The Last Library

The Storm

Portland left before nightfall. If she was really out there, there was no time to waste. The weather was getting worse by the day, and she'd been missing for over two days. If she had managed to stay warm this long, she was lucky.

He found quickly he'd been right. The scrublands were already a flat plane of snow, soft and featureless. He set his face towards the mountains in the distance, where he could barely make out the tiny lump that was McDonald's rock. And he walked, carrying food in his pack, and dry firewood – there would be no more of that to be found until he reached the rock, and he needed one night's worth if he wanted to sleep without freezing. As for water, snow would be good enough.

Some time after the sun went down, when it started to get really cold, he ate the dried rabbit meat he had brought with him and then made a small fire. He only slept a few hours, though. He had to hurry on.

Early in the morning, before the sun came up, clouds rolled in and obscured the stars. Portland could still see the dark shapes of the mountains, and followed them. However, by the time the sun rose its light was little good. The clouds settled in low and a light snow began to fall. The snow soon turned into a flurry and covered his tracks. Portland made difficult headway. Now a sense of anxiety crept up on him, as he was no longer even sure he was going in the right direction. Although he would have liked to stop and wait for the snow to stop, he had to keep walking.

A few hours later and the snow had become a full-fledged storm, with biting winds that seemed to cut right through his furs. He couldn't feel his hands or feet any more. The direction that he was walking in didn't really matter. He'd begun to realize that even if the storm did let up now, he wasn't sure he could make it as far as McDonald's rock or even back to camp. He was so tired. He wanted to sit down. Just for a minute. But he couldn't do that.

It was almost like he'd known this would happen. Why had he come, then?

Mom, thought Portland. I hope she's still alive. Who should he pray to? The spirits? Or his father's God? He didn't even know anything about that God. He didn't know anything at all, really. But neither did the Geek.

Sometimes I think he's making it all up. My mother thought that. Maybe that's why my family has a reputation for being troublemakers. But if the Geek doesn't know anything about what it was like Before, then who does? Was there really a before? A time when people didn't live like this? Were there really more people, and great cities, and everyone had enough to eat? Was there really a time when everyone could read?

If there was, thought Portland, then there could be again. But who knows? Where is that knowledge? Maybe it's gone forever, like my book. Maybe this is all there is.

Portland came to the slow and soft realization that he had stopped walking. The snow was still falling, he assumed, but he wasn't sure, because his face was pressed down into the snow. But instead of feeling cold, he felt warm. That was nice. He closed his eyes and let the world fade into a comfortable, numb blackness.