"Scribe - 1.The Book" by Aida Vicens

I

The Book

            You may say everything started then, that autumn morning, at my door, even if for other people the begging was at another place and another time. Anyway, everything I can consider my life, started that morning with a some low knocks on my door.

            I remember opening my eyes, and finding myself with the head lying on a book, with a half written page and ink spots all over my fingers. I got up, sleepy, and went to the door. Through the window, a faint stream of light illuminated the room. A rooster called from far away, and a baby started to cry.

            - Who’s there?

            I’ve never liked to meet people when I can’t see them clearly. Maybe something inside me still recalls what I can’t remember: how, in front of a child, somebody was taking away her parents. Somebody that sure had face and voice, but my eyes were blind and my ears deaf. I saw him, I heard him and I feared him. I feared him so much that I could never again recall anything happened that night. I just can remember that it happened. Maybe that was why I asked without opening the door, not even looking through the lock. And maybe that was why, too, I felt something strange inside me when a voice answered.

            - Strangers searching for Lhena, the scribe.

            A liani. It was a liani who asked for my services. What could be searching in me, a simple young girl who dedicated her life to transcribe books, someone from liani’s realm? But that voice… I opened the door, just a little, and peered out. I saw the pale face with silver eyes, the long silver curls. By her side, for it was a woman, stood a pair of dark ûrbin and a young khûmain, with no beard yet. 

            - Is the scribe at home?

            I smiled, knowing how unusual that situation was. I opened the door, slowly, showing what was I, and revealing that I was no usual scribe, but a girl scribe. I welcomed them.

            - Sure. I am Lhena Riannah, Sephorad’s scribe. – I still smile when I remember the cute voices of the couple of ûrbin, surprised, and the grumbling of the khûmain – How can I help you?

            - I need you to transcribe this. – she gave me a small book, so small I was able to hold it in my closed fist – I need it tomorrow.

            That meant work. Lots of it. You know, there are scribes that just translate what they read, and then they write it again. But I was not of that king. I was, as nobody expected, one of those that gave their lives to the meaning of the words, one of those that undo the web of words and then we start weaving it again, adding a link to reality. So, when you open the book, you don’t need to read the book: the book reads itself to you.

            It may sound strange, and in fact it is. Only the lianin, the svadin, the theôrin and some gadenin, know this reality, and my father was one of those. And I learnt from him. But that was much effort and few results. Not the gadenin, nor brethin, nor even the fethin, appreciate those books, they didn’t know the please of Knowing, and sadly nor the ûrbin neither the khûmainin had ever learnt how to handle that art. Just some mages, whose spells need to be cast by themselves alone, did value that kind of magic.

            That’s why, when I felt the subtle vibration of the book upon the palm of my had, I knew it: that was going to be the book of my life.

            - That will be no cheap work, you know. – I stared right into her eyes. I am not of those who love cheating on others – A book like this is not vivified easily.

            - I know. But you only have until tomorrow at dusk. – answered her, looking towards the mountains – Then we will come and take it.

            I assented, saying no more. It wasn’t necessary. I knew they would come again, and they would pay: nobody tries to cheat on a scribe.

            I closed the door, with the book still trembling on my hands, and I sat down on my bed. I looked curiously at the cover: there wasn’t anything. The pages were all blank, new. It looked like nobody had written in it. 

            When, cautiously, I opened it, it stopped trembling. There were some words on the first page, written in what had been the Old Tonge, common to all realms, and they said:

Of all the books, this one is the more dangerous,

The most secret, the Oldest.