Cat's Quill

by Anne Barwell

  "I'm sure you have, Mr. Kemp." Phoebe began flipping through the cards. "Emerys. Emerys. I wonder if you're as immortal as your name suggests." The rather strange statement was said with a completely straight face, her attention focused on her search. Was this part of the wicked sense of humor Donovan had mentioned? Tomas shifted his attention to the bookcase by the door again. Sometimes books could be misshelved. Even by librarians as efficient as Phoebe.

  "Oh my!" Phoebe backed away from the card catalogue, her hand to her mouth. "Oh my!" she repeated, louder this time.

  "Trouble, my lady?" Donovan was by Phoebe's side before Tomas had a chance to move, giving her a mock bow and a grin.

  "Something moved in there!" Phoebe peered in for a closer look. "How dare they? In my library!" she shrieked. Tomas instinctively moved forward, ready to help, but Donovan was faster.

  "Here, let me." Donovan pushed in between Phoebe and the card catalogue, pulling the drawer out farther. Cards flew in all directions as he yanked rather too enthusiastically and the drawer fell to the floor.

  "You idiot!" Phoebe yelled. "They're getting away!" Out of the corner of his eye, Tomas saw something tiny dive out of the stack of cards, followed by another, and another.

  The library door opened and closed with a bang. Phoebe didn't notice. She was too busy trying to eliminate the small creatures who had invaded her library. "Donovan! Catch them!" She stamped one foot, a heel barely missing one of the silverfish. "Donovan! They're getting away!" Her tone was growing hysterical. "My books, my poor books."

  There was not much Tomas could do to help the situation; he would only be a hindrance. The growing crowd of people in the area around Phoebe's desk began joining in with her and Donovan in chasing and stomping the floor at any sightings of anything vaguely resembling the silverfish. The library was erupting into chaos, and Tomas didn't hesitate. This was his chance. His conscience argued with him for a split second, but he ignored it. He needed to do this to prove his point. This might be his only chance. Backing away slowly, he quickly made for the door.

  Closing it behind him, he climbed the spiral staircase leading to the attic floor, to the collection Phoebe guarded closely. What the hell was so special about these books, anyway? Many of those in the main collection were rare and valuable. Surely these would be no different. Nevertheless, his heart was beating faster, however much he told himself he was being foolish. This was not a quest, and he was in no shape or form an adventurer. He was merely a reader who wanted more.

  More than just wanted. Tomas craved the answers the original novel had left unanswered. He had no idea why this particular book had spoken to him the way it had, but the first time he had seen it, he had been drawn to it, captivated by it. That first day, he had tried to talk himself out of buying it. After all he had just been browsing, looking for something special for Kathleen's birthday, and he had a stack of books at home to read already. The shop was one he had visited many times before. In fact he wasn't sure why he had entered it that day. Kathleen wasn't even into old books, let alone the type this shop specialized in. Her preferred reading genre was what she referred to as "racy romances." The books were chosen based on the cover illustration having as much male skin on display as possible, the more revealed the better.

  The only other person besides Cathal that Tomas had loaned the book to was Ethan. It apparently wasn't Ethan's kind of book either. Ethan preferred action stories, set against a realistic background, and accurate researched. Still, he had read it, more out of politeness than anything else, and returned it with a comment that it had been interesting. A small smile graced Tomas's lips. Cathal had understood; it had spoken to him as well, even if they had argued over it. No, not argued, but discussed their differing viewpoints.

  The noise from downstairs was still loud. Phoebe was not happy, but it was only a matter of time before someone calmed her enough to phone for help. If the silverfish infestation was severe, the library might have to be closed for fumigation, which meant that this could be Tomas's only opportunity to look through this part of the collection. He still remembered a similar incident in his hometown when he was younger. The librarian there had not been impressed either and had explained to him in very concerned tones the damage the tiny creatures could create.

  Tomas opened the door at the top of the staircase to find himself in a small room. A stained-glass window filtered in the light from outside, producing a muted glow. Tomas's head brushed against a thin cord hanging from the ceiling. He pulled on it, and the room lit with the harshness of the naked electric light. A solitary bookcase stood against the wall by the window. A vase of flowers was arranged on top. Roses, the same as those he had noticed outside. To the side of the bookcase were a wooden rocking chair and a footstool. Someone came here to read, although it was impossible to tell how often. The roses were faded but not dead, their scent still permeating the room.

  The books on the shelf were old, muted colors and covers to match the mood of the room. Tomas moved closer, browsing the titles quickly, hoping he would find what he was looking for. The oversized books were arranged in order of size on the bottom shelf. Although he scanned them, he knew they would not hold any answers.

  The rest were arranged by author in alphabetical order. Arthur. Baker. Cameron. DeMille. Emerys.

  Emerys.

  Tomas froze. Oh God. Trembling, he stopped, his fingers caressing the spine. Holding his breath, he read the title. In Hidden Places.

  Damn it. It was the original novel. He reread the titles on either side, looking through the rest of the books, hoping something might have been misfiled.

  There had to be a sequel. The story didn't end there. Cathal was wrong. He had to be.

  Still, this was another copy of his novel. Maybe there was something within the pages his own didn't have. Pulling the book from the shelf, Tomas flipped through it, coming to a halt when he noticed something that shouldn't be there. Opening the book completely, resting it so it lay across his open palms, he found himself staring at a postcard. Sitting down on the footstool, he shifted the book onto his lap and examined the postcard. Its date of print was faded to illegibility, as though that part of it had sat in the sun too long. He turned it over. A young woman smiled back at him from a black and white photograph. She was dressed in dark clothing in the style of the era preceding the Second World War, her hands clasped on her lap, her fair hair waist-length but loose and softly framing her face. The smile didn't reach her eyes; her gaze was fixed on something beyond the camera.

  A sudden thump from downstairs made Tomas jump. Quickly he shoved the book back into its place on the shelf and, walking briskly to the door, turned the light off. He couldn't risk being caught here. If Phoebe had a copy of this book in this collection, she might have clues to some of the answers he needed. It would not do to invoke her wrath still further.

  It wasn't until he had reentered the main part of the library with Donovan approaching him, talking nineteen to the dozen, that Tomas realized he was still holding the postcard in one hand.

  He carefully slid it into the back pocket of his jeans.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Five

  "If I wanted to buy a postcard, the post office would be the best place, wouldn't it?" Tomas ushered Donovan out the front door of the library and onto the street, not wanting to get stuck in the middle of the crowd of two dozen people or so who were beginning to mill around the outside gate, peering over the fence but not daring to come closer. Word had spread quickly that something had happened to make Phoebe lose her legendary composure.

  "Yeah, probably." Donovan frowned, his gaze darting back to the library where Phoebe was waving away some well-meaning but foolish individuals who were trying to convince her to calm down with a nice cup of tea while she was still talking on the phone with the manager of the company of the local exterminators. "Why the sudden interest in postcards?"

  Tomas's hand went to his back pocket, his fing
ers stroking the edges of the cardboard peeking out, checking yet again that his precious clue was still where he had put it. He pulled his jumper down to cover the top of the postcard, hiding it completely from anyone who might be watching. "I need to send one to my sister," he explained, not wanting to share what he had discovered. The postcard was connected to his book, he was sure of it. Until he discovered how, he would take good care of it.

  "And you've just thought of this now?" Donovan shook his head, his attention returning to Tomas. Did he suspect something?

  Instead of answering, Tomas shrugged. If he discovered where the postcard had come from, he could return it to its rightful owner. He took a step back toward the library. Surely there would be something in Phoebe's records concerning who had borrowed the book last, but that would mean he would have to admit he'd seen it.

  Several people filed out of the library, talking in low tones amongst themselves. The door slammed behind them; high-heeled footsteps could be heard angrily fading into the distance as Phoebe disappeared into the depths of her sanctuary. The crowd at the front gate swelled closer like a wave about to descend on shore, hungry for information.

  Donovan grabbed Tomas's sleeve and began to drag him away from the scene. "Trust me," he muttered, "we don't want to get caught up in this. They're nice people, but give them some juicy gossip and they're like vultures."

  Glaring, Tomas pulled free. "Thank you, but I can take care of myself," he snapped. No one touched him like that without permission. His hand went to his back pocket again, but this time his fingers curled around something soft, almost delicate. How the hell had the rose petal got in there? He'd let it drop from his hand and watched it carried away on the breeze. There was no way it could have got into his pocket, let alone wrapped itself around the edges of the postcard, especially as it hadn't been there a few minutes ago.

  "Geez." Donovan shoved his hands in his pockets. "That attitude's getting old real quick. I was only trying to do you a favor." He looked Tomas up and down very slowly. Tomas flinched, his skin crawling. "I have to run some errands." Donovan glanced at his watch. "I'll be at the pub in about an hour. Be there or you're walking home."

  "Fine," Tomas replied, fully intending to walk back to the inn. He needed the time to think anyway, and it was difficult to do that with Donovan talking. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of walking away, Tomas spun on his heel and did it first, not caring what direction he went. He'd worry about that once Donovan had gotten the message and left him in peace.

  It was a good five minutes later before Tomas realized that he had been walking in the wrong direction. Something sniffed around his legs, and bending down, he met the gaze of a black and white dog. It barked at him several times, tilted its head to one side, panting, and then started running toward one of the nearby houses, diving underneath the front gate to disappear into the yard. Watching it, Tomas realized it was the same dog that belonged to the old man Donovan had nearly run over earlier.

  Damn it, how could he not have noticed that the distance between the houses was growing farther apart? The lack of anything remotely resembling a shop should have been a clue as well. That was, if Tomas had been taking any notice. He did have a tendency to get lost in his thoughts. Sighing, he turned around and began walking back to town. At least this time he had caught himself before he had gotten too far. He still remembered the lecture he had received from Kathleen the last time he had been totally preoccupied and started walking only to realize several hours later that he was lost. She had threatened to give him a GPS tracking dot and presented him with a cell phone so that she could get hold of him. For some reason that phone had never worked properly, and Tomas wasn't about to tell her it was mostly because he didn't bother to switch it on.

  Shrugging farther into his jumper, Tomas began walking back toward the center of the village. The sun peeked out from behind grey clouds, the sky a muted, washed out, dirty not-quite-blue, the air still chilly, although it had stopped drizzling while he had been walking. Reaching inside his back pocket, he pulled out the postcard and examined it again. Who was she?

  He turned it over, not having wanted to risk getting it wet before nor having it seen in his possession while there were others who might notice.

  Alice Finlay. The name was followed by two dates, that of her birth and death. A saying Tomas had heard once whispered in his mind, a memory of him and his sister exploring a graveyard as children. Kathleen was five years older, so she had known things he hadn't and had been keen to show her superior knowledge. It wasn't the dates that mattered, she had told him in a hushed tone, but the dash in between. Everyone was born and died. What you did with your life was the important thing.

  Flipping the postcard over so he could see the photo again, Tomas stared into the eyes of a woman who had died nearly sixty years ago. Artist, the word after those dates had said, although he had never heard of her. In saying that, however, it did not mean that she did not exist. He'd thought that once as a small child, scared that if he ever forgot his parents it would be like they had never existed. Even now, as an adult who knew better, the idea sent shivers through him. Everyone should be remembered by someone, and by more than one word. Surely, Alice had been a person who had done something with her life and lived between the dashes to the full. Or was this all that was left of her, a faded postcard marking an almost forgotten book?

  A bell sounded suddenly, and Tomas jumped, shoving the postcard back into his pocket, narrowly missing the bicycle heading straight for him. The boy riding it swerved, slamming on his brakes, his cap flying off his head to land at Tomas's feet.

  "Hey, that's mine, mister." The boy held out his hand for it, his glare matching Tomas's, neither of them backing down. "Didn't anyone ever tell you about watching where you're going? You're lucky my dad fixed my brakes yesterday." He couldn't have been more than fifteen, his bright red hair sticking up on end, the top of it flat where his cap had been. "Cap, mister," he repeated, shifting his bike forward so that the front wheel of his bike was almost on Tomas's foot.

  "Didn't anyone ever tell you about manners?" Tomas held the cap just out of reach. "You apologize for nearly running me over and I'll give it back." The boy's attitude was already beginning to annoy him. Where the hell did he get off being arrogant and self-righteous when he was so obviously in the wrong?

  The bicycle wheel edged forward so that it was on Tomas's foot. He glared. The boy glared back. "You weren't watching where you were going. And now you've stolen my cap. I'm not moving until I get it back."

  "We're going to be here a while then, aren't we?" Tomas placed one hand on the handlebars and pushed the bike away, adjusting his bag when it began slipping off his shoulder. The boy pushed back. Neither of them moved. The bike was damn heavy, and the boy, for someone who appeared to be of very slight build, was stronger than he looked.

  "That's up to you, mister." The boy shrugged but did not back down. Tomas begrudgingly had to admire that, but it did not mean he would give in. He could be very stubborn when he put his mind to something; it was one of his biggest strengths but also a weakness which had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion.

  "You apologize and I'll give your cap back." Tomas was not fooled for a moment by the boy's quasi-polite tone. "Do you live nearby? Maybe we should talk to your parents."

  The boy shrugged again, his eyes darting toward the main street and back again. "My dad works at the post office. You let go of my bike, give me back my cap, and I'll tell him you stepped right out in front of me." He paused, eyeing Tomas up and down, his lips curving up into a smile that could only be described as sweet. "I'll even forget to tell him you stole my cap if you make it worth my while. My teacher says it's really important that adults show by example, so you could apologize as well. I could have been hurt coming off my bike." His tone grew thoughtful. "Maybe I was."

  "You little shit!" Tomas pushed the bike off his foot in a sudden burst of anger. Still hanging o
nto the cap, he grabbed the bike and began wheeling it down the street. The boy stood still for a moment and then ran to catch up.

  "Hey, you can't do that!"

  "Watch me." Tomas paused at the entrance to the main street, if it could be called that, wondering which way to go next. On either side of the road they had entered from were cottages, and to the left, several other buildings which looked suspiciously like they might be business premises rather than homes. It was difficult to tell. Making a decision, he turned toward the left, the boy trailing behind him at first and then falling into step to walk alongside him.

  "So, what's your name?" The boy kicked a stone with his sneaker, aiming it for a nearby window. It hit the wooden sill underneath, bounced back onto the footpath, and then rolled to a stop midway along the grass verge between that and the road. The village didn't appear to have gutters as such, the grass serving to separate the traffic and pedestrians, although there was the occasional iron-barred drain, presumably to aid in water drainage and sewerage.

  "What's yours?" Tomas countered, noticing a two-storied white building a couple of doors down on the opposite side of the street. It appeared to be brick, the front and sides of it whitewashed but its natural dirty red left to outline the shape of the building and the windows, and matching the wooden front door. Slatted wooden tables and chairs were arranged outside, inviting people to sit and rest.

  "I asked first." The boy followed Tomas's gaze. "That building's way old, same as everything else. Nothing ever changes around here. It's boring as hell." He gestured toward the bike. "That's why I want a motorbike next, to get away from here. Get a life, 'cause I'm sure as hell not going to find one here."

  "Other places can be boring as well," Tomas pointed out. Checking the road for traffic automatically though there was nothing in sight, he stepped off the grass onto the concrete. "Old things have history. That often makes them more interesting than something that is more recent." As he drew nearer, he saw the faded letters on the green-painted wooden sign swinging over the front door of the building, proclaiming it to be the elusive Oakwood Post Office.