The Book Collector

A bell tinkled as he opened the door.

Weird, this wasn’t a shop. More like a warehouse. Or a museum

But as he scanned the piles of books – mountains of books, whole cities with skyscrapers made of leather bound volumes – perhaps the bell was necessary.

“Collector,” he called. “Are you here?”

There was a rustling sound, like an avalanche of dry, brittle paper, and half of a spectacled face peeked out from behind one of the geological formations. 

“What do you want?” the Collector snapped, his voice as dry and brittle as the paper, cracking like the spine of an ancient book.

“I’m looking for a book,” he called back.

There was some grumbling and then the whole face appeared, followed by the shoulders, the arms. The Collector pushed himself up from somewhere (a desk perhaps? Or a throne of books?) and shuffled toward him.

Everything about the collector seemed old. His hands were thin, wrinkled, and covered with dark spots and paper cuts. His hair was stringy grey, though that could have been from the dust. His cheeks were hollow and his nose sharp as a hawk’s beak. The only thing about his that wasn’t old, dry, or dusty, were his eyes. His eyes were the green of fresh spring grass, the kind that calls to you to take off your shoes and run about on it.

“Yes, lad, what can I do for you?” the Collector asked.

“I’m looking for a book,” he repeated.

“What kind of book?”

“Something about pirates.”

“I have lots of books about pirates,” the Collector said.

“May I look at one?”

“Of course.”

But the Collector didn’t move, only watched the lad with his spring green eyes.

They stood awkwardly.

The lad nudged at the closest tower of books with his toe. It wobbled, threatening to topple.

The Collector reached out to steady it.

“Um, where are the books on pirates then?” he asked.

The Collector shrugged. “Somewhere in here.”

“You mean, you don’t have a system?”

“Not really.”

“Well, can you tell me about pirates then? You’ve read the books, right?”

“No. I’m just the Collector. You’re the reader.”

“But I only want a book on pirates.”

“And there are plenty. History, stories, fact and fiction. Why, you could be a real pirate expert with all the information I have here.”

“Where is here?” the lad demanded, his voice rising.

The Collector smiled, spreading his skeletal arms out in an arc that took in the whole room. “Why, right here lad.”

“You should have a system! How can I find the information I want if you don’t have a system?”

“Like I said, I’m just the Collector. I’ve collected everything you’ve ever thought. Anything you’ve ever learned. All your experiences. Every moment of your existence. It’s all in the pages of these books. But using it is up to you.”

“You need a system!”

“Well, when can you start?”

“No, I…” the lad stuttered. “I just need a book on pirates.”

“You’re free to have a look around,” the Collector said, disappearing back into the jungle of volumes. “They’re your books after all.”

The lad sat down heavily on a pile of books. He pulled the first one to him and opened it.