Libraries of Faerie

Libraries of Faerie

Yesterday's Shelves

The Wizard's Library

This is how the wizard built his library.

For fifty years, he searched the lands, trying to find the one place that was right. To the north, it was too cold. To the east, it was too west. To the west – well, it was just too expensive, and even if he could turn lead into gold he just was not going to pay those prices!

So he settled in a dry, warm land to the south.

For twenty years, he paid engineers and architects from far and wide, to come to him and show him their grandiose designs: Towers that troubled the skies! Catacombs that wended their way across entire kingdoms! Libraries in gardens, in boneyards, in lakes, and in shoeboxes. The wizard sent them all away; nothing good ever came of engineers and architects, after all.

So he chose a small, cozy house for his library.

For ten years, he conjured and bound djinni, ‘ifriti, marids, and shaitans. At his command, they flew, invisibly, across the world to bring back rare stone and timber. They carried off the most skilled craftsmen to build the house and chests and shelves for the library; when the craftsmen were returned after a month’s time, only the bag of gold left with them mollified their wives and convinced them it was no dream.

So he waited, for everything to be just right.

For one, last year, he pondered and cogitated on what books and scrolls to fill his library with. He had traveled the world entire, and knew the works of every land. He had hosts of spirits at his beck and call, who could steal any work from any land.

It was quite a puzzle.

In the end, I am told, the wizard chose only one book for his library: his very first spellbook, a primer on magic given him by his master.

He was old by now, the wizard, and chose to spend his days and nights in his dry, warm, and cozy library, reading his favorite book.

And who would say he was unwise to do so?

Today's Libraries

Amos Freeman's Front Porch

In the United States, Nebraska, specifically, there is a small town name of Benton.

Not much of a town, Benton. Just a few stores and a stretch of road runnin' between a few small farms.

One of these farms belongs to Amos Freeman, and had for as long as anyone can remember.

In the 30's, the farm was huge and bustling, and Amos didn't turn down nobody who came with an empty wallet, hungry stomach an' strong back. Amos Freeman, a black man whose pa told him stories of bein' a slave every night at bed time, kept damn near all of Benton fed and workin' during that time.

Its mostly run down, now; though. Everything needs fixin' but there no one around do it. No ones lives at the Freeman farm now, 'cept for Amos and his nine granddaughters.

Amos' nine granddaughter care for the farm as best they, milkin' the cow, feedin' the chickens and pigs, and keepin' some of the crops growin', but it just ain't much of a farm no more.

Thing is, any time of the day or night, Amos' nine granddaughters (all nine of 'em, just old enough to be considered grown women, all nine of 'em pretty as sin, eight as dark as night, and one as white as the moon) can be found cookin' up one hell of meal. Fried Chicken, spiral-cut honeyed ham, collared greens, corn on the cob, buttermilk buscuits, black eye eyes, an' a whole mess of other stuff. Homemade icecream an' pie for dessert. Apple, blueberry, or strawberry-rhubarb.

While they're busy making up the meal (always more than enough for everyone to stuff themselves and take home left overs, no matter how many friends or strangers show up), Amos just sits in his favor rockin' chair on the front porch. Looks, for all the world, like a skeleton wrapped the wrinkly skin of a raisin, kept alive by sheer stubborness. He's got a piece of that drawin' charcoal and a stack of nice, heavy-stock paper sittin' in his lap, but he ain't drawin' nothin'.

He just sits, and rocks, and looks up at the sun, or the stars, whatever the case may be.

Anyone who talks to him, they don't get an answer, they don't even get a look or a nod. He just sits, and rocks, and looks up at the sun, or the stars, whatever the case may be.

The granddaughters - their right friendly - always happy to have guests, and always willing to fetch a glass of iced tea or lemonaide, or a shot of bourbon, from a bottle older than they are. If asked about Amos, they get a real sad look on their faces, and they just say he's been like that, quiet, an' starin' up at the sky for as long as they can recall. But their sadness doesn't last long, because they have guests to take care of, and they sure do love to have guests, and make new friends.

Odd thing, though, about Amos, somethin' that the granddaughters are willin' to speak on if someone tickles their fancy...

While Amos is rockin' in his chair, if you ask him, "tell me the story of the Bible", he'll tell you the story of the King James Version... startin' with Genesis, and endin' with Revelations, he'll recite the whole thing. He'll even draw those timelines and maps that show up at the end of most Bible now days, usin' his drawin' charcoal an' paper.

It ain't just the Bible, though... he can reciet any book, as long as you ask for it. He don't even need to know the lanuage its in, or have ever read - or heard - of the book. Old Amos, he can tell you, word-for-word (in perfect French) what's written in some little French girl's diary from 1941.

Even though he never does anything no more, and the nine granddaughters don't get out much, word of Amos' strange gift has spread.

The only men in the world to know everything written in the Dead Sea Scrolls are a few high-falootin' guys from New York City who came to pay Amos and his granddaughters a visit, meanwhile, an old woman from Plano, Texas came up to see Amos one day, to hear him read her love letters from her husband, who died in the same fire that destroyed the letters.

He ain't never gonna be famous, but there are people who know about him, people from all over the world.

People from beyond it, too.

The nine granddaughters, they've had guests far stranger than humans, but as long as they mind their manners, and wipe their feets (or tenticles) before comin' in the house, they ain't about to judge them, or turn them away.

No matter how long or short a book, or a series of letters, Amos always finishes one book when the sun goes down, and finishes another when the sun comes up.

If'n someone wants, they can stay a spell at the Freeman farm. The nine granddaughters are more than happy to make up rooms, especially for the people that they take a likin' to. Guests will eventually wear out their welcome, though, especially if the the granddaughters think they are takin' advantage of old Amos, and are usually asked to leave after a week or two.

No one has ever refused the granddaughters' polite request.

Rabbi Moishe's One-Word Library

Rabbi Isaac, I write to you, my old teacher, for I am sorely in need of your wisdom.

You know from my last letter of the fire which destroyed the small library of our yeshiva. Rabbi Moishe, of course, was devastated. He had retreated to study the Talmud and meditate upon a solution, leaving me to instruct the students of the yeshiva.

In fact, I was using our only copy of the Torah to teach the boys their letters when it happened. Young Elazar was pretending he could not pick out the alef, despite my stern looks of disapproval.

We suddenly heard a voice like thunder from the back room: “SON OF A STINKING DROP!”, so mighty that it shook cascades of dust from the rafters.

I realized immediately that Rabbi Moishe was in the back room, but felt it necessary to spend a moment calming the boys. Poor Elazar had quite fainted away in shock, with little more than a squeak of dismay.

When we found Rabbi Moishe in the ruined back room, it took us some time to piece together what had happened -- for he had been struck both dumb and unable to read or write, it seems. He sat on the floor, dazed, with a smoking brand upon his forehead with the Word written there.

I am afraid, my old teacher, that Rabbi Moishe must have found something in the Talmud that suggested a solution to our lost library. I think he called up the angel, Metatron, and demanded that our library be filled with words of wisdom.

I believe this, for I believe that what the angel branded upon the forehead of poor Rabbi Moishe was no word, but The Word.

The Word which was spoken to begin the Creation.

It took us some time to puzzle this out, though, for none of us could read what was written there, and poor Rabbi Moishe could not tell us. Clever young Shaul found the references to the angel Metatron which the Rabbi had surely been reading. And it was the Rabbi himself who guessed what the angel had written -- though it took some time of pointing at the Torah for me to understand.

Fortunately, the Rabbi’s wife Ismaela was wise enough to stop us from giving him a mirror to see the brand of the Word.

Poor Shaul tried to trace what the angel had written, but his writing burst into flames. With luck, he will heal and may even regain the use of his hand.

It took us several days before anyone could begin to puzzle out the Word there.

But, everyone reads it differently. To me, it appears to say “Wisdom”. Shaul instead reads it as “Love”. Young Elazar claimed it to be “Joy”, although when I teased him about whether he could now identify the letters, he was unduly grave.

I suppose angels have that effect on us all.

Little Metibel, the Rabbi’s daughter, told us that the word was “Butterfly.” It is unfortunate she was not born a son, for she would have made a fine student in the yeshiva.

The puzzle of the Word has so obsessed the yeshiva that much mischief has come of it.

Ismaela has become convinced that she can add up the letters of the Word, and divine its meaning by gematria. Metibel tells me her mother pesters the Rabbi so much that he has taken to locking himself in a closet to escape her. Ismaela now wanders about muttering that the numbers do not figure up.

Each day, instead of studying the Torah and the Talmud, we sit together and attempt to read the Word written on the Rabbi Moishe. Although we have had many good debates thereby, I think that the Rabbi has quite lost his patience for it. Particularly since he cannot participate, of course, being dumb and illiterate now.

The reason for the urgency of this letter, though, came yesterday. Enosh was convinced he had finally puzzled out the Word, and attempted to speak it.

Enosh will be missed.

Now Enosh’s father plans the mourning, while the mother has been at Rabbi Moishe ceaselessly. I suspect she wants him to call up the angel once more, and return her son to her.

My old friend and teacher, please advise me on what to do, for I have reached the end of my wisdom on this.

Write swiftly, Kaleb ben Esai

Middleton State Hospital's Files on 'Scoots' Williams

Walter Williams is called 'Scoots' by the orderlies who care for him.

He lives in a small room at the Middleton State Hospital in Middleton, South Carolina.

Its not a terrible mental facility, but its not a good one. All of its employees are good people who do what they can. The cooks in the kitchen, to the orderlies and nurses, to the doctors and even Mrs. Goldberg, who runs the hospital, they all truly care.

Its a good thing, too, because the state of South Carolina gives Middleton State Hospital little money to work with.

Scoots is a favorite of the hospital. Doctors and nurses pay him regular visits, and there is always at least one orderly in his room.

Even Mrs. Goldberg visits him, on occasion.

The thing is, Scoots is never quite the same person twice. He plays chess, with one of the doctors, and three of the orderlies. Sometimes, he is excellent, other times, his opponent has to remind him how the horsey moves. Sometimes, he just looks at his opponent, and says "I will beat you in 12 moves." And he does.

Sometimes, he is open, and talkative, and smart, and charming. one nurse had to be let go because she begain sleeping with Scoots. No one blamed her though. Scoots could be very seductive when he wanted to.

Other times, he won't talk for weeks at a time.

During these times when he doesn't talk, he writes. Not words. He writes little squiggles and spirals, and happy faces, and other doodles.

He writes them in notebooks, or scraps of paper. If he runs out of paper, he'll write them on the walls. If the pens run out of ink, or the pencils break, he'll bite his thumb, and write in his own blood, or carve into the cheap walls with the empty pens, or broken bits of pencil.

The orderlies are careful to make sure he has enough paper, and enough pens.

Each line, each squiggle, and each picture is a book. No one knows how it works, but every little doodle he makes contains so much beauty, and so much information.

A small frowny-face, when looked at for only a second, might be Hamlet. A stick figure could be a complete set of the Encylopedia Brittanica, and a swirling line could be the collected works of Nietzsche.

No one at the Middleton State Hospital understands these doodles, but almost everyone reads them.

Many orderlies know several languages, and every word of "the Prince" and "the Divine Comedy" from looking at a picture of a house, with a sun above it, and a stick figure family standing outside of it.

One nurse went back to medical school, and aced all of her classes because of a series of randomly curving lines. She is a doctor now, working again at Middleton State Hospital.

Even though Mrs. Goldberg has these writings locked away, nearly everyone who regularly deals with Scoots has a copy of the key.

Sometimes, the employees sneak some of these writings out of the hospital. Perhaps they want their children to learn Spanish, or they want their wives or husbands to read "Love in the Time of Cholera". This is rare; however, as the Middleton State Hospital's employees know that they cannot explain these writings to their families. And, frankly, their frightening.

Scoots has made the hospital into an odd family, by virtue of this strange and bizarre secret they all share. Mrs. Goldberg secretly hopes and dreads the coming of the day she will have to show these writings to someone outside of the hospital.

Tomorrow's Vaults

Library of Osmosis

Information is bonded drectly to hydrogen atoms, which are placed in a solution that combines mind-altering elements and chemicals that create synaptic bridges.

The enitre library is rows upon rows of fridges that contain drinkable books.

Depositories That Never Were

The wind library

An entire canyon carved from solid stone, filled with whistling holes and fantastic whorls. A wind blows constantly through. Different sounds are made in different parts of the canyon by the wind whistling through the channels. If you walk through certain parts in a certain path at a certain speed, the changing sounds seem like voices, reading passages of books to you.

The Sleeper's Library

It is said that those minds are troubled over-much with the desire to learn, or the desire to know --and the two are different -- or the desire to create are given a change, a choice, at one single point in their life.

For some, this choice comes late in life, for others, while they are still infants.

This choice comes, fittingly, in their sleep.

The Librarian comes to them, in whatever form they expect the Librarian to take, and offers them this choice: come to the Library in their dreams, join the Library, and never again dream like a mortal, and never again have their mind be truly and completely their own... or don't.

In the countless ocean of time that has passed, none that the Librarian has given this choice to have denied the Library.

Once someone has chosen the Sleeper's Library, every night, in their sleep, they dream of a vast and endless library, with countless, impossibly large halls, and tiny, intimate studies.

Every book ever written can be found in this Sleeper's Library, and every book that someone within the Library has ever thought of writing can be found within the Library.

In fact, every thought a member of the Library ever has becomes part of the Library, written in some book, or scroll, for every other member of the Sleeper's Library to see, should they happen upon it.

Few members of the Library; however, know the architecture of the Sleeper's Library well enough to reliably seek out the thought-records of their fellows.

The Palace of Glass and Knowledge Unbound

If someone wanders within the deserts for nine days and nine nights, and one day beyond that, with only what food and water they can carry with them, they might find the Palace of Glass and Knowledge Unbound.

But, probably, instead, they will die.

If they live to see the sun rise on that tenth day, the Palace of Glass and Knowledge Unbound will appear. A great sandstorm suddenly erupts, so bad that it scours the skin, and blinds the eyes. When it fades, there is a great palace of glass, with large spires and elegant domes. It catches the light of the sun, and it holds it, so that it does not blind those you look upon it during the day, and stays bright enough to see by during the night.

Inside the Palace of Glass and Knowledge Unbound, it is a paradise. There are bookshelves made of glass, with thousands and thousands of panes of glass. Amid these beautiful bookshelves are flowing rivers of cold, clear water, and waterfalls of the same, and in the upper levels, pools of water, that during the day, are heated enough to bath in.

Those there is no food within the palace, and no where to sleep, or even sit and rest, there is no need. As long as someone drinks with sweet, cold water of the Palace of Glass and Knowledge Unbound, they need no food, nor sleep, nor rest, but their desire for this water is a near desperate thing.

The time of those within the palace can be spent much better, by listening to the panes of glass, by dipping their fingers into the clear waters, and rubbing it upon a pane of glass, the words it contains a read aloud, in a voice like the hum of crystal.

One can stay within the Palace of Glass and Knowledge Unbound for as long as one wishes, but they will never see another living soul.

Once needs only walk out of the front gates of the palace to leave, but once they leave, they can never return.

While difficult, the walk out of the desert is much less dangerous for someone who has been within the palace, for, as long as some has tasted one drop of the palace's water, they will never be thirsty again.

The Library of Sussurations

In a far off land, some say Tibet, some say Peru, high on a windy plan, there exists a library that consists only of plants. It appears to be a field of small bushes and shrubs, once well tended but in now fallen into disarray. It is readily apparent to any who view it that there is some pattern to the plantings, but it is not so clear what that pattern is. The wisest of scholars will never see the pattern, because it is not there to be seen. It must be *heard* Everyday, at dawn and again at dusk, as the winds blow across the plain, the plants brush against themselves and each other. The soft rattlings and rustlings, when listened to carefully, reveal themselves as softly spoken words. The words are different in different parts of the garden. Sadly, the words no longer make sense, poorly pronounced and in random order. The plants need to be tended, watered and trimmed in a precise manner, in order to keep the articulation coherent and the knowledge of this techinique has died out or disappeared. Perhaps the secret techniques are contained within the library itself, but who can tell?

The Library of the Pendulum

Many of us have seen the pendulum exhibit in one science museum or another. You know the one, the two or three story balconied atrium with a pendulum swinging gently through an arc. There are often pegs on the floor for the pendulum to knock down, showing how far around the circle is has moved that day. We are told when we see the pendulum exhibit is that it demonstrates the rotation of the earth. This is the barest scratching at the truth.

On an isolated island in the Mediterranean there is proof that somebody, centuries ago had a far greater understanding of the truth behind these seemingly simplistic arcs than anyone alive today. Buried beneath the ruins of a temple to Athena there is a room in which a pendulum has been swinging for the entirety of those forgotten years. The room is spherical and has several entrance and observation points carefully placed around it. The pendulum itself swings from the center of the room, suspended from an ingenious system of wheels and swivels. This complicated system is necessary because the pendulum swings through arcs that shouldn't be possible, defying gravity as though there were a greater force pulling at it. This setup requires regular monitoring and this is done by a small group of individuals who also record the traceries of the pendulum. It is for the record of these traceries that this whole creation exists, for contained within the ancient patterns are strange markings and sigils. These patterns are slow to reveal themselves, and due to the less than perfect nature of the mechanism, there is a noticeable 'fuzziness' to the patterns revealed thus far. The people who maintain this strange library also maintain that the patterns are incomplete, and that more time, possibly several more centuries, will be required to reveal the depth of the message. Still, there is knowledge to be gained from what has been discovered thus far, and thus there will continue to be a group of peculiar scribes carefully tending the machinery and recording the wanderings of the pendulum.

The Library of Paths Untaken

The Library of Paths Untaken has two librarians, each with their own wing. The Keeper of Razor-Edged Tales, attends to the infinite tales of things that blissfully did not happen, and The Lady of Gentle Stories, maintains the countless stories of things that should have come to pass.

The names are not formal, of course. Formality is not needed, and the wings are most often just referred to as the Keeper's Wing, and the Lady's Wing.

The Keeper's Wing

The Keeper of Razor-Edged Tales is an evil thing, who enjoys very much the tales of failures, violations, pains and horrors that surround him.

They are written in detail so perfect and a style so brilliantly painful, that it is obvious no mortal mind could have crafted them.

The Keeper is frustrated; however. No matter how well crafted, no matter how cunningly spun, his tales of rape, murder, fears, break-ups and genocide are not real.

The Axis did not win World War II, Manuel Dominguez did not cheat on his wife, Julius Caesar did not survive his assassination attempt, and Amelia L'Heureux did not get a back alley abortion.

The fact that these things did not happen taunt him.

The Lady's Wing

The Lady of Gentle Stories is a far kinder creature than her counterpart. She wanders the halls and rooms of her wing, reading beautiful tales of love, victories, accomplishments and comforts.

These stories are written in the same impossibly talented and engrossing quality as those in The Keeper's Wing.

The Lady; however, is also unhappy. Her heart aches, because regardless of how brilliantly written, regardless of how beautifully formed, her tales of marriages, births, successes, joys and peace are not real.

Martin Luther King, Jr. did not survive his assassination attempt, George Remich did not send out his manuscript, Henry Miller did not marry Anais Nin, and Amelia L'Heureux did not ask Martin Price to stay with her when it came time for him to leave.

These fact that these things did not happen torment her.

The Library of Flowers

There is a monastery that stands in Faerie, not far from the village of Wall. Those who are cloistered there were once great criminals and sinners, guilty of the worst crimes of imagination and dreams.

The Folk punished them, sent them to the nameless monastery, and took their hands from them. Instead, they were given tools for their limbs – hoes and rakes, shovels for digging and shears for pruning. The monastic inmates spend their days in the vast gardens of their monastery, tending their crops. They grow not fruits, nor vegetables, nor roots, though.

They grow flowers. On each petal of the flowers they grow are words formed in the patterns of the flowers’ colors. The Folk have promised them that if they find the words to tell the tale of their sins, then they would be freed, their hands returned to them once more.

So the brothers and sisters of the nameless monastery toil by day in the gardens. They carefully tend their flowers, waiting for the buds to open so they might read what is writ there. Each season, they might find a petal or two of their tale, a phrase here, another there.

With their clumsy tools for hands, they carefully harvest each petal and save it for their redemption. Then they must look to the next season’s work, endlessly crossing and pollinating their flowers, seeking the words that will set them free…