“Why not just let people live their lives, and live yours?”
Sing looked taken aback. “Alcatraz, the Hushlanders are enslaved! They’re being kept in ignorance, living only with the most primitive technologies! Besides, we need to do something to fight. Back at the Council of Kings, some people are starting to talk about surrendering to the Librarians completely!” He shook his head. “I’m glad for people like your grandfather, people willing to take the fight into Librarian lands. It shows that we won’t simply sit back and slowly have our kingdoms taken from us.”
Up ahead, Bastille glared back at us. “Would you two like to chat a little more?” she snapped. “Perhaps sing a little tune? If there are any Librarians in front of us, we wouldn’t want them to miss out on hearing us coming.”
Sing looked at his feet sheepishly, and we fell silent—though a part of me wanted to yell something like, “What did you say, Bastille?” as loudly as I could. You see, that is the sad, sorry, terrible thing about sarcasm.
It’s really funny.
But I just walked quietly, thinking about what Sing had said—particularly the part about the Librarians only letting Hushlanders have the most “primitive” of technologies. It seemed ridiculous to me that the Free Kingdomers considered things like guns and automobiles to be “primitive.” They weren’t primitive, they were … well, they were what I knew. Growing up in America, I’d come to assume that everything I had—and did—was the newest, best, and most advanced in the world.
It was very unsettling to be confronted by people who weren’t impressed by how advanced my culture was. I wanted to huff and think that whatever they had must not be all that good either. Except the problem was that I’d seen that they had self-driving cars, glasses that could track a person’s footprints, and armored knights. All were, in one way or another, superior to what I’d known. (Admit it, knights are just cool.)
I was coming to realize something very difficult. I was slowly accepting that the way I did things—the way my people did things—might not actually be the best way.
In other words, I was feeling humility.
I sincerely hope that you never have to feel this emotion. Like asparagus and fish, it’s not really as good for you as everyone says it is. Selfishness, arrogance, and callousness got me much further than humility ever did.
Have I mentioned that I’m not really a very good person?
Our small group reached the end of the unmarked hallway, Bastille still in the lead. She paused, holding up a hand, peeking around the corner. Then she continued onward, her platform sandals making a slight noise as she stepped onto a carpeted floor. Sing and I followed. The room beyond was filled with books.
Really filled.
Perhaps you’ve never experienced the full, suffocating majesty of a true library. You Hushlanders have probably visited your local libraries—you’ve perused the parts that normal people are allowed to see. These places tend to have row upon row of neat bookshelves, arranged nicely. They are presented attractively for the same reason that kittens are cute—so that they can draw you in, then pounce on you for the kill.
Seriously. Stay away from kittens.
Public libraries exist to entice. The Librarians want everyone to read their books—whether those books are deep and poignant works about dead puppies or nonfiction books about made-up topics, like the Pilgrims, penicillin, and France. In fact, the only book they don’t want you to read is the one you’re holding right now.
Those aren’t real libraries, however. Real libraries take little concern for enticement. You who have visited the basement stacks of a university library’s philosophy section know what I’m talking about. In such places, the shelves get squeezed closer and closer together, and they reach higher and higher. Piles of books appear randomly at junctions and in corners waiting to be shelved, like the fourth-generation descendants of a copy of Summa Theologica and an edition of Little Women.
Dust settles on the books like a gray perversion of rain forest moss, giving the air a certain moldy, unwelcome scent faintly reminiscent of a baledragon’s lair. At each corner, you expect to turn and see the withered, skeletal remains of some poor researcher who got lost in the stacks and never found his way out.
And even those kinds of libraries are but pale apprentices to the enormous cavern of books that I entered that day. We walked quietly, passing shelves packed so tightly together that only an anorexic racing jockey could have squeezed between them. The bookshelves were easily fifteen feet high, and enormous plaques on the ends proclaimed, in very small letters, the titles each one contained. Long wooden poles with pincerlike hooks leaned against some shelves, and I got the impression that they were used for reaching between the shelves to pull out books.
No, I thought, it would take a ridiculous amount of practice to learn to do something like that. I must be wrong.
You may have guessed that I wasn’t actually wrong. You see, Librarian apprentices have plenty of time to practice things that are ridiculous. They really only have three duties: First, to learn the incredibly and needlessly complicated filing system used to catalog books in the back library stacks. Second, to practice with the book-hooks. Third, to plot ways to torture an innocent populace.
That third one is the most fun. Kind of like gym class for the murderously insane.
Sing, Bastille, and I crept along the rows, careful to keep an eye out for Librarian apprentices. This was undoubtedly the most dangerous thing I’d ever done in my short life. Fortunately, we were able to get to the eastern edge of the room without incident.
“We should move along the wall,” Bastille said quietly, “so Alcatraz can look down each row of books. That way, he might see powerful Oculatory sources.”
Sing nodded. “But we should move quickly. We need to find the sands and get out fast, before the Librarians realize they’ve been infiltrated.”
They looked at me expectantly. “Uh, that sounds good,” I finally said.
“You’ve got this leadership thing down, Smedry,” Bastille said flatly. “Very inspiring. Come on, then. Let’s keep moving.”
Bastille and Sing began to walk along the wall. I, however, didn’t follow. I had just noticed something hanging on the wall above us: a very large painting that appeared to be an ornate, detailed map of the world.
And it looked nothing like the one I was used to.
Chapter
8
At this point, you’re probably expecting to read something like, “I suddenly realized that everything I thought I had known was untrue.”
Though I’ll likely use that exact phrase, I should warn you that it is misleading. Everything I knew was not untrue. In fact, many of the things I’d learned about the world were quite true.
For instance, I knew that the sun came up every day. That was not untrue. (Though, admittedly, that sun shone on a geography I didn’t understand.) I knew that my homeland was named the United States of America. That was not untrue. (Though the U.S.A. was not actually run by senators, presidents, and judges—but instead by a cult of evil Librarians.) I knew that sharks were annoying. This also was not untrue. (There’s actually nothing witty to add here. Sharks are annoying. Particularly the carnivorous kind.)
You have been warned.
I stared up at the enormous wall map and suddenly realized something. Everything I thought I’d known about the world was untrue. “This can’t be real.…” I whispered, stepping back.
“I’m afraid it is, Alcatraz,” Sing said, laying a hand on my shoulder. “That’s the world—the entire world, both the Hushlands and the Free Kingdoms. This is the thing that the Librarians don’t want you to know about.”
I stared. “But it’s so … big.”
And indeed it was. The Americas were there, represented accurately. The other continents—Asia, Australia, Africa, and the rest—were there as well. They were collectively labeled INNER LIBRARIA on the map, but I recognized them easily enough. The difference, then, was the new conti
nents. There were three of them, pressed into the oceans between the familiar continents. Two of the new continents were smaller, perhaps the size of Australia. One, however, was very large. It sat directly in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, right between America and Japan.
“It’s impossible,” I said. “We would have noticed a landmass like that sitting in the middle of the ocean.”
“You think you would have noticed,” Sing said. “But the truth is that the Librarians control the information in your country. How often have you personally been out sailing in the middle of what you call the Pacific Ocean?”
I paused. “But … simply because I haven’t been there doesn’t mean anything. The ocean is like kangaroos and grandfathers—I believe that other people have seen it. Ship captains, airplane pilots, satellite images…”
“Satellites controlled by the Librarians,” Bastille said, regarding the map through her sunglasses. “Your pilots fly guided by instruments and maps that the Librarians provide. And not many people sail boats in your culture—particularly not into the deep ocean. Those who do are bribed, threatened, brainwashed, or—most often—carefully misled.”
Sing nodded. “Those other continents make sense, if you think about it. I mean, a planet that is seventy percent water? What would be the point of that much wasted space? I’d never have thought people would buy that lie, had I not studied Hushlander cultures.”
“People go along with what they’re told,” Bastille said. “Even intelligent people believe what they read and hear, assuming they’re given no reason to question.”
I shook my head. “A hidden gas station I can believe, but this? This isn’t some little cover-up or misdirection. There are three new continents on that map!”