The Meaning of the Night
by James C. Clar
Elevation to the position of chief librarian proceeds in a series of distinct phases. Midway through the first of those, I was still awed by the honor that was about to be bestowed upon me.
“Boreas,” the high priest addressed me from beneath his cowl. “Are you ready to proceed with your initiation into the ultimate mysteries of your conlegium? Think carefully. From this point on, there is no turning back.”
I had been raised in the conlegium and had labored in the Library for nearly thirty years. I could no more refuse than I might, of my own volition, cease drawing breath. Even so, I hesitated. As a sub-librarian, I had been instructed in only the more superficial of our mysteries. What the future might hold for me once our most sacred doctrines were revealed was something that, despite the promptings of my ego, gave me pause.
I knew that untold millennia ago when power was consolidated in the Ekklesia, books had been outlawed. As a result, the general population of our world sank into illiteracy. The Library was constructed as a repository for the arcana of the ages and so that the accumulated knowledge of the past might not be lost. The members of my conlegium retained the ability to read and were charged with the organization and maintenance of the Library.
As for the Library itself, most of us who wandered its many rooms and levels assumed it to be infinite in space. More than a few of my colleagues also stated matter-of-factly that there never was a time when the Library was not. In the end, my curiosity concerning the veracity of such assertions overcame my fear.
“Yes, your eminence,” I said in a voice which I hope did not betray itself by wavering, “I am ready to proceed.”
The hundred or so sub-librarians who watched from the tiers of stone seats that flanked the great hall in which we stood seemed to have taken a collective breath. Perhaps they feared that I would decline. In any event, it was owing to them and their evident admiration for me and my work that I stood poised to succeed our previous chief librarian who had been found dead of a heart attack in the stacks two days earlier. Contrary to the practice in most other branches of the vast bureaucracy that controlled our world, our conlegium choose its leader by vote and on the basis of merit rather than heredity.
The sound of a brass gong sounded from deep in the dark and smoky recesses of the hall. The high priest’s voice took on an even more solemn note. “Then the hall will now be cleared and the final steps in the initiation of Boreas will conclude in holy secrecy.”
I was instructed to kneel as my former colleagues filed out of the hall. I can well imagine that the majority of them stole glances in my direction; glances fraught with envy and, perhaps, relief as well. Although we knew little of such matters, the task of the chief librarian was most certainly one laden with responsibility. And, too, it would be the last time that any of them would see my face … or I theirs.
For the rest of that night, I knelt in silence and listened as the lore of our conlegium was made known to me. As the first light of the pale sun filtered into the upper reaches of the hall and dust motes swam in its wan light, I was ordered to rise so that I might be conducted to the medical wing. There, members of that syntechnia would prepare me for masking. Once elevated, the chief librarian thenceforth wears a mask signifying his office.
*********
Two weeks have passed. I can hear the measured steps of the high priest and his acolytes as they approach the cell in which I have been recuperating. I must remember to let them know how well cared for I have been by the members of the medical syntechnia. Today my bandages are to be removed and I am to be masked. Afterward I will be presented to my conlegium as their new chief librarian.
I have no regrets. I understand what has been done … and why. It is a small price to pay. It is one thing for a sub-librarian to fritter his time away reading. That is to be expected and, to some degree, encouraged. For a chief librarian to do so would be anathema.
My task now is to see to the physical preservation of the innumerable tomes placed under my care. From that standpoint, their actual content is of no consequence whatsoever. My earlier infatuation with such matters was, as I said, something that accompanied my youth and my apprenticeship.
As the high priest explained toward the end of my initiation, it may well be that my manifest love for the matter inside the folios, octavos and scrolls that abound in the vast alcoves of the Library has prepared me to care for the books themselves with a vehemence that someone who was unaware of their substance might lack.
It will take me some days to learn to negotiate the Library given my new physical condition. I must be careful not to reveal too much to the sub-librarians with whom I come into contact. Any disorientation I may manifest can easily be ascribed to the newness of my role and the unaccustomed burden of my duties. The sensors in my mask will help as well. That the Library is, generally speaking, a dark place means that I am already acclimated to working in dim conditions. The transition should not, therefore, be a difficult one.
Now, as the mask is lowered over my head, I recall something written aeons ago by our most illustrious chief librarian, Borkos: “The Pancreator who saw fit to give me books, also gave me night.”* I now comprehend the full meaning of those cryptic words.
THE END
* “Let neither tear nor reproach besmirch this declaration of the mastery of God who, with magnificent irony, granted me both the gift of books and the night.” Jorge Luis Borges
- - -
James C. Clar has published short fiction in print as well as on the Internet. Most recently, his stories have found a home in the Taj Mahal Review, Golden Visions Magazine, The New Flesh Magazine, Antipodean SF, Shine: The Journal of Flash, Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, Apollo's Lyre, Static Movement, Bewildering Stories and Flashshot. His story "Starbuck" was voted story-of-the-year by the editors of Long Story, Short and " A Night to Remember" (August 2009) has been nominated for a 2010 Pushcart Award by the publishers of Word Catalyst Magazine.
by James C. Clar
Elevation to the position of chief librarian proceeds in a series of distinct phases. Midway through the first of those, I was still awed by the honor that was about to be bestowed upon me.
“Boreas,” the high priest addressed me from beneath his cowl. “Are you ready to proceed with your initiation into the ultimate mysteries of your conlegium? Think carefully. From this point on, there is no turning back.”
I had been raised in the conlegium and had labored in the Library for nearly thirty years. I could no more refuse than I might, of my own volition, cease drawing breath. Even so, I hesitated. As a sub-librarian, I had been instructed in only the more superficial of our mysteries. What the future might hold for me once our most sacred doctrines were revealed was something that, despite the promptings of my ego, gave me pause.
I knew that untold millennia ago when power was consolidated in the Ekklesia, books had been outlawed. As a result, the general population of our world sank into illiteracy. The Library was constructed as a repository for the arcana of the ages and so that the accumulated knowledge of the past might not be lost. The members of my conlegium retained the ability to read and were charged with the organization and maintenance of the Library.
As for the Library itself, most of us who wandered its many rooms and levels assumed it to be infinite in space. More than a few of my colleagues also stated matter-of-factly that there never was a time when the Library was not. In the end, my curiosity concerning the veracity of such assertions overcame my fear.
“Yes, your eminence,” I said in a voice which I hope did not betray itself by wavering, “I am ready to proceed.”
The hundred or so sub-librarians who watched from the tiers of stone seats that flanked the great hall in which we stood seemed to have taken a collective breath. Perhaps they feared that I would decline. In any event, it was owing to them and their evident admiration for me and my work that I stood poised to succeed our previous chief librarian who had been found dead of a heart attack in the stacks two days earlier. Contrary to the practice in most other branches of the vast bureaucracy that controlled our world, our conlegium choose its leader by vote and on the basis of merit rather than heredity.
The sound of a brass gong sounded from deep in the dark and smoky recesses of the hall. The high priest’s voice took on an even more solemn note. “Then the hall will now be cleared and the final steps in the initiation of Boreas will conclude in holy secrecy.”
I was instructed to kneel as my former colleagues filed out of the hall. I can well imagine that the majority of them stole glances in my direction; glances fraught with envy and, perhaps, relief as well. Although we knew little of such matters, the task of the chief librarian was most certainly one laden with responsibility. And, too, it would be the last time that any of them would see my face … or I theirs.
For the rest of that night, I knelt in silence and listened as the lore of our conlegium was made known to me. As the first light of the pale sun filtered into the upper reaches of the hall and dust motes swam in its wan light, I was ordered to rise so that I might be conducted to the medical wing. There, members of that syntechnia would prepare me for masking. Once elevated, the chief librarian thenceforth wears a mask signifying his office.
*********
Two weeks have passed. I can hear the measured steps of the high priest and his acolytes as they approach the cell in which I have been recuperating. I must remember to let them know how well cared for I have been by the members of the medical syntechnia. Today my bandages are to be removed and I am to be masked. Afterward I will be presented to my conlegium as their new chief librarian.
I have no regrets. I understand what has been done … and why. It is a small price to pay. It is one thing for a sub-librarian to fritter his time away reading. That is to be expected and, to some degree, encouraged. For a chief librarian to do so would be anathema.
My task now is to see to the physical preservation of the innumerable tomes placed under my care. From that standpoint, their actual content is of no consequence whatsoever. My earlier infatuation with such matters was, as I said, something that accompanied my youth and my apprenticeship.
As the high priest explained toward the end of my initiation, it may well be that my manifest love for the matter inside the folios, octavos and scrolls that abound in the vast alcoves of the Library has prepared me to care for the books themselves with a vehemence that someone who was unaware of their substance might lack.
It will take me some days to learn to negotiate the Library given my new physical condition. I must be careful not to reveal too much to the sub-librarians with whom I come into contact. Any disorientation I may manifest can easily be ascribed to the newness of my role and the unaccustomed burden of my duties. The sensors in my mask will help as well. That the Library is, generally speaking, a dark place means that I am already acclimated to working in dim conditions. The transition should not, therefore, be a difficult one.
Now, as the mask is lowered over my head, I recall something written aeons ago by our most illustrious chief librarian, Borkos: “The Pancreator who saw fit to give me books, also gave me night.”* I now comprehend the full meaning of those cryptic words.
THE END
* “Let neither tear nor reproach besmirch this declaration of the mastery of God who, with magnificent irony, granted me both the gift of books and the night.” Jorge Luis Borges
- - -
James C. Clar has published short fiction in print as well as on the Internet. Most recently, his stories have found a home in the Taj Mahal Review, Golden Visions Magazine, The New Flesh Magazine, Antipodean SF, Shine: The Journal of Flash, Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, Apollo's Lyre, Static Movement, Bewildering Stories and Flashshot. His story "Starbuck" was voted story-of-the-year by the editors of Long Story, Short and " A Night to Remember" (August 2009) has been nominated for a 2010 Pushcart Award by the publishers of Word Catalyst Magazine.
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