I was spending a lot of time in an understaffed, overstuffed five-level bookstore. I didn’t find the encyclopaedia there either, but I spent whole days sitting on the dirty floor of that huge maze, reading, with no-one pestering me. The place was so filthy. The books were in terrible shape. Pages torn out. Covers missing. Smelly, gunky stains on the pages. But I’d never seen so many books in one place!
On the fourth floor there was, in a dimly lit corner, a row of books shelved so low they were barely off the floor. They captured my imagination almost as much as the Clarence & Charles. They were all from the same publisher, Unknown Knowledge Press. They were all paperbacks, and all the covers had a wine-red background with crude line art featuring pyramids, flying saucers, fabulous creatures, eyes in the sky, and all the usual paraphernalia of esoteric beliefs. The series name was boldly plastered on each cover in larger type than any of the individual titles or authors: Strange World.
Unknown Knowledge Press—what a ridiculous name! But, back then, just the right thing to get my attention. These books presented conflicting, contradictory theories concerning the secret history of the world. Perfect fodder for me: I believed in a fluid past where all possibilities were just as likely, just as true. Although I never came across a book in that series that promoted my theory, it seemed to be the only way to reconcile all the divergent histories and beliefs found in those pages. And I believed everything I read. It was all too fantastic not to be true.
Aydee was awakened by a feather falling on her face. It cut her cheek, just slightly, but enough to make her wince. It was a long feather, almost as long as her arm. And sharp. Picking it up, she nicked one of her fingers. Its colour was a shifting shade of green, blue, and brown. Aydee had never seen such an elusive colour. She wiped the thin wound on her cheek with a finger and then tasted her blood.
The smell of rotting garbage reminded her of the previous night, of her journey through the alley, of finding refuge with the lioness. She looked around her and discovered that she wasn’t really in an alley. The night before, the shadows had misled her, and she’d ducked into a crevice between buildings that was barely any deeper than it was wide. The lioness had only been a dream, she thought, could only have been a dream. And yet . . . she wasn’t at all hungry anymore. She pushed herself up from her bed of garbage bags.
Still holding the feather, she walked out onto the sidewalk. It was morning rush hour. The streets were filled with people and cars. What were those frenzied shadows moving across everything?
She looked up in the sky. A winged skeleton was brandishing a flaming sword against a mass of darkness from which oozed both clusters of tendrils and a tangible aura of menace. The skeleton, whom she thought of as male because of its size, hung in mid-air, his thick wings—of the same ethereal colour as the feather in her hand—beating rapidly. The darkness had no fixed shape. It erupted from a rip in the sky, blossoming in many directions, sprouting tendrils and limbs of various shapes, only some of which were directed toward the winged creature. Sometimes, a dark tendril succeeded, briefly, in wrapping itself around one of the skeleton’s limbs. The winged warrior fought back ferociously, wielding his sword at lightning speed, hacking away at his attacker. It was the most exciting thing Aydee had ever seen.
Aydee tore her eyes away from the conflict. Why wasn’t anyone reacting to this? Everyone on the street seemed oblivious to the duel raging above their heads.
A shadow fell across her face. She looked up again to see a dark tendril shooting straight at her. She felt a rush of wind as the skeleton swooped down, chopping off the tentacle before it could touch her. It was then that she noticed the leather satchel strapped over his shoulder and across his chest, his free arm clutching it protectively.
The darkness shaped itself into a funnel and attacked, trying to wrap itself around the skeleton’s head. The winged creature’s sword cut through the oozing mass.
The skeleton took advantage of the respite in the dark substance’s assault and dove, his sword a fiery spearhead, into the heart of his malleable foe. A thick column sprang out of the darkness and swatted the winged skeleton. The swordfighter temporarily lost his balance. More tendrils and funnels burst out of the dark mass, but the winged warrior’s sword slashed through the enfolding darkness, slicing ever closer to the spot from which the darkness emanated, hacking away at the oozing mass with increasing ferocity.
The darkness wrapped a cylinder of itself around the skeleton’s head. It savagely twisted its opponent’s neck, shaking the winged creature’s whole body. It enlaced its tendrils around his legs and wings. The entrapped warrior fought blindly, desperately, his sword cutting through the darkness. It sprouted more and more tentacles, each darting out with increased urgency. But the warrior hovered at the heart of the dark mass. Holding his sword with both hands, he plunged his weapon into the darkness.
There erupted a screeching wail that knocked Aydee off her feet. By the time she regained her bearings, it was over. All she could see was the winged skeleton lying on the ground, partly propped against a lamppost, his flaming sword nowhere in sight. Of the darkness, there was no sign.
She ran to the skeleton. She stood over him and examined him closely. Passersby studiously ignored her.
The warrior’s bones were badly splintered. His wings had lost much of their splendour. They were now ragged and sparsely feathered, their colour fading. She looked at the feather in her hand. Its colour, too, was fading.
Overcome with compassion, Aydee reached down to touch the fallen warrior. She wanted, needed to help. She whispered: “What can I do? What?”
The eyeless skull turned toward her. His empty gaze fell on the young girl’s worried face. The warrior opened his mouth, but the only sound that escaped was a slow, quiet hiss.
I was grateful for the fact that no-one seemed to notice me in that bookshop. In my mind, it had become an extension of my room. It was a private place where reality didn’t intrude.
I was scared when someone eventually spoke to me. It was one of the clerks. He was wearing the ugly brown and yellow staff uniform. Adult alert! But, really, he must have been only seventeen or eighteen. Twenty at most. Adult enough for me back then.
“You love those books, huh? I’ve been noticing you for a few weeks now.”
I must’ve looked like he was pointing a gun to my head. That’s how I felt.
He chuckled, “Hey, don’t worry, kid. You can read all you want. No-one cares here. The bosses never come into the store. No-one’s gonna bother you.”
He stretched out his hand. “I’m Alan.”
I managed to bring myself to shake his hand. I immediately felt much better. He shook my hand firmly, making me feel like a real person.
I gave him my name, and we started chatting. It didn’t take long for the conversation to become one-sided. I was starved for attention, and here was someone willing to listen to all my outlandish ideas without laughing at me.
I must’ve paused for breath because Alan managed to say something. “Hey, listen, Lucas, have you ever heard of Lost Pages?”
From his shirt pocket, he whipped out a stack of bookmarks, flipped through them, and selected one. “Here. I’ve never heard of this encyclopaedia you’re looking for, but if any store can find it for you it’s this one. You should go sometime. Really.” This was a familiar scene for me. Booksellers were always trying to fob me off on one another, hoping I'd leave. In the same breath he quickly added: “Hey, I gotta get back to work. See ya, Lucas. Okay?”
I could see in his face that I’d kinda freaked him out. I was much more than he’d bargained for. He was too nice a guy to be anything but polite, but, even back then, as socially inept as I was, I could tell he was relieved to be rid of me.
The winged skeleton raised his arm and, trembling, wrapped his fingers around Aydee’s wrist. Despite his wounds, he had a strong grip. The fallen warrior brought Aydee’s hand to rest on the satchel he carried. Then, the skeleton’s h
and clattered against the ground. Aydee put the feather across his outstretched fingers.
She flipped open the satchel and found inside a thick leatherbound volume. She took out the heavy book. There were strange characters embossed on its cover and spine. For all she knew they could have been the letters of a foreign language, like Arabic or Japanese, but she suspected their origin was less mundane. Aydee looked through the book, hoping, but doubting, that it might point to a course of action. Was the skeleton dying? How could she help?
Inside, the book was filled with the same sort of symbols as on its cover. It was no help; she couldn’t understand anything. But then she found a bookmark tucked between the endpapers and the front cover. Printed in English, in the same colours as the skeleton’s feathers, it read “Lost Pages”—with a street address and a phone number.
She knew the name of that street. She remembered sitting in the bus with the woman, on the way to the old crone’s house, reading street signs through the window. She could recite the name of all those streets, in order. Getting there would be easy.
She was reluctant to leave the skeleton unguarded. But, she reasoned, no-one else could see him, and, if the darkness—or some other threat—returned, what could she possibly do against it?
As it turned out, I didn’t even have to ask for The Clarence & Charles Old World Encyclopaedia. It was right there on the shelves of Lost Pages.
The tables, shelves, and counters were packed with books that I had never seen anywhere before. Illustrated bestiaries in arcane languages. Histories of places I had never heard of. Theological essays on mysterious religions with equally mysterious names.
And the dogs . . . there were dogs all over the place. Big and fat. Little and furry. Cuddly and goofy. Slobbering, with their tongues hanging down to the floor. Sleeping, with their paws stretched up into the air. And they were all friendly. This place was heaven. Everything I wanted was right here.
I sat down on the floor, hidden (or so I thought) from the old man at the desk. I flipped open a volume of the Clarence & Charles that I’d never seen before, and, instead of frantically flipping back and forth, incessantly checking cross-references as I usually did with the encyclopaedia, I started reading on the first page. A brown Lab mutt trotted over to me, sniffed my nose, and put her head in my lap.
Aydee’s quest to help the fallen warrior, to find Lost Pages, filled her with a sense of purpose. Never in her life had she felt moved to do or accomplish anything. She’d existed from day to day. Waiting. Waiting for nothing, because nothing ever changed.
She would find the shop. She would help the warrior. She had to. For the first time in her life she felt needed. She could not ignore that.
She ran toward Lost Pages, hugging the big, heavy book to her chest.
I completely lost track of time. I was harrumphed out of my reverie by the old man, who, standing at the front desk, had been sorting through a pile of books when I’d come into the shop. He was round-faced, with a big nose, a mischievous smile, and a thick, grey beard. He was wearing the trademark “old bookseller” cardigan.
He was holding a stool in his hands. He put it down close to me and sat. Several of the dogs came to see what was going on. All of a sudden a bunch of them were sniffing and licking my face.
The old man clapped his hands, and the dogs stopped. “I’m afraid we’re closing up. You’ve been reading that book all day.”
Uh-oh. This time I was really caught, I thought. There was no way I could pay for this book. He was just gonna throw me out. I wouldn’t get away with this again, I was sure. So close. I was so close. I was holding it in my hands!
He laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll put the book aside for you. You can come back tomorrow and read some more.”
I was halfway back to my parents’ house when I realized that I hadn’t said a word to him. I’d simply handed him back the book and bolted out. I just ran. Ran all the way to my parents’ house and into my bedroom and shut the door.
The shopkeeper looked anxious. He listened carefully to the young girl, all the while petting a large, goofy-looking Saint Bernard. The shopkeeper’s other hand was resting on the skeleton’s book, which Aydee had brought with her.
“You’re very brave. And smart. You did the right thing. I’ll close up, and we’ll go right away.” He shooed out the few browsers who were loitering in the cramped shop and locked the door. “Wait for me here. I have to get something in the back.” When the man walked away, the Saint Bernard came up to Aydee and licked her fingers.
The shopkeeper came back holding an oversize child’s wagon. “We’ll use this to carry him back here.”
The Saint Bernard and two other dogs followed them out. The shopkeeper asked the others—the place was bustling with canines of all sizes and shapes—to stay behind. He dug into his jacket pocket and, before locking up, threw a handful of biscuits inside the shop.
He harnessed the vehicle to the two large dogs. The Saint Bernard’s companion was a powerful-looking blond Labrador. A small, thin, black terrier mutt—barely larger than a cat—jumped on the wagon being pulled by the other two dogs.
Aydee led the group to where she’d left the fallen warrior. He was nowhere in sight. “He was right here. I swear he was! I swear.”
“I believe you.” The shopkeeper knelt by the lamppost the girl had indicated. “Look,” he picked up something off the ground and showed it to Aydee. “Bone splinters—and feathers.”
“But where did he go?” Aydee bent down and carefully picked up one of the sharp feathers. She wanted to keep something to remember him by.
“I don’t know. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do but try. You did your best.”
“Is he—?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. Maybe we’ll never know. Maybe he’ll come back to the shop tomorrow to get the book again. Maybe not.”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence.
The shopkeeper began, “I guess I should head—” He stared at the girl’s eyes. He wrinkled his brow and scrutinized her.
“You don’t have anywhere to go, do you?”
“I—I. . . . No.” She started to sniffle. The small terrier immediately ran to her. He jumped up into her arms and licked her face.
The man stood there for a few seconds, pondering, while the girl hid her face in the dog’s fur.
“My name’s Lucas.” He exhaled deeply. “I’m really hungry. Come on, let’s have some lunch.”
Not long after that, I disappeared from my parents’ world.
Despite my embarrassment at how rudely I’d behaved with the old shopkeeper, I returned to the bookshop the very next day. I really needed to get my hands on that encyclopaedia again.
Just as he’d promised, he’d kept the book for me. I apologized for the day before. He thanked me. Then, he showed me a room in the back where I could sit at a desk to pour through the Clarence & Charles. Those volumes were big. You really needed to set them down to read.
Anyway, I started to come every day. Mister Rafael—that was the old man’s name—allowed me to help him out. Running small errands, shelving, sweeping. I loved it so much at Lost Pages. It’s where I wanted to spend all of my time.
At first, I found Mister Rafael’s sense of humour a bit odd, a bit intimidating, but slowly I started to get it. Pretty soon, we were spending our days trading silent jokes while customers moved reverentially through the shop’s stock of incunabula and esoterica.
By then, I knew that the shop only occupied the storefront area of Mister Rafael’s large house. I had seen enough to know that I belonged here. Here. With Mister Rafael. And the dogs! And, of course, the books. Learning about everything I’d always dreamed about and so much more I could never have imagined. Making it my life’s work.
One night, after the shop closed, I told him I had something important to discuss. Mister Rafael didn’t look at me the way other adults did. I felt like a person around him, not like a
n annoyance to be dealt with. He nodded at me with that wry smile of his. “Let’s go in the kitchen,” he said. “I’ll make us some tea.” Drinking tea was his answer to most situations.
We sat in silence for a while, but it wasn’t awkward. He waited for me to be ready to speak, enjoying sitting around with me. I was never more sure. So I spoke to him. I told him my life’s story. I told about how I felt. I stopped short of telling him that I’d come to see him as my father, much more so than the man whose genes I carried. Those words stuck in my throat. But he understood.
No-one at home or at school knew enough about me to trace me here. And, besides, I’d already begun to suspect that Lost Pages wasn’t fully tethered to the world I’d come from.
“I was expecting something like this,” Mister Rafael said.
I went back to my parents’ house one last time. I packed my clothes and came back to Mister Rafael’s house. I came home.
He’d prepared a bedroom for me. Two walls were covered with shelves stacked with books, including a full set of the Clarence & Charles. There was a big, old wooden desk. The window was open to let in the cool, late-summer night breeze.
Three of the dogs—Verso, Pipedream, and Unit; they’re long gone, now—were lying on the bed, wagging their tails. I went over to them. They climbed all over me, wrestling and playing. That—
—sealed it. I’ve been living here ever since.” Lucas nodded, remembering. “Some years later, when I was old enough, Mister Rafael retired and left to explore all those—” Lucas paused, measuring the weight of the next word “—worlds he had only read about.”
Aydee waited for Lucas to explain what he meant, but instead there was an awkward silence between them.
Finally, Lucas continued, “He left the shop in my care and still sends me the occasional message. My life would have been pretty desolate without him.”
Bestial Acts Page 2