The Last Library

The Geek

The Geek shook his staff threateningly. The talismans hanging from it rattled—mouse skulls, USB dongles, and small lightbulbs. "You come into my tent," he said. "My tent."

Portland took a step backward. "Please."

The Geek's tent was lavish, the largest in the village, but it was strangely decorated. Lightbulbs, some whole and some cracked, hung from the ceiling by twine. The room was lit only by tallow candles, lined in rows around the walls, on top of folding tables and PC towers, which were turned on their sides and stacked like bricks. The Geek possessed every sort of clutter and knickknack imaginable, from empty liquor bottles to high-heeled shoes and a porcelain toilet. There were even bits of jewelry; earrings and necklaces with large beads shaped like pink cat-faces. These were the most precious of all, and they were displayed on the shelves of an open refrigerator.

"You come to me," said the Geek, "daring to ask for my help. You, the most rebellious member of our tribe. Well—" his lip curled a little bit. "The most rebellious one left."

Portland hated the Geek even more for that little jab, but he kept the emotion to himself. He really did need help, and now was not the time to let personal insults get in the way. "Yes," he said. "Please, I have to know if she's alive. And if so, where she is. I just want her back."

The Geek sat down upon the porcelain throne with a dignified air. He had his own shaman's robes, so to speak: a yellow raincoat, of which only the heavy plastic exterior remained, the rest having deteriorated long since. Under that he wore the same rough cloths and skins as everybody else, sewed into warm trousers; and moccasins lined with rabbit fur. He was about sixty years old, but thin and agile, with wrinkled white skin and a shock of white hair. "You know my condition," he said.

"What is your condition?" asked Portland, hoping it would be something else.

"Give me the book. I told you the same thing I told your mother. Don't come into this tent until you're ready to bring it to me."

It was the one thing that could have made Portland hesitate. If this was the Geek's condition, he had no choice but to comply. Still, he didn't savor the prospect of giving up the tribe's only book—the only book he had ever seen. After this, he would certainly never see it again. The Geek had coveted the book for years, but Portland's mother would never give it to him. She had told him countless times to keep it out of the Geek's hands at all costs. This had been a charge to her from Portland's father, before he died. Portland's mother was not literate, at least not much. Neither was he. But his father had been, and he had known the secrets of the Book.

But now his mother was missing. And as the tribe unfavorite, Portland had no one else in the world but his mother. If the book was the price to get her back, then so be it. Portland prayed to his father's God for forgiveness. "Fine," he said. "I'll give you the book. Let me go get it."

He rose and left the Geek's tent. Outside, the air was chill. It was late in the Alaskan October and there was already snow on the ground, but inside the borders of the camp it had mostly been cleared away. His tent was on the other end of the camp, as far away from the Geek's tent as it could be.

He pulled open the flap and stooped down to the floor. He rolled up the grass mat, pushing his bedroll out of the way, and his mother's bowls—both clays and plastics. The tent was not how he'd left it. The bowls were stacked up again, but in a different order. Someone had been here—probably sent by the Geek, looking for the book. He had taken advantage of Portland's mother's absence to search. But Portland knew from their exchange that he hadn't found it.

Quickly he scraped aside the dirt under the bedroll, and dug up a small parcel, wrapped in cloths to protect it against earth, and a layer of plastics, against water. When he had replaced everything, he made the trek back up to the Geek's tent, hoping everybody was too busy to notice him. If they did, they would see what he was holding, and they'd know he'd finally given in. He shielded the parcel in his arms defensively.

"Aha!" the Geek crowed when he ducked inside the large tent. He stepped down from the throne. "Good! You bring it. After all these years! Give it here." He held out his hands and Portland passed it over, not able to look at it directly for his sense of treachery.

With the book in his hands, the Geek continued to gloat. "Why does this village not respect me? Why do none of these people give me the honor I am due? You would be nothing without me. Nothing!" He stroked the parcel and began to remove the cloths. "My knowledge is essential to your survival. I alone hold the secrets of Before. Before, in the days of great enlightenment, when people covered the earth. Before it was consumed with fire. Before the end. The days when there were great cities and bright lights during the night. People went across the sea and flew through the air and walked upon the moon. I alone know these things. And you do not respect me."

The book was at last peeled free, and Portland gave it a pained glance, realizing this was indeed the moment of parting. On impulse, he made one last desperate attempt, a stab in the dark. "If you know so much, tell me what the book says."

The Geek raised his nose disdainfully. "Fine." He flipped open its cover. "It says, 'This book must only be possessed by a wise man, the tribe's elder.'"

"Where?"

"Right here. On the first page."

"It does not say that!" Portland lurched toward the Geek. "You're lying!"

The Geek held the book away. "Back, boy!"

"You..." said Portland with a horrified realization. "You... you can't even read!"

"And just how would you know that?"

"Because you're holding it upside down!"

Before he could say anything else, however, the Geek's staff hit him across the knees with a loud crack. Portland took a jump backward, and then knelt carefully, biting his tongue as his eyes watered.

"That's enough!" The Geek's face was pinched with anger. "Do you want me to find your mother or not?"

"Yes," Portland answered through his teeth. "Forgive me for my disrespect."

The Geek nodded, satisfied. He took a seat in a rusty metal chair, at one of the folding tables. On top of the table was a flat desktop monitor, standing upright. He pulled out its long cord. Then, slowly and with great procedure, he began to wrap it around his head.

"What are you doing?" asked Portland, quickly forgetting the smart in his knees.

"I am doing what you asked," said the Geek, but his voice took on a droning quality. "I am going to connect to the Web."

"The Web?"

"The Web. The great Web of existence, where the spirits reside. They have infinite knowledge, and they will reveal their secrets to me. Learn wisdom, Portland. All of nature is a web. All of life is connected, and the spirits are in all things. Keep silent and let me speak to the spirits." With this, he tied the cord off at his forehead, with the metal-pronged end dangling out into the air. He became perfectly still, staring into the black monitor.

Portland stared too. He wondered what the Geek was seeing. It looked like nothing to him. The Geek let out a low, guttural hum.

It must have been something, after all, because after a minute or so, the Geek stopped humming and untied the cord from his head. He turned back to Portland. "The spirits have told me where your mother went."

"Yes?" Portland nodded eagerly.

"She is at McDonald's Rock."

Portland's heart sank. He knew where McDonald's Rock was, but he'd never been that far at this time of year. It was a tall shelf of sandstone cleaved into two smooth arches, more than a day's journey across the scrublands. In summer, the scrublands were a good place to go forage and trap rabbits. But in winter – there was nothing out there. No shelter and no food. What had forced his mother to go as far as McDonald's Rock? He didn't know, but he knew she wouldn't make it back on her own.

"Fine," he said, and turned back to his tent to pack for the journey.