by Scott Thomas
It was not until this point, in an upper apartment overlooking the dark sprawl of Fitch’s Pond, that I actually examined one of the books. It was a heavy thing, bound in pebbly leather the colour of cooked liver. A simple “L” was carved into the binding. Inside I found only names and dates, inked in by the same steady hand. It seemed to be a ledger of sorts, with the names alphabetically arranged. But what was curious was that these birth and death records, as they seemed to be, ranged far into the future, with listings like this:
James Martin Leighton, 19th of March, 1956 - 2nd of December, 2011.
I tried to think of some acquaintance whose name began with an L and recalled a certain Joseph Lewis, a tinsmith from my hometown of Eastborough. He had departed this mortal realm some two years previous. I flipped though the pages and found many a Lewis, at last locating his name in particular, and sure enough, the birth date and death listing reflected the truth as I knew it to be. Not only was Joseph represented, but his entire family past and present, and, from the looks of it, every Lewis ever to walk the earth.
I was so intrigued by this new mystery, so busy investigating more of the books, that I forgot all about worrying over Mr. Swan. I made my way from room to room as the declining October light softened the windows, and the skinny aisles between the stacks filled with shadow. I was now looking up specific people.
In a pile of books marked with a “G,” I found Almira Goodridge:
10th of August, 1820 - 16th of October, 1830.
The information was correct. There were entries dating to the centuries before Christ, and to those yet to be. There were names from every language, from every country, the names of every person who had ever lived, and all those to come. All of humankind was logged in those books in those darkening old rooms, and I was privy to the information.
In another upstairs bedroom, I looked up my own family. My deceased parents’ dates were indeed accurate, and I found my three living sisters listed as well. It appeared as if they would enjoy lengthy enough lives, if the book were to be believed. It was clear to me that the books revealed when a person would die and, curious cat that I am, I had to know...
I was tracing my finger down the yellowed page to find my own name when the door behind me groaned open. I turned with a shudder as a tall figure shuffled into the room. Swan stopped and regarded me across the precariously heaped books. The chamber had become rather dark, so he was largely obscured in shadow. I could tell little about his dress—it might have been a robe of sorts—but it was plain that a great beard the colour of frost was wound about his head like bandages, or a bee skep. Of his features only the eyes were to be seen, and just barely at that, small and pale, peering though a gap in the coil.
I was frozen in place with the book still open in my hands, hovering before me as I stared. The old man—God, or Death, or something we haven’t even a name for—raised a thin hand and pointed at the book. I nodded, swallowed, and dropped my eyes to the page. I looked to where my finger rested, alongside my own name, and I read the dates.
Looking back up, a trembling little smile came to my lips. According to the entry, I would live a very long life. The wrapped head nodded and the old man raised a finger to where his mouth would be and said, “Ssshhhh,” and then gestured toward the door.
I cannot tell you the relief I felt, the flood of exhilaration, as I made my way through the dusty structure and out into the chill dusk. I had never felt so alive in all my years. Life, for all its dark ponds and sad old buildings, is a thing of beauty! I began to sing—a song of my own making, a song to the fleeting copper sunset—as I headed back toward the village proper.
You, too, should sing while you can, for we are all listed in the books there in the second parsonage, and I could tell you the date of your death, but it’s a secret.
