The clouds rolled by, unfettered and free, past one wall and beyond the next. Laying there, in that field, one became acutely aware of just how contained they were, and just how much existed beyond.
The book was old and smelled a certain way that books rarely smelled. It was a scent that some would call dangerous, or perhaps even blasphemous. It was the scent that would alert the police to the crimes being committed with each turned page, of the knowledge that was forbidden and coveted. Books made inside did not smell this way.
The summer was beginning but the breeze was still cool, the wind whipping between the walls in just the right way to ensure the stifling heat was kept at bay a few days longer. The almanac called for a hot, unforgiving summer, and food shortages. They'd begun preparing the year prior, and hopefully it would be enough. For now, they wouldn't worry too much. Life would go on.
The book was like a friend, laying there beside its young owner, staring up at the sky it had known centuries longer. They didn't speak, as best friends rarely needed to in moments like this, tiny, dirty fingertips resting against the threadbare binding to ensure they were both still there.
Somewhere beyond the walls, there were others; that much was something that had to be true. There was so much outside that they were never allowed to see, and it was arrogant to believe that they were truly the only ones who had survived. Perhaps there were others who had taken refuge underground in great sprawling cities, lit by flickering candles and oil lamps. Perhaps there were great cities on spires, hung up in the clouds where the rivers were rain and the moon was close enough to touch.
The binding was worn and creaked each time the book was opened, and the pages often threatened to flutter away in a stiff breeze. On days like that, it was enough just to have it, and to know it was one tiny piece of the outer world that had survived. The words never changed and had been read dozens of times over, but the book represented so much more than the sum of its fiber and ink.
Some day.
Some day they would find more like it. Some day there would be a great, hidden library that smelled just like this book smelled, like brittle paper and secrets. It would be a small, well-packed room with shelves upon shelves, a desk and a plush chair that one could easily sleep in. The candles would snuff themselves by night's end and they would sleep together, peaceful and unbidden by the modern world.
Some day these walls would no longer contain this precocious child, who asked too many questions and had too many fantastical ideas. Some day those ideas and questions would be too dangerous to utter aloud, and perhaps would only be given voice in the darkness and security of a lovers bed, exchanged with lips upon skin, breath hot against ear.
There was so much this single book could not tell, being only about very mundane things, such as herbology and gardening techniques. It told of plants that were no longer here, or at least did not exist inside these walls. There were fantastical fruits that were described in a scrawl of old rough hand, brought back from faraway places there was only the faintest proof of. Fruit with hard rinds and sweet flesh, with hairs and tendrils, in every colour imaginable. It all seemed unreal, but had been. Possibly still was.
There was a great scroll laying on this child's floor, purchased with hard work and long days in fields, covered in carefully drawn lines that criss-crossed in a delicate grid. These plants were all listed with their uses, paired with ailments with checkmarks and notes, the knowledge preserved in careful, practiced script. Each stroke of the pen was a sin, each unknown herb a condemnation. Each day it was hidden away and each night it was unfurled.
Some day.
Some day there would be a tiny jar of each of these herbs, stored on shelves beside their forbidden books, testament to the truth none would acknowledge. Some day they would grow in a secret greenhouse, each in a tiny pot painted with careful, practiced script. Some day they would be dried and mixed and brewed, made into tinctures and salves that could heal and sooth. Some day they would become the poisons that would change the course of history once more, as they had been so many years ago.
This book was all that was necessary.
Of that, this child was sure.
This book, and these dreams.
This lazy summer's day.