Four Uses of Tome in the Wild
by
Oleander, Seeker to the Keys of Foenum
Now that my hunt is over and that creature, which I will hereafter refer to as the "Ape", is still bleeding out, I wish to document my experience with books and their usage in survival. Everyone involved in my sendoff to the Steppes told me not to take them, and every single one of them were wrong. I should clarify that I'm not speaking of studying, learning of fauna and foliage and their poisons, but in the utility of the tomes themselves. I'll write my methods here, but first, for the sake of clarity and daily journal, I'll tell you why I hunted the Ape.
I hunted the Ape because it revolted me. That alone is the truth, and I could leave it at that. However, to my reader who has never and will never see the Ape, since I've slain it, might not understand the correct degree of revulsion I felt. Yesterday morning I was prepared to leave yet another village belonging to the Northern Alpacas, the especially bulbous and waddling ones who don't make blankets since they can't ever risk being bare in the cold. I did not stay long to listen to their woes, but like all fringe towns they'd been terrorized by predators ever since their return.
When I first met the Ape (though I did not call it that at the time) its short, knotted torso was hunched over some attempt at Alpaca agriculture. It gnawed at roots it dug from the ground with its disturbingly long, knobby limbs that only became knobbier at their ends. The most offensive part of it were its paws, being unlike the paws of most predators, for its toes were stretched longer than the length from its wrist up to them, and they curled like spider's legs would around a frog. I only approached it due to its such un-predatory behavior, and I soon came to regret it.
To my shame, I can't say what I was thinking at the time, other than that I hated it. But I had not resolved to kill it until it groped at me with those hideous things. When I yanked my horn from its grasp, one of its long toes on my neck must have been caught under my satchel strap. All the aforementioned books and scrolls, to which I owe my life, came free and flapped wildly and unrolled to tenfold or more their original size. Most never realize how books are such mysteries to lesser creatures, not just their contents, but their existence, and the 'why' of it. The Ape screamed. Not yelped or roared, but screamed, and I almost lost sight of it behind the boulders as it fled into the wild.
Even now, with the Ape vanquished, I can still feel where it grabbed me! I've washed again and again, but could not wash away that curse. I could only think of the strain on my neck, and what made it.
I've already shared with you now one use of tomes. Be patient, and I will tell you the rest.
Though it tried to escape, losing sight of it completely was nearly impossible in the flatness of the Steppes. Its only mercy, which prolonged its fate and nothing more, was how quickly it grew dark and I was forced to make camp. I theorize, had you enough books, say a caravan's worth, a formidable shelter could be erected and disassembled at will that consisted of nothing but books. Alas, I had only four, so I cannot count it among my uses. That night I was forced to take shelter with a hermit Alpaca in a tipi.
My price to pay felt steep at first: Blank pages torn from my journal for campfire kindling, which the land sorely lacked. I must now admit, in time, I did not miss those five pages, and had he not howled in joy like a feral invalid when they lit with ease, I might have shared his enthusiasm. A tome, an empty one for mercy's sake, could keep you warm for a month. I retired that night1 near the loose entryway of the odor retentive shelter for the sake of the breeze. I learned that night how fine a cushion tomes can make. One among my collection, whose name I'll omit in case this letter falls upon someone who might seek it, has a deep notch on its edge that supports the neck quite gingerly, and its grim embossing rests well upon the cheek. With your ear pressed to it, the moans of souls tortured beyond despair that weep from its cover do wonders to relieve tinnitus.
With a good night's sleep, I left early the next morning, before the Alpaca had risen. I do not remember his name, only that he was the first to call the thing "Ape".
I departed the tipi before dawn, with half a mind to stop the chase for it was likely miles gone by now. I wrote earlier on my first encounter with it, when I didn't acknowledge it as a predator. It was standing a few feet above me then, crouched atop a boulder meant to hide us. It's eyes told stories we simply don't commit to writing, and I've often wondered had I not woken when I did, would it have finished what it started while I slept.
And here I'll tell you about the finest application of a tome that ungulates have never known. It would be withholding of me to say that it is only useful in the wild, for in truth, it is a test of temperament for all things in all places. You begin by placing a book in the ground, closed, cover facing up, roughly two and a half paces before you, and wait.
I honed this trick as a result of indecision. When you travel, you inevitably fight, and often times you spend longer deciding if you must fight than the fight itself takes. Too many times I've let a brute too close, and paid for it, because I hesitated to strike first. Always keep the book between the two of you, and if it ever is not, it begins.
How your subject reacts to the book, even if it doesn't at all, will tell you all you need to know about it. Anything that's wary of it is very smart, or immensely stupid; a creature of extremes. Hostile creatures will overstep it (see step one). Friendly ones will hand it back to you.
When I placed the book before the Ape, it did none of these things. It was not afraid of the book as I suspected it would be, for all predators are abysmally stupid. Nor did it attack, as is usually their following option. The Ape began to pick at it with the same appendage it put upon me, flipping the cover and watching it fall back into place. The fleshy lips on its face peeled back to reveal the fangs I knew were always there. It tore a page as it pulled the book toward itself. With such ease, the thing held it before its face, and I could not read its expression now hidden behind the binding, as I had come to rely on in so many cases. I felt my lip curl as it turned the pages with an infantile disregard for their preservation. I do consider it may have understood something it saw in those pages, and I do believe it had lost all interest in me then.
The Ape's body has finished dissolving, having been whisked back to whatever timeless dimension I will to seal when I find the keys of Foenum. Given that, I will conclude here my admittedly unorthodox, but demonstratively effective methods of survival. Keep your tomes dry, a water tight satchel will suffice in most cases, as long as they are not submerged completely. Treat them well, and they will treat you well. They will tell you everything you need to know about anything in the land of Foenum, sometimes without even cracking the first page. I believe it told me much about the Ape, but it matters not, as there will never be another one. I only suspect it may have enjoyed the last moments of its life. For the sake of record, the entry wound was somewhere above its heart, and based on the pressure at my horn tip, the exit wound likely passed through its spine.
In Amaryllis' name,
Oleander
1 There is a page in my greatest tome that appears blank to the uninitiated, but like all the pages, pays a wealth of secrets to any who can breach its occult surface. Up until this time I pretended to study this page to avoid conversing with my host. While this is an invaluable use of a book, it has been known since time immemorial, and so I chose not to include it in the text proper.