Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

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.

“… 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 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 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 the tags off T-shirts,” I grumbled.

“Do not question our methods, mortal.”

I shivered, realizing it probably wasn’t a good idea to sass the soul-sucking monster with a burning skull for a head. In that way, soul-sucking monsters with burning skulls are a lot like teachers. (I understand your confusion; I get them mixed up too.)

With that, the three spirits began to drift away.

“Wait,” I said, anxious not to return to the darkness. “What about my friends? Where are they?”

One of the spirits turned back. “They have been separated from you. All must be alone when they enter the Library.” It drifted closer. “Have you come seeking knowledge? We can provide it for you. Anything you wish. Any book, any volume, any tome. Anything that has been written, we can provide. You need but ask.…”

The robed body and burning skull drifted around me, voice subtle and inviting as it whispered. “You can know anything. Including, perhaps, where your father is.”

I spun toward the creature. “You know that?”

“We can provide some information,” it said. “You need but ask to check out the volume.”

“And the cost?”

The skull seemed to smile, if that was possible. “Cheap.”

“My soul?”

The smile broadened.

“No, thank you,” I said, shuddering.

“Very well,” the Curator said, drifting away.

Suddenly, lamps on the walls flickered to life, lighting the room. The lamps were little oil-filled containers that looked like the kind you’d expect a genie to hold in an old Arabian story. I didn’t really care; I was just glad for the light. By it, I could see that I stood in a dusty room with old brick walls. There were several hallways leading away from the room, and there were no doors in the doorways.

Great, I thought. Of all the times to give away my Tracker’s Lenses …

I picked a door at random and walked out into the hallway, immediately struck by how vast the library was. It seemed to extend forever. Lamps hung from pillars that—stretching into the distance—looked like a flickering, haunting runway on a deserted airfield. To my right and to my left were shelves filled with scrolls.