In a world where books are considered dangerous, a librarian runs an underground storytelling network.
The librarian had grown up in this town. A cursed, sleepy town doomed to ignorance and ruinous fates. Or maybe it wasn't ruinous if they didn't know what the people could have had instead. It would do no good two dwell on that, so the librarian moved on and went back to pondering the name they had claimed for the last twenty years though it was hardly legal. Though most common people would not question if they heard the unusual name, for what did 'librarian' mean in a town where books were weapons only given to the ones in charge and hidden away so dutifully the common man would never know they ever existed?
Books— containing stories that terrified those in power, made them so paranoid at the thought of individual thought that they burnt every copy to ever exist, except those the previous generation had dutifully hidden before they had been burnt in the fire that burnt with the heart of stories. The librarian had been young then, and had hidden away with the books, spying from a crack in the wall they had been sitting then, curious, not registering what was happening. Not knowing that nothing would ever be the same.
Then, the librarian had wasted years, decades, watching as the town shriveled. They had kept silent, mouth clasped together in fear. The only thing they had left were the books, and if they were gone too, stolen away, then the last part of history left would fade away and die with the librarian.
Years the librarian had been silenced, when they had not even taken the name yet, had never told a tale or changed a single soul with words. Yet all it took was one visit to the centre of town, where a small crowd gathered, old, torn clothes sitting on stick-thin frames and eyes with a gullible sort of hope. "Food," they begged, throats parched with a lack of water. "Please," they chanted in unision to the Man who sat above them, sipping wine and robed in luxurious taste.
The librarian had been forced to watch, unable to turn away as the people muttered between themselves that they had failed and must work better for the head of the town and maybe then they would get food. At the exact same moment, the Man threw a plate of food to the ground in dismissal and annoyance.
At it's taste. Like the mere opportunity of food wasn't a priveledge afforded to none.
Hunger had been a constant. The librarian remembered weeks sitting in that corner with the only surviving books, hidden behind a hole and with barely enough food to survive. The same desperation the librarian had felt appeared on the common people's faces and a child— barely ten and already starving lunged and tried to reach the juices of the fruits and the thin strips of meat fallen on the ground. The child's mother grabbed one arm and the father the other.
The mother bowed down, keeping the childs hands wrapped around herself and seemed to pray, voice cracking in places. "Sir, my son apologises. I don't know what's gotten in the boy, I'll remind him we have to earn it. Please don't punish him, take me instead. His heart is a soft one, our family will ensure that this will—"
An ugly scream from the child broke her off. The librarian could only stop and stare as she craddled his face into her chest and hushed him, gently rubbing the back of his head. The father fell on his knees as well, head thrown onto the ground. The Man waved them away, anger on his face.
"Perhaps the shipment of wheat can wait a few days," the Man said and then it was clear the conversation had finished.
The librarian did not remember much. But they had read books, of starvation and cruelty, of revolts and a system that seemed unshakeable, that controlled everything with a callous hand. Twenty-five years the librarian had told themself that the stories they had would keep them safe, carrying knowledge that no one had access to. That it would keep the librarian going, when no one else no longer could.
But seeing the people's faces then, hope and understanding for an evil man, the librarian remembered their mother opening a book and craddling them in her lap and the smile on her face as she shared. The thoughts that had ran through the librarian's head in those few weeks all the books had been burnt.
If the librarian had died, the knowledge would die with them. And there would be nothing more, the people would live under this man who would sooner laugh in the face of their misery and dance in their ashes than provide them food on the floor.
At night, the very same day, the librarian headed to the house closest. It was packed with twelve people sorrounding a small fire that looked two seconds away from flickering, but continued burning anyway, and the librarian knelt and sat on the floor with them, old knees digging into the hard ground.
The twelve who lived in the house welcomed the librarian in. "What is your name?" A man asked in curiosity, younger than the librarian who knew they were one of the oldest in the town.
The librarian remembered their mother fondly. The rows and rows of books, the people who came in often and left with either one book or twenty, happiness alight on their faces. "Librarian," they replied.
All twelve of them looked confused but nodded anyway and greeted the librarian.
"I wish to tell you a story," the librarian said.
The man who had asked the librarian their name looked away from the fire, eyes suddenly sharper. Maybe he had been one of the young ones who had lived. The librarian had to hide because of who their mother was, because of their knowledge of stories, but others had lived. This man was one of them. And the librarian knew they had made the correct choice. The sudden sharpness in the room seemed to breath wariness into the eyes of the oldest man and woman, but it was better than the naive hope the librarian had seen that day. "What's a story," a child asked, her eyes open in interest. She leant closer towards the librarian, eager to hear more.
The librarian hoped that light would not burn out of her too soon. There were stories the librarian needed to tell. Stories she needed to hear. "Let me tell you, child."
"Once upon a time," the librarian began. One of the earliest tales their mom had told them. The language seemed to be for children now, when the librarian was older, but the story would make these people think. And it was what the people needed. "A cruel man sat in his gold throne, his armies fighting the people, who had no food. The people could not fight back, until a boy went into the forest and met a man with wise tales who told him of the sword that would defeat the king. The boy found the sword, but found the castle unapproachable. So the village…"
The librarian continued, unable to stop as the children's faces lit up as their imagination reared up when they gave vivid images. The older ones looked confused, like they had never heard something like this before.
Right at the end, the librarian said, "the boy had fallen, but the King was defeated. His armies, though, still starved to hear of someone telling the boy's tale to punish them. So the tale was whispered in secret, through ears next to a fire. The story of the boy and the king would never be lost, always in the village's heart."
It would not do well to spread that someone knew of stories. The librarian had to spread the message more till it was impossible to beat the knowledge out of everyone. Maybe they had done it once before, but it had survived then too.
Knowledge would always find a way to survive. And the librarian would make sure it wasn't just through one person who's life was hanging on the same frayed thread as everyone elses.
All it took was seven days. Seven different homes each overcrowded with too many people and too little food that they still shared with the librarian from kindness that had not been burnt from their hearts. The children heard the stories and whispered it to their friends. The town whispered of the librarian who guards didn't understand the meaning of, and the word stayed far away from the Man's ears.
The town seemed to spark, each home waiting for another story from the librarian. A hateful look was sent towards the rich luxurious throne sitting far away from the thatched and empty houses shoved together. The people longed for something they barely knew they were allowed to long for, something they barely knew existed.
The librarian roamed the streets, hearing their mother's stories alive once more. The books in their house felt like a stone in their stomach, a knife tilted towards their own neck. Maybe one day the librarian would share it to another. Till then, the tales from the librarian's mouth would have to sufface.
