An Open Book

He had been to this library dozens of times and he had never seen that particular door before. It was the same as all the others, white with a single 10 by 10 mirrored window, a single round handle with keyhole but he was sure that it wasn’t there last time he was here. There was no sign on the door, nothing that marked whether or not he could not, or should not enter. Curious, he glanced over his shoulder and then reached out and turned the handle. The latch clicked and he slowly opened the door and peered down a long, empty and dark hallway, the only lights from the space behind him. From the blackness he heard voices muted into melody by distance. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him. He took a few steps forward and then plucked his courage and strode down the dark hall. He trailed the fingers of his left hand along the wall as his right groped into the darkness. For five minutes he walked until a soft light appeared ahead of him. With renewed confidence he now increased his pace and reached another door.

The small window was filled with light, he peered through and saw rows of books on shelves that reached well above the reach of a normal man, hunched figures cowled in dark rough, homespun cloaks walked amongst the shelves. He fumbled for the handle, found it and twisted it until the door clicked open. Light filled the corridor and cool wind ushered forth raising goose flesh on his arms. He stepped through into a room that reached as far he could see in either direction, the rows of shelves in front of him stretched away into the distance. Above him was a large vaulted ceiling painted in images of saintly figures prostrating before divine light and horrifying demons dancing around flames as dark shapes burned. Along the walls sconces burned with harsh white flame and no smoke.

 A hunched figure rushed past him. He called, trying to get the person’s attention. The figure ignored him and disappeared among the shelves. He turned to the door and found that it was gone. He looked left and right and found it a hundred metres away. He was sure he hadn’t moved but the door was clearly not behind him. He sighed aloud and walked towards it. The edge of one of the shelves caught his eye and he stopped and turned to it. He hadn’t noticed before but along the shelves were faded papers scribbled with names ‘Sharp – Sharpe’ was at eye level and he ran his fingers across it feeling the hard paper, marvelling at the painstaking detail in the ancient script.

He turned away from the shelf and looked back to the door but it was gone, and this time it was nowhere to be seen. He looked left and right but could not see it anywhere. In each direction there was only the wall covered with heavy framed paintings and the sconces filled with the white light.

He started running along the wall passing massive paintings framed in gold depicting ever frightening scenes of cavorting demons surrounded by cowering figures in long rows that stretched back to obscurity. He ran until his breath heaved in his throat and he was forced to stop. He looked along the ranks of shelves and saw dark figures scurrying. Taking a deep breath he starting running through the shelves chasing after the diminutive figures but each time he came close to one the figure disappeared around a corner and vanished.

He screamed in frustration as another figure rounded a corner and vanished among the shelves. He called out, took a deep breath and called again. A figure appeared at the end of the row. It was cowled like the rest yet taller than the others. Within its grasp was a thin volume that it held close to its chest.

“Wait.” He called out and the figure turned and darted away. He watched it go, too tired now to chase another of these strange people. He looked among the shelves around him and saw the tattered spines of hundreds of books, faded text on each spine forced him to lean close and examine the writing.

‘Dutoit, Colleene. R 1796-1845.’

‘Dutoit, Colleene. R 1854-1854.’

He wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. He reached for a book and a soft, urgent voice said. “No.”

He turned and saw the cowled figure from before, the book still clutched tightly to its chest.

“No?” he said back.

The cowled figure shook its head. “Please. Don’t touch them.” The voice was soft, feminine. The cowled figure looked urgently left and right and then raced away.

He looked back to the books, wondering why he shouldn’t take one. He walked further along the row and stopped at a book whose spine wasn’t even with the others. He looked closer.

‘Dutoit, Camerone. S 1823 – 1856.’

It was the same name. He looked back down the row and on a suspicion looked to the books above.

‘Dutoit, Albert. J 1254 – 1256.’

The book was thin, he searched for a thicker volume and found one.

‘Dutoit, Danielle. 1578 – 1655.’

“77 years old.” He whispered to himself. He reached for the book when his hand was slapped away.

The cowled figure stood there, book clutched tightly to the chest. He saw the name written on the cover.

‘Moore, Karina. L 1984 – 0000.’

“You mustn’t.” He looked up trying to see under the cowl and saw a wealth of dark hair framing a pale, scared face. “Don’t touch the books. Don’t open them. Don’t search.” She vanished into the shelves. He stood up, looked for her but she was gone.

“Moore,” he whispered. Was it her? Was she holding a book with her name on it?

He moved along the shelves looking at the names. He was in the wrong area. He needed ‘P’

He walked for fifteen minutes, searching names tags on the each shelf. He had reached ‘Edwards’ when he sighed in frustration and starting running. Black robed figures hissed at him as he passed. He reached his goal out of breath and forced to lean on the shelves. He coughed, then straightened and looked at the shelves around him. This section started at ‘Pamela’. He looked about and scanning up and down and found ‘Paseria’ then ‘Pati’, ‘Patongo’. He searched for five more minutes and then found ‘Patrick’.

His heart beat faster in his chest as he searched, knowing that with each volume he was getting closer. He looked up and saw that the young woman was watching him from the end of the rows, her book clutched tightly to her chest. She shook her head sadly and then drifted away. He stared at the empty space where she had just been and then turned back to the shelves.

It was there. Right in front of him. Surely he hadn’t overlooked it. It was out of place. ‘Patrick, Jason. M 1973 – 0000.’ He looked around for the woman but she was not in sight. He held his hand out and touched the spine of the volume that bore his name. It was smaller than the others around it, but still an inch thick. He placed his finger on the top of the book and eased it out half way and then quickly pulled it out and looked at the volume. The cover was blue canvas, edged in soft, brown leather. He looked for a desk and found one against the wall at the end of shelves. He sat and opened the book. The first chapter he didn’t understand, two unnamed people were talking in bed about the events of their day and then, in graphic detail, it described a night of passion.

He flicked through pages, wondering what this book meant. Half way through he found a passage that struck a chord in his memory. He read it again and again, four boys, Musketeers, they called themselves. At the school yard on a Saturday doing ‘ghosties’ off their bikes. He slammed the book shut and pushed it away from himself. It was his memory. He knew the day well. Old friends long forgotten. Was this volume really his life? The people making love in the first chapter, his parents, the very start of his existence. He pulled the book back to him and read more, flicking through pages. Everything was here.

Then was…?

He turned to the last page. It was filled with script. Barely any space left on the page. He read his hunt through the library, the young woman. And then himself sitting at this desk reading.

There had to be more?  He turned the page and saw only the back cover. There had to be more. He wasn’t dead. He was here reading the book. He pushed away from the desk and saw that something had been placed at the end of the desk. With a trembling hand he reached out and touched the rough, homespun fabric of a black hooded robe.