This is a reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant’s name. Other than that, no other similar characteristics are implied.The Library is an extension of what I call the City Cycle. It began with Some Would Call It Worthless , and those who continue on the eastward road find themselves Fogbound.
The Library
by Alan Loewen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
by Alan Loewen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
“Come in,” the Director said. An aide popped her head past the doorframe.
“Director, we’ve had some new refugees from Sarkomand.”
“How many?”
“Four.”
“I will orient them in my Common Room.”
The aide nodded and silently closed the massive door behind her.
The Director looked at the stacked books that covered every available space in the office. She selected one at random and smiled. I have time to read one more book, she thought to herself.
Ten minutes later, she entered the Common Room where four people, three men and a woman, sat on the divans, the Director’s aide standing near the door. Their clothes and shoes were dusty from travel. None rose when the Director entered the room, but she was not insulted. The journey from Sarkomand to the Library was not a dangerous one, but it was exhausting.
“Welcome to the Library,” the Director said. “I am Director Landis, currently in my forty-ninth year of service. I know you are tired, hungry, and thirsty, and my aide will see to your needs as soon as I explain where you have arrived.
“None of you felt at home in Sarkomand, and you have journeyed here to see if life is better. You have arrived at the Library, a city-sized building four by four square miles in size and a consistent ten stories tall. Like Sarkomand, we have no idea who built the Library, but we do know its purpose: to store Earth's wisdom and written word and give shelter to the residents that live here.
“My aide will assign rooms to you and the various jobs you are situated for. The only other responsibilities are to enjoy the books in the library and to write the stories of your lives—your autobiographies—before you arrived in Sarkomand.”
The woman shyly raised her hand. “My apologies, but what are our options if we find life here that is not what we wanted?”
The Director smiled. “You are not prisoners here. You may return to Sarkomand or continue your journey on the eastbound road.”
“And that leads to … where?” one of the men asked.
Director Landis shrugged. “We do not know. People have never arrived at the Library from that direction, and those that have taken the journey have never returned.”
Another man spoke up. “So, all you want us to do is work at whatever job we’re assigned, read books, and write our bios?”
The Director nodded. “Yes. It’s a straightforward life, and many have started families here.”
The speaker snorted. “I’ve not read a single book since I left high school. I’m willing to work, but I have no interest in reading and writing and will not start now.”
The Director gritted her teeth but kept a smile on her face. “Ah,” the director replied, “but the books here are special.” She turned and picked one up off the coffee table. “Would you humor me and read the first sentence in this one?”
With a sneer, the man grabbed the proffered book and looked at the first page. “When a traveler,” he began, “in north central Massachusetts takes the wrong fork...”
Suddenly, his eyes glazed over, and he sat staring straight ahead.
The other three pilgrims moved away from him in surprise. “What did you do to him?” one demanded.
The Director gave a humorless smile. “The books in the Library have a fascinating effect on the reader. Once you read the first sentence, you live the story's contents. Though it only seems a few moments, our friend here will live each second written in the book, even if it covers years or even centuries. And it will appear as real to him as we are to each other." The Director smiled. "I have lived countless thousands of lives through the books here.”
Suddenly, the man with the book dropped it from nerveless fingers, his eyes bulging in horror. He jumped off the divan with an ear-splitting scream and ran from the door. Wrenching it open, he raced outside, his screams fading down the hallways.
The Director turned to her aide. “Please make sure our guest finds the front door.”
“What … what in heaven’s name did you give him?” one of the pilgrims asked.
The Director picked the book up off the floor, inspecting it for damage. “It’s The Dunwich Horror by an obscure writer named H. P. Lovecraft,” she said. “I do not recommend it for newcomers.”
