The Silence between the Stars

By Geoffrey Angapa

All the unexpected, singular events we witnessed and were a part of; the places we reached, if places they could even be called; the slow workings of Time, when even Time itself was thrown into doubt—all these and more are a strain even to set down in the right words, being fleeting to the touch; but I will try my best, setting down what we saw, felt, and witnessed. It may seem jumbled at times, even nonsensical, but it was the characters themselves who were the glue that bound the story together, across the reaches of Existence, when even the orders of Space and Time seemed uncertain and in danger of crumbling.

 

When Chardin begins working at City Hall, he soon meets a remarkable person whom he cannot get out of his mind, a mysterious maiden named Simone; but an unprecedented turn of events carries them to a world which seems like a muddled version of their own. Carrying elements of science-fiction and even a touch of fantasy, The Silence between the Stars follows their quest, sometimes desperate, always hopeful, to get back home, a strange but remarkable journey which leads them to the furthest reaches and very borders of Existence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geoffrey Angapa
• Release date: Mar 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393406747

Book preview

THE SILENCE BETWEEN THE STARS

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The Silence

between the

Stars

BY GEOFFREY ANGAPA

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© Geoffrey Angapa, 2019. All rights reserved.

Cover designed with GIMP, using Silhouette of Trees and Star Trail Photography (2016) by Kendall Hoopes, Pexels; and the fonts EB Garamond by Georg Duffner and Cormorant Garamond by Christian Thalmann.

Version 1.3

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Contents

A City Altered

Simone

Strange Happenings at the Library

Tears

A City between Worlds

ARC1

ARC1: Continued

Leaving ARC1

The Wood of Lost Memory

The Last Homely Cottage

Darkness in the Wood

Chipping Norton

In the Sewers

In the Sewers: Continued

Peril in the Dark

Light of Day

Approaching Archives

The Archives

The Archives: Continued

Leaving Archives

Commotion at Resource Clearance

An Unexpected Encounter

More Learned

Preparations, Preparations

The Tattered Wastes

Crossing the Wastes

The Bridge of Desolation

The Library of Lost Bits

The Void-like Sea

The Garden of Eternity

On the Shores of Eternity

She—She at Last

An Odd Wardrobe

Re-order Queue 6

All aboard R3-2200G!

The Convergence Index

Home, Home at Last?

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I

A City Altered

SIMONE cried out and, still clutching her hand, I turned and looked into her eyes. What’s happening, Chardin? What’s going on?

I don’t know, Simone, but we’ll be all right. At length both the flickering of our surroundings and the force on our bodies ceased. The room grew brighter but had an unsubstantial appearance to it. We looked round, Simone saying, Is it over now? I got up from beside her and walked round the room, inspecting the bookcases, the books, and the tables. Everything seemed all right at first; and I began to doubt whether it had not all been a dream, but then noticed that the faint, almost imperceptible, flickering was beginning once more. The effect was steady and quite bewildering: books, furniture, the surrounding room—all flickering brighter and then dimmer, brighter and then dimmer, with a startling rapidity and an unexpected randomness, so that it appeared, on the whole, that everything was fading out of, and back into, existence.

Come on. Let’s get out of here fast. She nodded her head, and I got behind her chair and began wheeling it out of the room. The flickering—for want of a better word—went on in the main hall: people walking here and there like spectres, even going through others as if they were not there. But the building and its bookshelves were more or less the same, except for the books, which fluctuated rapidly along the shelves. At times the library looked older, without any trace of newer technology like computers; at other times it seemed closer to our time. What’s going on here? said Simone, quite stunned. I shrugged my shoulders. No one appeared to pay any attention to us. It was as if we did not exist.

Making our way out of City Hall, we next beheld a sight that astonished us even more. Simone and I went forth slowly, casting round our wary gazes in disbelief; for there, all round us, was a Durban utterly unlike the one we were familiar with. It was dark and gloomy, and clouds filled the sky, perpetually churning, as if something sinister were looming behind them. City Hall, glorious City Hall, was still there, but now it was much changed, changed in an uncanny way that made it seem nightmarish and contorted. Its doors and windows were no more square of shape, but distorted, uneven, and horrible to behold. The shape was all off and shadows were cast in a distorted, unnatural way. Good God, I cried, struggling to believe what I was seeing, what happened to City Hall? The blood drained from Simone’s ever-bright face; fear had taken hold of her; and she shook her head in utter disbelief. Is this all a nightmare? asked she softly, clutching my hand tightly. I don’t know, said I, but let’s go. Come on.

All the other buildings shared a family resemblance with City Hall, standing at odd angles, their walls no more parallel, their windows twisted out of shape. Shafts of light coloured the ground at places in zigzagging shapes: straight but wide lines, looking as if each shaft had been painted there and had stood there from time immemorial. Queer sounds filled the air perpetually: the sounds of approaching and receding. We walked on, looking round in amazement as well as fear, and went past the front of City Hall, opposite the World War II memorials, where the benches were. As one might expect, the people who populated this dismal incarnation of Durban were of quite an unexpected appearance themselves: besides the constant passing to and fro of flickering people, whose style of dress was more like ours but from different decades, the rest were not flickering at all and were clad in rather a Victorian fashion—at any rate, they all seemed unsettling somehow and even unnatural. These people, observed Simone, look as if they’ve sprung out of a nightmarish vision of a Dickens novel. And I do not think I could have described it any better.

I noticed that the flickering folk were oblivious to us, whereas the Victorian ones were seemingly aware of our presence, judging from occasional glances thrown our way. We were going on when a short stocky man, with shoulder-length hair but balding head, stopped us.

You there, said he, narrowing his eyes in suspicion and tightening the grip on his cane. Yes, you two! What in the blazes are you two doing out here?

Simone and I looked at each other and I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach.

I suppose I ought to start from the beginning, so let me go back a bit. All the unexpected, singular events we witnessed and were a part of; the places we reached, if places they could even be called; the slow workings of Time, when even Time itself was thrown into doubt—all these and more are a strain even to set down in the right words, being fleeting to the touch; but I will try my best, setting down what we saw, felt, and witnessed. It may seem jumbled at times, even nonsensical, but it is the characters themselves who were the glue that bound the story together, across the reaches of Existence, when even the orders of Space and Time seemed uncertain and in danger of crumbling.

It began one day in November: the year was 20— and the day, I believe, was the 14th: well, it did not quite began that day, but the story itself does. It had been raining that morning, pouring all round. Not that heavily, I remember, and bearing a pleasant, tranquil sound. Being the middle of November and last two weeks of spring, summer was round the corner.

Durban’s climate has often been classified as sub-tropical: quite pleasant on the whole and generally warm all the year round. Situated in the southern hemisphere, its winters take place in the middle of the year and bring little to no rain. Skies are usually clear and, despite a slight, bracing chill, winter is rather warm and not particularly cold (though a resident of the city may say otherwise). By September, spring creeps over the land and the city grows warmer. Skies get cloudier, the air hazier (reaching an almost dream-like drowsiness by December), and rain begins to fall. I do not know why, but the climate of spring—that of Durban, at any rate—speaks to my spirit in a strange, almost nostalgic way. What is it about those cloudy skies? Or that hazy air? I suppose different seasons put the mind and imagination in different moods. And by the time December draws over Durban, the mood changes yet again, possessing an almost dream-like quality, or at any rate that is how I perceive it; perhaps others feel differently. Well, I see I have strayed far from the topic at hand, giving an account of climate and other matters of little moment, so let me return from December back to November 14, a Tuesday, when the clock above the Post Office, once the old town hall, was striking 9 o’clock.

I was soaked already and making my way past the Workshop, a sort of small shopping mall, and past the vendors of the so-called flea market, and the rain beat continuously down. Still early, I thought; the library only opens at ten. Opposite me, across West Street, rose the marvellous piece of architecture that was City Hall, built in the 19th century, supposedly a replica of the one in Belfast, and the present town hall of Durban (the old town hall, on my side of the road, now serving as the Post Office building). Whenever I saw City Hall, I almost always admired it, and today was no exception: though the city was drenched in rain and dirt, I found myself muttering, under my breath, What a sight!

Drawing up before West Street—the most important road in the CBD proper, running from one end of it to the other—I waited to cross. When the vehicles had all drawn to a stop and it was safe for pedestrians, we all crossed the road, and once I got to the other side, I went left, then turned right, going down the left side of C. H., past the car park, and, turning right again and walking a little, got to the Smith Street entrance of the edifice.

People were standing hither and thither, stamping their shoes to get mud off, waiting for the library to open, everyone trying to shelter themselves, so that the least amount of rain would hit them. A great many were students, dressed up smartly as youngsters often are, and more often than not, glued to the screens of their smartphones. Indeed, the majority seemed more intent on the content of those screens than chatting with their peers, though I expect it was also owing to the natural shyness people possess, and so, instead of standing next to others without saying a word, it was easier to pretend one was busy on that other world of the phone. (Or perhaps they were busy.) At any rate, the older folk tended to look round and seemed a bit puzzled that people could stare so long at phones. Some wore raincoats, others carried umbrellas, and many bore small bags of books in their hands. After wiping my hair with a handkerchief, to little effect, I looked round, smiling at any whose gaze chanced to fall on me. It was not long before the clock above Post Office struck ten o’clock: once the doors opened, people started entering City Hall, making their way to the library or the museum: the Natural Science Museum being on the second floor, the library on the first. I made my way past the guards and, entering the library, went to the other side and looked for Mr. Ngcobo. I had been an almost daily frequenter of the library for years and knew the place pretty well.

I no sooner reached the other side than I saw him directing his steps down one of the aisles, paper in hand, looking for some book; and calling out to him, he drew to a halt, saying, Oh, you’re here early, Chardin? Good morning. You all right?

Yes, sir, good morning. I’m all right, thanks, and yourself? I just got a bit soaked. You know the weather forecast: half the time it’s wrong. Supposed to be sunny today. Anyway, the rain’s lovely.

You don’t carry an umbrella?

No, sir.

Why not? You’ll catch a cold. (He paused for a few moments.) So you want to volunteer, ay? Are you sure?

Yes, said I, nodding my head, I love this library and always wanted to work in one.

All right, Chardin, come with me, and I’ll show you the register: you’ve got to fill it in each day.

So, proceeding down the aisle, we reached a sort of passage, or nook, that led to another office on the right. A small table stood there with some papers scattered over it. Visible were names, times, and signatures.

"You must fill this register in each day. It’s proof you volunteered. Just write your name and time—you know, the time you get here and the time you go—and then sign in this column. If you go for a job, it’s proof, so don’t forget it. All right? Here, you can sign here. Actually, we’ve got another volunteer who started yesterday. She’s here already. That’s her name there."

Another volunteer?

Looking a bit closer, I saw a name written in a neat and curling script: it read just Simone, no surname next to it. Simone? I thought to myself, as I was filling in my own details, I wonder who she is? Mr. Ngcobo then asked Charles, one of the two shelvers at Central Lending, to show me the shelves, as he put it. Having been a perpetual patron of Central Lending for years, I knew where most of the books were kept pretty well, but Charles and I went round the library as a matter of course, from one end of it to the other, and he explained many a thing to me: that biographies were kept there, literature in that aisle, large print in that room, and so on and so forth. Charles was a good-natured, friendly fellow, whom I usually greeted whenever I saw, and, not being over-fond of work, was more than happy to give me the tour of the place, which he did with gusto (and which meant a good hour of talking and no work being done). In that respect, I do not much blame him, for there were only two shelvers in all—he and another gentleman—and, all in all, the books had grown rather out of hand. Just a single glance at one of those trolleys next to the Scramble, brimming with books, was enough to inspire fear in the heart of a poor shelver. However, I was brand new, and launched upon the task with relish, getting myself an empty trolley, and gathering all the 800s (books concerning literature, my favourite topic at the time), began my first day of volunteering.

The hours passed rapidly, and as I placed the books on the shelves, which were in a dismal mess, I thought frequently of Simone, wondering who she was and when I should see her. Already three o’clock had come and gone and there was still no sign of her. I wanted to ask Charles but never got a chance, owing to his being on the other side of the library, tackling biographies and large print. Nor could I ask Sizwe, the other shelver, who was further away on the junior side of the library. All in all, she filled my thoughts a great deal: I wondered who she was and how she looked, and was puzzled by the fact that Simone was not a common South African name. At length, however, I forgot all about that, helping a few patrons find the books they were looking for. One student, going up and down the literature aisle to no avail, was searching for a copy of Twelfth Night, which was easily found, the call number being 822.33 SHA; but the other patron, looking for a certain book on arts and crafts, had to wait a long time, half an hour perhaps, before we stumbled upon the book she was seeking. (Its title was no less than Best Scandinavian Knitting Patterns of the ’90s.)

Time went on and, seeing that it was four o’clock, I decided to head home. After filling in my time, and wishing Charles and the others good-bye, I directed my steps homeward, and much to my surprise, it was still raining. All that work had done me a great deal of good: I felt a pleasant fatigue running through my body, while my head was filled with thoughts of book numbers—and Simone. She had signed out at three o’clock. I felt quite disappointed not having seen her, but shrugging my shoulders, I thought that tomorrow would be another day.

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II

Simone

NEXT morning I got up rather later than usual and only reached the doors of the library at half-past-ten. After greeting everyone, and making my way to the attendance register, I looked for Simone’s name but could not find it, and was filled with a pang of disappointment. Alas, thought I, had she quit already? At any rate, I did not have a lot of time to think about it: so, after filling in my details, I got myself a trolley and started offloading books from the Scramble, a large set of bookshelves on the further end of the library, against the wall: when books were brought back by patrons, they were first taken to the Scramble and ranged roughly there under their several categories. And it was from the Scramble that we shelvers—or library assistants, strictly speaking—took the books and set them in their proper places on the shelves. An endless task: as soon as one cleared the returns, they filled again in a matter of hours. That Wednesday morning, November 15, I tackled the 900s (history); but even as I worked, my thoughts often turned to Simone, wondering, like the day before, who she was, and now, whether she had quit for good. At any rate, the library was busy that morning, and, helping several patrons find what they were looking for, I forgot all about Simone.

The clock striking twelve, I went outside to have my lunch and sat down on City Hall’s steps: it had turned out to be a sunny day, not a trace of rain in sight. The streets of Durban were busy as usual, and looking across Smith Street, I saw that the Playhouse, half-timbered like one from the Elizabethan age, had a performance of The Tempest running till the end of November. After eating, I went back inside and went on with shelving, and the rest of the day was uneventful, except for tiredness and book numbers filling my head.

Sunny one day. Rainy the next. Today it was coming down quite strongly. But, owing to its being November, the weather was not particularly cold. By the time I got to City Hall, I was quite soaked; and after wiping my shoes on the mat a few times, went in and directed my steps to the register. What I found there filled me with a quiet feeling of relief and delight: Simone had signed the register only ten minutes earlier. Somehow I found myself smiling all of a sudden, glad that she was still volunteering.

Owing to my work, the Scramble was being cleared, slowly but surely, and Charles and I were able to take it somewhat easier; and when 11 o’clock struck, I took a break and headed over to the junior portion of the library, which was connected to the main side by a narrow passage. There I spoke with Sizwe for a while and saw that his books were quite under control. Sizwe was a man of great heart and few words—and those few words he spoke were steeped in wisdom and warmth. Wishing him well, I directed my steps through the aisles, and, looking at some of the English fiction, saw that the door to the store room was open. Actually, I had never been in there before, and being now a volunteer and not just a library patron, I shrugged my shoulders and took a step within.

The rain was still coming down strongly outside and the sound of water hitting against the panes could be heard. Stepping within the store room, I saw a long passage stretching from the door, and on the right was a sort of open room lined with bookshelves on two walls. It was full of books and tables. All in all, the room was a frightful mess, stacks of books rising just about everywhere. Most were old volumes that had been removed from the shelves, some to be mended, some more sadly to be sent for pulping, where they were destroyed and recycled paper was made from them. A sad fate indeed.

I took another step and my eyes fell upon a different sight (for books intercepted one’s line of sight from almost every angle). Next to the table, turning carefully through the pages of an aged volume, sat a girl in a wheelchair. She was facing away from me. Her hair was a dark-brown and her skin pale and white as alabaster. For a while I simply stood there, gazing at the maiden in the wheelchair. I felt as if Time itself had been demolished for a short space: I gazed and gazed at her, she that seemed a flower amongst all those dusty books. At length she shut the book and placed it on top of a stack, and wheeling her chair round, went to another table. Here she spotted me and, halting her chair, gazed at me for a long while: her eyes were as dark as her hair and in lovely contrast to her fair complexion. Seeing her face fully, I was struck even more by her loveliness: of a restrained, plain, and shy sort; and, as I gazed at her, I am sorry to say that I felt myself melting on the spot. Slowly, she grew red as a rose. An eternity passed, or was it just a couple of seconds? Smiling at me, she raised her right hand slightly, with a faint, diffident wave of greeting, and dropped it again. Her hands blushed as the colour of the rose. Gathering myself, I raised my own hand in greeting and softly said Good morning.

She seemed to grow even more shy after I greeted her and lowered her gaze slightly for a moment. I trust you’re well? I’m Chardin. I began volunteering this week. Are you Simone? She coloured again and nodded; I answered, Pleased to meet you, Simone. You need any help here? Actually, I’ve never been in the stock room before: it’s full of books, isn’t it?

It is, certainly, said she, her voice possessing a strong accent; I’m all right, thanks. It’s wonderful looking at all these old books. I hate for any of them to be destroyed. (She sighed.) But thanks for asking. Merci beaucoup, my friend. She laughed the sweetest laugh I ever heard, and went on, "Don’t worry: it means Thank you."

So I wished her well, smiled, and headed back to the Scramble, my head filled with thoughts of her. Clearly she was not South African, but from a foreign country; and I fancied it must be from one of the French-speaking countries; for her accent seemed a bit like those of French people I had seen on TV, and she had said Merci beaucoup, a French phrase meaning Thank you very much. All this intrigued me even more, and when I thought of her being in a wheelchair, it filled me with sadness and pity. Simone, said I softly to myself as I placed the literature books on the shelves, such a lovely name, and such a lovely maiden.

The following day, as one might expect, after taking the returned books from the counter to the Scramble, I made my way towards the store room. Thankfully, Simone was there, and upon my entering the room, she turned round in her wheelchair and smiled at me.

I’m just about done with the Scramble for today, Simone, so I thought I’d come and help you clear the books over here. You need any help?

She blushed mildly and answered, Oh, thank you, Chardin, thank you very much. I’ve got it under control, but I appreciate your help.

It’s a pleasure. All right, explain to me what’s going on here.

"You see, these tables here, the books are for pulping, a poor fate indeed for books. In fact, what brought me to go through all these books was what I saw on my first day of volunteering. I had started off at the Scramble, just like you, but later that day, looking round, I found myself going into the store room, and saw a horrible sight. The recycling contractors were tearing the books—Simone here shook her head slowly and her eyes seemed to be filled with pain, a sight which struck me strongly—they were tearing the pages from the books. Mostly old ones. Those Everyman volumes. Classics. Literature. Essays. Beautifully-bound volumes of old."

Oh, Simone, I’m so sorry. That’s awful. I wish they hadn’t done that, destroying those books.

"I tried to stop them but they seemed to take a delightful glee in tearing those books to pieces. At any rate, I could