The Ships of Aleph Read Free

thousand steps from this house. I will return.’ With that it turned and left.
    I watched through the open door as the angel walked out of the village on the path down to the sea. It was soon swallowed by the mist.
    I stayed where I was for some time, thoughts running through my mind in time to my racing heart.
    Finally I resolved to follow the angel. It had not forbidden me to do so, and I would stop before I went beyond the limit it had set.
    Though I had never counted the number of steps from the village to the sea, I knew it to be far less than a thousand; yet, once clear of the village, the path merely continued as it had, a narrow track through the low grass. The further I went, the thicker the mist became, though in truth it was more like smoke, being not at all damp. By the time my count reached eight hundred I could barely see the path. I carried on for fifty more steps before unease forced me to turn around.
    Back in the village I examined the re-creation more closely. The detail was perfect, right down to the newly mended rope on the well-bucket and the yellow foxtails and late-blooming purseflowers nodding in the verges. I decided to investigate the other cottages, as the angel had suggested. I started at the modest home of the widow whose daughter was betrothed to my brother.
    I was not sure what I’d expected, but what I found certainly surprised me. The place was full of books.
    The village priest had had a shelf in his study holding a handful of religious works – Morius’ Lives of the Saints , Campur’s On the Transience of Souls and suchlike – but here every wall of every room was covered with shelves, and every shelf was full! I scanned titles until I found one I had heard of: The Travels of Alban the Tall . Alban was said to have visited every burgh in the world, and seen the sun both rise and set above the sea. I pulled the book out carefully, placed it on the table in the centre of the room, and began to read.
    Some time later I was distracted by the rumbling of my stomach. I closed the book and went back to my cottage. In the larder I found black bread and pale, bland cheese. The meagre fare was enough to stop the hunger. I drew water from the well – it tasted odd, but quenched my thirst – then went back to my book.
    When darkness fell I reluctantly left off my reading; although the recreation of my family kitchen had lamps on the shelves the angel had said nothing about providing oil, only food.
    That night I slept fitfully, and dreamt of drowning.
    The next morning more bread and cheese had appeared, along with a pot like the one my mother kept honey in; this contained a thick gloop which tasted as sweet as honey, though it held hints of other, unidentifiable flavours.
    I waited a while in case the angel returned. When it did not, I examined the other cottages and found every one packed with books. I had not known there were so many books in the world!  I also found, lying on their sides rather than upright, books with empty pages, and beside them, a quill.
    All my life I had sought learning, and here it was.
    I resolved to approach this bounty with an ordered mind. I would record my reading, and my conclusions, a job made easier by the strange quill, which wrote flawlessly without ink. I set to my task with joy.
    I also took time to explore my environment, as much to rest my eyes as because I thought I would find any new information out there. As expected, I soon encountered the thickening mist in every direction, and I experienced a disquiet that grew the further I walked from the village.
    The angel returned after ten days. I found it standing beside the table in my kitchen when I came back to my cottage for my evening meal.
    ‘Are you happy?’ it asked, as though we had left off our conversation mere moments ago.
    ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I believe I am.’
    ‘Good. Do you have all you need?’
    ‘I ... yes, I think I do. Actually ... could I have some oil? For the lamps.’
    ‘Light