Alcatraz versus the Scrivener's Bones (26 page)

"He
y," I said, turning to the neare
st
Curator.
"What's
through that door?"

"That's where we keep the posse
ssions o
f
those who
have been turned into Curators," the cre
a
ture said in a
raspy voice.
Indeed, I saw several Curators cleaning up the
remnants of Kiliman's transformatio
n –
the
bits of metal
and the clothing he had been wearing.

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

"A
nd what was that reason again?” Kaz asked.

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

Hangook Mal Malha GiMa
Sh
ip
S
hio.

Expectations.
They are among the mo
st i
m
portant
things in all of existence.
(Which is a
musing, because, b
eing
ab
stract concepts, you could argue
that th
e
y
don’t ev
en
"exist" at all.)

Everything we do, everything we
experience and every
thing we say is clouded by our
e
xp
e
ct
a
tio
n
s.
We go to
school or work in the mornings
because
we expect that it
will be r
ewarding.
(Or, at least, we expe
ct that if we don't,
we'll get in trouble.)

We build friendships based on
e
xpectations.
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 troub
le when you upset their expecta
tions.
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.
Y
ou probably
read my first book, thought it was fun.
Y
ou're reading this
one
not
b
ecause you believe its text, but because you
expected
another fun story.

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

S
o, 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 num
bers, 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.

Ma
yb
e
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, y
ou 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 hall
way 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, s
taring
down at the grou
nd 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 s
o 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.

"H
e
y, Pop," Kaz said, raising a hand.

"Kazan!" Grandpa Smedry said.
“W
ell, well.
Been cor
rupting your nephew, I assume?"

Kaz shrugged.
"
Somebody needs to.”

Grandpa Smedry smiled, but there was something . . .
sorrowful about even that expression.
He wa
sn’
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,
h
and 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 Ta
lent 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 T
alent sens
ing my frustration, and I felt like pounding on something.
W
e'd come all this way,
just to be turned away at the end.
W
hy?
W
hy 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 e
nd
."

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

With that, he stood. We joined hi
m, making our way
out of the hallway.
We walked through the central room
and out into the stacks beyon
d, trailed by a couple of Curators who were – undo
ubtedly
–
hoping we’d make
one last-minu
te mistake and lose our souls.

I sighed, then turned and gave o
ne 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 pu
t them on.
The message was
simple, only one sente
nce 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 t
o 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
C
urator. "
W
hat 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… u
h
, 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.