The Library At The End Of The World - Bonus Material

A giant of a man, simply dressed in a shapeless hessian bag. He flipped off his sandals

revealing rough, cracked feet. Sitting himself on a rock, he flexed his feet, eyeing the gnarly

nails which curled over and under his toes, encapsulating them entirely.

‘And today?’ he asked, not looking over his shoulder but knowing she was behind him. It

used to be that they went centuries without meeting, but recently it was as if they were

spiralling in towards each other.

‘Same as yesterday.’ The woman was equally mammoth, though she carried the bulk with

more grace.

‘Did you try the galleries?’

‘The entire east side.’

He whistled. ‘I remember when there was nothing easier than piggy-backing on the

inspiration in a museum or gallery.’

‘I remember when you used to clean your ears. Is that moss?’

He picked up a stick and poked contemplatively at his hairy ear. ‘Scarce and hard-

hearted. That’s what we’ve got to work with.’

‘Oh, come now.’ She nudged him to make space on the rock for her to sit. ‘You say that

every few centuries. Remember when you thought the Vikings had no potential, but then they

whipped up those saga poems.’

‘You always had a soft spot for Vikings, Florence. Look at you.’

She swished her hair. ‘Blonde and I tan. Annoying isn’t it?’ Growing more serious, she

added, ‘Don’t be despondent. There’s a natural evolution of text. It’s all happened before –

letters emerge, different alphabets form, sprout forth and converge. They become increasingly

complex and obsessed with grammar.’

‘Nominative versus accusative conjugation,’ he growled. ‘Neuter gender indefinite article

—’

‘Yes, yes,’ she shushed him. But that’s the way of it – hundreds of years accumulating

syntax baggage, airs and graces pushing the written word further and further from the spoken

word until it implodes into a picture. E-mo-ji.’

‘Florence, I’m not having this conversation again. Hieroglyphics are not the same as

emoticons. Rock paintings are different too, by the way.’

She shrugged. ‘Then comes the cosmic event. What was it last time, smallpox?’

‘You’re not even trying to make this realistic.’

‘And sure enough, letters re-emerge.’

‘Not this time,’ he said. ‘Hieroglyphs and emojis still required reading. This latest

development, uploading information instantly to the brain, negates storytelling. Where’s the

interpretation, the nuance? We’re gone, Florence. Obsolete.’

‘There was always someone sidestepping us – telepaths, tea-readers.’

1He dropped his grizzled head into his palms and groaned in exasperation. ‘The seven

original stories … they used to call us gods.’

‘I warned you not to let that go to your head, Merv.’

‘And look.’ He wriggled his toes. ‘There’s moss between my toes too.’

‘We’ll pull through like we always do. You’re decades away from being entirely mossed

over.’ She patted his back. ‘Or perhaps we’re not needed for the next stage of social evolution

and this is where it ends.’

‘Not … needed?’

She leant back on the rock and surveyed the potted scrubland on all sides. A desolate sort

of place but not devoid of beauty. The flatness gave the skies an expansive grandeur. ‘I have a

good feeling about this place. Let’s give it one more try.’

‘Working together?’

‘Desperate times. Besides, it’ll take an army to de-weed you,’ she said sweetly. ‘Let’s

hope the other five are en route.’

Merv sighed and shook his head. ‘The clay tablets phase was my favourite. You could

feel the weight of the words in your hands. Any chance we could get those back?’

Florence laughed, hopped up and held out a hand to him.

‘Okay.’ He shoved his gnarled feet into the sandals and slapped his knees decisively. ‘One

more try.’ He took her hand and creaked to his feet.

They took a moment to survey the lacklustre plains before setting out.

He pointed to a cloud. ‘Turtle or bear?’

‘Turtle,’ she said without hesitation.

And they headed where their feet took them.