And as if waiting out those two and a half hours hadn’t been unbearable enough, something happened when Eleanor took her shift at the reference desk—another of Ms. Dickson’s endeavors to “help” with her love herself more—that all but toppled.
She had just finished scanning a book into the library’s computer, a simple procedure but one she felt lacked the personal touch of the old card-and-stamp system, when a wild-eyed scarecrow of a man ran into the library and demanded, at the top of his voice, to speak to the head librarian.
Tall and thin almost to the point of emaciation—Eleanor backed away in case of contagion—the man’s near black eyes flitted from side to side as if unable to stay still. It was hard for her to tell his age, but the sprinkle of gray in his short, disheveled hair made her guess he was in his mid-to-late fifties.
And though both the open camel-hair overcoat and dark three-piece suit he wore looked expensive, they were stained and wrinkled and hung loose on his skeletal frame. Eleanor leaned farther back. The tieless white shirt was open at the neck, the collar half-torn away.
His gaze rushed past her and returned, paused. Spittle flecked what once must have been a magnificent Van Dyke beard.
“I need to see the head librarian!”
The echoes of his voice swooped and dove through the library like a flock of frightened starlings, drawing attention to him. To them.
“Did you hear me?” he shouted. “I said I need to see the—”
Eleanor slapped the desk with the flat of her hand and the man fell back as if struck. Blinking, the man shook his head and met her eyes. And just as quickly looked away.
“I—I—I’m sorry,” he apologized, “but I must see the head librarian.”
Eleanor waited until he looked up again and pressed her index finger to her lips in the universally recognized sign for silence.
The man nodded. “Yes, yes I know. I’ll be quiet, but I must see…Would you get the head librarian, please?”
Eleanor gave a quick nod and turned, only to see Ms. Dickson half-hidden in the gap of her partially opened office door. Eleanor fought the urge to smile at the younger woman’s resemblance to a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck, and turned once more toward the man.
She didn’t have to say a word. Eleanor only needed to incline her head toward the door and stand back as he raced around the desk.
“Are you the head librarian?” He wasn’t shouting now, but the harsh grinding whisper that came from his lips seemed almost as loud. “Please, I need to speak to you!”
Before Ms. Dickson could answer, the man was in front of her and she was forced back into her office.
He followed.
The door closed.
Eleanor stayed facing the office until she was sure the low muttering rumble of voices, the man’s more than Ms. Dickson’s, would remain low and well within an appropriate range, before returning to her place behind the reference desk.
With the momentary excitement past, most of the library’s visitors returned to their books and periodicals and those that didn’t felt the sting of Eleanor’s icy gaze and thus proper library etiquette was reestablished. With only the soft whisper of turning pages and the occasional footstep or chair scrape to offset the quiet, Eleanor felt certain that only she heard the low murmur of voices coming from the office behind her. Unfortunately, the voices were too low for her to hear what was being said.
When the office door opened again, twenty-four minutes and thirty-two seconds had passed.
Eleanor knew exactly how long it had been because she’d timed it on the flat digital chronometer that, at Ms. Dickson’s insistence, had replaced the library’s analog wall clock, circe 1950.
“We have to keep up with the times,” Ms. Dickson had said and quickly added, “excuse the pun.”
It hadn’t been funny then and it wasn’t funny now.
Eleanor missed the old clock and its muffled but still audible ticking but it was nice, especially at that instant, to know precisely the length of time it had taken to finally deplete the surfer exuberance the young woman had forcibly displayed on a daily basis.
Her face pale beneath the bronze highlights Eleanor had seen her apply more than once during business hours, Ms. Dickson left the office with the rumpled man only inches from her heels. Subdued and quiet, with hand clasped and held before her, the young woman stopped next to the reference desk while the man continued across the library’s main floor to the arched doorway that lead to the reading rooms.
“Ellynor,” Ms. Dickson started, cleared her throat softly and began again. “Ellynor, Professor Bennet is expecting one of the Inter-Library loans and has decided to wait for it in Reading Room B.”
Eleanor glanced over the young woman’s head to the digital clock. Ms. Dickson didn’t notice, she was still looking in the direction of the arched doorway.
“Th-Th-The mail w-wo-won’t a-a-arrive for an-an-other t-tw-two hours,” Eleanor reminded her.
“I told him that, but he was…adamant about staying. I don’t think he’ll be a problem. Just make sure you get the book to him as quickly as possible.”
“Of c-c-c—”
“Course, I know.” Ms. Dickson nodded then shook her head the way a dog would shake water from itself.
“He’s weird,” she said, her voice so low that Eleanor had to lean forward to hear, “really intense, you know, but I think he’ll be okay. Just get him the book as soon as you can.”
Eleanor didn’t like to be told to do something more than once, especially something as simple as delivering a book.
“I-I’ll deliver it a-a-as s-s-soon a-as I l-l-log i-i-i—”
“It in,” Ms. Dickson again finished for Eleanor as a frown marred the otherwise smooth skin across her brow. “Yeah, yeah okay, but log it in fast, all right?”
Eleanor nodded and secretly hoped the mail would be late.
As it turned out, the mail arrived almost an hour and fifteen minutes early, which completely disrupted Eleanor’s self-imposed daily routine. There was a system to her days and to the hours in those days that was almost as instinctual as geese flying south in the autumn.
Except this autumn it seemed.
It was just one more small change—like the geese flying north—but it had so shaken her that it wasn’t until the mail carrier left, bundled up and still red-faced from the cold, that Eleanor realized she didn’t recognize him.
Their usual carrier was a young African American woman, but of course vacation days and sick leaves—neither of which Eleanor took if she could possibly avoid it—could easily explain her absence. What wasn’t as easy to explain away was the loaned volume itself.
Addressed to Prof. R. E. Bennet in care of the library, the book, instead of the usual USPS mailer, had arrived wrapped in waxed brown paper and tied with string, the way her grandmother used to wrap packages to send back before postal regulations became so stringent. And if the wrapping hadn’t been bad enough, there was neither a return address for the library it came from nor a tracking number. If the book had become lost in shipping, and she was surprised it hadn’t, her library would have been held responsible.
It was probably a good thing for the lending library that they hadn’t bothered writing a return address. If they had, Eleanor would be well within her rights to send the Postal Inspection Service a strongly worded email about the branch’s shoddy mailing practices.
Which she still might once she obtained the offending library’s identification mark from the book itself.
Setting the package on the counter in front of her, Eleanor opened the topmost drawer to her right and took out the sliding blade utility knife used to open standard mailing boxes.
When she cut the string it snapped back as if under tremendous tension and lashed across the back of Eleanor’s hand, drawing a welt but not blood.
She definitely needed to send an email.
Eleanor was thinking of the exact wording when she pulled the waxed paper aside.<
br />
And stopped.
The book was unbelievably beautiful. Bound in fawn-colored leather that felt like velvet beneath Eleanor’s trembling fingertips, the cover and spine were embossed with intricate swirls and tendrils from which bizarre creatures—mammalian, avian, aquatic and some a perverted combination of all three—seemed to peer.
It was a masterpiece of the creator’s art that didn’t stop at the cover.
The pages themselves were thick velum the color of melted butter that felt almost warm to the touch, and had, she saw after carefully turning a half-dozen, illuminated margins depicting the same fantastic flora and fauna as depicted on the cover and was written in a stylistic and unknown language. The title, if title it was, was in the middle of an otherwise blank page and seemed more a series of letters written one atop another than a single word. There was neither author nor illustrator listed below the title, but that in itself wasn’t entirely unusual. The scribe of many ancient volumes had been lost to history.
The only thing Eleanor could read was a small, hand-lettered note that had been paper-clipped to the inside of the cover opposite the title page:
ON LOAN FROM MISKATONIC UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
RESTRICTED TO LIBRARY USE ONLY
DURATION OF LOAN: ONE WEEK
It was curious but it made sense. The book was far too unique and undoubtedly irreplaceable to be forever marred by a common identification mark. And a week’s time was more than generous. The only thing that puzzled Eleanor was that the Miskatonic Library had actually allowed the volume out of its care, still it made her proud that they apparently felt that she (and the library, of course) was more than capable of caring for it.
If time had been of no consequence, Eleanor would have stood there for the rest of the day, glorifying in that pride and admiring the book; but since it wasn’t and she had a duty to perform she had no choice but to relinquish her protective guardianship to the ill-kept man—a professor, no less—who’d requested it.
With the utmost care, Eleanor lifted the book from its wrapping and held it against the near-flat plane of her chest. The book seemed to soften against her, the hard edges of the front and back covers becoming pliable as if it were making itself comfortable…safe in her grasp.
Carrying it across the main floor, a part of her wanted to continue walking out the front door and down the granite steps and all the way home where she could make sure the book could be properly cared for and protected and loved and—
“That’s it! It’s here! It is here, I knew it was, I felt it. It is, isn’t it? Tell me it’s here.”
Eleanor blinked and discovered she was standing a few inches from the library’s main entrance, still cradling the book with her left hand as she reached for the door handle with her right. The scarecrow man, whom she now knew to be Professor Bennett was racing toward her, his own hands outstretched.
“I knew it,” he said, fingers trembling. “What are you doing? Where are you taking it? Give it to me! I-I have a…an appointment and am late already.”
Eleanor stepped back, protecting the book. “N-N-No.”
The man stopped, hands falling through the empty air between them. “But I requested it. It’s mine. I need it.”
Taking a deep breath, Eleanor concentrated very hard. Sometimes, though not often, when she did the words came the way they were supposed to.
“R-r-r—” Damn! “Re-st-st-stricted.”
The man straightened his spine, lengthening a full inch beyond Eleanor’s own 5’11” frame. It was a small change, but one that seemed to instill a sense of dignity to his otherwise bedraggled appearance. It also seemed to make him feel obligated to give her a look she suspected was designed to terrify students.
Eleanor suppressed a yawn.
“You don’t seem to understand,” he said, “I requested that book with the understanding that I be allowed to take it with me.”
Eleanor shook her head, pressing the book to her. “H-h-here o-o—” Deep breath, Eleanor, think of what you have to say. “Only!“
The man’s gaze darkened. “This is an outrage. I made a specific request that I be allowed to—I need this book for my…research. It’s of the utmost importance that I—I must study this in the confines of my own home and I assure you I will take excellent care of it.”
Eleanor shook her head.
“But I must take it with me!”
Again aroused by the drama that was unfolding near them, the library’s visitors, and the morning librarian, turned to watch. Eleanor could feel their stares against her skin and felt a surge of heat fill the spaces below her cheekbones. Stepping back, Eleanor opened the book to show him the handwritten note and was stunned by his reaction.
The man’s already pallid complexion drained further until it seemed as if she could see the cream-colored skull beneath the suddenly transparent flesh. Only his eyes retained their dark hue as they stared unblinking at the note.
“You—you—”
For a moment Eleanor thought her affliction had somehow passed to him.
“You opened it.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes. Unclipping it carefully, she closed the book and handed the note to the man. Tried to hand it to him. He stumbled back, hands raised before his face as if she held a venomous snake. His eyes followed Eleanor as she folded the note and put it in the pocket of her bulky work cardigan.
“Wh-wh-why wouldn’t I-I—” She took a deep breath. “Y-y-you c-c-can ca-ca-call and as-as-ask them.”
The man shook his head, eyes lowered. Beaten.
Good. “Th-th-then f-follow me.”
Eleanor folded both arms over the book and carried it toward the reading rooms.
He followed, trailing behind her like a frightened five year old afraid of being separated from its mother.
Originally designed to be an all purpose meeting/reception/lecture hall when the library was built at the turn of the 19th Century, it had been divided into small, semi-soundproof rooms, A through F, each with a small table, a single chair, a reading lamp to offset the old-fashioned overhead flush mounted light and wastepaper basket, and was equipped with a glass-front door that could be closed but not locked. The glass doors had replaced the old solid wooden doors in the 1960s when it was discovered that some teenagers were using the rooms for less than academic exploration.
There was no particular reason why Ms. Dickson had decided to put the man in Reading Room B, since all the rooms were empty, but as Eleanor turned to step across the threshold, the man touched her arm.
She felt her skin twitch under the unexpected intimacy and quickly moved out of reach.
“Could I use one of the rooms at the far end of the hall?”
Eleanor turned.
“It’s just that…” The man folded the hand that had touched her against his chest. “…I don’t wish to be disturbed.”
Nodding, Eleanor led him to the last room on the left, Room F, and stepped aside as he rushed in to take a seat at the table. He didn’t bother to remove his overcoat despite the fact that the room, as with the library itself, was well heated.
She understood why when she placed the books down on the table in front of him. There was a cold, almost icy breeze coming from somewhere directly over the table. Eleanor glanced toward the ceiling but found no source for the draft.
When she looked down, the man had pulled a leather-bound notebook and golden pen from his coat, one in each hand like a knife and fork, with the book (the main course) between them. A shiver, possibly from the cold air, puckered the skin across the back of Eleanor’s neck when the man looked up and nodded.
“Thank you,” he told her. “You can go now.”
You can go now…as if she were his servant.
Eleanor took the note from the cardigan’s pocket, unfolded it and pressed it flat against the table just above the closed book. Leaning over, she tapped it.
“Re-stricted.”
He didn’t take his eyes from the book. “Yes, yes, of course.
Restricted. For library use only. Fine, yes, I understand.” He took a breath. “I’m sorry I acted like that earlier, it’s just that my work is so very important, not to only myself but to the whole of mankind. I’m on the cusp of a breakthrough that might very well change the course of human evolution as we know—”
Eleanor turned and walked out of the room. Crackpot, she thought. At the door she paused, knob in hand, and looked back at him.
“Restricted.”
The door closed with a solid, authoritative sound.
An hour later, at its prescribed time, the day’s mail arrived. Among the standard assorted advertisements, book catalogs and the like were nine Inter-Library loans, which, according to the inventory list consisted of four novels (only one of which, in Eleanor’s opinion, could be considered literature), two scholarly periodicals that her library didn’t subscribe to, a dissertation on the collective works of some lesser known Romantic poet and two tomes on home brewing craft beers.
The regular carrier, the young African-American woman, smiled at her.
“Hi. Here ya go. Sign here, please.”
Eleanor had felt the room shift slightly to the left—We already had a delivery. Who was that other carrier? What’s going on?—as she signed her name, added the date, and handed the clipboard back.
It was at that moment, when the mail carrier took back the clipboard and wished Eleanor a pleasant day, that Ms. Dickson decided to come out of her office.
“Oh, good! They’re here.” She smiled down at the parcels. “Make sure you get that book to Reading Room B as soon as possible, okay? Then you can contact the others. Okay, Ellynor?”
Eleanor licked her lips. “He—He—He—”
“I know,” the younger woman sighed, “weird, but ours is not to reason why, is it? And you know how professors are, the whole one-track mind thing. Okay.” She dropped the sigh and brought back the smile. “I have a meeting with the City Council…try to squeeze a little more blood from those oysters. Man the fort for me, Ellynor.”
The Tales from the Miskatonic University Library Page 16
