It had been a week since Castor had arrived in Zeltiva and an interesting one at that. He felt that he had acclimated to the university and town and had begun to feel comfortable; he did not, however, want to become complacent. He reminded himself that he stood alone in the world, to all intents and purposes; no one would save him if he failed and no one would care if he landed himself in the gutter. To avoid such an unfortunate fate he needed a job, and where else would a lover of literature, history and knowledge rather find work than in a library?
It was thus that Castor found himself this fine morning standing between the open doors of the Wright Memorial Library. He looked around taking in the immensity of the library. So much knowledge! The mind boggled at the thought of all that information being in one, tiny head. Wasn’t that his goal, after all, to some degree: to know enough so that his mind could be its own library? Here he saw a physical representation of his own desire… and the idea whetted his mental appetite. Castor had heard that the library had a very altruistic “knowledge-for-everybody” kind of mentality, so he had kind of expected throngs of people, clamouring for the librarians’ attention. Instead, he saw some small, quiet groups of people and many scattered, silent individuals. That silence was deafening. Castor himself had read almost every book he ever had sitting behind his father’s stall in Syliras’ Great Bazaar; he was most comfortable reading with the babble of a crowd of people as a backdrop. The quiet seemed unnatural, stifling. He coughed a little and received irritated glances from the nearest readers. He hurried along to continue his business.
On the way he passed by many busts of the gods. He glanced at their names: Gnora, goddess of order, Eyris, goddess of knowledge. He put little faith in the gods; when he had pleaded, prostrate, eyes streaming tears at the Temple of All Gods in Syliras, begging that his father be made whole again, no Rak’keli appeared to heal him, no Vayt to whisper an awful bargain. They did not care, or perhaps he simply wasn’t interesting enough to merit their time. As he moved on along the corridor, his eye caught on one bust in particular: an attractive woman looking off into the future, it seemed. The inscription identified her as Qalaya, goddess of memory and writing. ‘I suppose it’s the past then…’ he mumbled. With a finger he traced the ‘Q’’s curves. What he wouldn’t give to get back some memories of his father, to remember more clearly those moments he had taken for granted. ‘Qalaya’: he would remember the name.
Castor approached the librarian’s desk, intending to ask where he could find the head librarian, when a loud shout shattered the silence:
‘A tear! A tear! Do you have any idea… You dare, DARE, to come into my library, take my books and defile them in such a way?! Get out! Out, out, out!’
Castor watched in stunned amazement as a terrified student began to flee the library, nearly falling over himself in his haste.
‘No running in the library!’ bellowed the voice, stopping the boy completely in his tracks for a second, before he began walking, as swiftly as – and while quite possibly being redder than - humanly possible, all the way out the library’s ornate doors.
Castor looked to the owner of the voice that had produced this unexpected outburst. An old woman, with a stern face and her white hair tied up in a bun. He saw she had a faint smile on her lips.
‘The book was always going to get a bit torn,’ she whispered conspiratorially to him, noticing his confused expression. ‘It’s an old book and it’s due a new body by now. Its blemishes prove that it has been loved and appreciated over many years of study.' she sighed. 'Still we can’t let people think it’s alright not to have a care.’ She ended, her voice changing from motherly to harsh in a heartbeat. Castor was beginning to like this woman already.
‘Excuse me…’ he began, but she interrupted:
‘So, what can you do and why should I hire you? Chop chop, I don’t have all day.’
Castor stared.
‘Come now, it’s obvious you’re not here for the books. You’ve never been here before, or I’d remember, I assure you, yet you didn’t wander the sections of the library, or ask for directions from any of a number of librarians that you passed along the way. If you came to a library and aren’t interested in the books, then I assume it’s a job you’re looking for. Since you’re not visibly carrying any writing equipment, you’re not here to write a chronicle of my glamorous life, or to sketch the architecture. So, what can you do, aside from stare dumbly, and why should I hire you?’
Castor resisted the urge to simply carry on staring, seeing that such an act might very well end his hopes of employment in this facility.
‘Memory’ he blurted out.
‘I mean’, he quickly corrected himself, ‘I’m very good at remembering things’ he said, rather weakly. She looked unimpressed.
‘What I really mean’, his third attempt fuelled even more by his embarrassment, ‘is that I’m much better than average at remembering things. I could memorize the layout of this library today, and tomorrow be showing people around like I’ve been here for years. I’ll remember where things should be and where to put them. Also, I love books.’ Castor felt the last part was a bit weak.
‘Can you write?’ asked the woman.
‘Yes, yes of course’ he replied, absurdly relieved to be able to prove his worth in even the smallest of ways.
‘As I told you, some books on these shelves… more than some actually, considering…’ her eyes darkened for a moment before continuing, ‘Yes, in any case, books need to be copied. As with the Nuit, their current bodies have begun deteriorating and I want you to copy them into new ones. Also, help anyone who asks for directions and keep the place in order. I’ll give you 4 Golden Mizas a day for this. I don’t barter. You may call me Lisaelis. Leave your information at the main desk. That will be all.’
‘But, but…’ Castor sputtered ‘I don’t copy! My writing’s terrible!’
Lisaelis smiled. ‘You love books. You’ll find a way. I have a nose for such things.’
And with that she walked off into the library.
It was thus that Castor found himself this fine morning standing between the open doors of the Wright Memorial Library. He looked around taking in the immensity of the library. So much knowledge! The mind boggled at the thought of all that information being in one, tiny head. Wasn’t that his goal, after all, to some degree: to know enough so that his mind could be its own library? Here he saw a physical representation of his own desire… and the idea whetted his mental appetite. Castor had heard that the library had a very altruistic “knowledge-for-everybody” kind of mentality, so he had kind of expected throngs of people, clamouring for the librarians’ attention. Instead, he saw some small, quiet groups of people and many scattered, silent individuals. That silence was deafening. Castor himself had read almost every book he ever had sitting behind his father’s stall in Syliras’ Great Bazaar; he was most comfortable reading with the babble of a crowd of people as a backdrop. The quiet seemed unnatural, stifling. He coughed a little and received irritated glances from the nearest readers. He hurried along to continue his business.
On the way he passed by many busts of the gods. He glanced at their names: Gnora, goddess of order, Eyris, goddess of knowledge. He put little faith in the gods; when he had pleaded, prostrate, eyes streaming tears at the Temple of All Gods in Syliras, begging that his father be made whole again, no Rak’keli appeared to heal him, no Vayt to whisper an awful bargain. They did not care, or perhaps he simply wasn’t interesting enough to merit their time. As he moved on along the corridor, his eye caught on one bust in particular: an attractive woman looking off into the future, it seemed. The inscription identified her as Qalaya, goddess of memory and writing. ‘I suppose it’s the past then…’ he mumbled. With a finger he traced the ‘Q’’s curves. What he wouldn’t give to get back some memories of his father, to remember more clearly those moments he had taken for granted. ‘Qalaya’: he would remember the name.
Castor approached the librarian’s desk, intending to ask where he could find the head librarian, when a loud shout shattered the silence:
‘A tear! A tear! Do you have any idea… You dare, DARE, to come into my library, take my books and defile them in such a way?! Get out! Out, out, out!’
Castor watched in stunned amazement as a terrified student began to flee the library, nearly falling over himself in his haste.
‘No running in the library!’ bellowed the voice, stopping the boy completely in his tracks for a second, before he began walking, as swiftly as – and while quite possibly being redder than - humanly possible, all the way out the library’s ornate doors.
Castor looked to the owner of the voice that had produced this unexpected outburst. An old woman, with a stern face and her white hair tied up in a bun. He saw she had a faint smile on her lips.
‘The book was always going to get a bit torn,’ she whispered conspiratorially to him, noticing his confused expression. ‘It’s an old book and it’s due a new body by now. Its blemishes prove that it has been loved and appreciated over many years of study.' she sighed. 'Still we can’t let people think it’s alright not to have a care.’ She ended, her voice changing from motherly to harsh in a heartbeat. Castor was beginning to like this woman already.
‘Excuse me…’ he began, but she interrupted:
‘So, what can you do and why should I hire you? Chop chop, I don’t have all day.’
Castor stared.
‘Come now, it’s obvious you’re not here for the books. You’ve never been here before, or I’d remember, I assure you, yet you didn’t wander the sections of the library, or ask for directions from any of a number of librarians that you passed along the way. If you came to a library and aren’t interested in the books, then I assume it’s a job you’re looking for. Since you’re not visibly carrying any writing equipment, you’re not here to write a chronicle of my glamorous life, or to sketch the architecture. So, what can you do, aside from stare dumbly, and why should I hire you?’
Castor resisted the urge to simply carry on staring, seeing that such an act might very well end his hopes of employment in this facility.
‘Memory’ he blurted out.
‘I mean’, he quickly corrected himself, ‘I’m very good at remembering things’ he said, rather weakly. She looked unimpressed.
‘What I really mean’, his third attempt fuelled even more by his embarrassment, ‘is that I’m much better than average at remembering things. I could memorize the layout of this library today, and tomorrow be showing people around like I’ve been here for years. I’ll remember where things should be and where to put them. Also, I love books.’ Castor felt the last part was a bit weak.
‘Can you write?’ asked the woman.
‘Yes, yes of course’ he replied, absurdly relieved to be able to prove his worth in even the smallest of ways.
‘As I told you, some books on these shelves… more than some actually, considering…’ her eyes darkened for a moment before continuing, ‘Yes, in any case, books need to be copied. As with the Nuit, their current bodies have begun deteriorating and I want you to copy them into new ones. Also, help anyone who asks for directions and keep the place in order. I’ll give you 4 Golden Mizas a day for this. I don’t barter. You may call me Lisaelis. Leave your information at the main desk. That will be all.’
‘But, but…’ Castor sputtered ‘I don’t copy! My writing’s terrible!’
Lisaelis smiled. ‘You love books. You’ll find a way. I have a nose for such things.’
And with that she walked off into the library.
