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BL
MIT Tech Review 47일 전

도서관의 성역

IMP
3/10
핵심 요약

SF 소설의 한 장면으로, 극심한 폭염과 사막을 건너 도서관으로 피신해 온 낯선 이를 사서들이 구조하는 내용을 담고 있습니다. 이 이야기는 지식과 안전을 상징하는 도서관의 역할과 인간의 생존 본능을 생생하게 묘사하며, 독자들에게 깊은 인상을 전달합니다.

번역된 본문

그곳에 우리가 있었다. 흔한 살인마들로 구성된 사서 행렬이었다. 꼬마 조, 유스티스, 그리고 나. 도서관의 중앙 복도에서 발소리를 향해 몸을 돌리며 누군가가 성역을 침범할 경우를 대비해 권총을 겨누었다. 꼬마 조는 한쪽 팔 아래에 책 뭉치를 끼고 있었다. 유스티스는 아네로이드 기압계를 조정하던 드라이버를 쥐고 있었다. 유스티스는 큰 이중 문틀에 키를 표시하는 선을 그려두었는데, 반쯤은 장난이었다. 방랑자가 멈추자, 실루엣이 그 안에 그려졌고, 에이로스코프와 나는 그들이 정확히 5피트 10인치라는 것을 확인했다. 그들은 쿨 핸드 루크 모자를 쓰고 있었다. 그들이 멈추자, 부츠가 문턱에 모래를 흩뿌렸다. 하얗고 하얀 하늘에서 떨어지는 정오의 빛 속에 좁고 곧은 엉덩이의 실루엣이 드러났다. 바람 한 줌이라도 얻기 위해 문을 열어두었지만, 바람은 없었다. 그래서 낯선 이가 비틀거렸을 때, 그것은 폭풍 때문이 아니었다.

"성역," 그들이 쉰 목소리로 말하고는, 다락을 지탱하는 매끄러운 기둥 사이의 양탄자 위로 자신의 키를 다시 재며 쓰러졌다. 스테슨 모자가 굴러갔다. 꼬마 조는 책 뭉치와 권총을 떨어뜨리고 앞으로 달려갔다. 나는 소리에 놀라 뛰었지만, 필요할 수도 있으니 내 총을 홀스터에 꽂았다. 우리는 각자 겨드랑이를 잡고 무법자의 발을 문턱 안으로 끌어들였으며, 헐떡이며 빠르게 움직였다. 나는 그들의 헐렁한 배낭을 벗겨내고, 빈 금속 물병들이 덜그럭거리며 옆에 내려놓았다. 유스티스가 우리를 도와 그들을 뉘였고, 나는 내 손목의 부드러운 부분을 그들의 이마에 대었다. 지옥처럼 뜨거웠지만 여전히 축축했다. 내 팔을 들어 올렸을 때 피부가 마지못해 '뽑' 소리를 낼 정도로 축축했다. 구할 수 없는 상태는 아니었다.

"그들을 시원한 곳으로 데려가자," 내가 말했다. "꼬마 조, 제빙기를 비워줘." 유스티스와 나는 양탄자를 들것으로 삼아 도망자를 지하실로 운반했다. 그것은 디네(나바호) 양탄자로, 검은색과 회색이 섞인 주황색이었고, 그들이 그 위에 토하지 않아서 다행이라고 생각했다. 비록 그 양모는 더 나쁜 것들을 겪었지만. 메히타벨, 검은 고양이가 지하실 입구의 목재 문인방 위에서 우리를 지켜보았다. 그녀의 꼬리 끝이 무심하게 흔들렸다. 그녀는 나무쥐 감시 중이었다. 인간의 장난에는 무관심했다. 지하실은 좁고 낮았으며, 유스티스의 블루 콘 라거 병, 선인장 잼, 감자, 그리고 남은 몇 개의 단단한 껍질의 호박으로 채워져 있었다. 진흙 벽은 석회질로 희게 칠해져 있었고, 완전히 시원하진 않았지만 밖보다는 나았다.

우리는 낯선 이의 옷을 벗겼고, 나중에 수선할 수 있도록 솔기를 따라 자르려고 했다. 도시 물건이었고, 대량 생산되고 기계로 짜여진 것이었다. 꼬마 조가 얼음을 가져왔고, 추격이 뒤따를 경우를 대비해 에이로스코프 옆에서 지켜보기 위해 다시 위층으로 올라갔다. 낯선 이의 눈이 번쩍 뜨였고, 내가 젖고 차가운 베갯잇을 그들의 붉은 피부에 대자 비명을 질렀다. 유스티스는 그들이 진정할 때까지 그들의 움직이는 손을 성기에서 떼어놓아야 했다. 그것들은 좋은 징조였다. 갈색 눈이 무거운 주름 사이로 깜빡였다.

"도대체 뭐야—"

"나는 포니보이야," 내가 그들에게 말했다. "여성. 박사. 나는 여기 사사 중 하나야. 이건 유스티스. 여성. 도서관학 석사."

그들은 몸을 일으키려 애썼다.

"쉿." 유스티스가 그들을 누르고 얼음에 적신 천을 그들의 눈 위에 얹었다. "당신은 열사병이야."

"성역," 그들이 속삭였다. "내가 말했나?"

"그랬어. 여기는 보코드(Bōchord)야. 당신은 도착한 거야. 아주 오래 걸었겠군."

우리는 계속 그들 주위에 얼음을 채웠다—이제 그들의 겨드랑이에도. 그들은 까악 소리를 지르고 신음했지만, 저항하는 것을 포기했다.

"이름이 뭐야?"

"으—" 믿기 어려울 만큼 긴 멈춤이 있었다. "깁슨. 여성."

"저지먼트에 오신 것을 환영해, 깁슨," 내가 말했다. "추운 건 미안하지만, 조금만 참아줘야 해."

"내 배낭," 그녀가 날카롭게 말했다. "내 배낭. 필요해."

"안전해," 유스티스가 그녀에게 말했다. "그냥 편히 쉬어, 우리가 가져다줄게."

내가 다시 밖으로 나왔을 때 중앙 복도는 열기 속에 여전히 고요하고 무거웠으며, 마치 아무 일도 없었던 것 같았다. 꼬마 조는 울퉁불퉁한 등받이의 나무 의자 하나를 문을 향해 돌려놓고 그 위에 앉아, 무릎 사이의 계층진 치마 주름에 손을 파묻고 있었다. 나는 왼쪽, 성역으로 올라가는 두 계단을 내다보았지만, 모든 것이 평온했고, 내가 남겨둔 작업—목록 작성—은 여전히 금색 나무 제단 위에 쌓여 있었다.

원문 보기
원문 보기 (영어)
There we were, a regular murderers’ row of librarians. Little Jo. Eustace. And me. Turning around in the nave of our library to greet the sound of footsteps, pistols leveled in case whoever was coming in didn’t respect sanctuary. Little Jo had a stack of books under one arm. Eustace was holding the screwdriver she’d been using to tune the aneroid barometer. Eustace had painted height lines on the big double doorframe, as only half a joke. When the wanderer paused, outlined within, the eiroscope and I both registered that they were exactly five feet, ten inches. With their Cool Hand Luke hat on. They paused, boots scattering sand on the threshold. A narrow straight-hipped silhouette against the white noon light falling from the white, white sky. The doors had been open to catch a breath of wind, but there wasn’t any. So when the stranger swayed, it wasn’t from the gale. “Sanctuary,” they croaked, and remeasured their length onto the rug between the smoothed trunks that held the loft up. The Stetson went rolling. Little Jo dropped her stack of books and her pistol and dashed forward. I jumped at the noise but holstered my own shooter in case I came to need it. We each grabbed an armpit and dragged the outlaw’s feet inside the threshold, grunting, lickety-split. I slipped their floppy pack off, empty metal water bottles clanking as I set it aside. Eustace helped us roll them, and I laid the soft of my wrist on their head. Hot as Hades, but still tacky. Moist enough that my skin gave a reluctant pop when I lifted my arm. Not past saving. “Let’s get them someplace cool,” I said. “Little Jo, go empty out the ice machine.” Eustace and I toted our fugitive down to the cellar, using the rug as a stretcher. It was Diné, vermilion with black and gray, and I was glad they hadn’t thrown up on it. Though that wool had seen worse. Mehitabel, the black cat, watched us from atop the timber lintel of the cellar access. Her tail tip flicked incuriously. She was on pack rat watch. Aloof from human antics. The cellar was narrow, low, and stocked with Eustace’s blue corn lager in bottles, prickly pear jam, potatoes, and the few hard-rind squash still left over. The mud walls were whitewashed, and while it wasn’t quite cool, it was better than the outside. We stripped off the stranger’s clothes, trying to slit along the seams so we could repair them later. City stuff, mass-produced and machine-woven. Little Jo brought the ice and went back upstairs to watch alongside the eiroscope in case pursuit was close behind. The stranger’s eyes flew open, and they screamed when I packed wet cold pillowcases against their pink bits. Eustace had to hold their battling hands away from their genitals until they settled. Those were good signs. Brown eyes blinked between heavy creases. “What the hell—” “I’m Ponyboy,” I told them. “She. PhD. I’m one of the librarians here. This is Eustace. She, MLS.” They struggled to sit upright. “Shhh.” Eustace pushed them down and laid an ice-soaked cloth across their eyes. “You’re heat-sick.” “Sanctuary,” they whispered. “Did I say?” “You did. This is the Bōchord. You made it. Must have been a long walk.” We continued packing ice around them—into their armpits now. They yelped and moaned but gave up fighting. “What’s your name?” “Guh—” Too long a pause to be believable. “Gibson. She.” “Welcome to Judgement, Gibson,” I said. “Sorry about the cold, but it’s got to stay there for a little.” “My pack,” she said, shrilling. “My pack. I need it.” “It’s safe,” Eustace told her. “You just relax and we’ll get it for you.” When I came back out the nave was still and heavy in the heat, as if nothing had happened. Little Jo had turned one of the bumpy-backed wooden chairs to face the door and was sitting on it, hands buried in tiered skirt ruffles between her knees. I looked left, two steps up into the sanctuary, but all was calm, the work I’d left—cataloguing—still heaped on the blond wood altar table. Behind it, bright primitive saints in shades of blue-green, scarlet, and yellow looked with shocked eyebrows down from the adobe wall. I moved up behind Little Jo, making sure she could hear me coming. My footsteps echoed from roof joists made from entire peeled and waxed trees. Scrolled headers painted the color of good turquoise held them over the bookcases lining each long wall. The Bōchord. Book Sanctuary. Nuestra Biblioteca del Perpetuo Socorro. Population until this morning: three. “Any sign of trouble?” Little Jo turned her unambiguous jaw away, tendons rising on a long neck, jailhouse ink black-blue on her red-black skin. A sweaty curl escaped down her nape. My fingers itched to tidy it. But it hurt too much to even think about taking a risk that profound. She stretched horny discalced feet before her. Cracking calluses wrapped the balls and heels. “Only what we brung in with us.” She was a double murderer, but I couldn’t tell her I knew how she felt, because I hadn’t heard about her history from her . And her guilt wasn’t mine to absolve. You do your own time. Not anybody else’s. “You check her bag for anything dangerous?” “She’s got an SSD.” Little Jo shrugged. “No threat if we don’t plug it into anything.” “The eiroscope got anything to say?” “I can speak for myself, Ponyboy,” said the eiroscope from the air all around. Actually it used the old wireless speakers tucked in the corners, but the effect was as of a choir of angels. Or an airport announcement you could actually understand. “I’ve been focused on the CubeSat launch.” I startled. “Shit. What time is it?” “Eleven forty-seven. The launch came off perfectly. Our last batch of sats are on their way.” Little Jo breathed deep and unfisted her hands from her skirts. There were so many hours of work in those satellites, and so much of the money we collectively squirreled away as researchers for hire had gone through cutouts and shell companies to pay for the launch. The parts—boards, housings, chips—were salvaged from the same derelict data center where we got our solar panels and the hardware the eiroscope ran on. We were behind schedule, because we’d lost one payload when the commercial rocket we’d rented cargo room on exploded. But this would be our last batch, if they reached orbit safely. I turned my wrist to glance at my watch even though I already knew what time it was. The second hand ticked past the big hand. Old school. The rainbow band was a tiny rebellion, though out here it didn’t matter. Nobody was going to send me back to jail for subversive iconography. Unless I left our little patch of exile. Ten minutes and we’d know. Ten minutes and stage three of our plan—assembly—could commence. It was out of my hands, and anyway the eiroscope would tell us if the telemetry wobbled. She was a ghost astride the radio signals to and from ground control. It had taken a lot of engineering to get us this far. Engineering, software and relational. Computer. Social and mechanical. I walked beside the bookcases, running my hand along the shelves, over the UDC labels. Some shelves even held books, though none of mine were there. But the majority of the information we protected like Irish monks from this willful dark age was digital. Those monks had also been librarians. I knew my fidgeting annoyed Little Jo but I couldn’t stop. I was killing time. When I had murdered enough of it, the eiroscope said, “Payload away. Everything seems nominal. I have contact with the CubeSats.” “All of them?” “Twenty out of twenty,” the eiroscope said. “A triumph of modular design.” “Sure,” said Little Jo. “As long as we can get them to assemble. And the solar panels and sails deploy.” “And, and, and,” I teased. She flipped me off with a gnawed green nail. My hand rested on the label marked 326. Social sciences, slavery and unfree labor. I pulled down a solid-state drive full of biographies and case studies of people who had spent time—and sometimes their whole lives—in labor camps or chattelhood. People born into bondage or r