The magpie hunts for that which shines. She does not understand why she seeks it; the emperor who once took clay and dirt and the feathers of the sparrow and the rooster and mixed it all together to create the magpie believed it was a mere physiological quirk. A crossing of the five agents that regulate the bodily functions, leading to subtle yet profound needs born due to the magpie’s chimeric nature. It was in all magpies to yearn for this animalistic pleasure; it was just that no other like her existed yet. The emperor knew this was to change in the near future, just like it was overseen by all emperors before him, who had created all that could be perceived by the senses.
The great general that commanded all armies under Heaven believed the magpie was merely someone yet to be trained in the arts of humanity, in the arts of courtesy and manners. The magpie did not prostrate itself before the great elders, before the emperor and his consort and his three sons and two daughters, before the statues of the great sovereigns, before the dragon who had domain over the constellations. The magpie was a wild beast; a useful beast, but an ignorant one too. Nothing but a being without a soul within her body, without a thought inside that rather thin skull of hers. But this lack of finesse wasn’t a serious illness, he would say, and once war fell upon them, the magpie would become a proper human. With some luck, a proper woman as well.
The great scribe of the Heavens, who visited every city and every fort, who walked the earth without her own feet ever touching the dirt, and who flew higher than any bird — the magpie included — without the need of wings believed that the magpie was missing a piece in her life. Something that the emperor couldn’t make with simple clay and dirt, with the feathers and the bone fragments. Something that couldn’t be taught through studying or through beatings. It was something that wasn’t to be found within the books of the great library the emperor had constructed the magpie to take care of, not even within the passages of the great book of happenings that the scribe carried with her. Whatever this shining piece was, the magpie had to find it all on her own, because no one could comprehend her needs but the magpie herself. What a sad creature, the magpie turned out to be. Oh, would but a single soul weep for her?
The magpie would, and could, but had no tears for herself. She wept, the magpie remembered, when the emperor and his children were thrown out of their fortresses and castles, and were forced to drink piss and eat mud, and each received the sharp end of a dagger to their side, and were dropped into a mass grave, with no regard for rank or status, forgotten by the world at large.
She did not weep when the great general was decapitated, his head paraded like a trophy through the streets of Handan, Hunan, Guangdong. She did weep, however, when the scribe, by virtue of her role, walked along the new emperor, the man who had destroyed the magpie’s world, and everyone who resided in it.
“Not everything.” The voice of the Chief archivist resonated inside her magpie head, reverberating throughout her brain like the old bronze bells atop the old imperial library, those which signaled the opening and closure of the doors each day. “You’re right,” The magpie would respond. “I still have the books I took with me when I chose the realm of the snake over mine.”
“I meant you managed to keep your life intact, dear archivist.” And the tiniest of smiles would be flash-shot into the magpie’s consciousness, the only manner in which the Chief archivist — an abhorrent mix of putrid bark and poisonous mushroom fused to the rest of the library — was able to present the emotions they felt to others. The magpie didn’t enjoy it, although it served a better purpose than hiding one’s emotions, like she would be doing now.
“What is the point of a life that cannot be lived, dear archivist?” The strain on those last words was unnecessary, and both knew it, yet it couldn’t be helped. She hadn’t yet found that which shined; the remaining piece of the puzzle that was the magpie’s life, and it had left her utterly frustrated. It had been years since her abscond into the greatest library of them all, yet the turbulence of the heart remained.
“No life cannot be lived.”
“Not even one chained to the ground by the whims of an uncaring God?” And images of a great snake flashed into the Chief archivist’s cortex, the mind spores a two-way communicator.
“Not even one chained to the ground by the scars of a thought-to-be-cursed existence.” And their talk stopped there. The Chief archivist, despite their kind disposition, had other matters to attend to: The rebuilding of the library, and the accommodation of an infinite amount of wanderers, for starters. They also knew when they had pushed enough. The magpie, meanwhile, returned to her cursed existence: She picked up an old book, one she hadn’t read in many years prior, and as she lazed about on her old librarian desk, returning to her unfulfilling current life: That of waiting for a soul to seek the books she had brought into this place, an event which had occurred a total of zero times since her arrival. When the emperor and the general and the scribe wished to explain to the magpie the meaning of that which shined, they never stopped to consider whether the magpie was a shiny object to any other being in the world or not.
Now it was too late to ask for their opinion on the matter.
“Mind if I peruse the books you guard, librarian?” A voice, the most gentle of them all awoke the magpie, who had merely closed her eyes for one moment, and now had her beak drooling over invaluable scriptures. Thankfully, her saliva would only fall upon old messages scribbled over turtleshell bones, minimal wear compared to yellowed rice paper. A blessing in disguise, she thought. Using a handkerchief to compose herself, she turned to the gentle voice, an old man in a rather peculiar dress: White ascetic garbs accompanied by a tall, wumao hat, or an eboshi hat, as the magpie would soon learn. The man looked both older than any man she’d ever seen, yet as young and full of energy as a warrior in his early twenties. This, the magpie understood, was a quality shared by many immortal hermits, the kind of person who would meditate for hundreds of years, eating naught but the sap that trickled down the young trees and the lichen growing off caverns, and would drink naught but the perspired dew that gathered atop the red stones in the morning. She had met a couple before, where her head was protected by the mandate of Heaven, and not that of the Serpent.
“They are not my books, hermit. They are the library’s.” The magpie explained, stretching her wings such that they recovered their rightful places, instead of being plastered in the shape of her desk against the shape of her face.
“Strange, as that is not what the Chief archivist muttered as they guided me here.” The hermit chuckles, mouth covered by his sleeve as it was customary by scholars in the old times, back in the old world.
“They’re a new archivist, only a few cycles into their post. Still wet behind the ears. Not that they have ears, of course, but that’s besides the point.” The magpie explained lazily, placing her hand over a small wooden box over her desk, containing a small wooden pipe and a small quantity of the substance meant to be smoked on it. “Although I cannot blame them for believing the Library needs a bit more of a unique personality than that it currently holds.”
“Personality? Is that what the librarians in charge of it all are called?” The hermit asks. Did he want to annoy the magpie, she wondered, yet only for a split moment. No use getting angry over a person she would never see again.
“So what are you looking for, hermit?”
“Ah, right. I discovered, through word of mouth and the singing of friendly birds — much like you, I suppose — that this place had a collection of writings by the scribe known as Tianhong, who I did not know had ever shared her work. Intrigued, I followed the thread of fate that links one’s future to one’s present, which has led me here, to the desk of the magpie.”
At the mention of the name, the magpie froze, as if deer in front of a night carriage. Tianhong. That was the name of the scribe, of course, the woman who flew without the need of wings, unlike the magpie, who was tethered to the ground despite being built for soaring the skies.
“Why do you seek her, hermit?” The magpie asked, nay, demanded, the first time in so long that her emotions controlled, instead of the other way around. The magpie wondered if the previous Chief archivist would be shocked to see her in this state, perturbed in a way no other happening of the library had managed.
“I seek for my better half, librarian.” At that, a prick of the heart, like a plum fruit falling into the ground, wasted, uneaten. “Ah, by that I don’t mean the scribe, worry not. I have yet to achieve such a level of lunacy as to pretend to be able to sway the universe itself to my will, to pretend powers beyond understanding could dance at the top of my hand.” A moment of relief, although the sting still remained for a long time, the magpie would come to realize.
“Of course not, hermit, I wasn’t thinking otherwise.” Yet her face betrayed the magpie, as expressive as the face of a magpie could be. “That being said, how are her writings useful to you, hermit? Does your loved one hide amid these pages?”
“You could say that, yes.” The hermit hid his smile behind his sleeve again, before bowing. “Apologies for disregarding one’s introduction, librarian. One’s name is that of Miyako no Yoshika, and it is in my meeting with Tianhong that I came to truly understand that what I seeked was not the immortal life of a hermit, but the person whom I had become immortal for, whom I want to spend the rest of my unending life with.”
A story like many others; a scholar seeking immortality, but not because of what it entails, but because it is the road to what truly matters. To that last piece of the puzzle. That which shines.
“… Come take a seat, Miyako no Yoshika.” The magpie declared, raising from her own, leaving the pipe behind to move towards the bookcases, recently rebuilt, which contained every single piece of writing the librarian had supervision over. “I must admit that in many cycles, none had asked for the books I treasure. As such, it might take me a while to find the specific writings you are looking for…”
“Well, not that I had given you much to work with, librarian.” Miyako no Yoshika points out, but the magpie continues looking through the first tomes at hand.
“Continue your story then, hermit. It would help me find that which you seek and, on a personal note, I also am intrigued by the happenings of your life.” The magpie smiled.
“Didn’t expect you to be, I must admit.” Miyako no Yoshika uttered, before the magpie turned around, pulling a small tea set from under the desk, serving the scholar tea that remained hot and fresh no matter what, a relic from ancient times.
“We both like to listen to, and share stories. We wouldn’t still be thinking of the scribe otherwise.”
“Of that, I can heartily agree.” The hermit smiled; this time, it passed by uncovered, etiquette thrown out the window. “Well, where was I then?… Ah yes, I suppose a good place is year and location. The year would be the second year of Jōgan — year 860 in the calendar of Christ — and the location would be Heian-kyō… I believe they call it Kyoto now…”
The conversation continued, and the magpie didn’t notice it then, but as the hermit talked, and the librarian listened, a certain kind of light emanated from within, a light only visible to those placing the puzzle piece down.
“I won’t allow it.”
“You– You don’t have the authority to–”
“And you do?!”
“Of course I do, I’m your direct superior–”
“Alright, time out, time out.” It was the older twin who had to intervene; the mediator, as the many patrons of the library called them. The older, if just by mere instants, yet the role carried its weight around these parts. It always had, and that frightened them as much as it empowered them. Nothing as frightening, however, as having to break off fights between disgruntled librarians and their younger twin. “You people are gonna be the end of me.”
“I am not here to fight, Feros. You know that well.” The magpie was quick to take the older twin’s good side while trying to fend off the younger. This was a tried and true tactic she’d used before on them. Effective as, despite being each their own person, for matters related to the library, they were but one entity, making capitulations easier to manipulate.
“Yes, I know, but–”
“Oh, don’t give her reason, Feros. She’s manipulating you. She laughs in your face! Or, behind your back, I guess is more accurate.”
“I am only derisory towards one Xorvar, Ferra, and I hate to disappoint you’ve gotten my target wrong all this time.”
“You little–”
“Enough!” The older Xorvar raised their voice, and the two others realized it had indeed been enough. “I understand both your positions, so I have only one thing to say to each of you.”
Feros turned towards their twin first. “You, Ferra, are so intelligent, so sure of yourself, and capable, and yet, that humor of yours… We will work on it, that I promise.”
“Are you really telling me–”
“I haven’t finished. Please.” Feros then turned towards the magpie, and in their eyes the magpie could already tell what their next words would be. “Magpie, dear, you also must understand that, as soldiers of the will of the library, we are to obey the decrees that, in the minds of us all, are understood as the most sound, the most logical of solutions for our current predicaments, and as such–”
“Lots of words to say you’re taking my books away.” The magpie growled, tired of these antics.
“They are not yours. They weren’t even yours before you came here.” Ferra pointed out, and as much as it wounded the magpie to admit so, they were right.
“They were entrusted to me.” The magpie uttered, yet knew what would come next.
“And you entrusted them to the library.” Ferra added, a slight smile drawing on their face, the kind that would have made the magpie punch them. Ah, if only they weren’t the Chief archivist now. “Now the library, using that trust, has deemed it necessary for the original texts to be taken down into the Archives, where they will be safe for time immemorial.”
“The previous Chief told me that wouldn’t be necessary.”
“Well, a lot has happened since then, you see.” Feros tried to interfere, knowing it would be for naught, but would at least cause less of a commotion than if Ferra was given full freedom to say whatever they wanted to say to the magpie. “More books than ever have gone missing or have been destroyed, and many speak in hushed words of a future of fire and destruction. A future where the library is no more. We cannot allow that to happen, so we’re taking the proper measures to ensure the safeguarding of as much of the library as possible.”
“Which is why I will protect them, like I’ve done so for countless years, and continue to do so for, hopefully, many more.”
“Which is also why we’re making copies of the tomes, such that you can protect those from your position of librarian. The information on those books is extremely important, and it must still reach all those who seek for it. We’re not against that, you see. This way, we all fulfill our duties and protect that which we hold dear, while the books you treasure so much remain protected from all danger. Isn’t that a win for every single one of us?”
“Still…” But the magpie was not content. There was a certain something that was being ripped from her wings, something material yet immaterial that couldn’t quite be described. She valued those books for the information they held, yes, and it was ridiculous to consider the new copies as lesser ones when the ones she held were also copies of an original… And yet, there was something to those copies that completed her. Something that Tianhong had left in them that meant much more than the ink and paper that composed them. Something that she hadn’t managed to see until much, much later. The last piece of the puzzle of her self.
“Still what?” Ferra added, reinforcing her lack of trust. Something about the control they exerted felt wrong. Sure, their words rang true, and yet, as the library grew, she felt a loss in the grip she held here. The books were hers, she knew, and yet, they didn’t feel as such. If they were to be copied then taken away, then she would lose the last piece forever. She… S-she…
“… Nothing.” She sighed, knowing that her feelings meant very little against the will of the library. “You’re right, this is ridiculous.”
“Oh, no, no, it’s not ridiculous, librarian.” Feros explained, putting a hand on the magpie’s right shoulder. “I would very much prefer you fight tooth and nail over this decision–” “I certainly didn’t prefer the fighting, for the record!” “–than you ceding to our demands without as much as a single thought. It shows that you care, librarian, and that’s important. Do never let go of that part of you that, after all these cycles, still cares.”
“… Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Thanks.” The magpie smiled, her love reinforced by the words of Feros. A thought came to her, one that she enjoyed, yet not for good reasons. Yeah, they were right. She cared, unlike anyone else in this library. And she would never let go of that feeling. She had all the time in the world, so it was plenty of time to learn how to never let go. That’s what magpies do, after all. They seek the shiny bits to the end of the world, to make them their own.
“Are you sure about this?” The Chief archivist asked, feigning worry. They couldn’t care less about the magpie’s desires. It was only by convenience that they stood next to each other, and not as adversaries.
“I’ve never been as sure of this as I’ve been right now.” The magpie replied, looking forwards, towards the The Chief archivist and all who accompanied them on this suicidal charade, the last flight of the souless, the last heist amid the great war.
“Then hold onto that feeling of confidence. It will be needed down there, where we’re going.” They laughed. A laugh filled with void, with nothing but a love for oneself, and yet, there was something past the veil, something ulterior the magpie could never figure out, perhaps a blessing in disguise.
“Hell?” The magpie replied, and many laughed. A laughter filled with fear. Hell was a better destiny than that which awaited them.
“Or Heaven. We won’t know until we try.” The Chief archivist added, and, before anyone else could react, took the first leap into the core of the library. Towards the Archives.
The magpie, given no time to react, quickly followed, opening her wings, only to close them again. When was the last time she soared in the sky? Never, was the answer to that, and this was no different: She was plummeting. And yet, it felt so liberating. It felt so right, diving down into the Archives, to rescue that which rightfully belonged to her. Diving past docents, past pages, past traps and weapons, past corpses and burnt fragments of a world that once brought her peace, the world she had turned to when the great Emperor Qin Shi Huang had decided that history started with him, and sent his troops to burn all libraries, to kill all scholars and librarians, to erase history, the magpie included. And now, she once again found herself against troops that would burn and ransack it all, who were willing to destroy it all, and part of the magpie regretted being on the side of the pillager.
Yet, once she held the nineteenth tome of the writings of Tianhong in her hands, it was all forgotten. All forgiven. The smell of the cypress leaf that used to decorate the book as a bookmark, the same kind she used in the imperial library, now forever lost. The same dilapidated texture of all writings on rice that Tianhong used to carry, and the gravelly crinkles that the heavenly ink left on said paper, rough to the touch yet so caring visually, still remembering the white, kind hands that used fine feathers to carve beautiful stories onto the corpses of trees and vegetation as per royal-divine decree. She could almost hear the voice of the scribe as she handled the tome, as she brought it close to her chest.
She could still hear it as the Great General of the Library’s Armies descended upon her, her bird-like talons ripping into flesh and bone.
“You should have been killed on the spot, like you so rightfully deserved.”
The magpie wanted to open her eyes, but found herself struggling. A great weight of spirit didn’t allow her such pleasantries. She would suffer her end without acknowledging the person in front of her.
“Yet, the Great Gryphon chose to spare you. Perhaps you deserve worse than death. Perhaps you deserve a fair trial.”
“… Fairness… You can’t talk of fairness when–”
“Spare me your words, traitor. It’s trouble enough that the Chief archivist and many under them chose to betray us. I don’t want to indulge you in your twisted sense of justice.”
“… At least it is understood there is justice involved…” The magpie chuckled, and her whole body trembled as she did so. Her wings were broken, her organs pierced. The Great Gryphon was a fearsome creature. She shuddered at the thought of the great beast taking the place of the current Chief archivist.
“… Three counts of injury against fellow librarians, five counts of injury against fellow patrons, the organization and conducting of a heist into the third Great Archive, and the stealing of forty five books for personal gain. What do you have to say about these accusations?”
“Have you ever loved?…”
“… I am not gonna entertain you.”
“I don’t…” Deep breaths, trying to steady herself. “I don’t mean the love one feels towards a wife or a husband. I mean the love you feel towards a mentor, a… A master, a being so grand and magnificent you cannot help but love it.”
“I love the library, if that answers your query.” They respond. “Maybe you should have loved it as well.”
“I loved the library, but it was never my library. It was the Serpent’s… And the Serpent is quite greedy, you see. It takes so much, and rarely does it ever give back. It lends a lot, and the interest is quite affordable, but it never fails to collect.”
“I hope you understand the heavy weight these words will have on your–”
“I loved Tianhong, the way a child loves the man who rescues him from a fire. The way a child loves the man who gives him half his portion of bread amid a great famine. And I loved my library, the way a man loves the child he rescues from a fire, the way a man loves the child who he gives half his portion of bread amid the great famine.”
The magpie was given silence as an answer, so she continued. “The Serpent will never be Tianhong, for it has not given me a story to listen to, enjoy and share with others, nor a reason to do so, and the Library will never be my Library, for there are no farmers who seek help with their crops, and children who seek help with their homework. Once every many cycles, I find a farmer, or a child, or a scholar that hasn’t lost their mind to the enticement of infinite knowledge, but such a thing is rare.”
“So you’ve decided to steal the books because the library doesn’t cater to your selfish needs? Is that it?”
“… I guess so, yes.” The magpie couldn’t help but laugh. There it was, the honest truth. “I trusted the library with them, and that trust was betrayed. Wouldn’t it make sense for me to be able to recover them? I never sold them to the library after all; no change in propriety took place. Besides, we have many copies, after all. Unless there is more weight to the paper than the words contained within, which I can assure you there isn’t. Every Chief archivist before them assured me so. Unless it’s my trust that they’ve come to betray?”
The magpie finished her spiel, and only then she was able to open her eyes. By then, no one stood before her, having been abandoned in a cell she had never seen before. She never thought the library would deem building cells a necessity, yet here she stood. They really made her believe things would be different from the land on Earth when she entered this realm, huh? What a fool she’d been.
With difficulty, she raised herself, using the nearby stone wall as support, then the metal bars covering the only window. Staring out, the magpie saw many things, most of which she had seen before: War, pain, famine. She didn’t care for any of this, however. Instead, she cared for what still remained within her chest.
Carefully, she sat down on the ground, and pulled out a small wooden box she had managed to recover from within her plumage. Covered in blood and burnt in places, a day before the magpie would have wept inconsolably at its state, yet now, she couldn’t feel anything but glee at this last piece she held. Running her hands through the carvings the scribe had left on that last day, she calmly read the last words she’d ever read.
I pray your flight does not meet winter.
“… I’m sorry, miss scribe. It seems I couldn’t evade the cold winds. O, how powerful they turned out to be… And yet, so warm. Who knew the sunbeams would shine so brightly against the snowflake?” The magpie laughed as the guards returned. The firmness in their eyes said it all: a verdict had been made.
The magpie placed the wooden box to the side, then accepted deathbanishmentoblivionexile.
“And here they are.” The Great Rounderpede, greatness not only in title, but also in size and length, replies, stretching several articulated arms towards a special area of the library. While I couldn’t quite understand the special nature of the area — I had only been told it was — it did appear to radiate a certain level of care that surpassed that of other libraries that contained my work, albeit in impressiveness, it matched quite easily with the rest of the place. A beautiful show of care, and I must say I very much prefer the equal treatment over the special kind I used to be showered with in the previous millennia.
“It is quite beautiful. The biggest collection of my writings.” I mutter, and although I seemed unimpressed, it was quite the opposite. I was not aware that so many of the entries I have written throughout the years had made their way to a physical medium other than the scrolls I myself possess. “I didn’t even know anyone possessed most of the writings here.”
“Well, if they exist, then they will make their way to the library.” The Great Rounderpede responds, half matter-of-factly, half proudly. His body coils inwardly, and I cannot help but stare at the spectacle, almost as impressed by a surviving member of the great mukades of Lake Biwa as I was impressed by my writings at the Library.
“I suppose they do exist then… If only as copies of a copy.” I muttered, picking up one of the tomes I wrote on my visits to the Great Kingdom of Joseon, noticing they were not written in the heavenly ink I used, onto the heavenly paper I possess.
“Oh yeah, that. Sorry, lots of pre-searing books have been lost to the fires of oblivion, or stolen by pesky Magpies. Most of these are copies, I’d bet.” The Great Rounderpede explains, picking up another book at random, nodding to himself as he did so.
I hear the word ‘pre-searing’ and I cannot help but wonder what hides beneath such ominous words. The Great Rounderpede’s eyes, which I must assume are either massive plates or thousands of ocelli, show no glint of an answer behind them, and so I must ask. Yes, that is what Tianhong the scribe wants, to learn more of the world of the Library where my books have come to find their way, and yet, Tianhong the Celestial cannot help but grow attached to a different word pronounced by the Chief archivist.
“Quite curious, that of the Magpies.” I mention, and with both precision and decision, put the book back and pull out another one; from a different era, and a different empire. “One of my very first friends was a Magpie. A beautiful girl, who had been tasked with carrying oh so much over her tiny shoulders. She had been in charge of many of the books you see here; copies too, of course.” At that, I read a couple passages of that last story, smiling as I do so. “I remember her leaving for a Great Library from which there would be no return. Could it be, perhaps, that this and that are one and the same?”
“I mean, sure, could be.” The Great Rounderpede replies, caught off guard on topics he had no knowledge over. “Although I doubt it. If a magpie had made their way into the library with a pile of books, then we wouldn’t consider their namesake equal to that of petty thieves.”
“I suppose that is true, Great Rounderpede.” I mutter, and as I put the book back in its place, I notice a small wooden box, the same I remember having given to my friend the Magpie back then, as a parting gift. “And yet, one can dream.”
Our talk continued on, jumping onto many topics, mainly those of the story of the Library, but I admit I couldn’t pay as much attention as I wanted to. I was thinking about the wooden box. About the Magpie. It is said that a single magpie in spring, a foul weather it will bring, yet what of a magpie in winter?
I believe a magpie in winter may bring pain onto itself, for how could it fly when its wings have frozen down to the bone? Yet, if it continues to fly, then it signals that good times are coming: Even the foulest of weathers in spring is still spring, not winter anymore. And so, even if I were to encounter a wooden box gifted to a friend in a place where the mere mention of a Magpie brings discomfort, I can leave with the knowledge that the wooden box is but a copy, and who else would make a copy, nay, who else would take the original, but the Magpie herself?
It seems, friend, that you are still out there, flying against the harshest of winds. Have you been taking care of yourself? Have you made sure not to lose your way? And most importantly, have you found that which you seeked, that last piece of the puzzle that composes your life?
There’s no need to answer now. I know you’ll have the answer ready when we meet again.