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How long has it been, I wonder?
As I sit in my cozy little corner of my bookshop–my granddaughter’s bookshop, that is–I find myself looking back more and more often. Maybe it’s because I’m getting on in years. Not too many winters left in these old bones, I figure. How long has it been, then, since I started this quiet little store?
I still remember it like it was yesterday. Young, stupid, and with a fistful of dimes to my name, I stepped off the bus with absolutely no idea how I’d survive. But I still wore a smile on my face. So many false-starts and close calls, nights spent in alleyways and hugging my luggage–all of it seems like a lifetime ago. I guess it was actually that long ago, considering how old I am now. Funny how age makes one look back like this. Maybe it’s because I never had the time before, or maybe it’s simply because I don’t have nearly as much time left by comparison.
Such thoughts keep me close company as I whittle away the hours by the fire. My ‘special spot,’ as my granddaughter calls it, is an important staple of the shop by now. A whole generation of customers and guests are now accustomed to the sight of me snoozing or reading here as opposed to working the counter. Somedays, I’ll burn all the daylight I can just sitting here. Kind of like today, actually.
It’s a fairly normal day, I’d say. Little cloudy from all the rain, but I’m perfectly comfortable with the flame to warm me up. Of course, the rain does get me thinking some more–not of days long past, mind you, but of one day in particular.
The day I woke up to my first real taste of Hell on Earth.
My hands clench atop the lovingly crafted quilt in my lap as the memories flood back. Emergency vehicles rushing from one end of the city to the other, like a panicked beehive. Death loomed in the air no matter where in Redgrave you went, its inescapable stench wafting from every pore of this once-peaceful town. Even the pouring rain could not smother that horrible scent. The news was scrambling to get out a story to make sense of it all, but the details were vague. All anyone knew was that a whole lot of people were dead. Some were luckier than others, and some were little more than a few bloodied chunks left on the wayside.
For years I wondered what had happened. Everyone did, really. Just who or what could cause such a massacre in one night, and why? It was senseless cruelty, especially considering the victims. There was no rhyme or reason to those who fell that night, just a straight-line path right through the heart of the city.
One victim in particular lingered in my mind more than most, however. Such a bright soul, vanishing into the night along with so many others. No one ever found his body, and so for years I prayed he somehow survived. I’ve never been a religious man, mind you, but those first few years found me on my knees in the dead of night more times than I could count. I pleaded with whatever god above there was, not only for my family’s safety, but for the safety of that one little boy who loved books so much and his brother.
I never saw him again after that night. As the years went on, I tried to picture what he might look like as a man, hoping to look up one day and see him wandering in. But that day never came. Chaos erupted again and again, but the world kept turning. First a tower, then a tree, nearly two decades apart. I started to harbor suspicions about what really happened that day, doubly-so when the tower rose and I first laid eyes on a demon.
I don’t know if it saw me–it probably didn’t otherwise I wouldn’t have lived to remember all this. But I saw it. Dozens of them, and I knew there were hundreds more pouring out of that cursed edifice. I also caught a glimpse of someone cutting through the horde, though it wasn’t a good one. Just barely more than a passing peek at a flashy red coat, and wild whooping. Whoever it was had the situation well-in-hand, apparently.
Even after that day though, I had doubts. It wasn’t until nearly two decades later–and only a little over a year ago today–that I finally felt sure as to what was responsible for all the death that terrible night. A tower was one thing, but a demonic tree rising from the underworld itself and feasting off of human blood? It was the stuff of nightmares. I moved as quickly as I could in the chaos, not so much as being dragged by my family as dragging them with me. Strangers and friends alike fell around us, though by some miracle we managed to scramble out unscathed… mostly. Every time I saw someone get pounced by one of those creatures, all I could see was a scared little boy being ripped to shreds.
The memory sends shivers down my spine.
Apparently I’ve been making a face, and my grandaughter’s partner stops by to check on me. I tell her I’m fine, though I’d like a little more tea if there’s any left. She just smiles and says there’s always more if I ask, then walks off. She stops on the way to plant a smooch on my little angel’s face, and the two are both beaming at each other in seconds. Their warmth soothes the decades-long ache in my heart, and it’s enough to push aside those thoughts for the rest of the afternoon.
The day passes in relative peace. Familiar faces come and go, as do unfamiliar ones. Some of them stop to greet me, and others merely wave in passing. Painful memories fade
The sun’s finally starting to peek out by the time it’s threatening to dip below the horizon, which is also the same time as when I hear the door jingle. It’s not odd to get some late customers, especially given the time of year. Doubtless customers only left the house when they were sure they could avoid getting drenched. Being the nosy sort, I enjoyed watching the clientele wander in and out of the shop–it’s half the reason I still spend my days loitering away in it, despite handing over the keys to the young and spry. There’s no creaking as I rock my chair forward a tad, peering just past the shelves to catch a glimpse of who’s at the counter.
A man with a sharp gaze is listening to my granddaughter’s recommendations with genuine interest. His eyes only wander to scan the shop for what she’s talking about, returning to her in short order once he has any questions. He’s quiet; scratch that, not quiet per-say, more… measured. Cautious. Like a wild animal in an unfamiliar environment, or someone who’s merely forgotten what it’s like to actually talk to people. His shoulders are appropriately poised and stiff ready for the moment he needs to beat a swift retreat or chase down his next meal.
I hear him mention poetry, of all things. Memories flash behind my eyes again, but I pay them little mind, even if the man’s striking shade of white hair is oddly familiar… hrm.
His steps are as measured as his tone, deceptively light but brimming with purpose. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was afraid of stepping too firmly and cracking the floor. He disappears behind a shelf, leaving me staring at a wall. Just as well, it’s rude to watch people for too long. I return to my tea and watch the fire for a while, forgetting about the man for a time. I don’t even notice when he’s suddenly taken to the tomes behind me, skimming their spines for something in particular (he has a seeking glint in his eyes). In spite of his long, tri-tailed coat, I never even heard him move.
I don’t startle, nor turn my head to greet him. Likely I’m little more than a decoration to him, a senile dressing to the room to give it an air of comfort. He doesn’t seem to mind my presence, though he does seem to linger a while in that spot. I finally deign to peek at what it is that’s caught his interest, the sight sends both warmth and longing twisting around one another in my chest.
William Blake.
That’s the name etched in fancy, golden script, printed neatly on the otherwise plain volume. Fondness is etched clearly in the man’s gaze; these are words he knows by heart, yet still he reads them time and time again. I can feel something of a kindred spirit in him, and not just because of his taste in author. The pages, the atmosphere, all of it seems to have calmed him. His shoulders have relaxed, his tensions washed away and downed beneath the simple pleasure of the written word.
Everything about the scene is painstakingly familiar. So familiar that I can’t help but push it all down and ignore it–I’ve been down this road far too many times. The past must be respected, but never wallowed in. Not like I have wallowed for the past several decades.
It’s by now that he catches my gaze. Instinctually, the tension returns. I don’t balk from his vision, however, nor do I pretend to be mentally absent or otherwise searching for something vaguely in his direction. Instead, I let my eyes fall slowly to the book’s cover and let my fondness wash unobstructed over my face.
Just as I’d hoped, he relaxes once more. We share in our revelry over some long-dead poet’s works with nary a word, and now he knows for certain that someone else is as passionate as he. It’s a bit ironic, given my love of words, but sometimes the lack thereof speaks volumes louder than any learned scholars’.
Now he moves like the store is his second home, his footfalls audible as he marches over to the next shelf. By the time he swings back into view, he’s got at least three other books under his arm. Rather than retreat right to the counter, though, he pauses and looks back to me. There’s something new in his eyes, something… murky. There’s something he can’t place, but rather than run from it, he takes a seat next to me.
He says nothing for quite a while. We both just stare at the fire until he eventually palms one of his books (Blake, again) and flips it open. I’m content to share the flame, though at some point I must have dozed off as I find myself having to open my eyes when I hear his voice for the first time.
“I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.”
Lids rising slowly, I take a moment to drink in the verse. Of course, I know the rest, but I don’t respond immediately. No, instead I decide to draw on another, to answer with something a bit different.
“Little Lamb who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?”
His brow quirks inquisitively as I speak, as though the very notion of a lamb’s innocence is foreign to him. Lost to time, buried beneath vengeance's poisonous shade. Yet some faded fragments remain, as after a moment’s contemplation, a faint grin returns to his face. Silence settles again, only disturbed when the man makes to leave with his bounty.
“Thank you.” He says to me.
“My pleasure.” I answer with a smile.
He looks pointedly towards the front desk, where a cup of faux-quills rests in a cup. “... Are those for sale?”
I glance over, if only because I want to be sure that’s what he’s motioning towards. “Of course. Thinking of writing a verse or two yourself?”
A ghost of a chuckle escapes him through the nose. “Hardly.” He clutched his books to his chest with a sort of affectionate fervor. “I merely wish to mark these so my brother doesn’t think to mess with them. Old habit.”
It hits me like a truck crashing through the wall, all at once. "I have a twin brother, sir. We fight over things often, so I have to write my name on things to make them truly mine." Those words echo crystal-clear in my mind, and suddenly it all makes sense. The boy–nay, the man gains a shred of confusion, probably because of the look on my face.
“Ah, of course. In that case, please–” I reached into my pocket to produce a fine ball-point. –use mine.”
As soon as the pen’s left my hand and settled into his, the man’s expression shifts as well. It’s as though the subtle weight of my pen in his hand shattered the glass on the casing concealing his memories. The fog lifts from his gaze, and that long-lost childhood fondness settles in its place. With a chuckle on his next exhale, he quickly pops to the register and pays, then just as swiftly returns, opens the first book right to the back cover, and hastily scribbles his name down. Three more times, and each book is well and truly his.
He’s halfway to handing the pen back when I stop him. To his confusion, I’m swift to reply. “Consider it a gift. One I should’ve given a long time ago.”
Hesitantly, he stares at the writing utensil for a few seconds. Then he purses his lips and clutches it firmly, giving me a light nod. “Thank you… sir.” I get to see one last grin out of him before he turns to leave once more, and this time I know I’ll see him again.
I sleep better that night than any other in the past thirty some-odd years.