Dreams of a Future

The Oxford Literary Archive was the life's work of none other than the distinguished Professor Nicholas Gordon Anderson, or so his fellow academics claimed. Though he may have established it, and laid the groundwork for its cultivation, it was his students that translated its donated materials to digital form. They were tasked with taking the physical works from the university depository, and copying them into the database - with the promise of unlimited coffee refills from the library café, and a commendation for their permanent records.

Esther Fisher was one such student. The professor had sent a mass email around the third year class, offering a field trip to the Literary Legends Exhibition in Paris to anyone who copied a hundred manuscripts by the end of term. It would be the opportunity of a lifetime, there was no way she would dare pass it up.

Instead of going home to visit her parents, out into town with her friends, attending the university's social events, clubs, or society meetings, she spent her weekends and weekday evenings in the library office. She sat at a cramped desk with a blocky, yellowed computer before her, tapping the letters into a clackity keyboard in the dim green glow of the screen and the buzzing fluorescent light overhead. The stack of various precariously balanced works towered high overhead on her left, with the neat assortment of completed texts on her right, ready to go back into storage. At her back, a janitor's bucket collected the occasional drip from a leaky ceiling tile, and a standing fan squeaked as it spun from side to side, wafting the stench of coffee, damp, and old books.

In her first few days, Esther had convinced herself that it was a dream to work there. She would be contributing to the greatest collection of literary works ever compiled - her name memorialised in the footnotes of every paper and article on the archive's foundation for all time. When any prospective employer scanned through her CV, they would see 'Contributor to The Oxford Literary Archive' in her extracurricular activities, and say, 'Wow, this woman is dedicated. We'd be fools not to hire her!'

But as the weeks dragged on, the other students who'd also signed up as volunteers began dropping out. Bored, and unimpressed by the work environment, they cut their losses and moved on to the literary society. Others decided they had far too much homework to have time for volunteering, and more still determined that a part-time job was a better use for their weekends - a paycheck was a much greater motivator than cheap coffee.

Esther was one of only five students still on the project, and even they had collectively agreed not to do more than an hour a night. She was mostly left on her own, questioning her life choices, though she kept herself going with the idea of a free week to Paris to mingle with the greatest philologists of the modern age. And the professor had promised they'd get to do other activities on the trip as well - visiting the galleries, dining at Paris's finest restaurants, and there was mention of a thousand euro spending allowance. Every time she discussed it with Professor Anderson, he'd come up with another idea of what they could do on the trip. One of the other students carrying on with the job only agreed to do so if they got to go to Disneyland while they were there.

Esther was left rather unconvinced that the Professor had actually prepared anything at all, but any time he made a suggestion, she recorded it, so that when the time came he'd have no choice except to live up to his promises, else she consult a solicitor. So she kept going with the project mostly out of spite. It would still be years before the archive would be completed, but each evening of work saw another ten thousand words added to the collection between them - with Ester's contributions making up the bulk.

Monday evening rolled around, and as usual, there would be another journal on top of her left pile, completely ignoring the mountain of papers she had already planned to type up that week. She rolled her eyes, dropping her backpack and kicking it under the desk before setting her coffee down on the brown ring left on its surface. Exams were coming up, so everyone else had decided studying was more important. They were almost at their goal anyway - surely the Professor would agree to let them go on the trip regardless of whether they reached it. However Esther wasn't convinced, and she wouldn't risk letting months of work go to waste over a technicality. She was so close - just ten books to go to meet her target, and she would probably do another ten for good measure.

She dragged the journal off the stack, careful not to knock it over. The pages were aged and crisped, the binding threaded, with the silver letters embossed into the cover long peeled and faded. 'Dreams of a Future.' An interesting title, and apparently written by a K. A. R. Steele. Esther turned to the first page, her attention quickly alerted by the deep red stain stamped over the paper - 'BANNED.' That was odd, it wasn't often that she came by banned texts, though it did make her heart sink. She noted the date at the bottom, '1789,' recognising any book from that age that had been banned was usually as a result of it being completely bogus. Did she really need to archive it? Wouldn't future generations be better off without those ideas?

Esther groaned, knowing she would be there for hours writing up a text that was probably offensive. The cursor on the screen blinked on and off, mocking her as if her professor was stood over her shoulder, a grin stretched between his cheeks. 'Better get to writing, Miss Fisher...'

With a grimace, she angled her head back towards the book, turning to the next page and scanning its contents. She always read a little bit before starting, just to make sure she got an idea of the author's writing style before committing to the transcription.

The title proved to be more literal than expected. The journal was a recount and interpretation of dreams the author had experienced, supposedly predicting future events. It didn't go into any detail verging on the prophetic, rather it was more symbolic, describing the likely path of advancements in technology and society. At first, they were quite reasonable predictions of things a person living in 1789 may anticipate of the near future.

"Preventative means shall be taken to shield one from maladies such as smallpox and rabies... Inhaling of the vapours may employ restful slumber during surgical operations... Man should set his sights upon the lands at the ends of the earth."

She skipped a few pages, then as the book went on, Esther found a more balanced perch in the flaking office chair, doubling back on one passage of something rather unnerving.

"Most man, woman, and child should have about themselves a black window, fitted to a pocket, that in least should offer him access to the ever expanding encyclopaedia, accrued by the broadest minds of every age. Yet they shall be defiant, and disposed to heed the gospel of the fool, for he should grant them prominence."

Yeah, she could get that people of every era are likely to believe false facts, but how could the author predict the smartphone?

She cut back a page, eager to see how thorough the author's imagination could be.

"Man would descend into conflicts extending to all nations, one that should end with the release of the deadliest evil upon the Earth... He should employ the properties of propulsion to touch the sky, and sail between worldly bodies... He would expunge God's creations under a toxic haze, that should warm the Earth and choke both the water and the skies..."

Esther continued to skim the text, ignorant to the passage of time and the fact that her coffee had gone cold.

"Man should receive all he could want at the cost of all he needs. He should be connected yet isolated. Brave yet cowardly. Informed yet ignorant. He would allow himself to be sustained by hate and fear, to envy and to judge. He would take the name of God in vain, divining his will as validation for his sins. But he is both blind and deafened to God's truth, and would forge his doctrine as he would orchestrate his execution."

She turned the page, believing she had reached predictions of the modern age.

"Man would denounce God's creations. He should live by the coin, an acolyte of mercantilism that should come to overthrow philanthropy and community. And he should use the legacy of man's folly to excuse the slaughter of his brothers and sisters. His children would beg for a time of love, acceptance, connection and healing. But he would deny his wounds, cover his ears, and refute the humanity of his progeny, stumbling towards the devil's beckoning lure of a fictional bygone age."

Esther hesitated before carrying on, referring once more to the BANNED stamp at the beginning of the book. She couldn't imagine why it had been banned. Everything it had predicted had been true, from vaccinations to capitalism.

The minutes had dragged on into hours. It had gone midnight, yet Esther had still to type up a single word from the journal. She wondered about Steele, how they had been able to foresee everything so clearly. Was it actually some form of divination? She guessed that a lot of the things Steele had written about could be true of any age, then others were less easy to sum up to coincidence.

The student reached the last few pages. She imagined for any book on prophecies, the ending could only mean the ultimate end, yet it had come a lot sooner than expected. She hoped the author had simply stopped dreaming about the future, and that was why the final few paragraphs concluded so soon after their predictions of the modern age. Surely it wouldn't be over yet...

"And the final era of man shall commence by his own hand. Distracting his gaze by the black window, he shall see his fall yet remain blinded. His end will come not in calamity, but fading as the candlelight. In his efforts to be seen and heard, he shall diminish to a whisper. And all his language, imaginings, wisdom and shallowness, his handprints and footfalls shall be reduced to nought but a footnote within the chronicles of time."

***

The following morning before any of her classes, Esther paid Professor Anderson a visit in his office. He was surprised to see her so early, with such dark circles under her eyes, and a tatty old book clutched to her chest.

"I noticed your word count didn't increase at all last night. You agreed you'd be working on the archive, did something happen? Are you well?" He asked, tilting his head slightly as he worried for his most devoted student.

She showed him the journal. "Professor, why was this book stamped as banned?"

He scanned the cover and the first page over his glasses, passing it back to her. "It was like that when it was donated to the university. It's the only copy that we know of - the publishers refused to print it."

"But why?" Esther demanded.

He chuckled. "I assume because it's nonsense. I myself have only skimmed a few pages, purely out of curiosity of course. Anyway, it's complete hogwash." He pulled out his phone, focusing his attention on his messages instead. "Just make sure you get it written up by Thursday. I've been in contact with my curator friend from the Literary Legends Exhibition - making some arrangements for our trip. At this rate, there'll only be five of you, so that means we can do a lot more on our budget while we're there! Doesn't that sound wonderful?"

Esther bit her lip, staring down at the desk between them. After a moment, she closed her eyes with a sigh. "I don't want to be on the project anymore sir."

"What?" He gasped.

"With all due respect sir..." She gazed intensely at him, thinking on the hours she wasted sat behind a cramped desk, drinking stale coffee, listening to a squeaking standing fan and a dripping ceiling. She remembered every journal she had copied, the long nights, the weekends - time she could never get back, and no week in Paris could ever make up for. When people talked about that archive, they would recognise his name, but not hers, not the other students who had built it. She took a deep breath and declared, "I am more than a footnote..."