Journal Entry

10 September 2020

4:44 AM GMT

 

Walking along the cobblestone path, I met Raftus & Rufus, who were skipping and kicking leaves. They each held a little white bag and when I asked what was in their bags they told me “Moon Drops – a very very sweet treat”. As we spoke I was approached by a kindly little bear with glasses who introduced herself as

“Libeartie, Librarian and Archivist of Arktos-By-The-Sea.” She kindly invited to me for ‘Afternoon Tea’ at 4:44 PM (local time) the next day.

 

At the appointed time I arrive at the library – a handwritten note on the door invites me to enter.

 

Entering the Library

Carefully turning the ornate, wooden door handle, a mechanism inside clunks. I push the weighty door open just enough to slip inside. Immediately, I am bathed in light as it pours down from small circular windows in the ceiling. I see dust dancing in the beams of sunlight.

 

Libeartie sits on the far side of a wooden table, surrounded by stacks of books on top of each other like a game of Jenga. As I cross the threshold she welcomes me with a quick glance over her glasses and a cheerful “Hello”.

 

“I love libraries – it always feels like I am ‘in’ history," I say. “You are, my dear Professor, you are.” She responds still looking over her glasses. “Let me go and prepare afternoon tea, I shall return directly, feel free to explore.”

 

The Library Interior

The sense I notice first is the smell - the scent of old books.  It is both intense and pleasant; the scent of dust and wisdom, paper and creativity, ink and emotion are all here.

 

Just beyond the heavy, wooden doors I stand before 'them'. Hundreds maybe thousands of books stacked in neat rows, all orderly arranged and aligned where their insides cannot be judged by their covers. By the looks of it, they’ve all been sitting here for quite awhile. Lamps hang from beams and the open windows allow small amounts of light to filter inside along with thin ropes of ivy.

 

The floor of the library is swirled like driftwood on the beach.  The surface is pale like an ethereal echo of the lustrous wood it once was, yet it smells freshly felled with the now familiar fragrance of the Australian bush.

 

The details of this room can only be adequately portrayed by way of a fine painting. Mere words cannot do it justice - but I shall try. It is beautifully uneven, magnificently quaint, calm and striking, clean yet dusty, vast and small, pleasant, somber, quiet yet alive, curious, dark, unusual, elongated and soaring - it is all of this and more.

 

As my ears adjust to the silence I begin to hear the faint song of a single kookaburra outside, the rustling of papers catching the draft, and then the scurrying feet of an invisible presence – Libeartie reappears.

 

The Librarian

We take a seat in an uneven corner of the room where another smaller bookcase with its wordy treasures adorns the space. In this soulful nook, filled with a variety of owl statues, we enjoy afternoon tea. Peppermint tea steaming in tiny gold-rimmed china teacups with matching saucers, delicate spoons, a pewter plate stacked with Moon Drops. Libeartie is courteous and attentive, surprisingly fierce, compulsively curious, able and most efficient, yet quite a jovial little bear. She begins by telling me about a tiny red book she had just acquired from Raftus and Rufus (read the story here). “It’s one that has been missing from this set.” She shows me three miniature books; the red book Maori English, the blue book Maori Place Names, and the green book Maori Proverbs. “I am thrilled to have this set complete again, it’s a very important collection.” Without taking a breath Libeartie goes on asking a most intriguing question,

 

“Professor Piaget, how do you know what you know?” She becomes quiet with an undemanding sense of expectancy.

 

I hesitate a moment trying to form an intellectual answer to a question I wasn’t expecting. While I sit a few moments like Rodin’s Le Penseur (The Thinker) and take a sip of the peppermint tea (still searching for an answer), the intrepid librarian jumps up and climbs over an impressive mound of books like a mountaineer (bookaneer), muttering “bother, bother, bother” to herself until she locates an almost unreachable tome. 

 

Before I can answer, she returns saying “These books (scanning the rows of bookcases) contain everything that has ever been written and will be written. They have been our gateway to other worlds for eons.”

 

Still searching for an answer to her first question, she asks another.

 

“How do you think knowledge should be organized?” Trying to be impressive I begin to suggest what I know of the Dewey Decimal System … but she stops me and suggests I “visit” the books in her library first.

 

Book Shelves

“The library shelves are tall and close together, forming mazes. Walk between them very carefully and feel free to stay for as long as you wish. You may find something of interest. But Professor, you must promise to not use any information for unfriendly ends, and you must contribute some knowledge to the library before you leave   Arktos-By-The-Sea.”

 

For a moment, I just stare at the rows and rows of books before me. From far away, the shelves are a mosaic of stories, information, secrets; each taking the physical form of a book with its own distinctive size and color. Not waiting for my agreement to her request, she quietly yet passionately states “Knowledge is understanding certain information, but wisdom, my dear Professor, is the ability to use that knowledge.”  

 

The Gift

She then hands me a very old book, although mysteriously well

preserved. It is oblong printed on fine paper, and bound in brown

leather. There is an illegible signature on the back cover. The swirled,

deep imprinting on the cover is only broken up by a scattering of

reflective dust, appearing as stars in the night sky. A silver owl adorns

the cover.

 

The Archives

“Finally, you should know the archives are beneath the library. All material 

in the archives are palimpsest,” she explains, “which are books or

documents that have been one or more books previously; the older

knowledge hidden just beneath the surface of the parchment with

once-known, now-forgotten knowledge. The way to the archives is just

beyond that locked door over there.” She points to a corner of the room

that is also uneven. “Only I am allowed there and I have the only key.”

 

“This library is a mystical place of precarious, reality-bending secrets,

satisfying not just one’s love of words, but adventures to unknown places,

and yet untold secrets.” She quickly stands, thanks me for joining her for

afternoon tea, and disappears behind the locked door – to the archives.

 

I soon discover by looking around that many of these books are written in code, some titles in the ABTS Library can be found on the next page.  

 

After what seems like minutes I turn to leave. It is now dark outside and I can hear the sound of an owl in the distance and realize many hours have passed. Returning to this place of wonder and mystery and escape shall be incredible indeed. Realizing I had forgotten to ask for the two pages of the Ancient Book – I turn and see two pages on the table where we had afternoon tea, a small white bag and the recipe for the delectable Moon Drops, and the book Poetical Works of Lord Tennyson opened to the following poem (next page).

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