Books of Destinies - Vol. #1.5

Somewhere in this village is a Library – hidden, out of sight. No one knows where to find it because no one searches for it; no one have ever even heard of it. But in this Secret Library, hundreds of thousands of Books live. Their pages magically pulse with life – a heart beating in the chest of a hardcover – while their words speak volumes to those who wish to listen. Nobody listens; nobody hears them; nobody even knows they exist.

Except.

A man led his six-year-old son into an office-type building that looked inconspicuous to the rest of the world. But the man knew better, having been there so many times before, that the lobby led to a spiral staircase that wound up to one room upstairs, drenched in antiquity and riches – draped in gold curtains, dripping in crystals, smelling of ink and paper, and lined with rows and rows and rows of ornately-carved bookcases. The father’s face lit up with recognition while the son’s with wonder.

“I’ve told you stories, but it’s not something to truly believe until you’ve actually seen it,” Henry told his son, who was tracing the swirls in the shelves, running his fingers over the old wood; a splinter jammed into his small hand and instantaneously healed itself – without a scratch or a drop of blood to account for it. Even Henry stopped in his tracks and stared.

“So what exactly is this place?” the son asked, already forgetting about the injury.

“The Secret Library,” Henry answered in a hushed voice. “The place that houses all the Books of Destinies. Everyone’s life story is written here and stored on these very shelves. It’s infinite, even though it’s contained in such a small space.”

“The covers are really pretty,” the son said distractedly, picking out a pale blue Book with a silver-scratched spine. A name and date were engraved at the bottom: Katya Adriana Melvina, March 14. “So everyone’s destinies are in these Book?”

Henry nodded.

“Is yours here? Can I see it?”

He showed his son to a corner, where he picked up a dark green leather Book with a scalloped cover.

“This one is yours?” the son asked, amazed, taking the Book from him. “Have you read it?”

“No one can read their own destinies, Dima. To me, it’s blank, like one of your sketchbooks.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Dimitri contemplated. “I guess we’re not supposed to know the future when we want to makes choices right now, no matter if it’s already written what our choice will be. Destiny may know it, but we don’t.”

 “You’re so intuitive for your age, Dima,” Henry looked at his son with a sad smile. He didn’t need to be psychic anymore to realize the disease would get to him before he saw Dimitri grow up to be the fine young man he knew he will be, before he would truly understand what this Library meant.

Dimitri traced the date engraved in his father’s Book, hearing the thoughts in Henry’s mind. February 17^. By that point, he’d already found out his dad was sick and tried not to think about how many more of these birthdays he might still have left, tried not to think if this could have been his last one. He blinked back tears and carefully put the Book back onto the shelf. “What about my Book?”

“Your Book is a little different, Dima,” he said with almost a sorrowful glaze in his eyes. Dimitri followed him to a side wall, a bookshelf right next to a lofty stained-glass window, each panel in a shade of violet or amber. Henry gazed through the Books but Dimitri instantly gravitated toward it – a telepathic tug. He took out a burgundy Book with a fanning geometric engraving in gold, resembling flower petals or ivy leaves. He traced the shimmering shapes, a deep and lonely longing filling him, and he could sense his father’s apprehension as he turned the Book over in his hands, shocked to find Dimitri Rhanalrik, December 3.

“That’s not right, that’s not my birthday. It’s supposed to be February 14^th,” he argued, confused. He opened the Book and gasped: he saw words. It was supposed to be his destiny and he wasn’t supposed to be able to see it, but he did. He does. Supposed to, supposed to, everything about him was a long string of supposed to. “If no one is supposed to see their destinies,” he told his father, “and I can see mine, then this isn’t my destiny. This is the one I was supposed to have had – if I weren’t psychic.”

*** Present Day: Dimitri *** 

The cloyingly sweet perfume of eternal flowers and the signature dusty scent of paper always hits me first whenever I step in here. Specks and sparkles scatter off the crystal chandelier as I step into the Secret Library. I’m never entirely sure why I come here. My Book is wrong, so it’s not like I can fast-forward a few chapters to read what happens next – it’s like an old friend every time I see it, familiar after all this time but still a complete stranger to me. I’ve never read it. I never will. I could and at times I’m even tempted to. But what good what it do? It would be like reading a fantasy novel – a story so close to reality that it could be nonfiction, but it isn’t; it’s an imaginary character living in an imaginary world in his imaginary life. It’s not me. And I wonder, which one of us is it that Katya really fell in love with? I have to hope that it is me, but I’m not sure if this really is me. So maybe that’s why I visit here often anyway, when I’m confused or unsure of what to do next – perhaps because this is where I most remember Dad, and he gave me more wisdom and guidance than my inaccurate destiny ever could. 

The golden pixie dust in the air swirls around me in welcoming, recognizing my psychic presence, and I swat it away, annoyed as it tickles my nose. Instinctively, I go to my Book; it’s a habit – a magnetic pull and I’m the metal. On the shelf, under the violet and amber window, I find a burgundy cover with a petal-like engraving with the title Dimitri Rhanalrik, December 3. I open it with no intention of reading it, but notice a piece of paper slotted between the pages. Funny, I never noticed this before, as I unfold the page and am struck cold.

Dear Dima,

It’s Dad.

What? Everything in me goes numb and my legs buckle under me as I slide down to the floor in disbelief. No, this can’t- this can’t be possible. But I read the words over and over and over again and they are real, and I read on, stunned.

If you’re reading this, then it means that you’ve grown up to be a fine young man. And a strong psychic. It also means that I am no longer with you.

Tears spring to my eyes but I blink them back, needing to see this clearly to be sure I’m not hallucinating. 

I have a confession. I probably should have told you this a long time ago, but you were still so young. So young and innocent; you shouldn’t have to live with the consequences of my mistakes. But it seems like they have found you anyway. I couldn’t tell you back then and I know I won’t be there to tell you when you’re older.

I was psychic too.

“What?” I try to take deep breaths without hyperventilating. My dad. Was psychic? No, no, that’s impossible. It can’t – it can’t be possible. My hands shake so hard that I can barely hold on to the letter.

I know this must come as quite a shock to you. There’s no easy way of explaining this and unfortunately, it just gets more complicated. I only hope that when you finish reading this, you won’t hate me.

It all started long ago. Very long ago. I’ll spare you the exact date but let’s just say it’s been a few centuries. Some chemical reaction in the cosmos triggered Destiny to become the most powerful force in the Universe, even more so than gravity, able to align – or disrupt – the planets and life here on Earth. And it reached out to me with a proposal: the chance to understand more, know everything about how the Universe works, and the promise of immortality.

I agreed.

You must understand, Dima, I was young, in my 20s. I was an astronomy scholar and Destiny’s offer made me feel like the best, invincible. I was also incredibly naïve. I leaped at the chance of the promise of all the power ever granted. In exchange, I was supposed to be an editor, a groundskeeper of its Library. I think you see where this is going.

I think I do too and it makes me sick to my stomach and I close my eyes because if I don’t read the next words then maybe they won’t be real – the next words can be my Schrödinger’s Cat. But I open them again and the blue-inked words confirm it.

I became the Librarian of the Secret Library. Destiny was the brilliant, prolific author, and I edited the Books according to its instructions and maintained the Secret Library. Tweaking a few sentences and arranging a few books on a shelf – it seemed like such a trivial price to pay for the immortality and the invincibility. And I loved it: moving things with my mind, never getting sick or old, reading people’s minds. It gave me such a thrill, like I could have everything and anything I wanted: leading a rich life in high style without a care in the world.

In reality, I had nothing. Destiny controlled me. I had promised to do its writing and in doing so, had signed away my destiny. I never had any choices to make, though it seemed like I had it all. It took me a good few centuries to realize that. The day I met a girl names Irene – your mother – was the day I realized that no matter the power and promise of Destiny, I could never be truly happy without her, for what good would be a life forever if it was a life forever without her?

I gave it up, gave up my powers and position in the Library, and tried to turn a page on that very long chapter of my life.

However, when you were born, Dimitri, I realized that I would never be free of it, that Destiny had followed me into you. That’s why I’m writing you this. When I saw your eyes change color for the first time, like mine had all those centuries, I learned that was Destiny’s way of saying, the story must go on. I should have realized that Destiny would try to find someone to fill my position in the Library, and who better than someone who shares my psychic genes? You.

I am so sorry, Dimitri.

I never thought this could happen. It is true that your DNA is different because you’re psychic – it’s because of me, it’s all my fault. It’s tampered with because you inherited those genes from my old immortal self. I didn’t know – I never imagined – that it would pass to you when I gave it up so long before, and once I realized it, it was too late. But you, Dima, are psychic because of me, and you must take my place in the Secret Library. 

I’m sorry, Dimitri. I never wanted this for you. Please forgive me. 

*** Katya *** 

1248 Chandler Avenue is the end of a small street in a busy corner of town. The backs of brick buildings surround me, some fire escape ladders trail down to the rugged asphalt, the hum of cars passing on the adjacent street rumbles between the walls, and a few lamps light the otherwise shadowy road. By this time of the evening, dusk already settles in, setting everything under a shady film that is eerily murky.

I wouldn’t picture Dimitri lounging around in such an enigmatic place.

Or maybe I could picture him perfectly, when I reach the building and he sits on the front steps waiting for me. He is as good-looking as ever in a royal purple sweater, but there’s a mysterious aura to him that makes him almost blend into the setting. He wrings his hands and adjusts his glasses; he’s been somewhat on edge the entire day. Yet, seeing me still seems to comfort him.

“Hey, you made it,” he stands up when I come into his view.

“Yeah, took me a while to find it, but of course. What did you want to show me?” I ask, giving him a quick hug.

He turns so that we’re both looking at the building in front of us. From the outside, it looks like a regular office building, but I eventually follow Dimitri’s gaze to a faded wooden sign posted above the door, whatever once written on it worn away from years in the sun and rain, but I can still make out some of the faint lettering: Someone & Someone “Publishing Co.”. You could easily overlook it if you didn’t know it’s there and Dimitri obviously knows it there.

He pulls the brass doorknob. “The Secret Library.”

*** Dimitri *** 

“Oh wow,” Katya gasps as she steps into the Secret Library from the stairwell, eyes drinking in the charm and magic in the room. “Dimitri, what is this place?”

I cannot lie to her anymore; I need to tell her the whole truth, otherwise Destiny will keep latching onto my psychic secret to tears Katya and me apart. I don’t believe Destiny played any factor in whether Katya and I are meant to be – we fell in love despite it being written against us, and I have to hope she will still choose me knowing my psychic side.

“The Secret Library,” I repeat. “These shelves all hold the Books of Destinies – Books that have every person’s life story written, a storyline everyone unknowingly follows because that’s what Destiny chose for them.”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand.” 

I sigh heavily, knowing there’s no way I can explain this rationally. “I know you don’t,” I start, burying a hand in my hair. “I didn’t think you would. It’s not something easy to understand. I can barely understand it, and I have to, I have to, Katya, but I don’t know and all I know is that it’s true and, and I have no clue where to begin explaining this to you – or myself – how to even try.” I can’t stop the words from spilling out, strangling in my throat, sentences that run into rambles that makes absolutely no sense. 

Katya takes my hands in hers to steady me; she must think I’m delusional. Her touch, once so warm and comforting, now sears red hot deep through my muscles. She opens her mouth to say something, but before any words comes out, her gaze falls on a pale blue Book with a silver-scratched spine.

“Why- why does this have my name on it?” she looks at me skeptically.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Because it’s your Book of Destiny.”

“What?”

“I’m psychic,” I admit, and her brain whirls, a jolt of shock in her red aura burning me.

“What?” she repeats, squinting her eyes at me. 

“Please let me explain,” I try but she throws the Book at me.

“Is this all just a big joke to you? Am I just a big joke to you?”

“No, Katya, wait!”

“Forget it!” she shoves me back as she tries to get by me in the narrow aisle, but we both end up toppling, a fall that trips me into the splintery bookshelf; I cut my hand on the sharp wood.

“Ah!” I wince from the sting even though I know it’ll be over in a second.

But Katya doesn’t know. Even furious at me, she still gasps and instinctively grabs my hand in concern – sees the gash slick with blood before it completely heals itself in front of her eyes

“What – but you – I saw,” she jumps away and stares at me in disbelief. “This: this is unnatural. You are unnatural!” she yells and races out the door, letting it swing loudly and firmly shut behind her.

I know.

I curl my knees up and bury my head in my arms. I know. I’ve known, but hearing it from her confirms it: she has made her choice.