THE LIBRARIAN
TONY THOMAS
Tony Thomas was born in England in 1939,
and is a retired bureaucrat living in Brisbane,
Australia. He has an Australian wife, two
adult daughters, a dog and a cat. He holds
a degree in economics from the University
of Queensland. His interests are catholic,
and include: writing fiction, poetry, and
political diatribes to the newspapers. Other
abiding interests include political and social
philosophy, with occasional forays into logic
and the foundations of mathematics. His politics
are left wing anarchism, but his activities
are restricted to the pen rather than the
sword. Tony is actually a well known poet,
writer, mathematician and logician of some
stature, though he modestly complains that
on the contrary, he is not only obscure -
but unknown, and should probably be described
as such. On this website his prose pieces
and poems attract an increasing number of
regular readers - so I reckon he is wrong
for once - enjoy. ( Editor.)
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A little story dedicated to Aloft Incumbent
The Librarian
Of all the libraries in all the world she
had to walk into mine. No, my name's not
Rick and I don't own a bar. I don't even
drink much anymore, but a warm brandy with
a sweet companion would not go amiss in these
dusty halls.
Books, books, books everywhere I look: in
rows and columns of literary accountancy,
duly classified and ordered; mulch for future
minds to take root and grow in, or wilt and
die of boredom.
I was nodding off over the conjuration for
inferior spirits in my Grimoire - OSURMY
+ DELMUSAN + ATALSLOYM + CHARUSIHOA + MELANY-
when the great double doors of the old building
creaked and grated open with a crash. The
light streamed in from the gothic arch of
the doorway and turned the dancing dust motes
into a galaxy of diurnal stars.
Framed in the entrance was the tall, bony
figure of a man, wearing an incongruous beret,
and by his side a smaller, girlish form.
With the light behind them and the sudden
shock of the illumination, I could not see
the figures clearly, but the man appeared
to be wearing dark glasses, which he did
not remove in the gloom of the vaulted entrance.
There had been a similar disturbance a month
or two before - I lose track of time in here
by myself - when two men had made a quick
tour of the building, scribbled some notes
and left. I surmised they were an estate
agent and perhaps a solicitor from their
appearances and demeanour. One had remarked
that the building should be torn down to
make way for a state school, but that some
covenant prevented this. Then they left,
crunching down the gravel path to their horseless
carriage.
The library sits on land that had once housed
monks, living behind Ethelbert's great cathedral
constructed around 604AD. The present building,
though, is a peculiar neo-gothic edifice
with a pointed cupola of sixteen segments.
Beneath every second window juts a double
tier of shelves; three stories high, each
with its iron balustrades. It was from this
vantage point that I looked down on the interlopers.
Running to the centre of the radiating shelves
the girl-woman danced in a circle, staring
up at the cupola and declared, "This
is all mine, I can't believe it Poppa, it's
really mine." The man moved slowly forward
and rested his hand on one of the carved
reading tables, bending a stiff neck upward
to look at the shafts of light streaming
from the dome. "You'll have to find
a buyer, but who would want such a crumbling
relic? The rates alone will send us broke
in a couple of months."
"But there was money too, I want to
use some of it to open it all up again, so
everyone in the world can enjoy these wonderful
books," she replied.
The man, saying nothing, looked at the ground
before making a move towards the door.
"Wait Poppa, wait," she cried in
alarm, running towards him, "I have
to look at the books, we can't just leave
them alone again after coming so far."
Removing his glasses, he turned to embrace
her briefly. "We have to see the solicitors,
what was their name?"
"I forget. I don't care what their silly
name is. Humbug and Humbug or some English
name."
"Oh yes, Humboldt and Humboldt,"
the man said. "You'll have to come,
we've done the inspection and now we have
to sign the papers."
With a last look round, she followed him
towards the doors, which were pulled together
with difficulty, slammed home and locked.
The sound of their departure resonated in
the gloom, leaving a peculiar ring of emptiness
in my ears. The girl reminded me of Teresa
(honey haired after the dark of treacle moon),
but perhaps younger than the Venetian's nineteen
years. Memory, for me, is like the surface
of some unfinished sculpture; smooth in the
completed parts but rough in those unweathered
by time. Who I was then is not who I am now,
a wraith of times past wandering along the
bookshelves, looking for an as yet unwritten
life.
It is many years since this tomb was filled
with warm bodies: sitting at the oak tables,
rifling through file drawers, requesting
access to the rare books section or furtively
stealing books they were too ashamed to buy.
An endowment from a wealthy 19th Century
industrialist, soon to become a Baron, had
seen the library built and stocked from the
great house of its founder; not me I hasten
to add. This remark may seem strange, but
my identity is uncertain until sculpted by
the author's hand. Until that happens I am
imprisoned in this library until imagination
attains a sharper reality.
Now, where was I before the interruption?
Ah, yes, the spirits which are so neglected
in this peculiar phase of human history when
science takes the lead in the empire of materialism.
It seems I may have use for FRIMOST, BRULEFER
and maybe SIDRAGOSAM. But then I would need
a material body, which is hard to get. I
must conjure the body of the fair boy; though
unusually red he may be pleasing to her.
But maybe she won't return and I will have
to find something else to think about.
*****
My heart leapt in anticipation when the key
next turned in the lock, but it was only
a pair of contract cleaners dressed in blue
overalls emblazoned with the logo SCRUBUCLENE.
After a long search for a tap one was duly
found but the water had been turned off to
prevent burst pipes in winter. The electricity
had been turned on the week before and the
pair contented themselves with vacuuming
the vast expanse of floors and walkways and
doing some cursory dusting of books and shelves.
During this cacophony I took refuge in the
cellars where my silk lined sarcophagus provided
welcome relief from the noisy intruders.
Like the chrysalis of a giant Amazonian butterfly,
I sleep for a long time. My sleep is not
intermittent as I remember human sleep to
be, but simply an awakening into a clear
but terrible land. When I awake into each
dream, I am truly free, and no longer bound
by invisible bonds of my intangible wraith
like existence in the library.
Now, in this high place, the wind is cold
but the unnatural power of my blood makes
me hot with desire for action. Raising my
arms, I unfurl my wings and spring from the
precipice, borne up as much by the magnetic
force of my being as by the gusting wind.
When I awake again to the living death of
the library, my head is filled with burning
memories, of strange encounters and deadly
strife, of ravaging and death peculiar to
the spirit world, of heightened cravings
satisfied, for the time being.
I struggle up from the tomb, weary from the
dream. Head pounding, sore eyes stinging.
The memories of life quickly fade into the
grey walls of the cellar with its illusion
of solidity. I struggle back up the stairs
into the library, to the strains of unfamiliar
and rather primitive music.
The girl is dancing round one of the long
tables, book in hand, stuffing something
into her mouth, which could be nuts or perhaps
chocolate, but I cannot see clearly yet through
my half closed eyes. She seems to have been
here for some time, judging by the mess on
the table, which includes some kind of musical
device, which makes a very loud sound echoing
through the empty space of the hall. In my
human existence there was much excitement
at the invention of the pianoforte, but now
pianissimo has given way to a not entirely
unpleasing rhythmic fortissimo from a relatively
tiny instrument. One almost expects Gabriel
will have to come up with something more
impressive than a long tube of brass for
his next visit to this god-forsaken realm.
I see from the clock over the main desk that
it is nearly half past three in the afternoon
(who keeps winding the clocks, I wonder).
I quickly call upon CLISTHERT to change day
into night. The clock remains unchanged but
the windows become dark as night instantaneously
falls. I always thought it queer that day
breaks and night falls but remains intact.
The girl stops in mid jig at the sudden change
but does not scream, as she surely would
have done if the pendant lights had not been
turned on. I realise my error as she rushes
to the door to investigate, and struggle
to remember the spell for locking doors.
Quickly, quickly, Yes! ABRACADABRA becomes
ARBADACARBA and works both ways, the door
is safely secured; she cannot escape.
Unprepared as I am, there is one spell that
is second nature, the art of making, and
I use it now to make myself appear: Anál
nathrach, orth' bháis's bethad, do chél dénmha.
I spring down from my perch and land at her
feet. She jumps back in terror but then bends
down to pick me up, holding me in her arms,
her alarm at the diurnal catastrophe seemingly
relieved by my sudden appearance.
"Oh what a beautiful boy," she
says, "I'm going to keep you forever.
Wait until I show Poppa what a lovely pussy
I've found."
I purred contentedly, and vowed to bide my
time until the circumstances were right for
my next transformation.
******
Tony Thomas June 2009
Notes: FRIMOST has power over women and girls,
and will help you to obtain their use. BRULEFER,
who causes a person to be beloved of women.
SIDRAGOSAM, causes any girl to dance in the
nude.
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