The Archivist’s Project 3

I arrived, eventually, at the middle section of the register, which was given over entirely to the mid-century archives. It was a tedious catalogue of names, a sprawling list of those who had attended a symposium so thoroughly forgotten that it felt an affront to even acknowledge its existence. I began at the very top of the page. Allcock, Bailey, Jones, Smith. Names so generic they acted as little more than background noise in a crowded room, entirely lacking in character. With a certain grim duty, I set my insect nib to the paper and began the process of digesting them.

As the ink marred the neat, cursive rows, a curious phenomenon occurred. The ambient sound of the library, previously a comfortable hum of settling dust, creaking floorboards, and the occasional rumble of the dumb waiter transporting books from the stacks to the main library, began to dampen. With unnatural speed, as if someone had surreptitiously turned down the volume on the world, the creaks of shelf and floorboard, the hiss and gurgle of the heating pipes and plumbing, even the hum of the recently updated electric lights gave up the…dare I say ghost?

Each name I effaced seemed to pull a layer of reality away from the chamber. I found myself holding my breath, straining to hear any remnant of the noise that had, mere moments before, defined my surroundings. The silence was thick, like deep water against the eardrums, and yet the ledger demanded more. It was a hungry volume, one that fed upon the history I deleted, and I, in my foolishness, was serving the feast with every stroke of my pen.

Despite the loss of so many volumes, the archive itself felt smaller. Rather than freeing up space, its dimensions seem to have contracted. Perhaps the archive didn’t want to be emptied and, in an attempt to make itself feel full again, had altered its own breadth? Anthropomorphising what amounts to a well-decorated sub-cellar would, mere weeks ago, have seemed foolish, but this archive seemed to live and breathe.

It reacted to the work I was doing.

Then, I hit the inevitable, irritating snag.

It was my own name.

There I was, inscribed in the register like any other minor functionary. I had been the scribe, the record-keeper, the one who had diligently noted every ‘aye’ and ‘nay’ during those interminable meetings. It was a silly, sentimental indulgence, I suppose, to keep my own name there, a petty monument to my own perceived importance in the grand, decaying machinery of this institution. But the ledger was a singularly rigorous document. It tolerated no partiality and harboured no mercy for the author. I hesitated, my heart hammering a rhythm that felt entirely out of place in such a quiet, dusty tomb. The nib of my fountain pen caught on the paper, spluttering a jagged, ink-stained protest. I stared at the letters, my own signature, and felt a sudden, profound absurdity. Was I truly to be the final editor of my own existence? The silence in the room deepened, becoming heavy, almost physical, as if the very air were waiting for my next move with bated breath. It occurred to me, with a distinctly uncomfortable jolt, that this was not merely a matter of administrative cleanup. I was standing on the threshold of a deeply personal and thoroughly unscientific conclusion. I had spent weeks pruning the hedge of history, and now, it appeared, the gardener was to be the final clipping. It was a joke, surely, a cosmic, cruel irony that would have amused a better man than I. For my part, I was terrified of the impending punchline.

The very air was waiting for my next move.