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The book was empty. It was a big, thick book, similar to the huge bible the preacher had on a lectern during the sunday ceremony, only one or two inches smaller on the sides. But it was blank. Dozens, probably hundreds of pages, all blank. Not even a single drop of ink, damp or old pages, nothing. It looked like a completely new book with nothing written on it.
It was the embossed cover that caught his eye. The crocodile was looking on one of his favorites old bookstores, half an hour away from home. He loved the smells and textures only books long-forgotten-by-their-previous-owners had. It was pleasant, in some sort of way, carefully turning their pages like if that was sacred for him. In some sort of way, it was. He believed that every book deserved a home on the bookshelf of a reader. Reading had been an important part of his mostly boring life.
He never went with anything in mind. The reptile walked slowly, dragging his paws, while looking at every bookshelf. Green, shiny scales under a grey armless hoodie with golden needlework on the edges. Fancy—but not necessarily expensive—headphones, playing whatever he thought fit the mood for that day. He liked to hum, and sometimes even sing quietly. His left hand always inside the pocket of his jeans, the most common trousers he liked to use.
It was quite a show for the old beaver in charge of the bookstore, seeing that young male spending the afternoon looking for books instead of wasting time surfing the web or submerged on his cellphone. Of course, he thought and told that to every young male or female that went to the bookstore; it was good for the business.
As always, he greeted the crocodile and told him about the new books that he got, pointing at the table with the “New books every week!!!!” sign, before going to back to carving on wood. It was very well written and with too many exclamation marks to had been made by the old beaver. Probably his granddaughter trying to make it more attractive. The more exclamations marks, the best the offer was. But that never had anything interesting. He took a quick look of the covers before moving on to the main attraction.
The book shelves were dusty, so were the books. That was part of the magic—taking the book and blowing the dust away, like an old treasure. Most of the times he went out with empty hands, but happy after spending time in a place that let his creativity flew. But when he found something, then it was the best day of his life until a new book was found.
But that day pointed to be a normal day. Until he caught a glimpse of something shiny in the corner of the eye. Over a pile of books lying in the floor was a big one, 11x8 inches, something around 800 pages, maybe a little more. He walked over there just a few moments ago. It wasn’t like if the book appeared from nowhere; there was an old medical procedure book, with a diverse cast on a cover damaged enough to prove it was an old and outdated guide. But now he was looking at an embossed cover, two golden lines surrounding the edges, and a human figure engraved on the center, seemingly dressed in a dirty tank top and jeans. It was one of those books with a lock, and no sign of the key anywhere. But it was... calling him.
“Have you seen the key for this?” he asked, showing the book to the beaver.
He adjusted his glasses and gave a puzzled look to the crocodile.
“Why would you need a key for that?” he said with a raspy voice, and before his client could answer, he continued. “I don’t even know why someone would want to buy something like that. But you have peculiar tastes after all. I’m giving it to you for forty bucks. But hurry up because I have to close. Gonna pick up my grandson from soccer.”
“Shouldn’t that have you happy?” the crocodile pointed out, confused by the grumpy tone, while giving him the money.
“One thing is the family, another is the business.”
He gave ten bucks in return and move to tell the other two clients to leave, looking over his shoulder to see the crocodile going away, and thinking why he would need an old medical procedure book.
Back at home, he stared at the book for a long time before leaving it on a shelf. But even there, the spine was always standing out at the corner of his eye. The lines drawing a helix on it, getting together at both sides, with no beginning and no end. It was like a never-ending road. And it was making it anxious.
Five or six times per day he brought it back to the table. The lock didn’t yield to brute force. He tried lock picking with a dozens of bobby pins and even more video tutorials, with no success. He even thought about a blowtorch. The man with the dirty tank top on the cover was mocking him. He swore he heard his laugh.
Only away from home the crocodile pondered about why buying a book that one can’t even get open. It was a waste of money and time, and it was driving him crazy. But with the shelf right at front of the door, the infinite helix in the spine was the first thing he saw when he came back. And he was back to stare at the man in the cover, and the story behind it. He forgot to pick up the bobby pins—the ones he bought only for that purpose—from the floor, along with bags and plastic dishes from the fast-food he was now eating because cooking wasted time he could spent trying to open that damn book.
He was already a loner, but now he barely went out of home. Sleeping was getting harder every night, only two or three hours followed by a headache that lasted till midday. He resisted the urges to pick it up again. But when he tried to throw it, his love and pride for books stopped him.
As the days went by, he started to feel uneasy in the presence of the book. He put in inside a fox filled with old documents, then on his wardrobe, inside his backpack, on the kitchen shelf—every time he changed it, he found it back in the book shelf the next day. And the worst of it was that he had memories of putting it back there during the night. The first nights he thought it was a dream, or maybe sleepwalking. But the day he finally got the courage to throw it to the trash, the crocodile decided to went back for it at 2:50 AM. In the cold and lonely street, wearing his boxers and a tank top, and looking inside the garbage bin, he finally accepted his slowly fall into madness.
It finally happened three months after buying it. He woke up with the usual headache, but he wasn’t in his room anymore. The crocodile, still wearing only his boxers, found himself at the rest point of a set of stairs in what it seemed to be the interior of some sort of tower. The stone wall had been carved to act as a bookshelf, holding huge tomes with names on their spines. At the other edge of the tower, 30 feet away, there was another set of stairs, with more books on the wall. For some reason, he felt like those were going up. So he started to walk down.
Orbs of blue fire floated in the center, giving a spectral tone to the tower. He took a look from the edge. There was no visible ending. The blue light extended infinitely on both sides. The crocodile eventually gave up to the curiosity and took one of the books, but it was empty.
“You won’t read anything there,” said someone behind him.
He almost drop the book before turning on his heels. At the other set of stairs was standing a man, although it looked more like a mannequin, with skin so white he shined, dressed in a tweed jacket and brown trousers. A red tie highlighted over a white shirt. His entire attire had no visible wrinkled. But what really scared him was the face; there was no eyes, nose, hair or ears. Only his mouth, with big, fleshy lips, red like the blood.
“Who are you? What is this place?” asked the crocodile, adopting a more defensive posture, even when there was a huge distance between them.
“So you know this isn’t a dream. Then I make the right choice,” the strange answered with a voice lacking any emotion. “This is the Library. And I am the Storyteller.”
“Quite an odd name you have. What am I doing here?”
“I bring you. I must admit I’m impressed by your toughness. Most people fall in the first month, but you endure it longer. I’ll give you credit for that.”
The crocodile didn’t replied. He stared at the stranger holding his hands in the back.
“I know you’re confused. You must be expecting an explanation for something that seemingly has none. The lack of sleep, choices that you didn’t took, the anxiety of not being able to look into the book. Yes, I have seen that. All the previous owners before you felt like that after seeing the book for the first time. It becomes an obsession that sometimes drives them mad. But some people, like you, endure it. Mostly those filled with regrets. Guilt is such a strong feeling.”
He wanted to believe that was a dream, that he would wake up in any moment. But it wasn’t a dream. You can’t question a dream no matter how wild it is, just because you consider it your reality at that moment, and after waking up you noticed how illogical that was. But that place, and that faceless stranger has nothing illogical on them. He knew a place like and a person like him were possible. It was real, and at the same, it wasn’t.
“I want to make you an offer,” the stranger said, walking up the stairs, but was the crocodile the one going down, like if he was stood on an escalator. He made his way down, until both were once again at the same level. “Most people declined it almost immediately, so I ask you to listen till the end before making a decision.”
“Would that make any difference?”
“I don’t know. No one has listened to the end. Moral has been an issue in a race that can’t see beyond the frame of his own world. So I hope for you to be different.”
“Try me,” he was puzzled about the sudden shot of confidence. He was sure that the stranger—assuming he was a human—could kill him easily, but at the same time, he was sure he wouldn’t do it.
“I want to give you the Notebook.”
“What?” it was hard for the reptile to pay attention, switching between the stranger and the steps.
“This,” and he opened his arms, referring to the entire tower. “This is the Notebook. More precisely, the inside of it. The place I call the Library. Have you seen the books? Aren’t you curious about them? About the names? Those are the stories of real people from across multiple worlds and generations. The work of a lifetime that has no end. You see, I’ve been curious about how certain factors can change a life course, whether if they have a direct or indirect participation. If a soul is recorded inside a book it’s more easy to study these effects, by adding, removing, or changing elements. It’s faster and secure. I consider it an interest way to understand how Chance works. Sadly, this isn’t a one-person-work. Someone outside has to mark the soul for me to transcribe its life.”
“You want me to kill?” the crocodile interrupted, uneasy.
“I wouldn’t recommend that. No, I want you to mark them for me. I’ll make a book from it and see how its story develops. That way I can edit certain elements and see how that changes the future.”
“So you will decide everyone’s fate?”
The Storyteller made something close to a smirk.
“I won’t spoil the fun for you, but at least I will save you from that blatant lie you call fate. There is no such thing. It would be a boring universe if everything has been already written. So, no, I can’t change fate. However, understanding how Chance decides the course of action for every instant across the universe might set me closer to have a bigger impact on how the universe works.”
“And become a ruler?”
“Isn’t that what your kind is always looking for? At least I would give everyone an interesting story. But that’s not interesting for me. I just want to understand how it works, record it, and move on to another mystery. That doesn’t stop me from having fun now and then. The same applies for you. I’ll give you something in exchange.”
“What?”
“Three gifts. The first one is access to the library, an infinite source of material that surely a writer like you would love to have. Real people having real struggles, isn’t that inspiring? It would help you to understand how the human mind works.”
The crocodile wasn’t looking at the steps anymore. Walking down became something natural, instinctive. But the words of the Storyteller started to turn his head into a mess. He was sure that being in the Library was the reason of why he hadn’t lost his mind yet, but once he woke up his next destiny would be a white cushioned room.
“You started to doubt, right?” the Storyteller asked, like reading his mind. Actually, he was. “I can end your life right now if you’re so desperate to prove that your beliefs were right, even when no one would listen to a ghost. Show me how egotistical your kind can be, ignoring the gods that are worshipped across the vast universe. Or,” the Storyteller stopped it, and the crocodile did the same. They shared a gaze, “wait for it to happen.”
“What are the two gifts?” he asked, trying to ignore the fear that was growing inside him.
“The second gift is my power, I’ll share it with you. You will need it to mark a soul, but I won’t stop you from using it for your personal amusement, as long as you don’t mess with my test subjects. You already know how to use the words, but once I give you this you will see the true potential of deception. Just think about it. Having access to a soul through a book you can read and edit. You can make it think whatever you want, and they can’t do anything about it. Have fun brainwashing people at your will. In fact, that’s a good reason of why I chose you.”
“Huh?”
“You have no rule for pure evil. You’re not looking for power, unlike most of the people who wants the Notebook. That’s why I’m trusting you this kind of power. That’s why I trusted it to all the previous owners. None of you were selfish enough to keep it to yourself. In the wrong hands this can bring uncontrollable chaos, call Chance’s attention and, most important, ruin my work. Unlike other Ascended's, I have no interest in power. Which brought me to the third gift.”
The Storyteller took a book from the wall. The crocodile immediately knew it was his book. His life, his regrets, his inner thoughts, everything was there, in the hands of a creature that could rewrite everything on his mind.
“I’ll give you a second chance.”
“What do you mean?” he said almost in a whisper, but in the Library even the smallest whisper was a roar.
The Storyteller answered with an ominous voice.
“People will come for you sooner or later, looking for the Notebook. This power cannot be ignored. And they will break your spirit and soul just to get the smallest clue. By destroying this book everything that has been known about you will be forgotten. Not a single image of you will remain in anyone’s memory. And so, those looking for you will lose the track once again. Whatever happens after that is up to you. It’s your chance to have a different life, with no place for regrets. Isn’t that what everyone wants?”
A new start? Why that idea sounded to tempting? It actually made him ignore the real problem he faced, until he thought again about his words.
“You’re not giving me any option.”
“Do you need them?” the crocodile didn’t answered. “Yes, that’s what I thought. Hurry up, clock is ticking.”
One blink and he was back to his room. The sunlight coming from the window proved it was pretty late, probably 11:00 AM. He got up of bed and went to the living room, where the book was waiting for him. He took it to the table and sat there, looking at the cover. The man with the dirty tank top wasn’t there anymore, but that didn’t surprised him. He pondered about what happened. That was a dream or did really took place? Both options were right, and that bugged him. Was a good or bad idea to accept his deal? He spent hours there, not feeling tired or hungry, thinking about it.
The sun was already hiding when he pierced the palm of his hand with one claw, covering it with blood. He listened the Storyteller on his head, praising clichés that are well used. The blood-covered claw went into the keyhole, turned to the left, and the lock became dust. He didn’t wait to open it.
And he found an empty book. Page after page with nothing on them. Even when he didn’t knew what to expect, at least he was sure that wasn’t that. Then an idea sparkled on his head. The page didn’t matter. The words were everything he needed. One last thought. Did he really wanted that? Harvest souls for a demon called the Storyteller? The answer never came.
Patrick D. Lambert
The letters shined in the white page. The disappeared.
“Good name,” said someone behind him. But Lambert had his attention on his claw. The blood had spreaded all over the hand, and was now going up his arm. “That will be the one everyone should know now. And with the raise of a new name, your old self must banish. But I’ll set it somewhere close, so you can never forget where you come from. It will be your strength, your servant, the shadow of your former self,” the blood was now at his chest, spreading faster, leaving the scales dyed. Lambert tried to clean it with his hand, but it didn’t work. It was like if the scales had been red all this that time. “You will raise and be free of their game, and you will see beyond the universe known by the man. No more closed books for the Keeper of the Notebook.”
The blood lurked on his neck. Lambert felt it. He covered his face just in time to finally be devoured by the spell of the Storyteller.
Lambert stared at his body for a long time. Red scales. His entire body was now dyed in red. The wound he made on his face during his panic attack was now a scar going from the check to the forehead, crossing his left, green eye. On the ground behind him, the shadow of his former self was lying, growling, lurking for a new prey. Even with no sun, the shadows extended across the floor. And it could raise from it, revealing a feral creature completely black, except for the white fangs and the yellow eyes. It was now on his command. Just like the book, floating under his right hand. And he easily moved around with invisible cords.
He felt different. He knew he was now free to do whatever he wanted. He was now looking outside the frame. Beyond the universe known by the man. Maybe his doubts and fears went into his shadow, because his smile showed no regrets for what he did.
In the book’s cover was now the image of a crocodile, dressed with a grey armless hoodie and jeans.
It has born a new Keeper.
-----------------------------------------
The book was empty. It was a big, thick book, similar to the huge bible the preacher had on a lectern during the sunday ceremony, only one or two inches smaller on the sides. But it was blank. Dozens, probably hundreds of pages, all blank. Not even a single drop of ink, damp or old pages, nothing. It looked like a completely new book with nothing written on it.
It was the embossed cover that caught his eye. The crocodile was looking on one of his favorites old bookstores, half an hour away from home. He loved the smells and textures only books long-forgotten-by-their-previous-owners had. It was pleasant, in some sort of way, carefully turning their pages like if that was sacred for him. In some sort of way, it was. He believed that every book deserved a home on the bookshelf of a reader. Reading had been an important part of his mostly boring life.
He never went with anything in mind. The reptile walked slowly, dragging his paws, while looking at every bookshelf. Green, shiny scales under a grey armless hoodie with golden needlework on the edges. Fancy—but not necessarily expensive—headphones, playing whatever he thought fit the mood for that day. He liked to hum, and sometimes even sing quietly. His left hand always inside the pocket of his jeans, the most common trousers he liked to use.
It was quite a show for the old beaver in charge of the bookstore, seeing that young male spending the afternoon looking for books instead of wasting time surfing the web or submerged on his cellphone. Of course, he thought and told that to every young male or female that went to the bookstore; it was good for the business.
As always, he greeted the crocodile and told him about the new books that he got, pointing at the table with the “New books every week!!!!” sign, before going to back to carving on wood. It was very well written and with too many exclamation marks to had been made by the old beaver. Probably his granddaughter trying to make it more attractive. The more exclamations marks, the best the offer was. But that never had anything interesting. He took a quick look of the covers before moving on to the main attraction.
The book shelves were dusty, so were the books. That was part of the magic—taking the book and blowing the dust away, like an old treasure. Most of the times he went out with empty hands, but happy after spending time in a place that let his creativity flew. But when he found something, then it was the best day of his life until a new book was found.
But that day pointed to be a normal day. Until he caught a glimpse of something shiny in the corner of the eye. Over a pile of books lying in the floor was a big one, 11x8 inches, something around 800 pages, maybe a little more. He walked over there just a few moments ago. It wasn’t like if the book appeared from nowhere; there was an old medical procedure book, with a diverse cast on a cover damaged enough to prove it was an old and outdated guide. But now he was looking at an embossed cover, two golden lines surrounding the edges, and a human figure engraved on the center, seemingly dressed in a dirty tank top and jeans. It was one of those books with a lock, and no sign of the key anywhere. But it was... calling him.
“Have you seen the key for this?” he asked, showing the book to the beaver.
He adjusted his glasses and gave a puzzled look to the crocodile.
“Why would you need a key for that?” he said with a raspy voice, and before his client could answer, he continued. “I don’t even know why someone would want to buy something like that. But you have peculiar tastes after all. I’m giving it to you for forty bucks. But hurry up because I have to close. Gonna pick up my grandson from soccer.”
“Shouldn’t that have you happy?” the crocodile pointed out, confused by the grumpy tone, while giving him the money.
“One thing is the family, another is the business.”
He gave ten bucks in return and move to tell the other two clients to leave, looking over his shoulder to see the crocodile going away, and thinking why he would need an old medical procedure book.
Back at home, he stared at the book for a long time before leaving it on a shelf. But even there, the spine was always standing out at the corner of his eye. The lines drawing a helix on it, getting together at both sides, with no beginning and no end. It was like a never-ending road. And it was making it anxious.
Five or six times per day he brought it back to the table. The lock didn’t yield to brute force. He tried lock picking with a dozens of bobby pins and even more video tutorials, with no success. He even thought about a blowtorch. The man with the dirty tank top on the cover was mocking him. He swore he heard his laugh.
Only away from home the crocodile pondered about why buying a book that one can’t even get open. It was a waste of money and time, and it was driving him crazy. But with the shelf right at front of the door, the infinite helix in the spine was the first thing he saw when he came back. And he was back to stare at the man in the cover, and the story behind it. He forgot to pick up the bobby pins—the ones he bought only for that purpose—from the floor, along with bags and plastic dishes from the fast-food he was now eating because cooking wasted time he could spent trying to open that damn book.
He was already a loner, but now he barely went out of home. Sleeping was getting harder every night, only two or three hours followed by a headache that lasted till midday. He resisted the urges to pick it up again. But when he tried to throw it, his love and pride for books stopped him.
As the days went by, he started to feel uneasy in the presence of the book. He put in inside a fox filled with old documents, then on his wardrobe, inside his backpack, on the kitchen shelf—every time he changed it, he found it back in the book shelf the next day. And the worst of it was that he had memories of putting it back there during the night. The first nights he thought it was a dream, or maybe sleepwalking. But the day he finally got the courage to throw it to the trash, the crocodile decided to went back for it at 2:50 AM. In the cold and lonely street, wearing his boxers and a tank top, and looking inside the garbage bin, he finally accepted his slowly fall into madness.
It finally happened three months after buying it. He woke up with the usual headache, but he wasn’t in his room anymore. The crocodile, still wearing only his boxers, found himself at the rest point of a set of stairs in what it seemed to be the interior of some sort of tower. The stone wall had been carved to act as a bookshelf, holding huge tomes with names on their spines. At the other edge of the tower, 30 feet away, there was another set of stairs, with more books on the wall. For some reason, he felt like those were going up. So he started to walk down.
Orbs of blue fire floated in the center, giving a spectral tone to the tower. He took a look from the edge. There was no visible ending. The blue light extended infinitely on both sides. The crocodile eventually gave up to the curiosity and took one of the books, but it was empty.
“You won’t read anything there,” said someone behind him.
He almost drop the book before turning on his heels. At the other set of stairs was standing a man, although it looked more like a mannequin, with skin so white he shined, dressed in a tweed jacket and brown trousers. A red tie highlighted over a white shirt. His entire attire had no visible wrinkled. But what really scared him was the face; there was no eyes, nose, hair or ears. Only his mouth, with big, fleshy lips, red like the blood.
“Who are you? What is this place?” asked the crocodile, adopting a more defensive posture, even when there was a huge distance between them.
“So you know this isn’t a dream. Then I make the right choice,” the strange answered with a voice lacking any emotion. “This is the Library. And I am the Storyteller.”
“Quite an odd name you have. What am I doing here?”
“I bring you. I must admit I’m impressed by your toughness. Most people fall in the first month, but you endure it longer. I’ll give you credit for that.”
The crocodile didn’t replied. He stared at the stranger holding his hands in the back.
“I know you’re confused. You must be expecting an explanation for something that seemingly has none. The lack of sleep, choices that you didn’t took, the anxiety of not being able to look into the book. Yes, I have seen that. All the previous owners before you felt like that after seeing the book for the first time. It becomes an obsession that sometimes drives them mad. But some people, like you, endure it. Mostly those filled with regrets. Guilt is such a strong feeling.”
He wanted to believe that was a dream, that he would wake up in any moment. But it wasn’t a dream. You can’t question a dream no matter how wild it is, just because you consider it your reality at that moment, and after waking up you noticed how illogical that was. But that place, and that faceless stranger has nothing illogical on them. He knew a place like and a person like him were possible. It was real, and at the same, it wasn’t.
“I want to make you an offer,” the stranger said, walking up the stairs, but was the crocodile the one going down, like if he was stood on an escalator. He made his way down, until both were once again at the same level. “Most people declined it almost immediately, so I ask you to listen till the end before making a decision.”
“Would that make any difference?”
“I don’t know. No one has listened to the end. Moral has been an issue in a race that can’t see beyond the frame of his own world. So I hope for you to be different.”
“Try me,” he was puzzled about the sudden shot of confidence. He was sure that the stranger—assuming he was a human—could kill him easily, but at the same time, he was sure he wouldn’t do it.
“I want to give you the Notebook.”
“What?” it was hard for the reptile to pay attention, switching between the stranger and the steps.
“This,” and he opened his arms, referring to the entire tower. “This is the Notebook. More precisely, the inside of it. The place I call the Library. Have you seen the books? Aren’t you curious about them? About the names? Those are the stories of real people from across multiple worlds and generations. The work of a lifetime that has no end. You see, I’ve been curious about how certain factors can change a life course, whether if they have a direct or indirect participation. If a soul is recorded inside a book it’s more easy to study these effects, by adding, removing, or changing elements. It’s faster and secure. I consider it an interest way to understand how Chance works. Sadly, this isn’t a one-person-work. Someone outside has to mark the soul for me to transcribe its life.”
“You want me to kill?” the crocodile interrupted, uneasy.
“I wouldn’t recommend that. No, I want you to mark them for me. I’ll make a book from it and see how its story develops. That way I can edit certain elements and see how that changes the future.”
“So you will decide everyone’s fate?”
The Storyteller made something close to a smirk.
“I won’t spoil the fun for you, but at least I will save you from that blatant lie you call fate. There is no such thing. It would be a boring universe if everything has been already written. So, no, I can’t change fate. However, understanding how Chance decides the course of action for every instant across the universe might set me closer to have a bigger impact on how the universe works.”
“And become a ruler?”
“Isn’t that what your kind is always looking for? At least I would give everyone an interesting story. But that’s not interesting for me. I just want to understand how it works, record it, and move on to another mystery. That doesn’t stop me from having fun now and then. The same applies for you. I’ll give you something in exchange.”
“What?”
“Three gifts. The first one is access to the library, an infinite source of material that surely a writer like you would love to have. Real people having real struggles, isn’t that inspiring? It would help you to understand how the human mind works.”
The crocodile wasn’t looking at the steps anymore. Walking down became something natural, instinctive. But the words of the Storyteller started to turn his head into a mess. He was sure that being in the Library was the reason of why he hadn’t lost his mind yet, but once he woke up his next destiny would be a white cushioned room.
“You started to doubt, right?” the Storyteller asked, like reading his mind. Actually, he was. “I can end your life right now if you’re so desperate to prove that your beliefs were right, even when no one would listen to a ghost. Show me how egotistical your kind can be, ignoring the gods that are worshipped across the vast universe. Or,” the Storyteller stopped it, and the crocodile did the same. They shared a gaze, “wait for it to happen.”
“What are the two gifts?” he asked, trying to ignore the fear that was growing inside him.
“The second gift is my power, I’ll share it with you. You will need it to mark a soul, but I won’t stop you from using it for your personal amusement, as long as you don’t mess with my test subjects. You already know how to use the words, but once I give you this you will see the true potential of deception. Just think about it. Having access to a soul through a book you can read and edit. You can make it think whatever you want, and they can’t do anything about it. Have fun brainwashing people at your will. In fact, that’s a good reason of why I chose you.”
“Huh?”
“You have no rule for pure evil. You’re not looking for power, unlike most of the people who wants the Notebook. That’s why I’m trusting you this kind of power. That’s why I trusted it to all the previous owners. None of you were selfish enough to keep it to yourself. In the wrong hands this can bring uncontrollable chaos, call Chance’s attention and, most important, ruin my work. Unlike other Ascended's, I have no interest in power. Which brought me to the third gift.”
The Storyteller took a book from the wall. The crocodile immediately knew it was his book. His life, his regrets, his inner thoughts, everything was there, in the hands of a creature that could rewrite everything on his mind.
“I’ll give you a second chance.”
“What do you mean?” he said almost in a whisper, but in the Library even the smallest whisper was a roar.
The Storyteller answered with an ominous voice.
“People will come for you sooner or later, looking for the Notebook. This power cannot be ignored. And they will break your spirit and soul just to get the smallest clue. By destroying this book everything that has been known about you will be forgotten. Not a single image of you will remain in anyone’s memory. And so, those looking for you will lose the track once again. Whatever happens after that is up to you. It’s your chance to have a different life, with no place for regrets. Isn’t that what everyone wants?”
A new start? Why that idea sounded to tempting? It actually made him ignore the real problem he faced, until he thought again about his words.
“You’re not giving me any option.”
“Do you need them?” the crocodile didn’t answered. “Yes, that’s what I thought. Hurry up, clock is ticking.”
One blink and he was back to his room. The sunlight coming from the window proved it was pretty late, probably 11:00 AM. He got up of bed and went to the living room, where the book was waiting for him. He took it to the table and sat there, looking at the cover. The man with the dirty tank top wasn’t there anymore, but that didn’t surprised him. He pondered about what happened. That was a dream or did really took place? Both options were right, and that bugged him. Was a good or bad idea to accept his deal? He spent hours there, not feeling tired or hungry, thinking about it.
The sun was already hiding when he pierced the palm of his hand with one claw, covering it with blood. He listened the Storyteller on his head, praising clichés that are well used. The blood-covered claw went into the keyhole, turned to the left, and the lock became dust. He didn’t wait to open it.
And he found an empty book. Page after page with nothing on them. Even when he didn’t knew what to expect, at least he was sure that wasn’t that. Then an idea sparkled on his head. The page didn’t matter. The words were everything he needed. One last thought. Did he really wanted that? Harvest souls for a demon called the Storyteller? The answer never came.
Patrick D. Lambert
The letters shined in the white page. The disappeared.
“Good name,” said someone behind him. But Lambert had his attention on his claw. The blood had spreaded all over the hand, and was now going up his arm. “That will be the one everyone should know now. And with the raise of a new name, your old self must banish. But I’ll set it somewhere close, so you can never forget where you come from. It will be your strength, your servant, the shadow of your former self,” the blood was now at his chest, spreading faster, leaving the scales dyed. Lambert tried to clean it with his hand, but it didn’t work. It was like if the scales had been red all this that time. “You will raise and be free of their game, and you will see beyond the universe known by the man. No more closed books for the Keeper of the Notebook.”
The blood lurked on his neck. Lambert felt it. He covered his face just in time to finally be devoured by the spell of the Storyteller.
Lambert stared at his body for a long time. Red scales. His entire body was now dyed in red. The wound he made on his face during his panic attack was now a scar going from the check to the forehead, crossing his left, green eye. On the ground behind him, the shadow of his former self was lying, growling, lurking for a new prey. Even with no sun, the shadows extended across the floor. And it could raise from it, revealing a feral creature completely black, except for the white fangs and the yellow eyes. It was now on his command. Just like the book, floating under his right hand. And he easily moved around with invisible cords.
He felt different. He knew he was now free to do whatever he wanted. He was now looking outside the frame. Beyond the universe known by the man. Maybe his doubts and fears went into his shadow, because his smile showed no regrets for what he did.
In the book’s cover was now the image of a crocodile, dressed with a grey armless hoodie and jeans.
It has born a new Keeper.
Some changes coming up to my croc! So I had to make a story about it!
It's a little experiment, was fun to do. And also a chance to introduce some elements from my universe.
Anyway, enjoy!
It's a little experiment, was fun to do. And also a chance to introduce some elements from my universe.
Anyway, enjoy!
Category Story / All
Species Unspecified / Any
Gender Any
Size 50 x 50px
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