Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

  "We should destroy it, then," I said. “At least turn it over to someone who knows what to do with it. I . . .”

  I trailed off. (Obviously.)

  "What?" Kaz asked.

  I didn't answer. I'd caught something through the Tracker's Lens. I held it up to my eye and was surprised to see footprints on the ground. There were lots of them, of course. Mine, Bastille's, even Kiliman's – though those were fading quickly, since I didn't know him well. More important, however, I saw three sets of footprints that were very distinct. All led toward a small, inconspicuous door on the far side of the room.

  One set of footprints was Grandpa Smedry's. Another set of yellowish black ones belonged to my mother. The final set, a blazing red-white, was undoubtedly that of my father. All went through the doorway, but there were no sets leading back out.

  "Hey," I said, turning to the nearest Curator. "What's through that door?"

  "That's where we keep the possessions of those who have been turned into Curators," the creature said in a raspy voice. Indeed, I saw several Curators cleaning up the remnants of Kiliman's transformation – the bits of metal and the clothing he had been wearing.

  I lowered the Tracker's Lens. “Come on,” I said to the others. "We almost forgot the reason why we came here in the first place."

  "And what was that reason again?” Kaz asked.

  I pointed at the door. “To find out what’s on the other side of that."

  CHAPTER 20

  Hangook Mal Malha GiMa Ship Shio.

  Expectations. They are among the most important things in all of existence. (Which is amusing, because, being abstract concepts, you could argue that they don’t even "exist" at all.)

  Everything we do, everything we experience and everything we say is clouded by our expectations. We go to school or work in the mornings because we expect that it will be rewarding. (Or, at least, we expect that if we don't, we'll get in trouble.)

  We build friendships based on expectations. We expect our friends to act in a certain way, and then we act as they expect us to. Indeed, the very fact that we get up in the mornings shows that we expect the sun to rise, the world to keep spinning, and our shoes to fit, just like they all did the day before.

  People have real trouble when you upset their expectations. For instance, you likely didn't expect me to begin this chapter writing in Korean. Though, after the bunny-bazooka story, one begins to wonder how you can possibly maintain any expectations about this book at all.

  And that, my friends, is the point. Half of you reading this book live in the Hushlands. I was a Hushlander myself, once, and I am not so naive as to assume that you all believe my story is true. You probably read my first book, thought it was fun. You're reading this one not because you believe its text, but because you expected another fun story.

  Expectations. We rely on them. That's why so many Hushlanders have trouble believing the Free Kingdoms and the Librarian conspiracy. You don't expect to wake up and discover that everything you know about history, geography, and politics is wrong.

  So, perhaps you can begin to see why I've included some of the things I have. Bunnies with bazookas, ships that get repaired (more on that later), faces made of numbers, editorials from short people about how we regard the world, and a lesson on shoes and fish. All of these examples try to prove that you need to have an open mind. Because not everything you believe is true, and not everything you expect to happen will.

  Maybe this book will mean nothing to you. Maybe my tale of demonic Curators and magical Lenses will pass you by as pure silliness, to be read but then forgotten. Perhaps because this story deals with people who are far away – and, perhaps, not even real at all – you will assume it doesn't relate to you.

  I hope not. Because, you see, I have expectations too, and they whisper to me that you'll understand.

  We found a long hallway on the other side of the door. At the end of that hallway was another door, and on the other side of that door was a small chamber.

  It had one occupant. He sat on a dusty crate, staring down at the ground in front of him. He was not locked in. He simply seemed to have been sitting there, thinking.

  And crying.

  "Grandpa Smedry?" I asked.

  Leavenworth Smedry, Oculator Dramatus, friend of kings and potentates, looked up. It had only been a few days since I'd last seen him, but it felt like so much longer. He smiled at me, eyes sorrowful.

  “Alcatraz, lad.” he said. “Huddling Hales, you did follow me!"

  I rushed forward, grabbing him in an embrace. Kaz and Australia followed me in, Bastille and Draulin taking up positions by the door.

  "Hey, Pop," Kaz said, raising a hand.

  "Kazan!" Grandpa Smedry said. “Well, well. Been corrupting your nephew, I assume?"

  Kaz shrugged. "Somebody needs to.”

  Grandpa Smedry smiled, but there was something . . . sorrowful about even that expression. He wasn’t his usual lively self. Even the little tufts of hair behind his ears seemed less perky.

  "Grandpa, what is it?" I asked.

  “Oh, nothing, lad,” Grandpa Smedry said, hand on my shoulder. “I… really should have been done grieving by now. I mean, your father has been gone for thirteen years! I still kept hope, all that time. I thought for sure we’d find him here. I arrived too late, it seems.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Oh, I didn’t show you, did I?” He handed something out to me. A note. “I found this in the room. Your mother had already been here, it seems, and collected Attica’s belongings. Clever one, that Shasta. Always a step ahead of me, even without my Talent interfering. She was in and out of the Library before we even arrived. Yet, she left this behind. I wonder why."

  I looked down, reading the note.

  Old man, it said.

  I assume you got my letter you that Attica was coming to the Library of Alexandria. By now you probably realize that we were both too late to stop him from doing something foolish. He always was an idiot.

  I’ve confirmed that he gave up his soul, but for what purpose, I cannot fathom. Those blasted Curators won’t tell me anything useful. I’ve taken his possessions. It’s my right, whatever you may claim, as his wife.

  I know you don’t care for me. I return the sentiment. I am sad to see Attica finally gone, though. He shouldn’t have had to die in such a silly way.

  The Librarians now have the tools we need to defeat you. It’s a shame we couldn’t come to an agreement. I don’t care if you believe me about Attica or not. I thought I should leave this note. I owe him that much.

  Shasta Smedry

  I looked up from the note, frustrated.

  There were still tears in Grandpa Smedry’s eyes, and he wasn’t looking at me. He just stared at the wall, eyes unfocused. “Yes, I should have grieved long ago. I’m late to that, it appears. Late indeed…”

  Kaz read over my shoulder. “Nutmeg!” he swore, pointing at the note. “We don’t believe this, do we? Shasta’s a lying Librarian rat!”

  “She’s not lying, Kazan,” Grandpa Smedry said. “At least not about your brother. The Curators confirmed it, and they cannot lie. Attica has become one of them.”

  Nobody objected to Grandpa Smedry's assertion. It was the truth. I could feel it. With the Tracker’s Lens, I could even see the place where my father's tracks ended. My mother's tracks, however, left by a different door.

  The ground at my feet began to crack, my Talent sensing my frustration, and I felt like pounding on something. We'd come all this way, just to be turned away at the end. Why? Why had my father done something so foolish?

  "He always too curious for his own good,” Kaz said softly, laying a hand on Grandpa Smedry’s shoulder. “I told him it would lead him to a bad end."

  Grandpa Smedry nodded. "Well, he has the knowledge he always wanted. He can read book upon book, learn anything he wants."

  With that, he stood. We joined him, making our way out of the hallway. We walke
d through the central room and out into the stacks beyond, trailed by a couple of Curators who were – undoubtedly – hoping we’d make one last-minute mistake and lose our souls.

  I sighed, then turned and gave one final glance at the place where my father had ended his life. There, above the doorway, I saw the scribbles. The ones scratched into the stone. I frowned, then pulled out the Translator’s Lenses and put them on. The message was simple, only one sentence long.

  I am not an idiot.

  I blinked. Grandpa Smedry and Kaz were speaking softly about my father and his foolishness.

  I am not an idiot.

  What would prompt a person to give up his soul? Was unlimited knowledge really worth that? Knowledge that you couldn't use? Couldn't share? Unless . . .

  I froze, causing the others to stop. I looked right at a Curator. "What happens when you write something down while you're in the Library?"

  The creature seemed confused. “We take the writing from you and copy it. Then, we return the copy to you an hour later.”

  “And if you were to write something right before you gave up your soul?” I asked. “What if you were a Curator by the time the copy came back?”

  The Curator glanced away.

  “You cannot lie!” I said, pointing.

  “I can choose not to speak.”

  “Not if property must be returned,” I said, still pointing. “If my father wrote something before he was taken, then you wouldn’t have had to give it to my mother unless she knew to ask for it. You do have to return it if I demand it. And I do. Give it to me.

  The Curator hissed. Then, all of those standing around us hissed. I hissed back at them.

  I’m… uh, not sure why I did that.

  Finally, a Curator floated forward, carrying a slip of paper in its translucent hand. "This doesn't count as taking one of your books, does it?" I asked hesitantly.

  "This is not ours," the Curator said, throwing the paper at my feet.

  As the others stood around me, confused, I snatched up the paper and read it. It wasn't what I'd been expecting.

  It’s so simple, the paper read.

  The Curators are, like most things in this world, bound by laws. They are strange laws, but they are strong laws.

  The trick is to not own your own soul when you sign the contract. So, I bequeath my soul to my son, Alcatraz Smedry. I sign it away to him. He is its true owner.

  I looked up.

  "What is it, lad?" Grandpa Smedry asked.

  "What would you do, Grandpa?" I asked. “If you were going to give up your soul not for a specific book, but because you wanted access to the Library’s entire contents. What book would you ask for?"

  Grandpa Smedry shrugged. “Vague Volskies, lad, I don’t know! If you're just giving up your soul so that you can read the other books in the Library, it wouldn't matter which book you picked as the first, would it?"

  “Actually, it would,” I whispered. "The Library contains all the knowledge humans have ever known."

  "So?" Bastille asked.

  "So, it contains the solutions to every problem. I know what I'd ask for." I looked straight at the Curators. "I'd ask for the book that explained how to get my soul back after I'd given it to the Curators!"

  There was a moment of stunned silence. The Curators suddenly began floating away from us.

  "Curators!" I yelled. "This note bequeaths the soul of Attica Smedry to me! You have taken it unlawfully, and I demand it back!"

  The creatures froze, then they began to scream in a howling, despairing cry.

  One of them suddenly spun and threw back its hood, the fires in its eyes puffing out, replaced by human eyeballs. The skull bulged, growing the flesh of a hawk-faced, noble-looking man.

  He tossed aside his robe, wearing a tuxedo underneath. “Aha!" he said. "I knew you'd figure it out, son!" The man turned, pointing at the hovering Curators. "Thank you kindly for the time you let me spend rummaging through your books, you old spooks! I beat you. I told you I would!"

  "Oh, dear," Grandpa Smedry said, smiling. “We'll never shut him up now. He's gone and come back from the dead."

  "It's him, then?" I asked. "My . . . father?"

  "Indeed," Grandpa Smedry said. "Attica Smedry, in the flesh. Ha! I should have known. If ever there were a man to lose his soul and then find it again, it would be Attica!"

  "Father, Kaz!" Attica said, walking over, putting an arm around each one. "We have work to do! The Free Kingdoms are in deep danger! Did you retrieve my possessions?"

  "Actually," I said. "Your wife did that."

  Attica froze, looking back at me. Even though he’d addressed me earlier, it seemed that now he was seeing me for the first time. “Ah,” he said. "She has my Translator’s Lenses, then?"

  "We assume so, son," Grandpa Smedry said.

  Well then, that means we have even more work to do!" And with that, my father strode down the hallway, walking as if he expected everyone to hop quickly and follow.

  I stood, staring after him. Bastille and Kaz paused, looking at me.

  "Not what you were expecting?" Bastille asked.

  I shrugged. This was the first time I'd met my father, and he had barely glanced at me.

  "He's just distracted, I'm sure," Bastille said. “A little addled from having spent so long as a ghost."

  "Yeah," I said. "I'm sure that's it."

  Kaz slapped me on the shoulder. "Don't get down, Al. This is a time for rejoicing!"

  I smiled, his enthusiasm contagious. "I suppose you're right." We began to walk, my step growing a bit more springy. Kaz was right. True, everything wasn't perfect, but we had managed to save my father. Coming down into the Library had proven to be the best choice, in the end.

  I might have been a bit inexperienced, but I'd made the right decision. I found myself feeling rather good as we walked.

  "Thanks, Kaz," I said.

  "For what?"

  "For the encouragement."

  He shrugged. "We short people are like that. Remember what I said about being more compassionate."

  I laughed. "Perhaps. I do have to say, though - I've thought of at least one reason why it's better to be a tall person."

  Kaz raised an eyebrow.

  "Lightbulbs," I said. "If everyone were short like you, Kaz, then who'd change them?"

  He laughed. "You're forgetting Reason number sixty-three, kid!"

  "Which is?"

  "If everyone were short, we could build lower ceilings! Think of how much we'd save on building costs!"

  I laughed, shaking my head as we caught up to the others and made our way out of the Library.

  EPILOGUE

  THERE YOU GO. BOOK TWO OF MY MEMOIRS. IT’S NOT THE END, OF COURSE. YOU DIDN’T THINK IT WOULD BE, DID YOU? WE HAVEN’T EVEN GOTTEN TO THE PART WHERE I END UP TIED TO THAT ALTAR, ABOUT TO BE SACRIFICED! BESIDES, THESE THINGS ALWAYS COME IN TRILOGIES, AT LEAST. OTHERWISE THEY’RE NOT EPIC!

  THIS VOLUME CONTAINED AN IMPORTANT SECTION OF MY LIFE. MY FIRST MEETING – HUMBLE THOUGH IT WAS – WITH THE FAMOUS ATTICA SMEDRY. MY FIRST REAL TASTE OF LEADERSHIP. MY FIRST CHANCE TO USE WINDSTORMER’S LENSES LIKE A JET ENGINE. (I NEVER GET TIRED OF THAT ONE.)

  BEFORE WE PART, I OWE YOU ONE MORE EXPLANATION. IT HAS TO DO WITH A BOAT: THE SHIP OF THESEUS. DO YOU REMEMBER? EVERY PLANK IN IT HAD BEEN REPLACED, UNTIL IT LOOKED LIKE THE SAME SHIP, BUT WASN’T.

  I TOLD YOU THAT I WAS THAT SHIP. PERHAPS NOW, AFTER READING THIS BOOK, YOU CAN SEE WHY.

  YOU SHOULD NOW KNOW THE YOUNG ME PRETTY WELL. YOU’VE READ TWO BOOKS ABOUT HIM AND HAVE SEEN HIS PROGRESS AS A PERSON. YOU’VE EVEN SEEN HIM DO SOME HEROIC THINGS, LIKE CLIMB ON TOP OF A GLASS DRAGON, FACE DOWN A MEMBER OF THE SCRIVENER’S BONES, AND SAVE HIS FATHER FROM THE CLUTCHES OF THE CURATORS OF ALEXANDRIA.

  YOU MAY WONDER WHY I’VE STARTED MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY SO FAR BACK, WHEN I STILL SHOWED HINTS THAT I MIGHT BE A GOOD PERSON. WELL, I’M THE SHIP OF THESEUS. I WAS ONCE THAT BOY, FULL OF HOPE, FULL OF POTENTIAL. THAT??
?S NOT WHO I AM ANYMORE. I’M A COPY. A FAKE.

  I’M THE PERSON THAT YOUNG BOY GREW INTO, BUT I’M NOT HIM. I’M NOT THE HERO THAT EVERYONE SAYS – EVEN THOUGH I LOOK LIKE I SHOULD BE.

  THE PURPOSE OF THIS SERIES IS TO SHOW THE CHANGES I WENT THROUGH. TO LET YOU SEE THE PIECES OF ME SLOWLY GETTING REPLACED UNTIL NOTHING IS LEFT OF THE ORIGINAL.

  I’M A SAD, PATHETIC PERSON, WRITING HIS LIFE STORY IN THE BASEMENT OF A LAVISH CASTLE HE REALLY DOESN’T DESERVE. I’M NOT A HERO. HEROES DON’T LET THE PEOPLE THEY LOVE DIE.

  I’M NOT PROUD OF WHAT I’VE BECOME, BUT I INTEND TO MAKE CERTAIN THAT EVERYONE KNOWS THE TRUTH. IT’S TIME FOR THE LIES TO END; TIME FOR PEOPLE TO REALIZE THAT THEIR SHIP OF THESEUS IS JUST A COPY.

  IF THE REAL ONE EVER EXISTED IN THE FIRST PLACE.

  was not my place to say so.

  "Bastille!" I screamed, holding her bloody body in my arms. "Why?"

  She didn't respond. She just stared into the air, eyes glazed over, her spirit already gone. I shivered, pulling her close, but the body was growing cold.

  "You can't die, you can't!" I said. “Please.”

  It was no use. Bastille was dead. Really dead. Deader than a battery left all night with the high beam on. So dead, she was twice as dead as anyone I'd ever seen dead. She was that dead.

  “This is all my fault,” I said. "I shouldn't have brought you in to fight Kiliman!"

  I felt at her pulse, just in case. There was nothing'

  Because, you know, she was dead.

  "Oh, cruel world," I said, sobbing.

  I put a mirror up to her face to see if she was breathing. Of course, there was no mist on the mirror. Seeing as how Bastille was totally and completely dead.