Before I can brace myself for the impact, my neighbor somehow materializes behind me and holds me upright. I don’t even spill a drop of candle wax. “But... what…” I stammer, pulling myself free from his arms.
“First, sit down, Max,” he says with his signature soothing voice but this time it doesn’t have its usual calming effect on me. Right now, I’d love to wipe that benevolent smile off his face and kick him against his leg to get some kind of reaction. “What’s happening?!” I nearly shout.
“I told you I read a lot, Max. And well... believe it or not, almost everything can be found in books—if you look long enough, of course.” I don’t f-ing care about books. I want answers. Real, clear, direct understandable, unambiguous answers. Now!
“I’m sure you want some answers by now, Max?”
“Eh... actually... I...”
“You’ll get them, I promise, but first sit down.” This time, I lower myself into one of the two armchairs, which look like they came from a 19th-century club for well-to-do gentlemen. My neighbor observes me, a little knowing smile curling his lips. Normally, it would make me feel small and insignificant, but not today. Today, feeling small is not an option. For once, I want to be taken seriously.
“You want to be taken seriously, Max, I get that.” This is getting creepy, I think. Is he reading my mind or something? No! I correct myself instantly. Don’t lose your head, Tinderstick. And when I finally respond, I manage to keep my voice as steady as possible. “Okay, I’m listening.”
"It's a long story, Max, maybe even a boring one, but after what you've experienced tonight, I think you'd want to hear it." He straightens his back. "As you know, books are kind of my thing—books, books, and more books." He smiles, acknowledging his own nerdiness. "Without the invention of writing and the printing press, we'd still be living in the Dark Ages. Books are of incalculable importance, yet they are incredibly vulnerable. They get destroyed—by fire, by water, by people, by time. Countless writings with essential knowledge have been erased from our collective memory." He pauses.
"Aye, this sounds suspiciously like one of Perkins' more boring lessons," I think.
“My mother was not what you’d call a ‘normal’ woman. In the tiny village we lived in, she was considered, well... a witch, and because of that, we were shunned like a contagious disease. The milkman, the baker, the mailman, all left their deliveries on the pavement outside our garden gate and hurried off as if the devil himself were chasing them. Only the church pastor visited us occasionally, in an obvious attempt to convert us—with little success of course, though my mother always treated him with the utmost respect.” He sighs. “Obviously, my mother wasn’t a witch. She was just—how shall I put it— a bit more intellectually advanced. If only they had been a bit more open minded. Still, it was livable—until something happened that turned the villagers into a hysterical mob overnight, torching our house, destroying our possessions. All her books went up in flames. We had to flee. First, to the next village, but they knew my mother too and we were turned away before we even reached its borders. The village after that; the same, and the one after that, and so on. Our reputation traveled faster than we could ourselves. In every village, we were greeted with sticks, stones, and pitchforks, until we finally had outrun the stories. Finally we had a chance to build a new life without fear, but by then, it was already too late...” His eyes drift away.
“By the time we were finally able to settle in a real house again, my mother was extremely weak. A year of wandering from village to village, sleeping in freezing cold ditches, hiding in damp barns, and being chased by dogs had taken its toll on her. Within three months, she passed away with me sitting beside her.” He sighs. “I was inconsolable, but my mother seemed relieved, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Despite the pain she was in, she was proud. Proud that she finally found me a home, and proud of me for helping her all these years. But I wasn’t proud at all. I was overwhelmed with grief. I was only seven, and my mother was my entire world. All I felt was an all-consuming rage. I was furious at all the ignorant, stupid people who had driven us away, blaming them for her death. My mother just smiled. ‘Ah, my dear,’ she said, ‘don’t waste energy on people who don’t know what they’re doing. I know it’s hard, but forgiving is better than hating. Maybe one day you’ll understand.” And then she was gone... literally. Her body dissolved into thin air. It only took 20 seconds.”
Shit! He nearly had me. I almost believed him.
"I do understand that it’s hard to believe, Max, but I think it’s important you hear me out. At least believe this much: my mother, while wandering from village to village, taught me as much as she could. All her books had been destroyed, so this was the only way. I rehearsed and repeated everything she told me until I could reproduce it verbatim, and I continued doing so even after she died. Perhaps she foresaw it; perhaps she didn’t. Over time, the endless repetitions became a form of meditation. Slowly, I felt my anger melt away, replaced by a universal truth: we can only solve problems with knowledge, not hate. All violence stems from fear, and fear arises from ignorance. I was ten years old when that realization finally took hold of me. To honor her and pursue even greater knowledge, I began collecting books with a fanaticism that verged on obsession. At first, it was relatively easy. The books I needed could still be found in bookstores, pawn shops and libraries. But soon enough, they became so rare and valuable that I needed money. Lots of it. Luckily, knowledge can be used to generate wealth—and I did just that. By the time I was thirteen, I was filthy rich, using all that money to acquire ever more extraordinary books.”
His face is nearly shrouded in darkness. The flickers of the almost dying candles light up his eyes in the dark silhouette of his face. Melancholy tinges his voice. “Eventually, I reached the inevitable point where money wasn’t enough. The books I craved couldn’t be bought anymore—not even for a billion dollars. Of course, that didn’t stop me. It only made me more... resourceful. There are other ways to get what you want, though they aren’t always legal." He looks me straight in the eyes. "Sometimes, Max, the end does justify the means—especially when the survival of the Earth is at stake."
And now I’ve had it. I disengage, drop out, retreat. Adios, toodeloo, goodbye. My neighbor has turned out to be a raving lunatic. I’ve wasted valuable time here. I need to find my father. I’m leaving. Now.