Silvia Moreno-Garcia - Future Lovecraft

“Surgery! What kind of surgery?” They cried, this time in unison.

“When something is diseased or broken or wrong, it should be cut out, like a cancer. Don’t you agree?”

“There are no cancers in my books, only ideas,” said Iris.

“Ah, my dear Iris, I’m sure you would agree that ideas can sometimes be dangerous, that wrong ideas can spread like disease until they infect entire civilisations.”

The creature’s beaming, oily smile made Thyme want to smash her fist right into the middle of that blubbery gob.

Iris thought about The Elder’s words before she answered. “I believe, if people read enough, are educated enough—think about hard things enough, they can protect themselves against dangerous ideas.”

“My darling Iris, you are so idealistic. “

“I’m not your darling.”

“And who gets to decide which ideas are good and which are dangerous?” Thyme demanded.

“In this case, I do.”

“Wait! No…I get it.” A shining yellow globe lit up above Iris’ head. “That’s what those horrid bees are doing. They’re changing texts—to suit…YOU!”

“What a clever child you are.”

“That’s monstrous.”

“Why bother? Nobody reads these books—nobody but us, anyway. The rest of the world gets its ideas from electronic libraries.” Thyme, muttered.

“That’s right. And where do you think electronic libraries get their texts from?”

“Huh?”

“Your books, and those in the other central depositories, are the foundation texts for all the world’s electronic media.”

“So, if you change our copy, you change all the rest.”

“What smart little girlies you are.”

Growling and hissing, Thyme was temporarily beyond speech, so Iris took up the cudgel.

“Let me see if I understand you correctly: You’re not re-writing history….”

“That’s so passé. Nobody believes what’s in history books, anymore.”

“Because monsters like you have re-written them so often.”

“I’ll ignore that, but yes, history books have become irrelevant. Facts don’t influence individual actions—except for soldiers, anyway.”

“And you think novels do?”

“Certainly. The world’s great books form the underlying paradigms of all human behaviour.”

“At least we agree on something. What’s wrong with our books the way they are?”

“Oh, Iris, are you really so naïve? Your books are so nice…so moral. They have nothing to teach us about how to live in a modern world.”

“You’re saying that if Madame Bovary hadn’t been so guilt-ridden, she wouldn’t have ended up riding around the French countryside with her lover’s head on her lap?”

“Exactly. Had she been more pragmatic, she’d have lived a long and happy life.”

“Next, you’ll say Anna Karenina shouldn’t have thrown herself in front of that train.”

“Stupid, stupid, stupid…a sorry waste of human resources.”

“You think that, by changing the plots of great novels, you can influence how people behave? That’s nonsense—nobody cares about literature these days.”

“Not necessarily. Even if very few have read a particular book, everyone knows the basics. The ideas in them permeate our global consciousness.”

“You think altering the core ideas in our books will change human behaviour? said Thyme. “It won’t work. Nobody but people like us reads, anymore. The general population won’t be exposed to your changes,” said Iris.

“That’s because your books ,” the Elder sneered, “are so removed from real life. But if I and my bees bring these into line with current realities…Do you have any idea how many people think popular media—novels, TV, films…ARE the truth? Remember the flap back in the ‘oughties caused by Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code?”

“Yuck! Unfortunately.” Iris looked as if she had bitten into something rotten and very bad-tasting.

Thyme said, “You want to Dan-Brownify our classical heritage?”

“Please.” The creature looked affronted. “Nothing so egregious as that. I like to think I’m a better writer.”

“Irrelevant. We can’t allow you to pervert our books.”

“How do you plan to stop me?” the monster sneered. The effrontery of these two simple young women delighted him.

“We’ll burn the Necronomicon —all the copies, in all the depositories. How many copies exist? Five?” asked Thyme.

“Six,” prompted Iris.

“You can’t…you wouldn’t do that,” it said, horrified.

“We can and we will, if you don’t leave our books alone.”

“I…I will have to consider that….” The Elder retracted all its tentacles and humanoid features. The twins were facing a massive, featureless, stone obelisk.

“What’s to think about? You leave our books alone or your book is a goner!” Thyme shouted.

“Dead, splat…ash,” added Iris.

An eye and a speaking tube appeared. “I could kill you, or keep you here—turn you into ice statues.”

“You could, but you won’t,” said Iris.

“Why is that, pray tell? Please enlighten me.”

“Because our colleagues know we were looking for the source of the books’ distress. If we don’t return, they will initiate a meticulous search of the stacks.” Iris was lying baldly, hoping the monster wouldn’t guess.

“They’d find your eye into our world,” added Thyme, smiling.

“Humphf!” grunted the Elder. “We seem to have reached something of an impasse.”

“I would say so.”

“Let me see if I understand this correctly: If I don’t stop altering the books in your library, you will destroy the foundation document of my world, left for safe-keeping—and in good faith—in your TGB.”

“That sums it up,” said Thyme. “And all the other copies.”

“If I promise to leave your books alone and return you safely to your blasted library, you promise to leave my books alone?”

“Done,” said both.

“ Do you promise never to come to my world again?”

“Definitely! I’d offer to shake on it, but I might vomit all over you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” The Elder produced a high-pitched humming sound that continued for several seconds, bringing a phalanx of gangly mantis creatures at a gallop. “See that these two are delivered intact back to the portal from which they entered.’”

High, fluting voices responded. “Yes, Your Evilness! Nothing will happen to these ugly creatures while we clean them out of our home.”

“Good. Now get them out of here.”

The Mantis Guard, forming a tight square around Iris and Thyme, marched forward. There was no escape and nothing to be done but move with them. After about ten metres, the ground under their feet disappeared. They were flying upwards though what seemed to be a giant wormhole. As on the downward journey, time ceased to register until they were propelled through a membrane in the tunnel. Pop!—and they were back in the library.

“Ow, that was weird,” said Iris. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.”

“What time is it?”

Thyme looked at her watch, which had started working again, “It reads 22:00 hours. Can that be right? We’re back before we left?”

“Let’s go to the front desk and check.”

As the twins walked through the tunnels of stacks towards the reception area, a soft, melodious humming began. “Iris, what’s that?”

“I think the books are thanking us.”

“Oh, how lovely.”

In the cavernous, marble reception area, everything looked just as it always did. The brass clock above the main desk read 22:15. “Look at that,” “said Thyme. “It felt like we’d been gone for hundreds of years.”