Arnold Cavenstein crept slowly across his kitchen floor to the door leading into the dining room. His hands stuck to the floor as he crawled, sticky with the residue of two days spent in heavy cooking. No sound had emanated from the room since the barrage of gunfire had sent Arnold into a series of mental fits moments before. His subsequent five minutes had been spent in abject terror, fully convinced that his own death was forthcoming. He had eventually calmed himself to such an extent that he was able to proceed with the investigation into the scene of the conflict.
As Arnold approached the swinging door to the next room he quietly pushed himself up from the floor and braced his arms between the floor and the oven, putting himself in direct line with the small crack between the door and the frame. As he leaned forward to peer through the tiny crevice his hand slipped from its position on the floor sending him tumbling through the doorway. The door crashed against the adjacent wall, a boastful herald of his arrival.
From his fall Arnold had come to a full stop, lying face down in the dining room, a picture of utter exhaustion and failure. As he lay prone on the rough carpet he could feel a set of eyes surveying the scope of his entrance.
“Don’t move,” said Ms. J.
A trigger clicked somewhere above where Arnold lay.
“This had nothing to do with you. For your part you were completely blameless. They all deserved what they got. I didn’t even have to touch the old man. Probably died of guilt anyway, the old bastard.”
Footsteps circled from Arnold’s right to his left side.
“It’s funny, you know? I shouldn’t have ever cared. I wouldn’t have either, but that damn Brisby. It was in his voice. You could always tell he was right.”
Arnold shook on the floor, scared of inevitability. The footsteps that had been circling him began to move away. He heard the front door creak open.
“You still have a chance you know. You just need to make the right choices.”
Arnold Cavenstein remained motionless, prostrate in an empty room in an empty building on the edge of an empty city.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Chapter 57
“Missing volume? He’s a man!”
After having been escorted to a quiet side exit of the library, Witticker and Edward found themselves again in the middle of an empty street on the island of Manhattan. Witticker, however, was no longer interested in any further traveling. Nor was he interested in his empty stomach which had been growling at him for the past several hours. In fact, he had even temporarily given up rationality in favor of pursuing the answers to his questions, of which he had collected several over the past few hours.
“Well,” began Edward, “it’s complic…”
“No,” howled Witticker, “it’s not. Not this time! A man is not a volume. He’s a man! And there’s another question! Where are all the books? We’ve been across half the country and through more than half of that library and I haven’t seen one! Not a single one! Not even a paperback! And why didn’t that old man answer any of my questions? And who was the guy in that picture? And where are we going? Answer me!”
Edward, having continued to walk since their exit from the library, had cleared roughly a block on Witticker, who stood firm in his obstinacy. Edward turned slowly to look back at his companion, still standing in the heavy shade of the library against the setting sun.
“Son of a bitch,” said Edward, walking back to Witticker at a marked speed, “Fine! You want to know? I’ll tell you. But don’t make it sound like I’ve been hiding it from you! I’m not a goddamn psychic! We’ve been in some pretty tight and, I’ll grant you, bizarre situations, but you’ve never asked me anything that I didn’t tell you. Why do you think I’d start now?”
Witticker didn’t answer, darting his eyes to the side to avoid Edward’s accusatory gaze.
“Just come with me and I’ll tell you everything, but please, come on! We have to keep moving! If this guy is where I think he might be I want to find him before he disappears again.”
*~~*
A synopsis of the discussion between Witticker and Edward on their trip through Manhattan
- A man is a man. A man is not a volume.
o However, a man can be a librarian and a librarian can be a ‘volume’.
- In the New York Public Library there are no books, just people.
o It was determined after the Great Decline that books were no longer suitable containers of the world’s knowledge due to their tendency to decay and the ease in which they were able to be stolen.
Specific people were chosen to be the vessels of the knowledge until a more permanent solution could be found.
• These people were selected based on memory skills and capacity for extended thought.
o Upon being imparted to the human ‘volumes’ the books were destroyed to insure the security of information in the library and to enhance the value of their new human containers.
- Every ‘volume’ is part of a ‘collection’ referring to their specific content area.
- Each ‘volume’ is required to contain their own information while also attending lectures by other ‘volumes’.
o This is meant to expand each ‘volume’s individual understanding of their own content and how it pertains to the whole.
- Edward was a ‘volume’.
o His content area was ‘late 20th and early 21st century history’.
He was expelled from the library for teaching the tenets of Perceptionism, a subject banned from the library due to the destructive nature of its past.
- The old man in the portrait was a very old and peculiar ‘volume’ named Ronald Yoder.
o He belonged to no ‘collection’ and his content area was classified under the title ‘grammar rules’.
o The actual title was ‘dreams and the action of dreaming’.
He was forbidden to discuss or lecture on any of the information he possessed.
• In 2182 he went missing and, despite the best efforts of the library, has not been seen for past thirty years.
o The only information forwarded by Malcolm Dietrichs about Ronald Yoder was that at the time of his disappearance he had been researching the emergence of the Golden Acolytes with a near fanatical interest.
*~~*
“…and I think,” said Edward as he climbed over a concrete roadblock, “that I know where this guy is.”
Edward turned back and extended his hand to help Witticker over the concrete fence.
“And if he is there, well, I don’t know,” grunted Edward as Witticker scrambled over the wall, “It’s possible he might know who you are.”
“Great,” grunted Witticker, “it’s about time somebody told me.”
Edward chuckled as he scrambled up a pile of debris and quickly jumped down to the sidewalk below. Witticker cautiously followed, carefully climbing up the pile of fallen rocks that Edward had bounded over so deftly.
“Hey,” called Edward from the lower sidewalk, “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Where did you pull that question from in Dietrichs’ office?”
“What question?” asked Witticker as he hopped over the peak of the stone hill.
“You know, the whole ‘devolution of the human race’ thing? That was quite a shocker. Not a whole lot of people can get Dietrichs’ attention like that.”
Witticker hung from the edge of the stone pile, checking his destination below, before finally releasing, landing on the uneven sidewalk with a heavy grunt.
“Oh, that. Well, to tell you the truth, I was picking around in Brisby’s white box last night after you fell asleep. Turns out he kept a research journal on there. There wasn’t a whole lot of fact, just a bunch of theories. He had an interview with one guy who called the absence of dreaming a devolutionary phenomenon that started a long time ago. He was pretty paranoid about the whole thing, Brisby I mean. Pretty convinced that it wasn’t natural. Something that someone did to us. He just couldn’t prove it. One thing’s for sure though, he was telling the truth when he said he didn’t know anything about me. I searched the whole damn thing.”
“Sorry,” murmured Edward, walking beside his friend down the crumbling sidewalk.
“Don’t worry about it,” replied Witticker, “the truth’ll have to come out eventually.”
*~~*
The two men had been traveling through the deteriorating streets for nearly thirty minutes and were slowly advancing on the edge of the island city. Seagulls greeted them overhead and the wind from the water’s edge blew upon their faces as it ran through the narrow industrial valley.
“But where are we going?” asked Witticker, following Edward through a narrow path between two decaying automobiles, “and how do you know he’s going to be there at all? What would bring him here?”
“That,” answered Edward, pointing at a large rectangular building that had just appeared as they passed out of the maze of streets. The rectangle stood next to the water on one of its smaller side so that its length reached towards the sky. Flagpoles were planted in a curved line in front of the building, empty of the diverse flags they once flew. Across the length of the there were holes where windows once existed, small rectangular gaps divided into very complex and mathematically equal sections.
“This is a very ancient testament to an old and invested hobby of his.”
Witticker scanned the massive structure from top to bottom. His eyes were first drawn to the great height of the building, then to the thick cloud of birds darting in and out of the structure, and finally to an odd spectacle occurring in the parking lot in front of the building. In the paved area past the series of flagpoles a small figure could be seen jumping and waving its arms in frantic and irregular patterns towards the building. From a distance the figure appeared to be a small man with a thick beard clad in ragged clothing, a small satchel flying into the air at his side as he gestured erratically, shaking his hands furiously at the building. Witticker shook his head in disbelief as Edward began his walk towards the plaza.
“Really?” murmured Witticker as he followed Edward through the intersecting streets.
*~~*
As they approached the empty lot the old man, recognizing he was no longer alone, stopped his wild gesticulations and hunched over in the direction of his observers. He hid his face with one hand and pointed at them with the other.
“What is he doing?” whispered Witticker as they walked forward.
“I have no idea. Do the same.”
Edward bent over and covered his face with his own hand, pointing at the old man with the other. Witticker quickly followed suit. The three men sat in the position for several minutes as the old man rocked from side to side, letting out a series of low grunts. Finally he peered out through his fingers and let out a high pitched cry. He jumped up from his crouching position and ran towards Witticker and Edward.
“You!” shouted the man excitedly, “You!”
“Me,” answered Edward, returning the enthusiasm to the old man from his crouched state. The old man quickly turned and ran back to the parking lot, jumping and shaking his fists at the building. Edward slowly began to rise and gestured to Witticker to do the same.
“What should we do?” hissed Witticker.
“I don’t know,” murmured Edward, “You’re the one with all the questions. Go ask him.”
Witticker chuckled and looked to Edward only to find a face devoid of comical intent.
“Are you serious?”
Edward pointed towards the old man frolicking on the empty pavement.
“It’s him or no one.”
Witticker turned and stared at the man for several moments, observing his actions. He didn’t appear to be dangerous and he was the only source of potential information that they’d been able to track down thus far. Witticker struggled inside himself, never having imagined that the answers to all his questions would be coming from such an abnormal informant.
After several moments of consideration Witticker shrugged his shoulders and began walking towards what he perceived to be a very nonsensical situation. As he began his advance the old man froze in his movements, standing very rigid. Witticker stopped a few feet away from the ragged man and waved in greeting. The old man lifelessly mimicked Witticker’s gesture, waving his hand from side to side in a dull back and forth.
“Hello,” started Witticker, “do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Questions!” cried the old man as he jumped back towards the building, “questions don’t answer anything! Questions can’t fill the sky with birds and clouds and sun and there’s nothing there but answers!”
Witticker looked back to Edward who shrugged his shoulders. He turned back to the old man.
“Okay, let’s try this one. Are you Ronald Yoder?”
The old man raised his chin in the air and ran his fingers through his lengthy beard.
“Yoder? I know him! I remember him! I feel him, somewhere! Somewhere farther than the ocean of questions and answers and birds in the buildings.”
“Good,” answered Witticker, “do you think you or he could tell me about something?”
The old man nodded vigorously in the affirmative.
“Great! Do you know anything about someone named Witticker?”
“Oh!” cried the old man, “I know that! I remember that I know that! Just a little boy! They took him from everything! They took him to keep him!”
“Who took him?”
“The people in the biggest buildings,” mumbled the old man, suddenly looking much more anxious, “In the darkest rooms. In the longest hallways. They wanted to make sure they had one. In case. In case. In case they needed one!”
“Needed one what?”
“A dreamer! They needed one in case they ever needed to know more about it! About all the things it does and means and knows. You can’t just make it disappear! It doesn’t just disappear! And if it comes back and you don’t have one then you’ve lost control! All the control! They had to have one to keep control!”
“What do you know about dreams?”
“I know the world! I know the whole world about it! But no one else can know. They aren’t around anymore. They left. They’re gone.”
“Where did they go?”
“Away.”
“Why?”
The old man rushed towards Witticker and pulled him down close to the ground.
“Because they forgot,” whispered the old man with a shocking sincerity and tone, “they forgot them!”
As Witticker considered Roland Yoder’s words an amplified voice filled the cavern between the buildings.
“Edward St. Cavalier. Stop and stay where you are. You have committed a crime and are to be detained.”
Birds rushed from the building windows as Witticker turned to Edward who was already staring down the shoreline. A mass of people had appeared a block down on the coast of the archaic city structure. They were dressed in black and stood in close and rigid lines, uniform in their appearance. The black column stretched across the coast in an unending number. Edward turned back towards Witticker whose face had fallen loose with shock.
“It’s time to go.”
After having been escorted to a quiet side exit of the library, Witticker and Edward found themselves again in the middle of an empty street on the island of Manhattan. Witticker, however, was no longer interested in any further traveling. Nor was he interested in his empty stomach which had been growling at him for the past several hours. In fact, he had even temporarily given up rationality in favor of pursuing the answers to his questions, of which he had collected several over the past few hours.
“Well,” began Edward, “it’s complic…”
“No,” howled Witticker, “it’s not. Not this time! A man is not a volume. He’s a man! And there’s another question! Where are all the books? We’ve been across half the country and through more than half of that library and I haven’t seen one! Not a single one! Not even a paperback! And why didn’t that old man answer any of my questions? And who was the guy in that picture? And where are we going? Answer me!”
Edward, having continued to walk since their exit from the library, had cleared roughly a block on Witticker, who stood firm in his obstinacy. Edward turned slowly to look back at his companion, still standing in the heavy shade of the library against the setting sun.
“Son of a bitch,” said Edward, walking back to Witticker at a marked speed, “Fine! You want to know? I’ll tell you. But don’t make it sound like I’ve been hiding it from you! I’m not a goddamn psychic! We’ve been in some pretty tight and, I’ll grant you, bizarre situations, but you’ve never asked me anything that I didn’t tell you. Why do you think I’d start now?”
Witticker didn’t answer, darting his eyes to the side to avoid Edward’s accusatory gaze.
“Just come with me and I’ll tell you everything, but please, come on! We have to keep moving! If this guy is where I think he might be I want to find him before he disappears again.”
*~~*
A synopsis of the discussion between Witticker and Edward on their trip through Manhattan
- A man is a man. A man is not a volume.
o However, a man can be a librarian and a librarian can be a ‘volume’.
- In the New York Public Library there are no books, just people.
o It was determined after the Great Decline that books were no longer suitable containers of the world’s knowledge due to their tendency to decay and the ease in which they were able to be stolen.
Specific people were chosen to be the vessels of the knowledge until a more permanent solution could be found.
• These people were selected based on memory skills and capacity for extended thought.
o Upon being imparted to the human ‘volumes’ the books were destroyed to insure the security of information in the library and to enhance the value of their new human containers.
- Every ‘volume’ is part of a ‘collection’ referring to their specific content area.
- Each ‘volume’ is required to contain their own information while also attending lectures by other ‘volumes’.
o This is meant to expand each ‘volume’s individual understanding of their own content and how it pertains to the whole.
- Edward was a ‘volume’.
o His content area was ‘late 20th and early 21st century history’.
He was expelled from the library for teaching the tenets of Perceptionism, a subject banned from the library due to the destructive nature of its past.
- The old man in the portrait was a very old and peculiar ‘volume’ named Ronald Yoder.
o He belonged to no ‘collection’ and his content area was classified under the title ‘grammar rules’.
o The actual title was ‘dreams and the action of dreaming’.
He was forbidden to discuss or lecture on any of the information he possessed.
• In 2182 he went missing and, despite the best efforts of the library, has not been seen for past thirty years.
o The only information forwarded by Malcolm Dietrichs about Ronald Yoder was that at the time of his disappearance he had been researching the emergence of the Golden Acolytes with a near fanatical interest.
*~~*
“…and I think,” said Edward as he climbed over a concrete roadblock, “that I know where this guy is.”
Edward turned back and extended his hand to help Witticker over the concrete fence.
“And if he is there, well, I don’t know,” grunted Edward as Witticker scrambled over the wall, “It’s possible he might know who you are.”
“Great,” grunted Witticker, “it’s about time somebody told me.”
Edward chuckled as he scrambled up a pile of debris and quickly jumped down to the sidewalk below. Witticker cautiously followed, carefully climbing up the pile of fallen rocks that Edward had bounded over so deftly.
“Hey,” called Edward from the lower sidewalk, “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Where did you pull that question from in Dietrichs’ office?”
“What question?” asked Witticker as he hopped over the peak of the stone hill.
“You know, the whole ‘devolution of the human race’ thing? That was quite a shocker. Not a whole lot of people can get Dietrichs’ attention like that.”
Witticker hung from the edge of the stone pile, checking his destination below, before finally releasing, landing on the uneven sidewalk with a heavy grunt.
“Oh, that. Well, to tell you the truth, I was picking around in Brisby’s white box last night after you fell asleep. Turns out he kept a research journal on there. There wasn’t a whole lot of fact, just a bunch of theories. He had an interview with one guy who called the absence of dreaming a devolutionary phenomenon that started a long time ago. He was pretty paranoid about the whole thing, Brisby I mean. Pretty convinced that it wasn’t natural. Something that someone did to us. He just couldn’t prove it. One thing’s for sure though, he was telling the truth when he said he didn’t know anything about me. I searched the whole damn thing.”
“Sorry,” murmured Edward, walking beside his friend down the crumbling sidewalk.
“Don’t worry about it,” replied Witticker, “the truth’ll have to come out eventually.”
*~~*
The two men had been traveling through the deteriorating streets for nearly thirty minutes and were slowly advancing on the edge of the island city. Seagulls greeted them overhead and the wind from the water’s edge blew upon their faces as it ran through the narrow industrial valley.
“But where are we going?” asked Witticker, following Edward through a narrow path between two decaying automobiles, “and how do you know he’s going to be there at all? What would bring him here?”
“That,” answered Edward, pointing at a large rectangular building that had just appeared as they passed out of the maze of streets. The rectangle stood next to the water on one of its smaller side so that its length reached towards the sky. Flagpoles were planted in a curved line in front of the building, empty of the diverse flags they once flew. Across the length of the there were holes where windows once existed, small rectangular gaps divided into very complex and mathematically equal sections.
“This is a very ancient testament to an old and invested hobby of his.”
Witticker scanned the massive structure from top to bottom. His eyes were first drawn to the great height of the building, then to the thick cloud of birds darting in and out of the structure, and finally to an odd spectacle occurring in the parking lot in front of the building. In the paved area past the series of flagpoles a small figure could be seen jumping and waving its arms in frantic and irregular patterns towards the building. From a distance the figure appeared to be a small man with a thick beard clad in ragged clothing, a small satchel flying into the air at his side as he gestured erratically, shaking his hands furiously at the building. Witticker shook his head in disbelief as Edward began his walk towards the plaza.
“Really?” murmured Witticker as he followed Edward through the intersecting streets.
*~~*
As they approached the empty lot the old man, recognizing he was no longer alone, stopped his wild gesticulations and hunched over in the direction of his observers. He hid his face with one hand and pointed at them with the other.
“What is he doing?” whispered Witticker as they walked forward.
“I have no idea. Do the same.”
Edward bent over and covered his face with his own hand, pointing at the old man with the other. Witticker quickly followed suit. The three men sat in the position for several minutes as the old man rocked from side to side, letting out a series of low grunts. Finally he peered out through his fingers and let out a high pitched cry. He jumped up from his crouching position and ran towards Witticker and Edward.
“You!” shouted the man excitedly, “You!”
“Me,” answered Edward, returning the enthusiasm to the old man from his crouched state. The old man quickly turned and ran back to the parking lot, jumping and shaking his fists at the building. Edward slowly began to rise and gestured to Witticker to do the same.
“What should we do?” hissed Witticker.
“I don’t know,” murmured Edward, “You’re the one with all the questions. Go ask him.”
Witticker chuckled and looked to Edward only to find a face devoid of comical intent.
“Are you serious?”
Edward pointed towards the old man frolicking on the empty pavement.
“It’s him or no one.”
Witticker turned and stared at the man for several moments, observing his actions. He didn’t appear to be dangerous and he was the only source of potential information that they’d been able to track down thus far. Witticker struggled inside himself, never having imagined that the answers to all his questions would be coming from such an abnormal informant.
After several moments of consideration Witticker shrugged his shoulders and began walking towards what he perceived to be a very nonsensical situation. As he began his advance the old man froze in his movements, standing very rigid. Witticker stopped a few feet away from the ragged man and waved in greeting. The old man lifelessly mimicked Witticker’s gesture, waving his hand from side to side in a dull back and forth.
“Hello,” started Witticker, “do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Questions!” cried the old man as he jumped back towards the building, “questions don’t answer anything! Questions can’t fill the sky with birds and clouds and sun and there’s nothing there but answers!”
Witticker looked back to Edward who shrugged his shoulders. He turned back to the old man.
“Okay, let’s try this one. Are you Ronald Yoder?”
The old man raised his chin in the air and ran his fingers through his lengthy beard.
“Yoder? I know him! I remember him! I feel him, somewhere! Somewhere farther than the ocean of questions and answers and birds in the buildings.”
“Good,” answered Witticker, “do you think you or he could tell me about something?”
The old man nodded vigorously in the affirmative.
“Great! Do you know anything about someone named Witticker?”
“Oh!” cried the old man, “I know that! I remember that I know that! Just a little boy! They took him from everything! They took him to keep him!”
“Who took him?”
“The people in the biggest buildings,” mumbled the old man, suddenly looking much more anxious, “In the darkest rooms. In the longest hallways. They wanted to make sure they had one. In case. In case. In case they needed one!”
“Needed one what?”
“A dreamer! They needed one in case they ever needed to know more about it! About all the things it does and means and knows. You can’t just make it disappear! It doesn’t just disappear! And if it comes back and you don’t have one then you’ve lost control! All the control! They had to have one to keep control!”
“What do you know about dreams?”
“I know the world! I know the whole world about it! But no one else can know. They aren’t around anymore. They left. They’re gone.”
“Where did they go?”
“Away.”
“Why?”
The old man rushed towards Witticker and pulled him down close to the ground.
“Because they forgot,” whispered the old man with a shocking sincerity and tone, “they forgot them!”
As Witticker considered Roland Yoder’s words an amplified voice filled the cavern between the buildings.
“Edward St. Cavalier. Stop and stay where you are. You have committed a crime and are to be detained.”
Birds rushed from the building windows as Witticker turned to Edward who was already staring down the shoreline. A mass of people had appeared a block down on the coast of the archaic city structure. They were dressed in black and stood in close and rigid lines, uniform in their appearance. The black column stretched across the coast in an unending number. Edward turned back towards Witticker whose face had fallen loose with shock.
“It’s time to go.”
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Chapter 56
Things had escalated.
Arnold B. Cavenstein was curled into a ball on the linoleum floor of his kitchen. He had assumed the form upon hearing the unmistakable sound of a gunshot from the next room where he had been hosting a dinner party for the past several days. Since the gunshot there had been no sound from the room and no movement by any of the room’s dining members.
As he sat motionless on the floor Arnold’s heart beat ferociously in his chest. His mind was screaming at him to get up and go, escape from the chaotic situation. His body slowly began to catch up to the urgency of his thoughts and he moved to uncoil. Suddenly, a high-pitched voice screamed from the dining room. Arnold froze.
“You really don’t know why I’m here do you?”
There was a moment of silence and then the voice continued.
“He was too thorough! Too meticulous! He knew I didn’t understand, so he left it for me. All spelled out! And when he left and all I wanted to do was die, it was the only thing there for me!”
BANG.
“AAH!” cried a second deeper voice.
“Don’t move again Simon or I’ll put it somewhere worse!”
Footsteps could be heard moving slowly around the adjacent room. With each step Arnold could feel his breath quicken until it seemed he would have no room left in his lungs.
“You’re all responsible! It took me a long time to find out each story, but it’s all bound up in this room! You’re takers! You took from him, and from me, and sooner or later you’ll take everything and there’ll be nothing left! Well to hell with all of that! I’m going to stop this right now!”
The footsteps stopped.
“Pick up the phone, Roland! Call him off!”
Through the wall a muffled murmur of response could be heard.
“Bullshit! You can do anything! Get on that phone and call him off!” screamed the high-pitched voice.
An even shorter mumble replied.
The room fell into silence for several moments. Arnold had pressed himself against the stove in his frightened stupor and was clinging to the oven door handle. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto the floor only inches away.
“This can’t keep happening!” shrieked the voice, quivering with primal desperation.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Arnold B. Cavenstein was curled into a ball on the linoleum floor of his kitchen. He had assumed the form upon hearing the unmistakable sound of a gunshot from the next room where he had been hosting a dinner party for the past several days. Since the gunshot there had been no sound from the room and no movement by any of the room’s dining members.
As he sat motionless on the floor Arnold’s heart beat ferociously in his chest. His mind was screaming at him to get up and go, escape from the chaotic situation. His body slowly began to catch up to the urgency of his thoughts and he moved to uncoil. Suddenly, a high-pitched voice screamed from the dining room. Arnold froze.
“You really don’t know why I’m here do you?”
There was a moment of silence and then the voice continued.
“He was too thorough! Too meticulous! He knew I didn’t understand, so he left it for me. All spelled out! And when he left and all I wanted to do was die, it was the only thing there for me!”
BANG.
“AAH!” cried a second deeper voice.
“Don’t move again Simon or I’ll put it somewhere worse!”
Footsteps could be heard moving slowly around the adjacent room. With each step Arnold could feel his breath quicken until it seemed he would have no room left in his lungs.
“You’re all responsible! It took me a long time to find out each story, but it’s all bound up in this room! You’re takers! You took from him, and from me, and sooner or later you’ll take everything and there’ll be nothing left! Well to hell with all of that! I’m going to stop this right now!”
The footsteps stopped.
“Pick up the phone, Roland! Call him off!”
Through the wall a muffled murmur of response could be heard.
“Bullshit! You can do anything! Get on that phone and call him off!” screamed the high-pitched voice.
An even shorter mumble replied.
The room fell into silence for several moments. Arnold had pressed himself against the stove in his frightened stupor and was clinging to the oven door handle. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto the floor only inches away.
“This can’t keep happening!” shrieked the voice, quivering with primal desperation.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Chapter 55
“What!” exploded Edward?
He had until moments ago, when his companion abruptly lobbed a very serious question to the senior librarian of the New York Public Library, expected much less from his traveling contemporary. In the particular context, Edward’s inquisitive utterance functioned more as a mental release than any formal attempt at a method of questioning. The question that Witticker had posed to the old director had not taken Edward off-guard due to its breadth or relevance, but in greater part to its specificity.
In any case, Edward could sense that the question had set something off in the librarian and he knew that any further interjection might cost both he and Witticker the opportunity of a response.
*~~*
“Your question has a complicated answer,” muttered Dietrichs, ignoring Edward’s outburst as he stared deeply into his ashtray. “In fact, I’m not quite sure you deserve the answer at all. Under what circumstances did you come by the information you have now?”
“I knew a man who had an acute interest in the subject,” answered Witticker, ever-ambiguous.
“A name,” growled Dietrichs.
“Brisby Jacobs.”
“Son of a bitch,” cursed Dietrichs, suddenly standing and walking around his desk. He passed both of the sitting men and headed out the door.
“Should we…?” whispered Witticker to Edward, gesturing towards the door left open by the aging director.
“We should,” shot back Edward, springing up from his chair.
Both men ran after the surprisingly swift director who had already passed through the lobby into the adjacent hallway. As they ran after the old man Witticker glanced into the several rooms lining the corridor. Each one contained a large table with several chairs and two large windows with long red drapes drawn closed. Most of the rooms were empty leaving only a scant few occupied and even then by only small huddles of people whispering across wooden tables.
As they passed room after room Witticker began to notice an odd sensation rising in his subconscious, a feeling that seemed to be catching up with him. He knew it was a combination of triggers, a series of experiences boiling together, but it was something in the library that had set off this particular sensation.
He shrugged it off as they caught up with the old man. As Dietrichs hurried down the hallway he pulled a large cigar from his coat pocket and began to light it with a squeaky lighter produced from his pants pocket.
“Brisby Jacobs,” murmured Dietrichs, “came here thirty-one years ago to consult our records. He was granted admission under very special circumstances and was supposed to be researching something about the topography and weather conditions of the Midwest. However, it was reported that he was asking questions out of the scope of his primary investigation. Questions very similar to the one you asked me today.
Dietrichs flicked his cigar end sending a shower of ash and spark towards the floor in line with Witticker’s next step. He quickly navigated around the fiery residue as Dietrichs continued his lecture.
“He was a pain in my ass. Tall and slick and annoyingly persistent. Accessed archives for about three months, night and day, but didn’t seem to be getting the answers he was looking for. One day he stormed into my office yelling about this and that, accusing me of hiding the truth from him. He left the next day. I didn’t think much of it at the time.”
The three men rounded the corner at the turn in the building and began descending the staircase into the main lobby. Witticker looked across the room at the tables set up in front of the main entrance. Scads of people milled around the foyer, groups sharing coffee, others smoking, some sleepily hunched over the edge of tables. Once again he felt the question flame up inside his subconscious. He scanned the scene for an element he couldn’t quite put his finger on, a part that was missing.
“For a few years after he left I thought about that day he came in my office. It hadn’t really bothered me that he was so pissed off, that happens here a lot and he was coloring well outside the lines of his assignment. But I won’t say that I wasn’t surprised at his predicament, considering the breadth of our collection and the strength of his convictions. I realized years later that I may have accidentally done him a bit of a disservice. I wasn’t intentionally hiding anything from him, but at the time of his arrival a bit of our archive had gone missing and I realize now that it may have been right in line with what he was looking for.”
Dietrichs pushed through a door off the lobby into what appeared to be another endless hallway lined with doorframes and portraits, each room looking the same as the last, each framed personage as stiff as the next.
“Unfortunately that particular volume is still missing, but I can at least point you in the right direction.”
Dietrichs began to slow his hurried pace and came to a full stop in the middle of the hallway. The section of the corridor in which they stood was not particularly exciting or even much different than any section of any other hallway that Witticker had seen yet. They stood between two portraits that each hung between two doorways into two dark and empty rooms.
Witticker looked around himself curiously, hoping to notice something overly peculiar or significant, but was only confronted with the same feeling of curious tension that had been eating at him since the departure from the librarian’s office. He turned to Edward to confirm his confounded state only to find his traveling mate staring quizzically at one of the portraits hanging in the unremarkable corridor.
*~~*
Edward wasn’t quite sure how he knew, but he did all the same.
It wasn’t the beard, which was less ragged and bushy. It wasn’t the lanky stature or any curve of the face as the man was much healthier then. It wasn’t even the teeth, which appeared to be much whiter at the time.
It was the eyes. Open wide with that intense passion. Reflecting a certain kind of brilliance. Knowledge of something beyond comprehension.
It was the man outside his building
It was the man in the train yard.
It was Bernie.
*~~*
“This is him,” rumbled Dietrichs as he pointed to the man in the portrait, “this is the missing volume.”
He had until moments ago, when his companion abruptly lobbed a very serious question to the senior librarian of the New York Public Library, expected much less from his traveling contemporary. In the particular context, Edward’s inquisitive utterance functioned more as a mental release than any formal attempt at a method of questioning. The question that Witticker had posed to the old director had not taken Edward off-guard due to its breadth or relevance, but in greater part to its specificity.
In any case, Edward could sense that the question had set something off in the librarian and he knew that any further interjection might cost both he and Witticker the opportunity of a response.
*~~*
“Your question has a complicated answer,” muttered Dietrichs, ignoring Edward’s outburst as he stared deeply into his ashtray. “In fact, I’m not quite sure you deserve the answer at all. Under what circumstances did you come by the information you have now?”
“I knew a man who had an acute interest in the subject,” answered Witticker, ever-ambiguous.
“A name,” growled Dietrichs.
“Brisby Jacobs.”
“Son of a bitch,” cursed Dietrichs, suddenly standing and walking around his desk. He passed both of the sitting men and headed out the door.
“Should we…?” whispered Witticker to Edward, gesturing towards the door left open by the aging director.
“We should,” shot back Edward, springing up from his chair.
Both men ran after the surprisingly swift director who had already passed through the lobby into the adjacent hallway. As they ran after the old man Witticker glanced into the several rooms lining the corridor. Each one contained a large table with several chairs and two large windows with long red drapes drawn closed. Most of the rooms were empty leaving only a scant few occupied and even then by only small huddles of people whispering across wooden tables.
As they passed room after room Witticker began to notice an odd sensation rising in his subconscious, a feeling that seemed to be catching up with him. He knew it was a combination of triggers, a series of experiences boiling together, but it was something in the library that had set off this particular sensation.
He shrugged it off as they caught up with the old man. As Dietrichs hurried down the hallway he pulled a large cigar from his coat pocket and began to light it with a squeaky lighter produced from his pants pocket.
“Brisby Jacobs,” murmured Dietrichs, “came here thirty-one years ago to consult our records. He was granted admission under very special circumstances and was supposed to be researching something about the topography and weather conditions of the Midwest. However, it was reported that he was asking questions out of the scope of his primary investigation. Questions very similar to the one you asked me today.
Dietrichs flicked his cigar end sending a shower of ash and spark towards the floor in line with Witticker’s next step. He quickly navigated around the fiery residue as Dietrichs continued his lecture.
“He was a pain in my ass. Tall and slick and annoyingly persistent. Accessed archives for about three months, night and day, but didn’t seem to be getting the answers he was looking for. One day he stormed into my office yelling about this and that, accusing me of hiding the truth from him. He left the next day. I didn’t think much of it at the time.”
The three men rounded the corner at the turn in the building and began descending the staircase into the main lobby. Witticker looked across the room at the tables set up in front of the main entrance. Scads of people milled around the foyer, groups sharing coffee, others smoking, some sleepily hunched over the edge of tables. Once again he felt the question flame up inside his subconscious. He scanned the scene for an element he couldn’t quite put his finger on, a part that was missing.
“For a few years after he left I thought about that day he came in my office. It hadn’t really bothered me that he was so pissed off, that happens here a lot and he was coloring well outside the lines of his assignment. But I won’t say that I wasn’t surprised at his predicament, considering the breadth of our collection and the strength of his convictions. I realized years later that I may have accidentally done him a bit of a disservice. I wasn’t intentionally hiding anything from him, but at the time of his arrival a bit of our archive had gone missing and I realize now that it may have been right in line with what he was looking for.”
Dietrichs pushed through a door off the lobby into what appeared to be another endless hallway lined with doorframes and portraits, each room looking the same as the last, each framed personage as stiff as the next.
“Unfortunately that particular volume is still missing, but I can at least point you in the right direction.”
Dietrichs began to slow his hurried pace and came to a full stop in the middle of the hallway. The section of the corridor in which they stood was not particularly exciting or even much different than any section of any other hallway that Witticker had seen yet. They stood between two portraits that each hung between two doorways into two dark and empty rooms.
Witticker looked around himself curiously, hoping to notice something overly peculiar or significant, but was only confronted with the same feeling of curious tension that had been eating at him since the departure from the librarian’s office. He turned to Edward to confirm his confounded state only to find his traveling mate staring quizzically at one of the portraits hanging in the unremarkable corridor.
*~~*
Edward wasn’t quite sure how he knew, but he did all the same.
It wasn’t the beard, which was less ragged and bushy. It wasn’t the lanky stature or any curve of the face as the man was much healthier then. It wasn’t even the teeth, which appeared to be much whiter at the time.
It was the eyes. Open wide with that intense passion. Reflecting a certain kind of brilliance. Knowledge of something beyond comprehension.
It was the man outside his building
It was the man in the train yard.
It was Bernie.
*~~*
“This is him,” rumbled Dietrichs as he pointed to the man in the portrait, “this is the missing volume.”
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Chapter 54
***Editorial Note: The following two sections are meant to be placed into two columns running beside one another down the page. However, due to the limitations of this specific medium, the columns have been removed. The left column is presented first with the right column following (as labeled). If these are the only problems of the modern age we are a fortunate society indeed.***
(On the left side of the page)
Witticker sat in a creaky wooden chair in the exceedingly dim waiting of Malcolm Dietrichs. He had been instructed by Edward to wait there during his meeting, which Witticker felt was implied as it was a waiting room, but he felt little compulsion to argue with his friend over semantics.
Witticker was joined in the waiting room by an old man of significantly smaller stature than himself and a female receptionist who appeared to be in her early twenties.
The receptionist was busying herself with what appeared to be -like procedures. She would first shuffle several papers from one side of the desk to the other. She would then pull random papers from the new stack and paper-clip them together. Finally, she would take two much smaller pieces of official-looking paper and staple them to the freshly paper-clipped pages.
-SNAP-
Then the process would begin again.
Upon turning his attention from the procedure-driven receptionist Witticker noticed that the small old man sitting across the room was staring in his direction. At first, Witticker thought that he must have caught the man stealing a momentary glance, but as the minutes rolled by he realized that the old man had an invested interest in his gaze.
“May I help you?” asked Witticker, unsure of the most polite way to address his overly attentive observer.
-SNAP-
“Possibly,” said the small old man as he stood rather abruptly and began to walk towards where Witticker was sitting. The little man reached a creaky wooden chair beside Witticker and slowly sat down, giving every bone in his body a moment to adjust before taking on the full weight of his tender frame.
“What do you do here?” asked the old man, settling himself in his new seat.
Witticker, not quite ready to give himself up to a complete stranger, played coy.
“Just waiting, for today.”
Witticker didn’t really think his response would sell, but was not able to produce anything of substance on the spot.
“You don’t happy to know anything about late 20th century history do you?”
“Nope,” answered Witticker honestly.
“Damn,” rattled the old man, banging his fist on his knee, “I was supposed to meet someone here who was meant to know quite a bit about it.”
Witticker shrugged and turned his eyes forward.
“Well, if you’re not him, you’re not him.”
“I’m not him,” affirmed Witticker.
-SNAP-
Witticker began staring at other parts of the room trying to imply in a very subtle way that their conversation had come to an end.
“So,” began the old man, missing any sign of an innuendo, “if you don’t know about 20th century history what do you know?”
Witticker was stumped.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Well,” answered the old man, rolling his eyes, “I’m merely inquiring about your area of expertise. What do you know?”
“I know quite a bit, but I hardly think that that I qualify as an expert in any field. What about you?”
The old man looked unsatisfied at Witticker’s answer.
“My area of study is the history of the early 21st century. Which department are you involved with here?”
“I’m not part of any department.”
-SNAP-
The old man shot him a look of renewed interest.
“So what are you doing here then? Are you a new hire?”
Witticker found himself very wound up in the man’s line of questions.
“No, I’m just here with a friend.”
At that moment the door next to the receptionist opened and Edward walked out, waving him towards the door.
“There he is now,” answered Witticker, relieved to escape, “It’s been great talking to you. Have a great day.”
Witticker quickly hopped up from his seat and into the office, leaving the small old man alone with the noisy receptionist.
---------------------------------------
(On the right side of the page)
Edward sat on the receiving side of the desk of Malcolm Dietrichs. He had arrived only moments ago, instructing Witticker to wait outside. A mist lingered in the office, emphasized by the setting sun banking in from two large bay windows behind the desk. The light shrouding Dietrichs only added to his potentate-like status and the musty air invoked a sense of awe, as if Edward were sitting in the burial chamber of a God. The light was an intentional effect designed by the original architects and Dietrichs had chosen the room for that very reason. The stuffy air, however, was merely a byproduct of Dietrichs addiction to very low-end cigars.
The aged director sat behind the desk, leaning forward with both elbows propping up his wrinkled head. A cigar smoldered, half burnt, in an ashtray on top of a large stack of papers to his left.
“What are you doing here?”
-snap-
“Oh, you know,” replied Edward slyly, “It’s just this place. I couldn’t stay away.”
“I’m not in the mood,” rumbled Dietrichs. He was never in the mood.
“Well, it’s sort of complicated,” started Edward, “you see, I found a guy who has some questions that I couldn’t answer. I thought, ‘who better?’.”
Dietrichs shifted himself from his leaning position to grab the poorly wrapped cigar.
“So, it wouldn’t have anything to do with the acolytes pouring into Manhattan then?”
-snap-
“That’s interesting;” replied Edward, feigning ignorance “acolytes are on Manhattan?”
“Yes,” growled Dietrichs, “and they’ve been asking questions, very specific questions. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
“News to me,” lied Edward. The encounter in the distrip several days previous was nothing short of a blaring announcement that the acolytes were aware of his presence and would be after him.
The two men sat staring at one another for several minutes. The light behind Dietrichs began to grow slightly brighter causing Edward to squint at the old librarian. Dietrichs rolled the cheap cigar between his thumb and forefinger.
“So,” grumbled Dietrichs, “by now you’re aware that your arrival here isn’t going to be received very well. You weren’t summoned. There isn’t a replacement yet and you aren’t at an age where that is a cause for concern. I can’t let you stay.”
“That’s the thing, I don’t want to stay,” answered Edward, “I just need access to the archives for a few hours and I’ll go.”
“No,” answered Dietrichs automatically.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean ‘No’.”
-snap-
“That privilege was revoked when you were dismissed.”
Edward leaned back in his chair for a moment and closed his eyes. He took a very audible, deep breath; in through his mouth, out through his nose.
“This is important. If it’s worth anything, it has very little to do with me.”
“I don’t care, Edward. Whether or not it concerns you is of little relevance as it is still you that is asking.”
“Then why did open the door in the first place?”
“You’d have rather stayed out with the savages? You may not value what’s in your head, but we do.”
“Alright then, if you won’t help me, at least meet with the guy. Listen to him. If you don’t hear anything of value then we’ll leave.”
-snap-
“What in the hell is that noise?”
“Never mind that,” bellowed Dietrichs, waving off the remark with his wrinkled hand. He sat for a moment staring at the end of his smoking cigar.
“Your friend has five minutes.”
Edward immediately jumped up and bounded to the door. He opened it and looked out to see Witticker talking with a small old man. He waved him in hurriedly and watched as Witticker made a quick goodbye.
He turned back inside the office, grabbed another wooden chair sitting by the door, and put it next to his own. He quickly returned to his own seat and motioned for Witticker to sit next to him.
---------------------------------------
(The two columns combine)
As Witticker approached the seat he could feel two sets of eyes following him across the room. He was pleased to be freed from the confines of the waiting room and his most recent acquaintance, but was finding the new setting to be unnerving in an entirely different way.
“Edward said you are here to find answers. What do you want to know?”
Witticker was initially taken aback by the very direct line of questioning, but realized that this was presumably why he had left the farmhouse in the first place. He put his reservations aside and opened his mouth to speak.
“I need to know who I am and what happened to me. Why I wasn’t ever told what was happening to the world around me. Why I feel like I can’t be a part of something that everyone else fits into so naturally.”
Dietrichs stared suspiciously at Witticker from across his desk.
“Is that all?”
Witticker shot Edward a questioning look from the corner of his eye, unsure of what more he was intended to want to know. Edward looked back at Witticker, extending an open hand towards Dietrichs and raising his eyebrows unnaturally high as if to say, “Go ahead, tell him everything.”
“What?” cried Witticker, “What else am I meant to be wondering about? Isn’t that enough?”
“This isn’t convincing Edward,” grumbled the senior librarian.
Witticker was utterly confused as to what he was supposed to be doing or saying in the office that he had not already. He hadn’t realized that his questions were being gauged and he feared that without the proper wording his trip might have been in vain. He scoured the farthest and deepest ends of his consciousness for something more when suddenly a thought sprang into his mind.
*~~*
It was a long shot, but what is a well-lived life but a series of long shots in desperate hope of an honest return?
*~~*
“I also want to know,” asked Witticker, his voice confident and direct, “what information you have about the early 21st century in regards to the devolution of the human race.”
Edward turned to Witticker in surprise at his companion’s question. Edward also noticed that Malcolm Dietrichs had sat up straighter in his chair and put his dwindling cigar back in its ashtray. Upon closer inspection he could tell that the head librarian’s eyes had widened just slightly and his breathing had become slightly irregular. While this change was not readily apparent or a cause to take special notice in most other people, Edward was aware, as were most of the residents who ever came into contact with the director, that Malcolm Dietrichs was rarely ever surprised. Consequently, a slight change in his normally collected outer shell would mean that something had shaken the old man up quite a bit.
“Maybe you were right after all, Edward,” said Dietrichs through a forced whisper, “there seems to be more to this man than I had thought possible.”
(On the left side of the page)
Witticker sat in a creaky wooden chair in the exceedingly dim waiting of Malcolm Dietrichs. He had been instructed by Edward to wait there during his meeting, which Witticker felt was implied as it was a waiting room, but he felt little compulsion to argue with his friend over semantics.
Witticker was joined in the waiting room by an old man of significantly smaller stature than himself and a female receptionist who appeared to be in her early twenties.
The receptionist was busying herself with what appeared to be -like procedures. She would first shuffle several papers from one side of the desk to the other. She would then pull random papers from the new stack and paper-clip them together. Finally, she would take two much smaller pieces of official-looking paper and staple them to the freshly paper-clipped pages.
-SNAP-
Then the process would begin again.
Upon turning his attention from the procedure-driven receptionist Witticker noticed that the small old man sitting across the room was staring in his direction. At first, Witticker thought that he must have caught the man stealing a momentary glance, but as the minutes rolled by he realized that the old man had an invested interest in his gaze.
“May I help you?” asked Witticker, unsure of the most polite way to address his overly attentive observer.
-SNAP-
“Possibly,” said the small old man as he stood rather abruptly and began to walk towards where Witticker was sitting. The little man reached a creaky wooden chair beside Witticker and slowly sat down, giving every bone in his body a moment to adjust before taking on the full weight of his tender frame.
“What do you do here?” asked the old man, settling himself in his new seat.
Witticker, not quite ready to give himself up to a complete stranger, played coy.
“Just waiting, for today.”
Witticker didn’t really think his response would sell, but was not able to produce anything of substance on the spot.
“You don’t happy to know anything about late 20th century history do you?”
“Nope,” answered Witticker honestly.
“Damn,” rattled the old man, banging his fist on his knee, “I was supposed to meet someone here who was meant to know quite a bit about it.”
Witticker shrugged and turned his eyes forward.
“Well, if you’re not him, you’re not him.”
“I’m not him,” affirmed Witticker.
-SNAP-
Witticker began staring at other parts of the room trying to imply in a very subtle way that their conversation had come to an end.
“So,” began the old man, missing any sign of an innuendo, “if you don’t know about 20th century history what do you know?”
Witticker was stumped.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Well,” answered the old man, rolling his eyes, “I’m merely inquiring about your area of expertise. What do you know?”
“I know quite a bit, but I hardly think that that I qualify as an expert in any field. What about you?”
The old man looked unsatisfied at Witticker’s answer.
“My area of study is the history of the early 21st century. Which department are you involved with here?”
“I’m not part of any department.”
-SNAP-
The old man shot him a look of renewed interest.
“So what are you doing here then? Are you a new hire?”
Witticker found himself very wound up in the man’s line of questions.
“No, I’m just here with a friend.”
At that moment the door next to the receptionist opened and Edward walked out, waving him towards the door.
“There he is now,” answered Witticker, relieved to escape, “It’s been great talking to you. Have a great day.”
Witticker quickly hopped up from his seat and into the office, leaving the small old man alone with the noisy receptionist.
---------------------------------------
(On the right side of the page)
Edward sat on the receiving side of the desk of Malcolm Dietrichs. He had arrived only moments ago, instructing Witticker to wait outside. A mist lingered in the office, emphasized by the setting sun banking in from two large bay windows behind the desk. The light shrouding Dietrichs only added to his potentate-like status and the musty air invoked a sense of awe, as if Edward were sitting in the burial chamber of a God. The light was an intentional effect designed by the original architects and Dietrichs had chosen the room for that very reason. The stuffy air, however, was merely a byproduct of Dietrichs addiction to very low-end cigars.
The aged director sat behind the desk, leaning forward with both elbows propping up his wrinkled head. A cigar smoldered, half burnt, in an ashtray on top of a large stack of papers to his left.
“What are you doing here?”
-snap-
“Oh, you know,” replied Edward slyly, “It’s just this place. I couldn’t stay away.”
“I’m not in the mood,” rumbled Dietrichs. He was never in the mood.
“Well, it’s sort of complicated,” started Edward, “you see, I found a guy who has some questions that I couldn’t answer. I thought, ‘who better?’.”
Dietrichs shifted himself from his leaning position to grab the poorly wrapped cigar.
“So, it wouldn’t have anything to do with the acolytes pouring into Manhattan then?”
-snap-
“That’s interesting;” replied Edward, feigning ignorance “acolytes are on Manhattan?”
“Yes,” growled Dietrichs, “and they’ve been asking questions, very specific questions. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
“News to me,” lied Edward. The encounter in the distrip several days previous was nothing short of a blaring announcement that the acolytes were aware of his presence and would be after him.
The two men sat staring at one another for several minutes. The light behind Dietrichs began to grow slightly brighter causing Edward to squint at the old librarian. Dietrichs rolled the cheap cigar between his thumb and forefinger.
“So,” grumbled Dietrichs, “by now you’re aware that your arrival here isn’t going to be received very well. You weren’t summoned. There isn’t a replacement yet and you aren’t at an age where that is a cause for concern. I can’t let you stay.”
“That’s the thing, I don’t want to stay,” answered Edward, “I just need access to the archives for a few hours and I’ll go.”
“No,” answered Dietrichs automatically.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean ‘No’.”
-snap-
“That privilege was revoked when you were dismissed.”
Edward leaned back in his chair for a moment and closed his eyes. He took a very audible, deep breath; in through his mouth, out through his nose.
“This is important. If it’s worth anything, it has very little to do with me.”
“I don’t care, Edward. Whether or not it concerns you is of little relevance as it is still you that is asking.”
“Then why did open the door in the first place?”
“You’d have rather stayed out with the savages? You may not value what’s in your head, but we do.”
“Alright then, if you won’t help me, at least meet with the guy. Listen to him. If you don’t hear anything of value then we’ll leave.”
-snap-
“What in the hell is that noise?”
“Never mind that,” bellowed Dietrichs, waving off the remark with his wrinkled hand. He sat for a moment staring at the end of his smoking cigar.
“Your friend has five minutes.”
Edward immediately jumped up and bounded to the door. He opened it and looked out to see Witticker talking with a small old man. He waved him in hurriedly and watched as Witticker made a quick goodbye.
He turned back inside the office, grabbed another wooden chair sitting by the door, and put it next to his own. He quickly returned to his own seat and motioned for Witticker to sit next to him.
---------------------------------------
(The two columns combine)
As Witticker approached the seat he could feel two sets of eyes following him across the room. He was pleased to be freed from the confines of the waiting room and his most recent acquaintance, but was finding the new setting to be unnerving in an entirely different way.
“Edward said you are here to find answers. What do you want to know?”
Witticker was initially taken aback by the very direct line of questioning, but realized that this was presumably why he had left the farmhouse in the first place. He put his reservations aside and opened his mouth to speak.
“I need to know who I am and what happened to me. Why I wasn’t ever told what was happening to the world around me. Why I feel like I can’t be a part of something that everyone else fits into so naturally.”
Dietrichs stared suspiciously at Witticker from across his desk.
“Is that all?”
Witticker shot Edward a questioning look from the corner of his eye, unsure of what more he was intended to want to know. Edward looked back at Witticker, extending an open hand towards Dietrichs and raising his eyebrows unnaturally high as if to say, “Go ahead, tell him everything.”
“What?” cried Witticker, “What else am I meant to be wondering about? Isn’t that enough?”
“This isn’t convincing Edward,” grumbled the senior librarian.
Witticker was utterly confused as to what he was supposed to be doing or saying in the office that he had not already. He hadn’t realized that his questions were being gauged and he feared that without the proper wording his trip might have been in vain. He scoured the farthest and deepest ends of his consciousness for something more when suddenly a thought sprang into his mind.
*~~*
It was a long shot, but what is a well-lived life but a series of long shots in desperate hope of an honest return?
*~~*
“I also want to know,” asked Witticker, his voice confident and direct, “what information you have about the early 21st century in regards to the devolution of the human race.”
Edward turned to Witticker in surprise at his companion’s question. Edward also noticed that Malcolm Dietrichs had sat up straighter in his chair and put his dwindling cigar back in its ashtray. Upon closer inspection he could tell that the head librarian’s eyes had widened just slightly and his breathing had become slightly irregular. While this change was not readily apparent or a cause to take special notice in most other people, Edward was aware, as were most of the residents who ever came into contact with the director, that Malcolm Dietrichs was rarely ever surprised. Consequently, a slight change in his normally collected outer shell would mean that something had shaken the old man up quite a bit.
“Maybe you were right after all, Edward,” said Dietrichs through a forced whisper, “there seems to be more to this man than I had thought possible.”
Friday, April 18, 2008
Chapter 53
Leon: Listen to this.
Weeble: Listening.
Leon: The acolytes are all converging on Manhattan which means, I think, that they know where the Edward guy is. Also, turns out those riders for the train that found the break in the line were found. Only one was alive and she was only hanging on by a thread. She was so hysterical they couldn’t get much out of her.
Weeble: Any word on who did it?
Leon: No ID, but I think it sounds like Jehovah. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was somewhere in Manhattan too. Something’s about to happen there, you know?
Weeble: Definitely. I’m seeing all kinds of stuff...
Leon: Wait! Shut up! Don’t give away your location!
Weeble: What do I care?
Leon: I’m not the only one always listening you know! There’re tons of people crazier than me out there.
Weeble: No, that’s where you’re wrong. I think you really are the only one always listening.
Leon: You stubborn son of a bitch. Nevermind. Do what you want.
Weeble: Well not now! Now you’ve got me all paranoid!
Dead Air
Leon: Well, I’m going to keep listening. And seriously, take care of yourself.
Weeble: Will do.
Weeble: Listening.
Leon: The acolytes are all converging on Manhattan which means, I think, that they know where the Edward guy is. Also, turns out those riders for the train that found the break in the line were found. Only one was alive and she was only hanging on by a thread. She was so hysterical they couldn’t get much out of her.
Weeble: Any word on who did it?
Leon: No ID, but I think it sounds like Jehovah. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was somewhere in Manhattan too. Something’s about to happen there, you know?
Weeble: Definitely. I’m seeing all kinds of stuff...
Leon: Wait! Shut up! Don’t give away your location!
Weeble: What do I care?
Leon: I’m not the only one always listening you know! There’re tons of people crazier than me out there.
Weeble: No, that’s where you’re wrong. I think you really are the only one always listening.
Leon: You stubborn son of a bitch. Nevermind. Do what you want.
Weeble: Well not now! Now you’ve got me all paranoid!
Dead Air
Leon: Well, I’m going to keep listening. And seriously, take care of yourself.
Weeble: Will do.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Chapter 52
Witticker’s mind swam with confusion as he stood shakily in the New York Public Library. He found himself at the back of a large hall filled with long wooden tables, each lit dimly with small candles invoking a sense of reverent calm. His entire focus was drawn to the series of flickering lights branching out from table to table. He wasn’t quite sure how the small candles were able to conjure their mystical ambience, but nevertheless; it was so.
He began to reason that this train of thought, being directed solely on candle light instead of his location or his way of being there, could be considered, at the least, tertiary. His abrupt entry into the library from the advancing hoard of tribalistic city-dwellers had sent his normally observant and calculating mind into a dizzying storm. From the moment the door clicked shut from behind Witticker could only remember brief snapshots from the arrival at the library.
*~~*
…A grand marble atrium with expansive staircases framing each wall…
…Long wooden hallways with doors on each side peeking into large rooms with red curtains…
…Walls lined with portraits posed in rigid sitting positions…
…A large wooden door, only slightly cracked, being pulled open…
*~~*
And as if he had awoken from an afternoon nap that had gone on longer than planned Witticker suddenly found himself very aware in the table-filled hall. As his brain began to ask the questions appropriate to the situation he noticed Edward next to him in the room, leaning on the wall, staring down the aisles of chairs. Witticker had learned through experience that the subject of Edward’s focus was generally one of collective importance. He casually turned and looked in the same direction.
The tables were populated in general intervals, implying the feeling of a full room without each table being overly crowded. Those present participated in the traditional academic traditions. They poured over mounds of paper, drank steaming coffee from ceramic cups, talked in muffled tones while exaggerating emphatically with their arms, or, which seemed to be the most prevalent, all three at once. The specific locale of the room which Edward had been directing his gaze seemed to not only be of interest to him, but to most of the people in the immediate area.
The table in question was situated on the left side of the hall, from their vantage point, and was occupied on both sides by men and women dressed in a casually elegant way, the look of a chic think tank. A few of the men smoked on fat cigars while almost all the ladies held their sticks of tobacco on the end of thin plastic cylinders. Smoke rose from the area as if someone had poked holes in the table and it had begun to leak all the hazy after-product it had collected through the years.
The smokers on the sides of the table were directing their attention to the head smoker, a man at the head of the table who even Witticker found to be a visually engaging subject. He was very skinny with an average build, but, in comparison with his colleagues, appeared to be the largest at the table. His hair was blond and tossed about on his head as if it had been pulled in agony over a very serious question that presented no clear answer. He wore thin wire-rimmed glasses which sat nimbly at the end of his nose, implying that he was giving great thought and attention to whomever he was speaking with. His ensemble matched his physical attributes with bright khakis at the bottom, a black argyle sweater vest over a white button-up shirt in the middle, and done up in full with a loosely-fitted black tie on top. He was the picture of the idealized intellectual and, from his overly exaggerated mannerisms and condescending tone of voice, it appeared that he knew it.
The head smoker, as if suddenly aware that he was being watched from afar, glanced to the side of room where Edward and Witticker had been leaning for the past several minutes.
“Okay,” mumbled Edward, “this might get a little strange.”
Having already experienced several peculiar events in the past several days which Edward had remarked upon as being merely standard, Witticker became immediately nervous at the prospect of being greeted by any person worthy of being described as ‘strange’.
The skinny man rose from his sitting position and began to push through the aisles of chairs in Edward and Witticker’s direction. He moved with a light swagger, but his stature was slightly bent and, thus, the swagger communicated less of a confident stride and more of an old man’s gait. To Witticker’s surprise Edward left his resting position and began to walk towards the advancing man. Witticker quickly followed, dodging through the walkway littered with chairs.
He noticed as the two men drew nearer that the people at the tables had stopped their own gesturing and coffee drinking to turn and watch the imminent exchange. Finally, only a table’s length from the other, the two men stopped, glaring distastefully at one another.
*~~*
If the setting had been different the latent observer would have been easily convinced that a showdown between rival cowboys was about to occur and that a gunfight, very likely to the death, was imminent. However, in the locale of the library reading room, this was not as much implied.
*~~*
“What brings you back, Edward?” crowed the skinny man, his cold and sharp tone betraying his words, which might be considered welcoming if offered in a way that was even remotely warm or friendly.
“Oh, just business,” replied Edward, disregarding the overtly hostile nature of the skinny man, “I’m fine, by the way. How are you?”
“Don’t pretend to teach me any lessons in pleasantries,” snapped the man, “you people shouldn’t even be allowed to set foot in this place.”
Edward casually took a cigarette and lighter from his pants pocket and with a quick snap of his wrist brought flame to the small silver fire box. He placed the cigarette in his mouth and carefully lit it.
“But I am allowed,” mumbled Edward out of the corner of his mouth, “and that’s that, so how about you go back to your table and discuss something important or revolutionary. I’m sure you have a lot of that to do today.”
Edward took a step forward to pass the smoker. The skinny man quickly stopped him with a hand to his chest, his fingertips squashing the crease on Edward’s lapel.
“You don’t get to brush me off anymore,” returned the skinny man, “We’re not equals like before. I’m much more important now.”
Edward stared at the hand on his chest. Witticker, who had witnessed several supernatural feats of strength from Edward in the course of their time together, feared for the skinny man’s health.
“Okay, Horace” said Edward, taking a step back to where he had been, “what do you want? I’m rather busy, you see, so this’ll have to be quick.”
“You act so smug,” replied Horace, “but you’re nothing anymore.”
Edward chuckled at his adversary.
“That’s just another way of saying I’m everything. Just depends on how you look at it. Or had you forgotten all that? Or did you never get it in the first place?”
Edward walked closer to Horace, placing his cigarette in his right hand, and cupped his hands to his mouth, feigning a whisper.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot the policy of this place. Leaving out bits and pieces here and there. I’m sure you’ll forgive me. I’ve been away for a while. You know, actually trying to help the world instead of sitting at tables chatting about the sorry state of things.”
At this Edward took a long drag and blew a cloud of smoke in the face of his verbal opponent. He then turned and began to walk back towards where Witticker stood. As he watched Edward walk away the man named Horace looked to be frozen in volcanic rage, bubbling with violent tension. As if spurned on by a screaming mob Horace suddenly leapt towards Edward, releasing a guttural cry from the depths of his soul. Instinctively, Witticker grabbed Edward and pulled him out the immediate conflict as the crowd around them suddenly sprang into action, rushing to hold Horace back. The pasty man had quickly changed into a red-faced ball of anger, screaming and shouting as the crowd pulled him back from his violent desire.
“You’re nothing! A wasted shell! Nothing!”
The picture of a fistfight was far from anything that the halls of this reading room had ever seen and all of the spectators were captivated, excited by the possibility of witnessing any physical altercation. All, except one.
“Stop this at once!” bellowed a commanding voice from the opposite end of the hall.
*~~*
Malcolm Dietrichs was considered by most of the people that knew him well to be one of the smartest, if not thee smartest person in the living world. Those same people were also aware that he suffered no bullshit. He had held the position of senior librarian in the New York Public Library since a time well before the birth of most of its current residents due in no small part to his insistence on getting directly to the point.
His age had been a general fascination among the library populace for several years, most people placing him, on average, between ninety and one-hundred and five years old. However, the number was of little consequence as Dietrichs benefited from his extensive longevity, which commanded him respect in every sphere of his life.
In fact, the only catch of his long-lived life was the style and state of his appearance. Most residents could not remember a time that the aged book keeper had not appeared emaciated. Tottering through the halls on legs no thicker than a fresh sapling, his trunk suckled in upon itself from lack of any indulgence, his arms stretching nimbly from his body like bent broomstick handles. His face was long and sagging, the skin draping from his cheekbones as if hung like loose fabric. In contrast, however, his beard and hair, the only physical conditions still under his direct control, were always very well kept; having been combed and clipped to the extent that even the most discerning eye could not have found a white hair out of place.
Despite this aged physique, Dietrichs was still very much a part of the day-to-day operations in the library. He was regularly consulted in any forum for debate and his word, while not always substantial, was final. He was a well-respected director with an authoritative personality and, thusly, his decisions, judgments, and conclusions had never been questioned.
Except once…
*~~*
The crowd in the hall slowly turned their heads to the senior librarian who had just put an effective hold on all movement.
“Edward, my office,” rumbled Dietrichs, “five minutes.”
The dusty old man turned and left the hall. Edward grabbed Witticker and began shuffling through the tables as the remaining crowd shuffled back to their tables. The two darted down the thin walkway toward the door the senior librarian had just exited.
“Wait, what’s going on?” cried Witticker, running after Edward, “you’re not going to leave after what just happened back there?”
“Did you hear him?” shot back Edward, “Five minutes! Let’s go!”
Witticker jogged after Edward out of the reading hall and into yet another dark hallway into what seemed to be a series of dark hallways towards another in a series of undisclosed destinations.
He began to reason that this train of thought, being directed solely on candle light instead of his location or his way of being there, could be considered, at the least, tertiary. His abrupt entry into the library from the advancing hoard of tribalistic city-dwellers had sent his normally observant and calculating mind into a dizzying storm. From the moment the door clicked shut from behind Witticker could only remember brief snapshots from the arrival at the library.
*~~*
…A grand marble atrium with expansive staircases framing each wall…
…Long wooden hallways with doors on each side peeking into large rooms with red curtains…
…Walls lined with portraits posed in rigid sitting positions…
…A large wooden door, only slightly cracked, being pulled open…
*~~*
And as if he had awoken from an afternoon nap that had gone on longer than planned Witticker suddenly found himself very aware in the table-filled hall. As his brain began to ask the questions appropriate to the situation he noticed Edward next to him in the room, leaning on the wall, staring down the aisles of chairs. Witticker had learned through experience that the subject of Edward’s focus was generally one of collective importance. He casually turned and looked in the same direction.
The tables were populated in general intervals, implying the feeling of a full room without each table being overly crowded. Those present participated in the traditional academic traditions. They poured over mounds of paper, drank steaming coffee from ceramic cups, talked in muffled tones while exaggerating emphatically with their arms, or, which seemed to be the most prevalent, all three at once. The specific locale of the room which Edward had been directing his gaze seemed to not only be of interest to him, but to most of the people in the immediate area.
The table in question was situated on the left side of the hall, from their vantage point, and was occupied on both sides by men and women dressed in a casually elegant way, the look of a chic think tank. A few of the men smoked on fat cigars while almost all the ladies held their sticks of tobacco on the end of thin plastic cylinders. Smoke rose from the area as if someone had poked holes in the table and it had begun to leak all the hazy after-product it had collected through the years.
The smokers on the sides of the table were directing their attention to the head smoker, a man at the head of the table who even Witticker found to be a visually engaging subject. He was very skinny with an average build, but, in comparison with his colleagues, appeared to be the largest at the table. His hair was blond and tossed about on his head as if it had been pulled in agony over a very serious question that presented no clear answer. He wore thin wire-rimmed glasses which sat nimbly at the end of his nose, implying that he was giving great thought and attention to whomever he was speaking with. His ensemble matched his physical attributes with bright khakis at the bottom, a black argyle sweater vest over a white button-up shirt in the middle, and done up in full with a loosely-fitted black tie on top. He was the picture of the idealized intellectual and, from his overly exaggerated mannerisms and condescending tone of voice, it appeared that he knew it.
The head smoker, as if suddenly aware that he was being watched from afar, glanced to the side of room where Edward and Witticker had been leaning for the past several minutes.
“Okay,” mumbled Edward, “this might get a little strange.”
Having already experienced several peculiar events in the past several days which Edward had remarked upon as being merely standard, Witticker became immediately nervous at the prospect of being greeted by any person worthy of being described as ‘strange’.
The skinny man rose from his sitting position and began to push through the aisles of chairs in Edward and Witticker’s direction. He moved with a light swagger, but his stature was slightly bent and, thus, the swagger communicated less of a confident stride and more of an old man’s gait. To Witticker’s surprise Edward left his resting position and began to walk towards the advancing man. Witticker quickly followed, dodging through the walkway littered with chairs.
He noticed as the two men drew nearer that the people at the tables had stopped their own gesturing and coffee drinking to turn and watch the imminent exchange. Finally, only a table’s length from the other, the two men stopped, glaring distastefully at one another.
*~~*
If the setting had been different the latent observer would have been easily convinced that a showdown between rival cowboys was about to occur and that a gunfight, very likely to the death, was imminent. However, in the locale of the library reading room, this was not as much implied.
*~~*
“What brings you back, Edward?” crowed the skinny man, his cold and sharp tone betraying his words, which might be considered welcoming if offered in a way that was even remotely warm or friendly.
“Oh, just business,” replied Edward, disregarding the overtly hostile nature of the skinny man, “I’m fine, by the way. How are you?”
“Don’t pretend to teach me any lessons in pleasantries,” snapped the man, “you people shouldn’t even be allowed to set foot in this place.”
Edward casually took a cigarette and lighter from his pants pocket and with a quick snap of his wrist brought flame to the small silver fire box. He placed the cigarette in his mouth and carefully lit it.
“But I am allowed,” mumbled Edward out of the corner of his mouth, “and that’s that, so how about you go back to your table and discuss something important or revolutionary. I’m sure you have a lot of that to do today.”
Edward took a step forward to pass the smoker. The skinny man quickly stopped him with a hand to his chest, his fingertips squashing the crease on Edward’s lapel.
“You don’t get to brush me off anymore,” returned the skinny man, “We’re not equals like before. I’m much more important now.”
Edward stared at the hand on his chest. Witticker, who had witnessed several supernatural feats of strength from Edward in the course of their time together, feared for the skinny man’s health.
“Okay, Horace” said Edward, taking a step back to where he had been, “what do you want? I’m rather busy, you see, so this’ll have to be quick.”
“You act so smug,” replied Horace, “but you’re nothing anymore.”
Edward chuckled at his adversary.
“That’s just another way of saying I’m everything. Just depends on how you look at it. Or had you forgotten all that? Or did you never get it in the first place?”
Edward walked closer to Horace, placing his cigarette in his right hand, and cupped his hands to his mouth, feigning a whisper.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot the policy of this place. Leaving out bits and pieces here and there. I’m sure you’ll forgive me. I’ve been away for a while. You know, actually trying to help the world instead of sitting at tables chatting about the sorry state of things.”
At this Edward took a long drag and blew a cloud of smoke in the face of his verbal opponent. He then turned and began to walk back towards where Witticker stood. As he watched Edward walk away the man named Horace looked to be frozen in volcanic rage, bubbling with violent tension. As if spurned on by a screaming mob Horace suddenly leapt towards Edward, releasing a guttural cry from the depths of his soul. Instinctively, Witticker grabbed Edward and pulled him out the immediate conflict as the crowd around them suddenly sprang into action, rushing to hold Horace back. The pasty man had quickly changed into a red-faced ball of anger, screaming and shouting as the crowd pulled him back from his violent desire.
“You’re nothing! A wasted shell! Nothing!”
The picture of a fistfight was far from anything that the halls of this reading room had ever seen and all of the spectators were captivated, excited by the possibility of witnessing any physical altercation. All, except one.
“Stop this at once!” bellowed a commanding voice from the opposite end of the hall.
*~~*
Malcolm Dietrichs was considered by most of the people that knew him well to be one of the smartest, if not thee smartest person in the living world. Those same people were also aware that he suffered no bullshit. He had held the position of senior librarian in the New York Public Library since a time well before the birth of most of its current residents due in no small part to his insistence on getting directly to the point.
His age had been a general fascination among the library populace for several years, most people placing him, on average, between ninety and one-hundred and five years old. However, the number was of little consequence as Dietrichs benefited from his extensive longevity, which commanded him respect in every sphere of his life.
In fact, the only catch of his long-lived life was the style and state of his appearance. Most residents could not remember a time that the aged book keeper had not appeared emaciated. Tottering through the halls on legs no thicker than a fresh sapling, his trunk suckled in upon itself from lack of any indulgence, his arms stretching nimbly from his body like bent broomstick handles. His face was long and sagging, the skin draping from his cheekbones as if hung like loose fabric. In contrast, however, his beard and hair, the only physical conditions still under his direct control, were always very well kept; having been combed and clipped to the extent that even the most discerning eye could not have found a white hair out of place.
Despite this aged physique, Dietrichs was still very much a part of the day-to-day operations in the library. He was regularly consulted in any forum for debate and his word, while not always substantial, was final. He was a well-respected director with an authoritative personality and, thusly, his decisions, judgments, and conclusions had never been questioned.
Except once…
*~~*
The crowd in the hall slowly turned their heads to the senior librarian who had just put an effective hold on all movement.
“Edward, my office,” rumbled Dietrichs, “five minutes.”
The dusty old man turned and left the hall. Edward grabbed Witticker and began shuffling through the tables as the remaining crowd shuffled back to their tables. The two darted down the thin walkway toward the door the senior librarian had just exited.
“Wait, what’s going on?” cried Witticker, running after Edward, “you’re not going to leave after what just happened back there?”
“Did you hear him?” shot back Edward, “Five minutes! Let’s go!”
Witticker jogged after Edward out of the reading hall and into yet another dark hallway into what seemed to be a series of dark hallways towards another in a series of undisclosed destinations.
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