenly harden. I was frozen in place, one eye open, the other closed, my mouth filled with hard tar, my nose – fortunately – unplugged.

  "Great," Bastille said. I could just barely see her, covered in hardened sludge a short distance away, stuck in a running posture. She'd had the sense to shade her face, so her eyes and mouth were uncovered – but her arm was glued to her forehead." Kaz, you stuck too?"

  "Yeah," said a muffled voice. "I tried to lose myself, but it didn't work. We were already lost."

  "Alcatraz?" Bastille asked.

  I made a grumbling noise through my nose.

  "He looks all right,” Kaz said. "He isn't going to be waxing eloquent anytime soon, though.”

  "As if he ever does," Bastille said, struggling.

  Enough of this, I thought in annoyance, releasing my Talent into the goop. Nothing happened. There are, unfortunately, plenty of things that are resistant to Smedry Talents.

  Several Curators glided across the floor to us, looking quite pleased with themselves. "We can provide a book for you that will explain how to get out," one said.

  "You will find it very interesting," said another.

  "Shatter yourselves," Bastille snapped, grunting again as she tried to get free. Nothing moved but her chin.

  "What kind of offer is that?" Kaz demanded. “We wouldn't be able to read the book like this!"

  "We'd be happy to read it to you," one of the others said. "So that you would understand how to escape in the moments before your soul was taken."

  "Plus," another whispered, "you would have all of eternity to study. Surely that must appeal to you, a scholar. An eternity with the knowledge of the Library. All at your fingertips."

  "Never able to leave,” Kaz said. "Trapped forever in this pit, forced to entice others into the trap."

  "Your brother thought the trade worthwhile," one of them whispered.

  What! I thought. Father!

  "You lie," Kaz said. “Attica would never fall for one of your tricks!"

  "We didn't have to trick him," another whispered, floating close to me. "He came quite willingly. All for a book. A single, special book."

  "What book?" Bastille asked.

  The Curators fell silent, skull heads smiling. "Will you trade your soul for that knowledge?"

  Bastille began to swear, struggling harder. The Curators moved around her, speaking in a language that my Lenses told me was classical Greek.

  If I could just get to my Windstormer's Lenses, I thought. Perhaps I could blow some of this goop away.

  I couldn't even wiggle my fingers, though, let alone reach into my jacket.

  If only my Talent would work! I focused, drawing forth all of the power I could, and released it into the goop. Yet, it refused to break or yield.

  Something occurred to me. The goop was resistant, but what about the floor beneath me? I gathered my Talent again, then released it downward.

  I strained, feeling the pulsings of energy run through my body and out my feet. I felt my shoes unravel, the rubber slipping free, the canvas falling apart. I felt the rock beneath my heels crumble. But, that was ultimately useless, since my body was still held tightly by the goop. The ground fell away beneath me, but I didn't fall with it.

  The Curator closest to me turned. “Are you certain you don't want that book on Talents, young Oculator? Perhaps it would help you free yourself."

&
nbsp; Focus, I thought as the rest of the Curators continued to torment BastiIle. They said that there's a book on how to escape this goop. Well, that means there's a way out.

  I continued struggling, but that was obviously useless. If it was possible to break free with just muscles, then Bastille would manage to long before I did.

  So, instead, I focused on the goop itself. What could I determine about it? The stuff in my mouth seemed slightly softer than the stuff around the outside of my body. Was there a reason for that? Spit, perhaps? Maybe the goop didn't harden when it was wet.

  I began to drool out some saliva, trying to get it on the goop. Spit began to seep out of the top of my mouth, and down the front of the glob of goop on my face.

  “Uh . . . Alcatraz?" Bastille asked. "You all right?”

  I tried to grunt in a reassuring way. But, then, I've found that it's very hard to grunt eloquently when you're spitting.

  After several minutes, I came to the unpleasant conclusion that the goop didn't dissolve in saliva. Unfortunately, now I was not only being held tightly by a sheet of hardened black tar, I'd also drooled all over the front of my shirt.

  "Getting frustrated?" a Curator asked, hovering around me in a circle. "How long will you struggle? You need not be able to speak. Simply blink three times if you want to trade your soul for the way out."

  I kept my eyes wide open. They began to dry out, which was appropriately ironic, considering the state of my shirt.

  The Curator looked disappointed, but continued to hover. Why bother with all of the cajoling? I wondered. We're in their power. Why not kill us? Why not just take our souls from us by force?

  That thought made me pause. If they hadn't done that already, then it probably meant that they couldn't. Which seemed to imply that they were bound by some kind of laws or a code or something.

  My jaw was getting tired. It seemed an odd thing to think of. I was being held tightly in all places, and I was worried about my jaw? Was that because it wasn't being held as tightly as the rest? But, I'd already determined that.

  The goop in my mouth wasn't as hard.

  So, uncertain what else to do, I bit down. Hard. Surprisingly, my teeth cut through the stuff, and the chunk of goop came off in my mouth. Suddenly, the entire blanket of it – the stuff covering me, Bastille, Kaz, and the floor – shuddered.

  What? I thought. The stuff I'd bitten off immediately became liquid again, and I nearly choked as I was forced to swallow it. The piece in front of my face withdrew slightly after the bite, and I could still see it wiggling. Almost as if… the entire blob were alive.

  I shivered. Yet, I didn't have many options. Wiggling my head a bit – it was looser now that the stuff had retreated from my face – I snapped forward and took another bite out of the stuff. It shook and pulled farther away. I leaned over, and – spitting out the chunk of tarry-bananaish stuff – I took another bite.

  The blanket of goop pulled back from me completely, like a shy dog that had been kicked. The metaphor seemed apt, and so I kicked it.

  The blob shook, then retreated off of Bastille and Kaz, fleeing away down the corridor. I spit a few times, grimacing at the taste. Then I eyed the Curators. "Perhaps you should train your traps a little better."

  They did not look pleased. Kaz, on the other hand, was smiling widely. "Kid, I'm almost tempted to make you an official short person!"

  "Thanks," I said.

  "Course, we'd have to cut your legs off at the knees," Kaz said. "But that would be a small price to pay!" He winked at me. I'm pretty sure that was a joke.

  I shook my head, stepping out of the rubbled pocket I'd made in the floor with my Talent. My shoes barely hung to my feet, and I kicked them off, forced to walk barefoot.

  Still, I'd gotten us free. I turned, smiling, to Bastille. "Well, I believe that makes two traps I've saved you from."

  "Oh?" she said. “And are we going to start a count of the ones you got me into, as well? Who was it who stepped on that trip wire again?"

  I flushed.

  “Any one of us could have tripped it, Bastille," Kaz said, walking up to us. "As fun as that was, I'm starting to think it might be a good idea if we didn't hit any more of those. We need to go more carefully."

  "You think?" Bastille asked flatly. "The trick is, I can't scout ahead. Not if you're leading us with your Talent."

  "We'll just have to be more cautious, then,” Kaz said. I looked down at the trip wire, thinking about the danger. We couldn't afford to stumble into every one of those we came across. Who knew if we'd even be able to think of a way out of the next one?

  "Kaz, Bastille, wait a second.” I reached into a pocket, pulling out my Lenses. I left the Windstormer's Lenses alone and put on the Discerner's Lenses – the ones that Grandpa Smedry had left for me up above.

  Immediately, everything around me began to give off a faint glow, indicating how old it was. I looked down. Sure enough, the trip wire glowed far lighter than the stones or the scrolls around it. It was newer than the original construction of the building. I looked up, smiling. “I think I've found a way around the problem."

  “Are those Discerner's Lenses?" Bastille asked.

  I nodded.

  "Where in the sands did you get a pair of those?”

  "Grandpa Smedry left them for me,” I said. “Outside, along with a note." I frowned, glancing at the Curators. "Speaking of which, didn’t you say you’d return the writings you took from me?"

  The creatures glanced at one another. Then, one of them approached, betraying a sullen look. The apparition bent down and set some things on the ground: copies of my tags, the wrapper that had been taken from me, and Grandpa Smedry's note. There were also copies of the money I'd given them - they were perfect replicas, except that they were colorless.

  Great, I thought. But I probably didn't need that anymore anyway. I stooped down to gather the things, which all glowed brightly, since they all had been created brand new. Bastille took the note, looked it over with a frown, then handed it to Kaz.

  "So, your father really is down here somewhere," she said.

  "Looks like it."

  “And . . . the Curators claim he already gave up his soul."

  I fell silent. They gave back my papers when I asked, I thought, and they keep trying to get us to agree to give away our souls, but don't take them by force. They're bound by rules.

  I should have realized this earlier. You see, everything is bound by rules. Society has laws, as does nature, as do people. Many of society's rules have to do with expectations – which I'll talk about later – and therefore can be bent. A lot of nature's laws, however are hard-set.

  There are many more of these than you might expect. In fact, there are even natural laws relating to this book, my favorite of which is known as the Law of Pure Awesomeness. This law, of course, simply states that any book I write is awesome. I'm sorry, but it's a fact.

  Who am I to argue with science?

  "You," I said, looking toward a Curator. "Your kind have laws, don't they?"

  The Curator paused. "Yes," it finally said. "Do you want to read them? I can give you a book that explains them in detail."

  "No," I said. "No, I don't want to read about them. I want to hear about them. From you."

  The Curator frowned.

  "You have to tell me, don't you?" I said, smiling.

  "It is my privilege to do so," the creature said. Then, it began to smile. "Of course, I am going to have to tell them to you in their original language."

  "We are impressed that you speak ancient Greek," another said. "You are one who came to us prepared. There are few that do that, these days."

  "But," another whispered, "we doubt that you know how to speak Elder Faxdarian."

  Speak ancient Greek . . . , I thought, confused. Then it occurred to me. They don't know about my Translator's Lenses! They think that because I understood them back at the beginning, I must have known the language.

  "Oh, I don't know about that," I
said casually, swapping my Discerner's Lenses back for my Translator's Lenses.

  “Try me.”

  "Ha," one of them said in a very odd, strange language – it consisted mostly of spitting sounds. Like always, the Translator's Lenses let me hear the words in English. "The fool thinks he knows our language."

  "Give him the rules, then," another hissed.

  "First rule," said the one in front of me. "If anyone enters our domain bearing writing, we may separate them from their group and demand the writing be given to us. If they resist, we may take the writing, but we must return copies. We may hold these back for one hour but, unless the items are requested, can keep them from then on.

  "Second rule, we may take the souls of those who enter, but we can do so only if the souls are offered freely and lawfully. Souls may be coerced, but not forced.

  "Third rule, we may accept or reject a person's request for a soul contract. Once the contract is signed, we must provide the specific book requested, then refrain from taking their soul for the time specified in the contract. This time may not be longer than ten hours. If a person takes a book off its shelf without a contract, we may take their soul after ten seconds."

  I shivered. Ten seconds or ten hours, it didn't seem to matter much. You still lost your soul. Of course, in my experience, there's really only one book in all of the world that is worth your soul to read - and you're holding it right now.

  I accept credit cards.

  "Fourth rule," the Curator continued. "We cannot directly harm those who enter."

  Hence the traps, I thought. Technically, when we trip those, we harm ourselves. I continued to stare blankly ahead, acting as if I didn't understand a word they were saying.

  "Fifth rule, when a person gives up their soul and becomes a Curator, we must deliver up their possessions to their kin, should a member of the family come to the Library and request such possessions.

  "Sixth rule, and most important of them all. We are the protectors of knowledge and truth. We cannot lie, if asked a direct question."

  The Curator fell silent.

  "That it?" I asked.