(Este é o meu conto que foi publicado plea Sugar Mule)
Monument
Somewhere,in the future
It took a
long time for me to find the library. It was necessary to cross the destroyed city and part of the forest.
There were dangerous animals and traps. Twice I nearly died.
In fact it
was not a legend. The library exists. It is an ancient monastery occupied now
by countless books. The architecture is a masterpiece, full of ingenuity and beauty. Seven giant towers guarding the
greatest treasure of humanity. Seven guardians watching over each one. Guards everywhere. Inside, librarians and
copyists monks.
When I
arrived, I thought of becoming a guard. After all I could survive in this
chaos. I’m young, tall, strong and always
liked challenges. But the monks told me that they were in need of
copyists. There were few, and some were already sick or blind. At first, I
rejected the idea. Gradually I was
accepting their proposal and after
twenty years of preparation, I became one of them. Made sacred vows and wore
the black cloak.
Contact with
the books was a slow revelation. I could never imagine something like that.
Paper is considered precious here as much as the inks. The books are huge and
heavy and every page is a work of art .
And all considered important are carefully kept on the shelves.
It is very
difficult to choose which of the work performed by the monks is the best. All
are exquisite and fascinating. But one in particular has become my obsession.
For being one copy only, was easier to receive approval to copy it.
Exultant, I
chose to use letters in Gothic style. I made several attempts. Failed every
time. It seemed impossible to repeat such mastery. Only then I understood why
no one had tried it before.
I felt myself
a loser. I was hopelessly lost.
Nightmares
were torturing my nights.
Fear and
anguish have taken me.
I felt anger
and hatred of the book. I wanted to destroy it .But love won. I opened it and
was enthralled by endless hours. It had
an irresistible spell.
Now they are
chasing me through the forest. There is a high probability that I will be
killed. Before that happens, I stop and behold the book once again.
Shakespeare was right:
“ And thou in
this shalt find thy monument,
When
tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.”