L. J. Amber
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TEWWBAD Chapter 3
🕑 Added 2025-01-28 15:13:05 +0000 UTCCHAPTER 3 – Only a Book’s Throw Away
Earlier, I said there were five moments that defined Saphienne. The first was when Kylantha was snatched from her arms; this was by far the saddest moment. Four more yet remain to be told, and it may please you to hear that they are altogether quite different in character. The next is not too much further, though there is one more fact about Saphienne you must first learn. Perhaps you have already guessed? Let us see.
Studying under Filaurel would prove interesting for Saphienne, but on the first day, when she picked up the coin and squinted at its face and composed herself for her return to the library, it was not excitement that carried her across the threshold. She was very afraid of what she would see when she entered — or what she would not see. She expected that she would feel Kylantha’s absence and relive the memory. Only, another memory of her friend helped her inside.
Saphienne was very surprised, then, to see that the shelves of the library had been entirely rearranged since she had last visited. Never before had she seen them moved, and the novelty stopped her by the doorway as she tried to think it through. Even the tall curtains by the windows were different, as were the cushions on the sills below them. For a moment, she felt as though she was in an entirely different library.
Filaurel, she realised, must have spent the past two days reorganising the collection.
Perhaps, so that Saphienne would feel more comfortable.
But that thought seemed foolish to her. Who would put that much effort into making her feel better? Even her own mother wouldn’t inconvenience herself that greatly.
Filaurel was examining returned books next to her desk. She paid no notice to Saphienne until the young elf walked over, at which point she set the books down and gave her a polite nod. “Follow me, then.”
At the back of the library was a closed door, behind which were stairs that wound upward to the next floor. Saphienne had never been upstairs, and she climbed them with growing curiosity. There were no doors at the top, and she emerged into brighter light to discover–
“There’s another collection?!”
Filaurel was amused. “What did you think was up here, Saphienne?”
The shelves were twice as tall, with ladders on wheels neatly arranged at the end of every other row. Overhead, the roof curved upwards, and large, glass skylights revealed the rest of the tree from which the building grew, along with the branches of the even taller trees, and the bright, cloudy sky beyond. Saphienne stared, bewildered. “I thought… that this was where you lived…”
The librarian laughed, a high and playful sound. “No, this is the mature collection.”
“Mature?”
“For adults. That is,” she hastened to add, “containing subject matter that is not appropriate for elves under the age of fourteen. Which is not to say that it’s all scandalous. Most is actually quite boring, just not the sort of knowledge that should be available without supervision.”
“But,” Saphienne objected, turning back to her, “I thought the adult books were toward the back of the… um, lower collection?”
“The area for young children is near my desk so I can watch them. Downstairs is otherwise arranged by the difficulty of reading level. The reading level rises the further back you go, until it then becomes arranged by subject.” She gestured to the small, metal plates screwed onto the ends of the shelves. “Up here, everything is arranged by subject. There’s also a reading area, for anyone who wants peace from the children. Present company excepted, of course.”
This was all a little much for Saphienne, who tried to take a seat on the steps of one of the ladders, then jumped upright when it moved slightly. “…But I’m too young to be up here.”
“Saphienne the child, though a voracious reader, is far too young to be up here.” Filaurel smiled as she walked over and tapped a wheel with her foot, engaging the brake. “Saphienne my assistant, wise beyond her years, is just the right age to be trusted. So long as,” she added, “you show me whatever you take from these shelves, and promise to trust me should I ask you to wait a little longer.”
“Why? Why do you trust me, I mean.”
Her smile became fainter. “As of recently, you understand that there are some things which are simply too much for children. You are still a child, but I think you understand. I’m not trying to clip your wings–”
“My wings?”
“A human expression. They clip the flight feathers from the wings of birds to stop them flying far from the nest; to keep them imprisoned.” She coughed. “As I was saying, I’m not trying to hold you back. If I say something is too much, I’m trying to spare you, until you’re ready. And I know you’re ready for more than downstairs.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Saphienne, I was younger than you when I started stealing books I wasn’t supposed to read. Who do you think left ‘The Principles of Elven Anatomy’ among the travel tales for you to find? Did you think I didn’t notice you sneaking it out, stuck between half a dozen larger books?”
Bright red, Saphienne studied the carpet.
“I know you hear it said a lot, but: you’re part of a very long tradition. Reading what you’re not supposed to is a rite of passage for anyone with a decent mind.”
“So… what does your assistant do?”
“That depends,” Filaurel grinned, “on the strength of your calligraphy. Do you have nice handwriting?”
* * *
She did, as a matter of fact. Filaurel nevertheless had her practice for two hours every day, and held her to a much higher standard than was usual for a child. Regardless of what she would one day choose as her art, being able to write well and quickly was a skill worth developing, and laid the groundwork for learning to take notes. That came next, the librarian having Saphienne read and summarise increasingly more complicated books, first nonfiction and then whole novels. Filaurel would read her summaries and ask detailed questions, questions that became more thoughtful and required greater reflection the longer the practice went on.
Autumn turned to winter, and then winter to spring. The librarian taught her student how the collection was catalogued, and then how to spot books in need of repair. Two hours practicing calligraphy, one hour working on the summary of the week, one hour touring the shelves assigned to her while checking for misplaced books and worn bindings; this is what Saphienne spent every day doing.
As well as reading for, oh, about seven to twelve hours a day. Filaurel had to make her go outside — to eat, to take in the fresh air, and sometimes, to bathe.
The sheer breadth of knowledge that Saphienne picked up in those six months was quite staggering, and she felt herself growing intellectually as she began, in fits and starts, to grow toward physical womanhood. She was still some time away from the most unnerving changes, but her mentor nevertheless made sure she was prepared for what her mother, who cared little for the library or the comings and goings of Saphienne, would certainly forget to explain.
When the snows melted, Filaurel surprised Saphienne with her own key to the library. The librarian had to leave for a week – gone away to trade for new books – and she left detailed instructions on how her assistant was to maintain the collections in her absence. The building would be closed, and no one was to be allowed to fetch anything from within, not unless there was a serious emergency. Nevertheless, she suggested Saphienne use the time to catalogue a particular part of the library she’d previously been directed away from, a suggestion Filaurel gave very casually, as though it were an afterthought.
Saphienne was mystified by the books she found there. Then she was intrigued. And then she discovered several other feelings, and their names, as well as new names for things that she had once read about in ‘The Principles of Elven Anatomy.’ Eventually she stopped reading, recognising that she simply wasn’t ready to know more, though she had learned what came after kissing. Two years later, she would return to the subject with greater maturity, and keener interest.
Spring turned to summer, and Saphienne learned to bind and repair books. She enjoyed that work. After that came what Filaurel called ‘scrivening,’ which sounded more interesting than it actually was: copying books. Though she enjoyed reading and calligraphy and physically assembling books, writing them out by hand was deeply tedious to Saphienne, who never learned to enjoy what Filaurel found quite soothing.
When the red returned to her hair and she reflected on the past year, Saphienne asked what came after scrivening.
“Whatever art you want to try next, Saphienne.”
Saphienne paused atop the ladder, holding the books that Filaurel had passed up to her to set back on the shelves. “I thought I’m supposed to be learning the art of keeping a library?”
“You are. And you could continue doing this. But your heart isn’t really in anything but the reading, and I think your talents are wasted studying under me.”
Thoughtlessly, proving her mentor’s point, Saphienne set the books down on the shelf without regard for where they ought to have been, then turned and sat on the ladder. “I haven’t mastered calligraphy yet. Or book binding. And my notes are–”
“Your calligraphy would be excellent for an elf twice your age. Your book binding works well enough for everyday purposes… though I wouldn’t have you bind any first editions. And your notes, Saphienne,” she said with great sincerity, “betray a keener mind than mine, or the minds of anyone else in this village, I think. I used to believe you were precocious because you read so much, because you’re quiet and don’t get on well with the other children. Actually, it’s the other way around.”
Saphienne hunched over as she stared down. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t get on well with the other children because you’re thoughtful, and pay attention, and you find it difficult to go along with things without first understanding them fully. You’re precocious because you’re much more intelligent than your peers, Saphienne, and that sets you apart, which has made you awkward in turn. You haven’t had the chance to properly socialise with other children, children who experience the world in the same way as you do.”
“I don’t think I’m very intelligent.”
Filaurel sighed through her smile. “Saphienne… if I throw this book at you, and it travels half way, then travels half of the remaining distance, and another half of that half again, won’t there always be another half remaining?” The librarian waved the book threateningly, then folded her arms. “How will the book ever hit you?”
“You would never throw a book!”
“No, I’d never let anyone else throw books. I may throw them as I please, since I’m the one who repairs them. Will you answer my riddle?”
“I’ve read about it,” Saphienne nodded. “It’s an old paradox.”
“Did you read an answer?”
“No.”
“Good. Give me an answer.”
Daunted, but trapped up the ladder, Saphienne closed her eyes and tried to think it through. Five minutes passed; Filaurel was waiting.
When she began to speak, her eyes were still closed, and she was surprised by the confidence she heard in her own voice. “We know from observation that the book will always land. This means that the paradox is not really a paradox, but suggests a deeper explanation we don’t yet know. I can think of a few possibilities.
“Perhaps there is a basic unit of length that is so small it cannot be halved, and when the division reaches it, the book reaches the end. That would mean distance itself has a built-in scale of measurement, which would also set a limit on how small anything could become. Nothing could be smaller than the smallest possible distance. And any two objects closer than that distance would be touching.
“On the other hand, maybe there’s a flaw with the way the question is framed. Perhaps when we talk about halves, we’re using imprecise language. The words make sense to us because the way we organise them follows all the rules of language, but the rules of language aren’t the same as the rules of how the world physically exists. Maybe there’s no such thing as a ‘half’ in nature, it’s just an idea we use to help us understand the world around us, one that’s useful for dividing cakes but useless when figuring out how objects move through the air. If that were the reason, then many other things we could say with words would also make no real sense… and I can think of some. I remember reading ‘This statement is false,’ and thinking it seemed simple on the surface, but it seemed like nonsense the more I thought about it.
“Otherwise… perhaps halves are real, and perhaps there is no minimum measurement of distance. This would mean some other rule explains what happens when endless halves are stacked against each other, reaching toward a point. This would need richer language to explain, as well as more precise language, not because the existing language is wrong, but because it doesn’t contain enough ideas in a clear enough structure to properly express what’s happening. Even the word ‘endless’ seems vague, like it’s not specific enough. I’d need to read more to– why are you looking at me like that?”
Filaurel was staring at Saphienne with awe, which looked to the young elf like amazement, uncertainty, and fear, all warring together. The librarian shook her head. “Saphienne, in only a few minutes you’ve worked out the existence of three entirely different disciplines, covering the philosophy of nature, the philosophy of language, and the philosophy of magic. You’re not yet thirteen. I couldn’t do that. Nobody else in the village could do that.”
Saphienne thought about the smartest person she had heard about. “Not even Master Almon?”
“Almon might be a wizard, Saphienne, and very well-studied, but I know for a fact he couldn’t do that. As you’ll find out, I think, when you go to study under him.”
Saphienne blinked. “You think I should be a wizard?”
“Child, whether or not magic is your art, whatever you choose, whatever you do, it will look like magic to everyone else.” Reaching up, she offered her hand to help the young elf down. “But he won’t take you until you’re fourteen. You have a little under a year and a half to wait. What do you want to try next?”
Saphienne took her mentor’s hand and stood, and as she did she saw across the top of the stacks of the library. All of a sudden, the library seemed much smaller, the space beyond so much larger, and all the things she had read about clamoured in her head, jostling for position as she surveyed them one by one.
As she descended, she chose.
