The Library of Forgotten Fables
No one knew where the library had come from. It had stood at the edge of the city for ages, longer than anyone could remember. Some people believed it had been there since before the city’s construction, though of course, there was no way to be certain.
The library was as enigmatic as it was beautiful. It held such marvelous wonders and stories, the likes of which on one had ever seen before. Through some form of magic, it was able to enchant both children and adults alike.
Yet, as time passed, the magic seemed to fade. Every day, one less person chose to visit its silent halls. One less person lost themselves within a world unlike theirs.
For the humans who lived day to day, more concerned with the now than any other frame of time, this change was gradual enough to go unnoticed. For an entity that had existed for centuries, if not millennia, an entity that had watched countless souls enter with despairing thoughts and leave with joy and solace in their hearts, it was like that entity’s heart was breaking.
But the library could do nothing on its own to prevent their departure. The only tools it had at its disposal were the books. It rewrote them, reorganized them, created entirely new stories. It realigned shelves, forming a simple maze to bring readers to places they otherwise wouldn’t have ventured.
Nothing worked. Soon enough, the library stood empty. Its doors remained unlocked as one final invitation. Its books remained in the light as one final lure. Its hopes remained visible as one final, fading dream.
Time passed, and memory of the library faded into obscurity. Everyone knew of it only in passing, it being the subject of tales handed down through generations. They all spoke of it highly, regaling children with stories of the worlds they’d encountered as if born of their own ideas. Not once did they suggest they would return.
Without anyone to visit, without anyone to care for its stories, the library could no longer hold nature at bay. It began as a single sprout in the center of the floor, growing between the cracks in the tiles. When it bloomed, it stood proudly as a vibrant violet hyacinth.
That flower remained in isolation for years, feeding on sunlight from high windows and nourished by the steady drip-drip-drip of water from a crack in the ceiling. It had no sense of self, no ability to know where it was, and no ability to visit another world.
Yet the library watched the flower, acting as its lone guardian even as the walls lost more of their magic. Perhaps it felt something akin to brotherhood in the tiny spot of beauty, or perhaps it treated the flower as it would a new reader. It rearranged shelves to ensure no wild animals devoured the flower, and provided comfort from the harsh winter winds when they billowed in through doors hanging off of hinges.
But no one came to help, and no one would come. Not ever again. That was the harsh reality the library faced as its magic slipped ever further away, and the natural world slowly reclaimed it.
Grasses crept in through the doorways, taking root wherever dirt had been dragged years prior; vines climbed ever upward, using the library’s walls as a handhold in their journey toward the sun; flowers settled down, growing in patches of simple rue, cerulean irises, and goldenrod tulips.
None of it dared touch the books, as if knowing they were sacred to the building that provided shelter from the environment. None of it knew the truth behind the shifting landscape that they called home, or the walls that would move to not be walls, or the storms that would become a simple drip-drip-drip that fed them conservatively, or the harsh droughts that would be relieved by a shade looming over.
And there the library sat. There it waited beneath a cruel sun, hoping that someone—anyone—would return to read its stories.
* * *
The ground trembled. The air quivered. Birds fled through the air and small creatures rushed through the underbrush. Leaves fell from trees. Grass waved.
The library stood steadfast despite its age. The quakes from the surface did nothing to disturb its foundations. The gusts from the air did nothing to rattle its windows. The birds and creatures dared not enter its hallowed halls.
Fire rose along the horizon. Blue skies and ivory clouds melted away, torn apart by a wave of destruction unlike anything before. The ground cracked. The air boomed. Birds dropped dead. Creatures slammed into walls. Trees toppled. Grass burned.
The library remained hopeful, even as death raked its bony fingers across the land, as if preparing the soil beneath. The library remained confident that it would be found once more, even as everyone was dragged into combat, never to return from the brutal onslaught.
Soldiers staggered against the library’s steps, but not once did they enter. Soldiers marched past the library’s walls, but not once did they harm it. Soldiers ruined everything they saw, but not once did they desecrate the library.
The library could do nothing to prevent the war. It could do nothing except protect its tiny garden from the ravages of humanity. And that was what it did. It barricaded its doors with shelves, it tugged blinds over windows, it closed itself off to the world.
The war didn’t last. Perhaps the enemy had seen it all as some twisted form of entertainment. Perhaps they’d amused themselves by watching the citizens scramble in their desperation to survive. Whatever the reason, the enemy grew bored within mere months.
The second bomb dropped in the heart of the city. A bright flash of light tore the sky asunder, moments before an expanding wave of heat and force trampled everything in its path. Those who remained alive became nothing more than shadows against a wall, if they were lucky. Those who survived the blast lived only long enough to realize the futility of their situation. Young and old, male and female and all in between, were targets of an undiscerning threat.
All that survived was the library, its windows cracked, its walls scorched, its shelves splintered. All that survived were the books, their covers ragged, their pages worn, their bindings loose. All that survived was the nature within its garden.
And there the library sat, unable to act as the city it had once called a friend ceased to exist. There it sat, unable to shed a tear or vocalize its pain and sorrow. There it sat, unable to reach out for aid.
It was able only to sit there and wait. And wait it did.
* * *
It had been decades since anyone had explored this part of the country. Everyone was too terrified of tales from the war to risk venturing out so far. Tales of ruins that were liable to crumble at a feather’s touch, or of a sickness that hung in the very air and rotted all who it touched, or of a silence that drove everyone mad.
The girl didn’t care about such tales. Her parents were nothing more than worrywarts, passing down stories through tradition alone. Her village had been saved from the destruction all those years ago, separated by a great distance, yet had still been affected by the specter of war.
The journey through the rubble was rough. “Bombs” had apparently devastated this city, whatever those were, but had been unable to fully level the remains. The debris itself formed peaks and crags, mountains and valleys, and everything in between.
The girl took great care with each step. Even the slightest pressure collapsed concrete beneath her weight. She clambered over fallen buildings, tiptoed across cracked glass like it was ice, and clung to near-horizontal railings wherever she could.
Sometimes, she would find bones. Bleached white by the sun, they stood as a sorrowful reminder of what had been lost.
The first time she’d happened upon a skull, she only then recognized the true lifeless of the area. Not once had she heard a bird call to its mate, or seen the smiling face of a flower greeting the sun. Not once had she spotted a critter scrambling through the dust and debris, or had an insect sting her arms or buzz around her head. There was nothing but silence for as far as she could see.
The girl traveled without aim, choosing the path of least resistance as a river would through the land. She climbed up steep slopes, only to kick up dust as she slid down their other side. She ventured in some buildings, marveled at what had once been a grand fountain or sculpture, and promptly forget it in favor of the next sight.
She wasn’t searching for anything in particular. She wasn’t even searching in the first place. But the farther she ventured, the more she yearned for a sign that the city was safe. Only then would her parents allow her to return without scolding her.
It took half the day, but she spotted a single building at the far edge of the city. Despite the scorching of its walls and the cracks in its windows, it stood strong and proud. It was a large structure, as well, with an arching roof and an elaborate windowed façade that reflected the afternoon sun off a thousand shimmering panes. Draped over it, as if to provide warmth on a cold winter night, were all sorts of grasses and ivies.
The girl passed between doors that hung off their hinges, crawled over bookshelves that were little more than piles of wood planks, and entered the heart of the building. There, illuminated by a gentle glow from the highest of windows, was a vaster collection of books than she had ever seen. Each of the shelves that had stood away from the door had been untouched by the war, burdened not by damage and age, but by the stories of a city passed.
The library wasn’t grandiose. Instead, it was rather humble, a place of solitude away from the elements for those few who had no doubt come before her and used it as a rest stop on their grander journeys. It was peaceful, as well. Whereas the city outside was grim and dreary, here among the shelves, the girl felt at home.
The girl stood in the center of it all, an emotion welling up in her heart that she couldn’t quite describe. It felt as if fate had led her here, as if that tiny red thread upon her finger had been not a string to someone unknown, but the tassel that marked one’s place in a book.
The girl ran her fingers gently over the shelves. The wood remained solid despite what had to have been centuries of mistreatment. Her fingers trailed over the spines of books. The leather was still supple after all these years.
There was something about this library, something just beneath the surface that brought a smile to her face. She couldn’t tell what it was exactly, but the allure of the books was undeniable.
The girl’s journey brought her to rest in the heart of the library, where the highest windows provided a single spot of sunlight. And within that sunbeam, there rested a single violet hyacinth. It stood proud, untouched by nature’s occasional wrath, but alone. As she watched, a single drop of water tumbled from a crack in the ceiling and splashed against the flower’s petals.
The girl knelt before it, gently bringing her nose closer so she could draw in its beautiful scent. Her mother had taught her about flowers, and how each one held its own meaning. Some exuded happiness and joy, while others whimpered sorrow and despair. In the language of flowers, violet hyacinth said one thing, and one thing only:
“Please forgive me.”
The girl knew it was the oldest among the other flowers due to its size and prominent place in the library’s soul, but how long had it lived here? How long had this library been apologizing for? It certainly didn’t escape her notice that those others that grew nearby showed despair and regret. But also hope.
She smiled and settled down beside the hyacinth, one hand running through the short grass that surrounded its base. She wished she could speak. She wished life hadn’t deigned to take her voice away from her, if only so she could reassure the library and let it be known that it would never be forgotten, that it hadn’t failed. Yes, it may not have been able to protect the people, but it had done the next best thing, and it had preserved their stories for all who came after.
A subtle shudder passed through the floor. The girl rose, fearing an earthquake. Yet, a mere moment later, the source was revealed. It was a lone shelf, dragging itself through the library’s interior. It jittered along, scraping over old tile, catching in cracks and threatening to tip, but never once disturbing the patches of flowers and grass as it approached. When the shelf settled by her side, a single book shuffled out farther than its fellows.
The girl took the book, wondering at its blank pages. The emergence of another book rolled forward a pencil. That was enough of a message, and she once again sat beside the hyacinth, scribbling her message into the book in the neatest handwriting she could muster. When finished, she returned the book to its place on the shelf.
A few moments later, much to her pleasant surprise, the book popped out once more. She opened it to the first page, and found a neat, typed response to what she’d written.
She and the library continued back and forth, exchanging words in a way no one had done with the building since before the city’s construction. She asked about the city, and the library spoke of its greatest triumphs and its most horrible downfalls. She asked about the books, and the library regaled her with teases of adventure and magic and excitement, but also heartbreak and sorrow and loss.
The library asked about the girl, and the girl spoke about her village and her parents and everyone she had grown up alongside. The library asked about the world beyond, and the girl spoke about the forests and the wildlife and the brilliant blue skies that stretched on forever.
They spoke of the past, from ancient civilizations to recent wars. They spoke of the present, from distant villages to nearby shores.
But most importantly, they spoke.
When sunset neared, and the last hint of sun had crawled away from the hyacinth, the girl eased the book shut and rested it in her lap. She had scribbled one final missive, one last message for the library that had survived it all.
The girl hugged the book, hoping in her heart that the library could feel it, then returned the book to its place on the shelf. There, with its spine indistinguishable from all the others around it, the library enjoyed a new story. Not one it had written itself, but one that they had written together, and that they would continue with forevermore.
The library sat there, standing guard as the girl headed for the exit. Shelves pulled from her path, righting themselves and straightening out the stories they held.
It didn’t have much magic left, but that was soon to change, for the library had something it hadn’t possessed in centuries. It had a message, a promise, forever etched into the pages in its halls.
“I’ll be back. You won’t ever be forgotten again for as long as I live. I promise.”
And in response, from where the girl had once been sitting, grew a patch of flowers. Pink tulips and roses, orange and yellow daisies, celandine and chrysanthemums, all speaking a single word: “Joy.”
* * *
No one knew where the library had come from. It had stood at the heart of the city for ages, longer than anyone could remember. Some people believed it had been there since before the city’s resurrection, though of course, there was no way anyone could know the truth.
The library was as enigmatic as it was beautiful. It held such marvelous wonders and stories, the likes of which no world had ever seen before. Through powerful magic, it was able to enchant both children and adults alike.
It had started as little more than a humble building, its glass dome and walls overrun by grasses and ivies. Yet, as time passed, its magic seemed to grow. Every day, one more person chose to visit its halls. One more person lost themselves within a world unlike theirs.
For the humans who lived day to day, more concerned with the now than any other frame of time, this change was gradual enough to go unnoticed. For an entity that had existed through wars and famines and centuries of stories, an entity that had once welcomed countless souls with despairing thoughts and had filled their hearts with joy and solace, it was like that entity was learning what true love was.
The library did nothing to tempt their journeys. The only tools it had at its disposal were the books. It rewrote them, reorganized them, created entirely new stories. It realigned shelves, and repaired its walls and windows, and built a place where all could find peace.
It worked. Soon enough, the library stood bustling. Its doors remained open as an everlasting invitation. Its books stood in the light as the greatest lure. Its hopes became visible as a grand, growing dream.
Time passed, and memory of the library became legend. Everyone knew of its location by heart, it being the subject of family visits and weddings alike. Everyone spoke of it highly, regaling children with stories of the building they had welcomed into their hearts. Forever and always did they suggest they would return.
As more people flocked to the city, as more people cared for its stories, the library could once again hold rearrange its structure. It began in the heart of the library where a single flower stood, having grown between the cracks in the tiles. Within a day, that vibrant violet hyacinth stood enshrined in a circle of grass.
That flower remained as the centerpiece for years, feeding on sunlight from high windows and nourished by the gentle drip-drip-drip of a false rain created by pipes in the ceiling. It had no sense of self, no ability to know what change it had spurred on, and no ability to hear the thanks of a million souls.
Yet everyone watched over the flower, acting as its guardian even as entire oaks emerged from the new dirt floor. Perhaps the library felt something akin to brotherhood in the growing patch of splendor, a reminder that all things beautiful must first come from nothing. It rearranged shelves to give it room to grow, and provided comfort and care to its longest friend.
And everyone came to help. That was the new reality the library welcomed as its magic blossomed further, and it became one with the natural world.
Grasses overtook the tiles entirely, providing a soft surface underfoot; vines climbed upward along trellises, delighting every soul in their journey toward the sun; flowers settled down throughout, growing in patches of golden agrimonia, ivory spider lilies, and ruby anthurium.
All of it stayed clear of the books, allowing the library’s visitors to enjoy the stories within. All of it knew the truth behind the shifting landscape that they called home, and the people who tended to the gardens, and the clear skies and pleasant days.
And there the library sat. There it waited beneath an open, blue sky, overjoyed that anyone and everyone could return to read its stories. There it stood, proudly bearing the name of one young girl who had shown compassion. Now, it would be hers forevermore. For the futures of all children, it would be the Library of Alexandria.
