Poetry's Price

Buried under a blanket of nothingness, Nib feels another sharp jab in the flesh of his arm. He wishes they would just let him be dead. That wish is torn away by a howling comet that carries Nib into the bright heavens.

A voice fills the universe.

“Can you hear me, Mister Seager?”

Nib blinks. Another nightmare. He’s back in the library room, but this time he’s not alone. A man in a white coat walking away. Another man sitting behind an ornate desk.

Electricity courses through Nib’s limbs. The sharp tang of metal coats his tongue. He tries to move and cannot. He’s strapped in a chair of some kind, bound hand and foot.

Then the voice again, soft and reassuring.

“They’ve given you something to counteract the sedative. You’ll be fine except for a rather nasty headache. An unavoidable side effect, or so they tell me. Please nod if you understand what I’m saying.”

Nib struggles to bring the room into focus. His head throbs. Dull aches radiate from his wrists and ankles. His feet feel like they are on fire. His brain reels, trying to make sense of what’s happening. One thought breaks through the confusion.

I’m not dead, and this is not heaven.

The man behind the desk is smiling. Nib’s eyes latch onto that face, see a raised eyebrow, fingers steepled below a well-trimmed beard. The expression of a patient professional, a doctor or a priest.

Nib nods as though mesmerized.

“Good. You may not realize it, Mister Seager, but your situation might be so much worse. This…”

The man taps a finger against something on the desk, something Nib cannot see.

“This has caused quite the stir.”

The man lifts the object from the desk. It is Nib’s precious book.

“A rare thing, indeed. But we were discussing your present difficulties. If our agents had discovered another type of book, say a volume of modern history, you would already be in the executioner’s capable hands. But poetry, well, that caused some confusion. And that is why you find yourself here.”

The man gestures to the walls, still holding Nib’s book. Nib follows the gesture. Books line the walls, thousands of books. This is not a dream. The man smiles at Nib’s obvious astonishment.

“Yes, quite beautiful, aren’t they? And dangerous, Mister Seager. The average person is not capable of understanding their beauty and all too susceptible to the inherent danger. In the past, books have caused a great deal of suffering. We have rectified that suffering to the best of our abilities. And yet you feel the need to flaunt our laws. Why?”

Nib’s tongue is still thick in his mouth. The words do not come easily.

“Because I wanted something real, something original, words not tampered with. Words I remembered.”

The effort of speaking exhausts him.

“Your trouble lies in remembering. A dangerous and romantic notion best forgotten. Think of it, Mister Seager. We are like the dinosaurs, you and I, old enough to recall the past. Once our generation passes away, the last memories of books will vanish. And with them will go all the trouble and strife caused by those very same books. A better world for everyone.”

Nib curses the bastard without moving his lips.

Cut me loose and I’ll make everyone’s world better by slitting your sanctimonious throat.

The man waves a hand as if he hears every thought in Nib’s head, thoughts worth no more than a buzzing fly.

“I see you don’t agree. Very well.”

The man lifts a second volume from his desk, opens the book, and thumbs through the pages.

“Here’s another poem by Rimbaud, from his earlier works. Bal des pendus, or Dance of the Hanged Men. Do you know it? An English translation, I’m afraid. My French is not as polished as yours. Here are the lines that concern you.”

On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.
 
Sir Beelzebub pulls by the scruff
His little black puppets who grin at the sky,
And with a backhander in the head like a kick,
Makes them dance, dance, to an old Carol-tune!

“Alas, you are one of the paladins and I play the role of Beelzebub. And here we find ourselves. Gallows, Mister Seager, that is the word that should concern you. Possession of a book, any book, is a capital offense. The law allows, no, requires me to send you to the gallows. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand everything.”

“Do you, Mister Seager? Do you indeed? I doubt that very much. Will you ask for mercy or plead some extenuating circumstances?”

“I don’t plead anything. Do what you’re going to do.”

The man rises from the desk, holding the two books. He steps to a shelf and places the books upon it, careful to align their spines with those of their neighbors. Still standing, he turns to face Nib.

“You see? I’m not a monster. I won’t consign your book to the flames. Nor you, either. I’ve something far more interesting in mind. Goodbye, Mister Seager.”

The man reaches beneath the edge of the desk. A buzzer sounds outside the room. A door opens and four men appear, goons in black uniforms. They step aside as the man walks from the room. Then they come for Nib.