by Neil Jackson
With a stick in one hand and a small rock in the other hand he got back into position on his stomach, his head hanging over the water, watching and waiting for the big fish to make its appearance.
Max looked down at his own reflection in the water and giggled. His reflection, however, abruptly stopped giggling back at him. Max looked puzzled. No puzzled look came back from the shimmering mirror image. Max also noted how his eyes had shrank. He looked closer into the water, maybe it was a trick of the lake, but his eyes seemed more beady and red in colour. He poked his stick into the reflection and stirred the water round. The reflection that looked nothing like him continued to stare back opening its mouth wide when Max’s mouth was still and shut. Perplexed, Max finally pulled his face up and away from the water. He stood and scratched his head. Could it be...
Nah, he threw his rock into the water where his strange reflection had looked back at him. The rock catapulted back out of the water and landed at Max’s feet. He should have been scared, of course he should. But Max didn’t believe in monsters and he didn’t believe in running. Not until it was too late.
Max hadn’t known what a giant eel looked like, not until Old Slippery himself reared up from the water.
Now he knew.
He even knew what the inside of one looked like, and he would have told anyone it was very dark and very scary. But as the giant eel severed his head with a bone cracking crunch and dragged him quickly and quietly down into the depth, Max wouldn’t be telling anyone, anything.
And neither would Old Slippery.
OLD COGNAC & NEW LEATHER - David Niall Wilson
“The Home of the Tome” was a different sort of bookstore. It wasn’t flashy and glitzy, like the big chain store, but an austere “presence” clung to the brownstone walls and shone from the dust-gray windows. It wasn’t the sort of place you ran down to to pick up the newest computer hardware manual, or the latest thriller by whoever the author-of-the-moment might be. The top ten hardback and paperback lineups might be found inside, or not, but they weren’t separated on a shelf of their own. At “The Home of the Tome,” all books were judged as created equal, and they were shelved accordingly.
The building was deep, and tall. Heavy wooden shelves - like the stacks in a university library - stretched back into the dimly lit rear of the store, while the front opened into a circular “clearing” filled with tables, chairs and lamps arranged more in the manner of a private men’s club than that of a business establishment. There was no Starbucks, or First Colony coffee bar, but the scent of aged leather, mixed with the aroma of cigars and pipes from the days when such things were not socially unacceptable in public, clung to the thick carpets and elegantly papered walls.
Large ceiling fans whirled overhead, and the long rolling ladders you see in old movies ran along each wall and across the back on rails, allowing access to the second story shelves, which reached so far toward the fans and lights above that it lent an air of otherworldliness to the decor.
Christopher Bates stood outside on the walk, staring in the front window of the store as the slowly dying sounds of traffic echoed from the alleys behind and to the side of the old brick edifice. It was getting late, and though he’d been standing across the street at the front door to the “Little Havana Bar & Grille” for nearly an hour, it did not seem that his date was going to show.
Figured. His hand slid into his jacket and retrieved a crumpled piece of paper. Scrawled across the napkin was the word Sylvia, and a phone number that had spread and faded where droplets of moisture had hit it. He could remember her face, tendrils of soft black hair wisping across it as she turned her hair, only to be flung back repeatedly as she talked, her hands never stopping their constant motion. Her eyes had been blue, sparkling and clear. Or had that been the vodka?
In any case, when Christopher had called her, she’d seemed confused. He could imagine how she’d stared at the phone, tossed her hair out of her eyes and considered it. They had talked for four hours straight - or she had talked, Christopher had listened. Art. Movies. Books.
It had ended with books, which was, oddly, how it had begun. Christopher had spotted her, huddled in the corner of a party his friend Tommy had invited him to. She had been curled up beneath a small desk lamp, turned around on the desk to drip light down the back of a thick leather chair. Her features had been draped with hair, but he could see that she was slender and well-dressed, in a quirky sort of way. Dark clothes, velvet and leather. A book obscured what her hair did not, and Christopher had finally screwed up the courage to walk over and find out what was so interesting.
In retrospect, the party itself hadn’t been that interesting. A couple of dozen people who barely knew one another, gathered together and held in a huddle by the magnetic draw of free food an alcohol. Predatory singles stalking one another in endless circles, men watching curves, and women checking the cut and manufacturer’s tags on clothing. Heat and wealth, the eternal lure of the hunt. A bunch of crap.
Christopher had been on drink number three, wandering in a circle and wondering if even free alcohol was worth seeing so many pretty noses turned up at his black jeans and denim jacket. Style had never been a priority in his life, or at least, not popular style. He had been in the midst of composing a mental note to himself about the wisdom of listening to Tommy on important life-issues when he spotted Sylvia in the corner.
He walked over and leaned back against the edge of the desk. His first instinct was to lean over her shoulder and see what she was reading, but something stopped him. The tension in her shoulders? The concentration? He watched her read, which was a surprisingly satisfying way to pass the time, and he waited.
Eventually she looked up. He may have shifted, letting his shoulder disturb her light. Maybe she’d caught a whiff of Aramis from his jacket, or heard the clink of ice in his nearly empty glass. Maybe she was just done reading.
“Hey,” he said, feeling silly immediately for such an insipid start.
“Hey,” she agreed.
“Must be a good book,” he said. He nodded at the leather bound volume still clutched tightly in her hands and sipped his drink.
She closed it quickly and tucked it into her lap, out of site.
Behind her on the desk, Christopher noticed an empty glass. “Need a refill?” he asked. “I’m on my way to the bar anyway.” He held up his own empty in explanation.
She seemed to contemplate the question, then nodded. “Brandy,” she said. “Rocks.”
Christopher grinned at the way the words had come out. “Yes,” he said, grabbing her glass and turning toward the bar, “it does.”
He didn’t know if she’d smiled at his play on words, but one could hope.
By the time he returned, two drinks and fresh napkins in hand, she had tucked her book away into a deep purse that resembled a knapsack more than a clothing accessory. She was sitting cross-legged in the chair, turned to the side, and he smiled, handing her the fresh drink with a small flourish and placing the napkins and his own drink on the desk. He leaned back again, watching her sip slowly at the brandy.
She rolled the liquor around in her mouth, teasing her tongue over her lips. “Not cognac,” she grinned, “but it’s free.”
Christopher nodded and grinned.
Then she - Sylvia, hand extended to show rhinestone finery and lots of silver rings - had begun to talk, and he - Christopher, only here because Tommy wanted to raise the ambient IQ - had listened.
Listening has many levels, and Chris wasn’t really certain how many he’d reached during their short talk. He remembered a running commentary on the clothing and accessories of the men and women who flowed and swirled around them. He remembered names and dates of wines and liquors he was to try, should he ever get the opportunity. There were snatches of poetry, mostly dark, subtle, and disjointed. He’d asked, at one point, what she was reading, still curious after finding her curled up in the corner with her old, leather-bound book, but she’d skirted the question n
imbly and segued into astrology, and food.
Food had led to the dinner they were currently not sharing at the “Little Havana,” and here he stood. The wind had picked up, and Christopher leaned into it slightly, craning his neck to peer up the imposing face of the building to where the glow of the streetlights shone just so far up into the gloomy, cloudy sky and stopped, forming a mushroom-shaped hood of light.
He glanced back at the restaurant across the street, but there was no one waiting outside. The glowing dial of his watch indicated 8:30, and suddenly the doors of Little Havana did not seem inviting. It seemed that only “The Home of the Tome” stood between the moment and a totally wasted evening. Placing his palm firmly on the brass push-plate of the door, he pressed inward, slipping from the growing shadows into the warm, musty interior of the bookstore. The door closed behind him with a soft, solid Click!
An old man stood behind the counter, to his left. Christopher nodded, but got no response, only a quick glance of an inspection, then a clear view of the balding top of the man’s head as he dropped his gaze back to whatever book, or paper he’d been studying. The air was heavy and silent, swallowing the sound of Christopher’s footsteps easily and completely. The scent of old leather mingled with that of age-dried ink and polished wood. Christopher knew that scent, had encountered it in court rooms and the “stacks” at the University library.
He walked through the front of the store, which was apparently the only section dedicated to the modern world, glancing at slick dust jackets and displays of gold and silver slide bookmarks. There was a small assortment of carved bookends on a low table to his right, but he passed them with only half a glance.
Three broad steps led down to the central reading area, with it’s dark wood tables and leather-bound chairs. Green-globed reading lamps illumined each surface, but no one was making use of them. The area was as deserted as the street beyond the door. Running his finger tips over one desktop, Christopher hesitated and glanced to the rear of the store. The shelves were imposing, row after row of volumes beginning just above the level of the floor and extending upward into clinging shadows.
The thing that struck Christopher as most odd was the uniformity of the spines. The books all appeared the same size, color - and with the exception of a few that were thicker than those beside it, might have been endless copies of the same volume. The ends of each row of shelves were marked by brass plates imprinted with numbers, glinting in the dim light. There were no words, and with a soft chuckle, Christopher gave up the urge to try and recall his Dewey Decimal system from days long passed.
He stepped up onto the thick carpet and entered the corridor between the first two sets of shelves. He scanned right to left, top to bottom. The spines were primarily leather, but he could see, now that he’d drawn nearer, that his earlier impression had been an hallucination. Each book was distinct and different, some wildly so, and he was fascinated by titles and author’s names he’d never seen before, some almost nonsensical in their odd arrangement of letters and phonetics. Jarg Blorenson - Pitard Blech. Hardly Stephen King. Hardly legible, for that matter.
Then his eye caught an inconsistency, and he stopped. One book had slipped from between it’s neighbors, leaning out at an angle that should have dropped it to the floor, but had not. Christopher mused that it was likely fatter than the bookseller had first believed, and didn’t fit as well in the shelf as it might. In any case, his attention focused quickly on the cover.
The book had no dust jacket. It was bound in leather, and the front cover was adorned by a paste-down full-color plate. On that plate, a woman sat, curled in a chair beneath the light of a green-globed lamp. The woman wore a red velvet dress that draped over her knees and down toward the floor in front of her. Her features were half-obscured by the long strands of her dark hair.
Christopher’s heart beat a little more loudly, and for a second the breath caught in his throat. He slid the book from the shelf, holding it up so that he could see the illustration on the cover more easily. It was impossible to be absolutely certain, but the sensation of deja vu was unmistakable. He flipped the cover over and held the volume in suddenly sweaty palms.
The title was New Leather & Old Brandy. No author was listed, but there was a dedication on one of the pages directly following the title page:
“For Sylvia.”
Christopher could feel the sweat soaking his hair and sliding down his forehead. The air grew stuffy and heavy, and it was hard to breath. He closed the book carefully and turned, retracing his steps to the stairs and down into the reading area. He glanced over at the counter, but the old man was paying him no more attention than before. Uncertain what he expected, he slid into one of the desks and laid the book beneath the light.
The frontispiece matched the paste-down on the cover. Christopher no longer doubted who it was in the illustration. The publisher’s page was blank, with the exception of a date. 1897. The sweat on his brow grew chill.
He turned to the first page, and he began to read.
Malachi walked across the crowded room as if it were a park, and he the only living soul at the ball. It was his way, to put the world beneath him, and the world often capitulated, fueling the fires of his ego. Malachi’s gaze was locked on the form of a woman, seated in a velvet lined chair by the fire.
The party was an archipelago, islands placed in a stream of humanity formed around men and women of power and surrounded by those who wished to suck that power dry, or join in partnerships that could lead to power of their own. The dress code was uncomfortably immaculate. Impeccable. Perfection was the expectation, and extravagance the rule.
Malachi traveled the circuit easily, his form-fitted suit and carefully curled hair stood out, even in a gathering of the mighty. Eyes followed his progress, and more than once he was forced to disentangle himself from a more than casual flirtation, or the attentions of business associates and would-be paramours. He would not be dissuaded, his course was set.
She sat, back to the room, her hair dangling across her face coyly. Slender fingers gripped the leather edges of a book more important than the business of the mighty. Her shoulders were shrouded in crushed velvet, lined with fur. Malachi caught an artfully turned ankle beneath the hem of her dress and the flash of sequins on delicate sandals. Absolutely inappropriate.
Malachi’s pulse quickened. A passing servant held a tray of snifters, filled with their host’s brandy, and he reached out quickly, snatching two from the tray without missing a step. A smile slid across his features and transformed his too-intense face into the facsimile of a courtier.
“Pardon me,” he said, stepping close to the arm of the woman’s chair.
She turned slowly, glancing up into his eyes and letting the curl of hair that had so enchantingly hidden her face from view slide back and away to hook behind her ear. As she moved, her fingers were in motion, and the covers of the book were drawn closed, even as Malachi was drawn nearer still.
“May I offer a brandy?” he asked, proffering half of his recent booty with a flourish.
She smiled, accepting the liquor and bringing it to her lips for a sip.
Her eyes twinkled, and she spoke at last. “It’s not cognac,” she said, “but it is free.”
Malachi smiled at the jest and nodded, sipping his own drink.
She was a sudden fascination. The turn of her lip, the flash in her eye, and the cover of the book she’d tucked just out of sight, all captured his imagination in a room that seemed designed to dull it. She spoke in whispers and giggles of those passing around them, their fashion or lack thereof, their mannerisms and the topics that fascinated the room. She had recited poetry, dark poetry that seeped into his mind when he thought he was paying it little attention and would return later with the memory of her eyes.
He’d asked to see her again, on an impulse, and she’d smiled and nodded in agreement. There was a bistro, she’d said - small and unassuming, but with a wine cellar to draw royalty on the sly and a
stage where the minstrels gathered. He knew the place, or of it.
Then she was gone. It was the last time he ever saw her, and but for the silken bookmark that dropped in her passing, might have been the last time he truly remembered her. But there was the bookmark, and, romantic fool that he was, he followed where it led – an old bookstore, dark and severe, sculpted, it seemed, from brick and thick rugs, mahogany and dim shadow. Though he didn’t read for pleasure, he went there still, drawn by dark eyes and darker verse, hoping to blend one back to the other. Hoping to find her smile.
Christopher snapped the book shut as a sliver of something very cold seemed to embed itself in his spine. With his nose deep in the book and his shoulders hunched forward, the room had dwindled until the world might have been shut out by solid walls and he in the privacy of his own den. Now the echo of the book’s closing reverberated through the place, and he glanced around hastily. It seemed miles to the counter, where the old man glanced up peevishly at the sound. The small glowing circles of lamplight at each desk glimmered eerily, and the creaking of the huge ceiling fans overhead grew ominous.
On the book’s cover, he saw the girl curled in her chair and he averted his gaze hastily, as though she might turn and catch him in her gaze. He wondered what he should do, and so, he sat and did nothing as the moments ticked away. He watched the glow of headlights growing and fading away as traffic passed on the street. He imagined that the fans sound had grown to the ticking of an immense clock, counting down the hours and minutes until.
What?
The front door opened, and he leaped to his feet, seized by unreasoning panic. A short, furtive man with a long grey coat entered, nodding to the proprietor at his counter and bustled across the center of the room, making toward the stacks in back. The stranger paid no more attention to Christopher than he might have paid the wall. A breeze from the front door stirred Christopher’s hair, and he cursed under his breath.