True North

by S.M. Winter

natural canvas as I walked underneath its arches.

  I was so enchanted by the carving that I was simply stunned when I looked away and into the enormity of what was the largest library I had ever seen. It stretched so far in all directions that I was unable to tell where it ended, or if it even did. My surprise and pleasure was apparent when what could only be described as a squeal of delight escaped me. I wanted to run giggling through the racks and find out if the library did end, because I secretly hoped that it didn’t.

  Barely able to restrain myself long enough to look at my companion, who seemed to be getting pleasure from the simple joy I was exuding. He led me farther in and after walking a while, turned and led me to a nice sitting area. A small fire crackled in the hearth, making the area seem homier than a library had a right to be. I sighed at a sudden pang of homesickness.

  Shaking off the feeling I sighed. When it was time I would return to the reality I left behind, better off for the little mental vacation. With a smile slightly more forced than I would have liked, I turned and looked up at Chauncy. He seemed to sense my internal struggle and squeezed my hand before letting it fall.

  “This is my favorite area,” he told me. “This is where I learned to read.”

  “How long have you been here?” I asked, curious enough to know how my subconscious would answer.

  “I was chosen when I was a teenager,” Chauncy stated. He turned back toward a wall near the fire. On it there was an enormous filing system with small index card sized drawers.

  It was so large that he had to pull a metal chain to roll the entire system for a long time. While he searched through the many drawers he told me his story.

  “I was raised on the street,” he said with his back to me. “Quite literally.”

  Intermittently he would stop the revolution and take out an index card, setting it aside.

  “I lived out of cars when I was lucky, cardboard boxes and bridges when I wasn’t. My mother, loosely termed, was an addict and a prostitute. She scored drugs for herself rather than feeding me or finding us shelter. I found myself caring for her more often than she cared for me. I did so under the mistaken belief that she would get better. There were very few bright spots that would fuel my hope. They fueled them perhaps even more urgently because they were so few. Those were the days that she would look at me and recognize me as her son. She would cry and hold me and apologize for the pain she was putting me through. Each time I believed her when she swore she would get help and we could be happy, really happy.”

  He paused and seemed to study an index card for an extended period of time before setting it aside and beginning again.

  “A day came when I was thirteen, while in the middle of one of these rock bottom promises, she suggested that I follow her into her line of work. She suggested that she could get better more easily if we had some extra money to help out. We’d be able to stay in a house, maybe get a dog. I found myself believing her, until she mentioned that she already had clients lined up for me.”

  Chancy stopped working just for a moment then continued with a sigh as if this was a story he were tired of telling.

  “She had men ready to pay me for certain services. Services that I had listened to for as long as I could remember. Things that could put her in the hospital if the John was a little too overeager. At that moment I knew I had a decision to make. I could stay and live the life that would get me killed or I could leave. Have you ever seen a fork in the road and known it for what it was?”

  Chauncy looked over his shoulder and I nodded. I knew that feeling well. Looking at a decision and realizing, whichever way you chose, it would affect the life you’ve chosen for yourself.

  Chauncy turned back to the rolling rack.

  “I had no hope that it would get better as she promised. I could leave her and find another life. It was terrifying, the thought that I would leave everything I’d ever known. So I chose. I made a decision that I have not once regretted. I chose the harder road, but because of this the elements chose me.”

  He turned to me with a small stack of index cards and handed them over.

  “Does it get easier when you tell the story?” I asked.

  Chauncy shook his head and chuckled.

  “I enjoy that your question is in regards to storytelling and not my welfare,” he said.

  “That’s not...” My face flamed at the thought that he would think that I was diminishing his experiences.

  “No, you misunderstand,” he said. “It was your complete lack of judgement, your focus on the technicalities. Your acceptance of my life that I lived. You had no questions about how I was able to overcome, no questions about how I could leave my mother like that. Just a question about the retelling of a difficult story. It’s refreshing.”

  I frowned and wondered what my subconscious was attempting to imply.

  “I will leave you now. I have a feeling you would like to locate the volumes on your own, so I will leave you to your solitude.”

  “Wait,” I stopped him before he could turn and leave. “I’m confused.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know what your story is trying to reveal to me about my diagnosis,” I said plainly.

  “Well,” Chancy chuckled. “Maybe you should wonder if it’s your subconscious at all.”

  I continued to frown at his retreating back and tried to puzzle out what had just happened. It was indeed confusing. While I had never experienced abuse in the truest sense of the word, there had always been a chasm between my mother and I. It had been unbreachable for as long as I could remember and I could never understand why. Perhaps Chauncy’s story was just bringing my own horrid story into perspective. That my life could have been worse. I could have had no support at all. I was lucky to have had a sister that loved and care for me. Nodding, I looked at the first index card and smiled at the familiar Dewey Decimal System of numbers that was scrolled across the top. The title of the book was simple: The Origin of the Elemental Council.

  I put the rest of the index cards in my back pocket and began to search the stacks. As I moved I let my free hand reach out and caress the volumes. The musk of well used leather and parchment surrounded me all my life. Before I could read I would sit down with a book and turn the pages, just to catch the scent of knowledge. I would stare at the letters on the pages and make up my own stories before I truly dove into a book. Looking back at the index card I looked for the last name of the author: Catacomb. At the end of a row of stacks I looked up to find the letters. The rows in front of me were the normal size of library stacks, but farther in I saw stacks that reached upward higher than I could see. It was dizzying.

  Shaking my head at the enormity of the library, I found the letters that I was looking for. Currently I was in the Gs’. An arrow pointed me left to find the beginning of the alphabet. Following the arrow, I made my way toward the section on the index card. I had been to massive libraries before. Yale, Harvard, Oxford all had several large libraries on their campuses, but this was different. Not knowing exactly how large it was gave the stacks a sense of wonder and enchantment. I always felt that way when surrounded by books; however, this was so much more intense than I had ever experienced. I felt as if I could spend the rest of my life reading and never be unhappy again. This was my version of heaven.

  I reached a wall and followed the directions. I had been walking for quite a while and wondered briefly how I would find my way out. Soon I began hearing music and veered off course to find it. Tucking the index card safely with the others, I wandered toward the sound. Wistful, yearning notes hung in the air, a melody that spoke of passion barely restrained. The music seemed to be coming from behind a section of books. I frowned as I reached an area of the stacks where the music seemed loudest. I looked for a doorway but found none. The music continued as I searched the books. My frown deepened and I looked upward. Seeing that I was in the section from the first index card I pulled it back out and realized I was precisely where I needed to be.


  The book indicated was sitting exactly where the card said it would be. The Origin of the Elemental Council by Catherine Catacombs. I pulled at the book but it was stuck. With both hands I yanked and it pulled straight out then and stopped. A metal clanging and clunking began, like I’d set off a mechanism behind the wall. Slowly the section of wall began to swing outward just far enough that, if I were so inclined, I could slip behind the wall. I stared at it for a time, considering. As the metal clunking sound began I assumed I was out of time and slipped into the unknown for the second time in twenty-four hours.

  As the door closed behind me and I quickly realized my mistake. I was left in total darkness. I had not even had time to consider bringing a flashlight and there were no torches lit. As I stood in the darkness my heart began to thud and my breathing became quick and shallow.

  By extending my elbows I could touch the walls on either side of me. If I had been prone to claustrophobia I would have been in the middle of a full blown panic attack. It was hard enough to slow my breathing as it was, and unlike many people I harbored no real fear of the dark or tight closed spaces. As my heartbeat slowed and no danger was readily apparent, the music was able to penetrate my addled brain. Slowly I put both hands on either wall and moved toward the sound. As it got louder my heart