The Unburnable Book
The old man hoped he was smarter than Ramses II
“He’s an illiterate fool,” the old man shouted. He slammed his fist onto the earthen floor of his tiny house, swirling dirt into a miniature sandstorm. “Ramses the second is worse than his father, who at least would have read the papyrus and burned only those writings that offended him, rather than burn every book.” The old man hurled an urn bearing the likeness of Ramses II against the wall, barely missing his best friend, Chisisi who was seated on the room’s far side.
“Damn Ramses to Osiris!”
“Hush, husband. Pharaoh has ears everywhere, and if they hear you speak blasphemy against Ramses, they will take you away from me. I couldn’t endure this world without you.” She nestled her head against his chest.
The old man brushed wavy locks out of his eyes and turned to Chisisi. He spoke in a softer voice. “What do you say, my friend? Is there any hope we can stop Ramses from burning books?”
After a long drink of mead, Chisisi rested his cup on the floor and replied, “I’m afraid there is not. Pharaoh is determined to burn all books, regardless of whether they insult him. Ramses’ soldiers are searching house-by-house for papyrus and wooden writings. What they find, they seize and torch. Anyone who hides books gets twenty lashes. Alchemy, math, history, astrology, sagas, poetry—at this rate, they will all be gone in a few more days. All of Egypt’s knowledge will be ash.”
The stone walls of their house vibrated as a phalanx of soldiers passed on horseback, their swords clanging against the metal saddles. The old man’s wife put her finger to her lips.
After the soldiers passed, she said, “I still smell the burned books. It sickens me.”
The old man looked out the window. The Library’s ruins glowed red, coloring his face like the last-ever sunset.
Pharaoh’s soldiers set the library on fire three days ago, transforming the grand building into a phlogiston inferno, their drunken breaths adding fuel to the blaze. All that remained of the building and its contents were fading embers.
“What do we do?” she asked. “We have no power to stop Pharaoh.” She cradled her face in her hands and turned toward her husband. “We need you. You have to think of something, husband of mine. You have to.”
The old man stroked his long, gray beard and closed his eyes. His head swiveled about his neck, his eyes fluttered under their lids, and his lips moved soundlessly as if he were in a trance. He wobbled like the ground was shifting beneath him.
Chisisi reached out to steady his friend, but she blocked him. She shook her head and said, “Let him be.”
After ten minutes, the old man opened his eyes and rubbed his hands together. His face flushed. “I know what to do. I have to go now.” He stood, tugged his tunic to straighten it, and continued, “I know where to find an unburnable book.”
“Just one book?” his wife asked. “How will one book change anything?”
“One book is all we need for a revolution. One book filled with wisdom is all we need to defeat Pharaoh.”
“An unburnable book? How can such a thing exist?” Chisisi asked.
“Have faith in me, my friend.”
“I have faith in you. In the ninety years I’ve known you, you’ve never let me down.”
“And I won’t let you down now.”
“May the spirits be with you, husband. I can’t wait to see your magnificent, unburnable book.”
The old man’s bones creaked under the weight of the heavy stone he carried. His legs burned from the long hike down the mountain, his blistered toes throbbed in agony, and his arms felt like they would separate from his shoulders. Sweat stung his eyes.
When the old man reached the mountain’s base, he sat and rested against a eucalyptus tree. He placed the stone to his side and inhaled a breath of sweetened air. I did it. He ran his fingers along the unburnable book and allowed himself to smile for the first time since Pharaoh started burning books.
Just then, a dozen soldiers appeared, surrounding the old man.
Where had they come from? How did they learn of my mission? The old man eyed their swords and sighed a note of sorrow. Pharaoh does have ears everywhere. Doom is my fate.
The soldiers loomed over him, their bronze helmets topped with rams’ horns casting fearsome shadows.
But it doesn’t matter, the old man thought. This was my mission: Retrieve an unburnable book, and I have done that. The words are written on stone that cannot be burned. The unburnable book is eternal.
The soldier closest to the old man unsheathed the sledgehammer strapped to his back and raised it over his head.
In the moment of life that remained, the old man prayed his end would be swift. He locked defiant eyes with the soldier.
The soldier kicked dirt into the old man’s face and smirked. He brought the sledgehammer down on the stone tablet, blasting it into a hundred pieces that flew as high as the mountain. Explosive thunder rocked the desert.
The old man’s jaw dropped. The book was unburnable, but Pharaoh had destroyed it another way. He wept oceans of tears. Ramses had won. There were no more books; there was nothing. His life was for naught, and worse, the world’s knowledge and wisdom were gone.
The old man surveyed the desert of devastation and despair. Only one of the tablet’s fragments was large enough to contain more than a single letter. It read, “Thou shalt not….”
If you liked The Unburnable Book, I think you’ll also like my story, The Storm Chaser.
Failure is only a divergence of pathways.
Ramses must be a Republican