A Man of the Past
by George M. Farris
Antan held an alchemical lamp in a trembling, outstretched hand, staring into the darkness of the archives. He walked lightly, shelves housing thousands of books towering above him on either side, as though he were afraid of waking someone. But it was past midnight and Antan was all alone in the archives, all alone to index and catalog as was afforded to him in his position as an apprentice monk.
At least he thought he was all alone.
“No, no,” the monk muttered to himself, his robe brushing at his ankles with each cautious step. “It must have been nothing. Must have been a mouse. Maybe a breeze from somewhere.” The archives were housed in a sprawling building that rivaled the Thorn Palace. So it was not so unlikely that a gust of wind issued forth from some forgotten corner, window, or passage, or at least he liked to believe as much. But he knew every square inch of the Vandorian Historical Archives where he labored and no such nook or cranny existed.
Attributing the phantom feeling to a potent combination of the late hour and imagination, Antan returned to the small desk where he indexed and cataloged new additions to the archives. In addition to his duties indexing and cataloging, he had endeavored, as did all of the other monks, to cross-reference every single work in the archives. It was a monumental task. It would take a lifetime, a hundred lifetimes. And it would still never be finished.
Antan returned the lamp to the desk, and he took a deep breath to calm himself. Though still jittery he resumed his duties, and before long he became so absorbed in his work that the thought of some unseen thing skirting by faded away. Still he could not shake the cold feeling that crept up his spine from time to time until dawn came.
