the lid gently, taking care to insert a twig in the gap between top and bottom to allow for air.
He ran back to Claude, who, sensing the visit was over, started off again at a good clop.
All around them the yards and porches were empty.
Where, Cardiff wondered, has everyone gone?
He had his answer when Claude stopped.
They stood before a large, rather handsome brick building, its entrance flanked by two Egyptian sphinxes lying supine, half-lioness and half-god, with faces he could almost name.
Cardiff read these words: HOPE MEMORIAL LIBRARY.
And in small letters beneath that: KNOW HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE .
He climbed the library steps to find Elias Culpepper standing before the great double front doors. Culpepper behaved as if heâd been expecting the younger man, and motioned at him to sit down on the library steps.
âWeâve been waiting for you,â he said.
âWe?â said Cardiff.
âThe whole town, or most of it,â said Culpepper. âWhere have you been?â
âThe graveyard,â said Cardiff.
âYou spend too much time there. Is there a problem?â
âNot anymore, if you can help me mail something home. Is there a train expected anytime soon?â
âShould be one passing through sometime today,â said Elias Culpepper. âDoubt itâll stop. That hasnât happened in â¦â
â Can it be stopped?â
âCould try flares.â
âIâve got a package I want sent, if you can stop it.â
âIâll light the flares,â said Culpepper. âWhereâs this package going?â
âHome,â Cardiff said again. âChicago.â
He wrote a name and address on a page ripped from his notepad, and handed the piece of paper to Culpepper.
âConsider it done,â said Culpepper. He rose and said, âNow I think you ought to go inside.â
Cardiff turned and pushed the great library doors and stepped in.
He read a sign above the front counter: CARPE DIEM, SEIZE THE DAY. It could have also read: SEIZE A BOOK. FIND A LIFE. BIRTH A METAPHOR .
His gaze drifted to find a large part of the townâs population seated at two dozen tables, books open, reading, and keeping the SILENCE that other signs suggested.
As if pulled by a single string, they turned, nodded at Cardiff, and turned back to their books.
The young woman behind the library front desk was an incredible beauty.
âMy God,â he whispered. âNef!â
She raised her hand and pointed, then beckoned for him to follow.
She walked ahead of him and she might well have had a lantern in her hand to light the dim stacks, for her face was illumination. Wherever she glanced, the darkness failed and a faint light touched the gold lettering along the shelves.
The first stack was labeled: ALEXANDRIA ONE.
And the second: ALEXANDRIA TWO.
And the last: ALEXANDRIA THREE.
âDonât say it,â he said, quietly. âLet me. The libraries at Alexandria, five hundred or a thousand years before Christ, had three fires, maybe more, and everything burned.â
âYes,â Nef said. âThis first stack contains all or most of the books burned in the first fire, an accident.
âThis second stack from the second burning, also an accident, has all the lost books and destroyed texts of that terrible year.
âAnd the last, the third, contains all the books from the third conflagrationâa burning by mobs, the purposeful destruction of history, art, poetry, and plays in 455 B.C.
âIn 455 B.C., â she repeated quietly.
âMy God,â he said, âhow were they all saved, how did they get here ?â
âWe brought them.â
âHow?!â
âWe are tomb robbers.â Nef ran her finger along the stacks. âFor the profit of the mind, the extension of the soul, whatever the soul is. We can only try to describe the mystery. Long before Schliemann, who found not one but twenty
Mark Twain, Sir Thomas Malory, Lord Alfred Tennyson, Maude Radford Warren, Sir James Knowles, Maplewood Books