A book...is one of the few havens remaining where a man's mind can get both provocation and privacy.

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

[Late morning of Thursday, June 17 (day 382)]
[Sagert's Books]

It is rather a pleasant day; blustery but not cool. My legs feels rather better today, and I spend the morning on light errands. A stop by the library (really, I must suggest that they see about shimming up some of the shelves; I find that I am rather tired of the occasional volume dropping on me), and then the General Store and the bakery, and a pleasant stop at the Miskatonic before returning home.

I actually do manage an hour or so in the basement. Just planning, really, but I have a few ideas I would like to note down...

I am feeling quite refreshed when I come back up. Not exactly enough to go out again, but I set the sign out to indicate I am open, and brew up a cup of tea. Perhaps someone shall stop in; if not, well, I can certainly look forward to sitting and reading for a moment.

[Open to Samuel, and possibly others]

Comments

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

"His skills extend beyond surgery, a fact for which I count myself grateful, even if his medicine could not fully alleviate the damage done to my hands."

I glance at his hands, but I do not ask the obvious question. Instead I merely offer quietly, "A terrible trial, for a man of an elite profession." Having many scars of my own that I do not tolerate others to come pawing at, I tend not to paw at others unless doing so gets me something I want. I do offer brief silent thanks to the cold, mechanical workings of the universe that it has not yet been my fate to suffer an injury that made my work impossible.

He compliments the quality of my work, and I nod my thanks. I'm long past any point in my life of needing my ego validated by others, but professional respect is valuable in its own right. It greases the skids of the kinds of informal networking on which I thrive.

When he asks if I want them bound along the edges, I nod. "In addition to the numbering, each one is oriented to north and marked with a compass. I've had to have this done quite a few times before, so I've developed something of a system." That much is true enough. Professional competency is a rare thing, so a system tends to make things run much more smoothly.

"May they be handled?"

"Of course. A man who spends his days among old books can be trusted to know how to handle things with the proper care." And a fastidious type, such as Mr. Sagert appears to be, isn't likely to be leaving greasy fingerprints on the paper. Over time, skin oils can do enormous damage to paper. When I was growing up, there were books and documents we were not allowed to handle without gloves, papers that could only be read in rooms so dimly lit that it seemed you read by starlight.

A lifetime ago. But still, I wish to see some things built to last.

"I trust you have access to materials of suitable quality? My apologies for even having to mention it, but I once had a man bind these for me with a leather cover that turned out not to be properly tanned. It twisted and cracked as it dried, and did considerable damage to my work."

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

I murmur appreciation as he outlines the classification of his papers. There are a pair of cotton gloves behind the counter, and I pull them on. It is not pulp, which is a relief if not a surprise given the care he takes. Rag paper, I believe. "A man who spends his days among old books can be trusted to know how to handle things with the proper care," and I murmur acknowledgement. Sections are out of the question, of course, but there are other means of binding...

"I trust you have access to materials of suitable quality? My apologies for even having to mention it, but I once had a man bind these for me with a leather cover that turned out not to be properly tanned," and really, even the thought is enough to make me cringe. "It twisted and cracked as it dried, and did considerable damage to my work."

"I can only imagine," I say in a slightly strangled voice. "Were you able to effect repairs? But yes; the tanner in town does rather sound work, and I will inspect anything I might use." I step back from the pages.

"What brings you to Excolo?" I say, curious. "Certainly you would not be the first individual I met again here, but I have not heard enough to say if there's anything of particular interest here." Particularly, perhaps, not since Constantine lost his gift...

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

When I mention the damage the inept binding had done to my work, he seems genuinely distressed. I can't tell if it's a matter of pride in his work, a horror at damage done to books, or both. If it's the latter, better that he never finds out what some of the rest of my 'work' consists of. Well. Not that I don't still have a love of the written word. I just recognize that it is better for all if some things from the old world slip quietly and permanently into oblivion.

One can love a thing, and still commit oneself to its destruction. Love even lends beauty to the act itself.

"Were you able to effect repairs? But yes; the tanner in town does rather sound work, and I will inspect anything I might use."

"I had to recopy a dozen of the maps and have it bound all over again, but ultimately there was no permanent loss." I had given serious consideration to having it bound with the hide of the man who had bungled it in the first place, but really, what do I know about proper tanning? It would have been the same problem all over again.

Not that the rest of the world would thank me for prolonging his miserable existence. It nags at me, to have tacitly rewarded incompetence. Perhaps someone else will excise him, where I failed. It is the way of things.

"What brings you to Excolo? Certainly you would not be the first individual I met again here, but I have not heard enough to say if there's anything of particular interest here."

"It's... complicated. I hadn't actually heard of this place until a few weeks ago." Finishing my tea gives me time to settle on an answer, and I set the cup down on the saucer. "I don't just make maps of the wilderness, I make records of human activity. Settlements, organizations, institutions. Technology. You might say I'm engaged in compiling the first real history since the bombs dropped."

It might be more accurate to say that I'm pruning humankind's passage through this new history, but I can't exactly say that. "I hadn't planned on staying long, but since I arrived I've had some unusual experiences and encounters. They suggest to me that there is a story here worth recording."

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

"I had to recopy a dozen of the maps and have it bound all over again, but ultimately there was no permanent loss," and that is a relief.

"It's... complicated. I hadn't actually heard of this place until a few weeks ago." I nod as he finishes his tea. "I don't just make maps of the wilderness, I make records of human activity. Settlements, organizations, institutions. Technology. You might say I'm engaged in compiling the first real history since the bombs dropped."

"Have you been to Bethlehem? The medical libraries there are--" I realize I am becoming effusive and catch myself-- "quite remarkable, both for scope and preservation." I understand that many of the advantages of the place are due to the construction that was there which predated the need to move underground, but the maintenance at least is impressive. Sadly not as well known as they could be, which I suppose can be attributed to the belowground establishment and the frankly unprepossessing landscape to be found above it. I would rather think it is that than that people are indifferent to the presence of such knowledge, or unwilling to make the effort to gain admittance. "Not that all of it is currently of use, but it does give people something to aim for. Although I suppose that there might be a greater need for compiling history in places that are not quite so established."

"I hadn't planned on staying long, but since I arrived I've had some unusual experiences and encounters. They suggest to me that there is a story here worth recording," and dear me, that sounds very nearly like the start of a seasonal ghost story. I must say I would not mind another unseasonal snow; the last was quite pleasant.

"I suppose you would have to investigate, as well as record," I say thoughtfully. "I do confess to some curiousity as to the nature of these encounters. There are certain local beliefs I have heard, you understand, and while I would not speak to their authenticity..." I trail off questioningly. "Would you care for some more tea?"

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

"Have you been to Bethlehem? The medical libraries there are quite remarkable, both for scope and preservation."

The enthusiasm in his voice catches me off guard, but I do my best to smile encouragingly. Apparently it's a subject on which he is quite impassioned. And though our opinions of the... meaning, of such a place might be diametrically opposed, I am all ears. Whatever I wind up paying for the work he does, it has been repaid a hundredfold already.

"Not that all of it is currently of use, but it does give people something to aim for.

Precisely the problem, of course. Instead of using their own faculties and powers to decide what they should aim for, they will substitute the ideas of a dead civilization. It isn't knowledge as such that concerns me, of course. I could care less whether they know about blood-borne pathogens, or the fetal development cycle. It is the philosophy implicit in forms and structures of knowledge with which I am concerned. Often, tragically, one cannot separate one from the other.

But I cannot speak of this, at least, not fully. Instead, I say "I've never been, but now that I know, I hope one day to go. It sounds like quite a sight."

"Although I suppose that there might be a greater need for compiling history in places that are not quite so established."

"It's more than that. They have an opportunity to make something new, to break completely with what came before. They might not be footnotes to some larger history. Somewhere out there might be the makings of a different history entirely." I've said more than I intend, so I trail off with an equivocal gesture.

He inquires after my strange encounters, and offers more tea. "No, but thank you. I don't allow myself too many comforts. Vows of the Order." In truth I've no desire to set him hobbling about again, much as I might like a moment to better gauge how much I should tell him. "I don't know precisely how to describe what I've experienced. Broken down and listed as mere phenomena they sound quite banal. But intuitively..." I shake my head.

"Both encounters were with people who were polite, genial, even warm." Warm scarcely covered young Alice's enthusiasm, but then, few words could adequately describe that contradictory child. A mystery I intend to unravel. "But at various points during the conversation, I caught glimpses of something, well, off about them. Eyes that hid an interior life scarcely human. Or speaking of things they should have no rightful way of knowing."

"I know it sounds strange. But if there is one thing I am not, it is being prone to flights of fancy. And in my travels I have learned to trust my instincts." I shrug. "What are these beliefs you mentioned?"