Chapter 3: Day 3

Day 3,

The tower! How did I forget to mention that yesterday?  If there’s one thing I’ve seen in my brief time here that convinces me that this place is somehow fundamentally removed from the world I have vague memories of it’s that.  Look to the north and so long as your view of the sky is unobstructed you’ll see it.  A structure, maybe stone, maybe metal; difficult to gauge its distance due to the sheer impossible scale of it.  From my house… the thought feels strange to put to paper but I suppose it is my house, at least for now… it appears to be a cylinder rising straight into the clouds and beyond until it vanishes beyond the capacity of the naked eye to make out.  There are so many reasons it simply shouldn’t be able to exist, and yet it does. 

I’ll ask Pat (should I be referring to him more formally?) about it when I see him later.  I’m going back into town today for my first look at the library I’m supposed to be working at.  Thankfully the tower will be at my back for most of the walk to the Village.  It still freaks me out on an instinctual level trying to wrap my mind around it when I look at it.  I wonder if for the villagers growing up used it it’s just faded into being a normal part of the background?  I wonder if it’ll be like that for me one day?

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Asked Pat about the tower.  Scribbling down what he told me while I have a moment.

• The Villagers call it “Cloud Tower”.  On account of reaching up to past the clouds I suppose.
• The base of it is technically on a separate island a bit north of this one.
• Pat called it “a lot less interesting up close” and said that people don’t usually go there.  When I asked why he said “no good reason to.” A patron came in before I could ask him to elaborate.

I’ll write more about the rest of my day before and after that later.

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Back at the house after my first official day as Archivist.  Well, semi-official training day anyway.  Looks like I’ll be sticking with it for now at any rate.

But back to chronological order.  After my note this morning I put on that pendant I found and some of the old archivist’s clothes I found in a closet.  Everything of his is too big for me but it was that or the robe I washed up in and some part of me really wanted pants for the first day on a job.  At least Pat got me some sandals that fit properly during that first tour of the Village.

Thusly attired I headed out the door (no lock or key, just a latch on the inside) and set off down the path that led to the dirt road that led to the cobblestone road that led to the Village.  It was still early morning but it was already warm.  Other than the unfamiliar birds that I caught a few glimpses of but mostly just heard, I was alone for the hour or so it took me to. Between the trees foliage growing thickly on either side of the road and the weather, I’m fairly certain that wherever I am it’s tropical.

Eventually the trees lining the road almost to a tunnel opened up and I found myself faced with the Village proper.  It was bustling at this time of day, not frantically paced busyness and not packed enough to truly be crowded even on the narrow streets, but there was an energy of people moving with purpose and taking joy in what they were doing.  For such a relatively small and isolated place there was a surprising amount of variety to the population, not just physical appearance, but in the clothing and styles.  Elder Pat seems to have a preference for something similar to what I originally woke up in, albeit more elaborate and colorful, and similar tabard-robes (I’m pretty sure the word’s chiton the more I think on it) seem to be popular enough, yet just this morning I saw as many or more people wearing a dozen different styles that some part of my brain was registering as belonging to vastly different cultures separated by distance and time alike.  Sundresses, tabards and breeches, shorts, sarongs; I even saw a woman in a gambeson talking to a man in a mantled greatcoat, both of which looked far too warm for the weather.  Yet another uncanny aspect of this place.

And then there was me, wandering around looking lost in a puffy-sleeved shirt and vest I felt about apt to drown in and rolled up trousers I was desperately hoping the belt would keep in place.

Uncanny stylistic inconsistency aside though, the people here are certainly friendly enough.  It didn’t take long before someone flagged me down and gave me directions to the library.  It seems word of my arrival had gotten around, and most people were happy to meet the novelty.  A few seemed to recognize the old archivist’s pendant as well, or at least his clothes.  I had to stop and ask for directions again several more times after that, but eventually I found the library (and now had a loaf of bread someone shoved in my hands).

It was housed in one of the larger buildings, about halfway up the sloping seaside hill the Village is built on.  No windows for most of the building, which I suppose is good for preserving the books, which leaves the matter of lighting up to… and I really should stop being surprised at this point, but I still can’t believe I’m writing it… glowing crystals hung in cages or sitting in braziers.  That’s a whole other topic for another time, suffice to say for now that I freaked out a bit, old Pat found it hilarious, and now I have my own at the house.

And yes the old man was there waiting for me.  It seems that since the last archivist passed away he and “the other oldest man in the Village” had been taking turns filling in the role until they found someone new.  Theo’s the name of this other elder, but I haven’t met him yet.  I’m told he didn’t care much for archivist work and took off as soon as Pat told him about me as a potential replacement.

The rest of the day was spent getting a rundown of the library and what my duties there would be.  In short, I write down any notable events, repair or retranscribe any worn out books, help visitors find books and records, and act as a teacher for the young children who have yet to learn to read and write skillfully.  As for what counts as a “notable event,” it’s mostly births, deaths, and marriages, but also the occasional festival, or really anything that seems important enough in the moment that someone thinks should be written down.  Pat showed me more than a few entries about people catching particularly large or unusual fish.  And then there was the one about the results of two friends trying to race from the top of the Village hill to the sea without touching the ground.  Or the time a woman thought to have died was found living on one of the outlying islands, happily keeping to herself.  You get the idea.

Twice someone came in for a book.  The first an expectant mother wanting to look up the name of an ancestor to name the baby after; the second a young man asking to borrow a storybook.  It took a while to help to find what they were looking for in both cases, and Pat wasn’t any better at it than I was.  The organization of that place is going to take some time to learn.  Or an overhaul.

Also, it appears that the role of Archivist isn’t a paid position as such.  Rather there seems to be a tradition of villagers making donations of food, clothing, or coin (they do have that here, but most people prefer to trade when they can) to the library or else invite the Archivist to join them for a meal or drinks while they tell a tale or events that they wish written down.  Strange, but the people here are generous.

Despite the lack of windows Pat could tell the time and let me know that it would be sundown before long.  And so with a donated basket of tonight’s dinner and tomorrow’s breakfast I set down the road back home.  Huh, did I just write “home” and not “the house”?  Then again, it’s not like I remember anywhere else to take precedence over it.

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