Eyes On a Bookshelf
I am Fergus. This
spot on the bookshelf has been mine since they were built. The books were
filled in about me; I liked their closeness. There are many, many books on
these shelves that curved about the room to encircle the woman; she liked it
too.
The
woman was Finn, and I liked her, I suppose. We had similar habits: we both
stayed in the library mostly, leaving only for the short time it took us to use
the facility, get the mail, get groceries, and eat. She used to go out all the
time, or so she said. I did not know her then.
We
had our routine. Every morning she would call me for breakfast, and then when
she had refilled the enormous mug for the third time, we made our way down the
winding staircase to the library and took our places.
Finn liked to sit in the big armchair
after scanning the meticulously ordered shelves until something caught her eye.
She always said that if she was supposed to read it, that it would seem to leap
off the shelf of its own accord.
My neighbors were
hardcover editions. Pride and Prejudice
and Mansfield Park were my primary company, but on any particular day I
would make my way around the twisting shelves and find the more adventurous,
and my personal favorites: The Rats of NIMH
or Redwall.
Finn would comment
to me after reading a book and explain the conflicts or anything that really
set her off…which was pretty much everything. From these descriptions I knew
almost every book in the library. I enjoyed falling asleep, staring at the
cover art and I found that my dreams would be particularly interesting.
Sometimes I am not
sure that Finn knows that I am here. It is hard to discern whether she speaks
to herself or to me; but the outpour is almost non-stop unless her mind is in
the pages of an exceptionally good novel.
This morning I
woke up from a night of odd dreams; tired. I dreamt of a highwayman come
riding, riding…who kept waking me up. I suddenly missed Finn and decided I must
look for her. Her bedroom was empty, as was the kitchen, but the familiar scent
of hot vanilla rose from the steaming cup on the counter, so she must be close
by.
I waddled toward
the screen door to sit, staring out. There was Finn, her hair unkempt and free
flowing. I could not see her eyes, but I knew that they must be like ice to
accompany her tense body, arms crossed about her, yet her shoulders were back
and her stance was firm. I knew that the man in front of her did not stand a
chance. In fact, I was surprised that he hadn’t left yet, as so many had done
before.
I had a good view
of him from my position, though it was tempting to get onto the counter and
look through the window above the sink, but I didn’t want to miss anything. His
expression was unyielding. He neither advanced nor retreated and Finn did not
seem to know what to make of it.
“That’s what
you’re trying to do, you’re trying to forget I ever existed! Part of life is
getting hurt and trying to figure out what it is that you need. Don’t push me
away…” His voice took on a softer tone near the end. I wasn’t entirely
convinced of pure intentions.
She stared him
down, “Well, this is my life now, I don’t need you - I’m living the life I have
always wanted.”
“Well I will come
back and you think about it. How can you live the life you always wanted and
not want to share it with anyone?”
Finn didn’t
answer, but I so wished that she would. I growled deep in my throat. I shared it with her and I couldn’t be happier. But I
wasn’t sure how happy Finn was. She was the same as she always had been, and
that was…content.
Presently, Finn
walked back inside, stiff-legged. She abhorred not having any response. I have
never had that problem. She stepped around me absent-mindedly, hardly noticing
me. That was just as well because I was still processing as I pressed my belly
to the cool floor.
She did not read
that day. I tried to lead her down into the library; I paced back and forth. I
stayed on the shelf and dozed for a couple hours, waiting for her, but she
never came. After my nap I came back upstairs to look for her. She was sitting
on the porch. I came out and sat beside her, trying to determine where she was
looking. I waited for her to tell me, she never was good at keeping her
thoughts to herself.
Sure enough, “I
love this place, Fergus. It’s like something out of a dream for me. I had
planned for this my entire life. I had said that I wanted to live in a
beautiful house with all the books I could ever read, not to be bothered by
anyone. Now I’m sort of wondering what it might be like to be bothered
everyday…which is stupid because I have no patience for that sort of thing.”
She sighed heavily, and then frowned.
“Well, it’s no use
dwelling on anything.” She got up and walked inside, slamming the screen door
behind her. I hope that wasn’t directed at me, because that was rude.
After that, she
went down to the library and stayed late into the night; reading a page of one
book, a chapter of another, until a tower of books rose upon the stand beside
her. She could not seem to find one that captured her mind enough.
“My mind will just
not do what I want it to!” Finn exclaimed.
By now it must
have been in the early hours of the morning and my eyelids would open no
further than slits even when a hardcover flew inches past my nose.
The man came back
the next day, and this time I made sure to be on the windowsill when he drove
up. I narrowed my eyes at the full pot of coffee on the counter. There were two
mugs next to it. How could she do this to me? Maybe I could get hair in it…
Yet, here he was
at the door, being invited in. The man’s eyebrows rose in surprise; he had
obviously expected to be turned away once again; in this, he and I were of the
same mind. I narrowed my eyes at him, hoping he would take the hint. But he
just looked at Finn. I had never seen anyone look at someone that way before.
“I thought we
could go out for breakfast,” he commented.
“I like it here.”
Finn poured the coffee. “Sugar? Cream?”
“Both please,” he
smiled and looked about the room. “I like it here too; it suits you so well.”
He removed his coat and placed in on the back of the chair. The jacket’s fibers
were just so that I imagined tearing them out one by one and piling them in a
dark corner where they would lay, forgotten.
“Well, thank you”,
Finn replied, a shy smile playing upon her lips.
The man stayed all
day just talking with Finn. She showed him our life. Then he came the next day.
At some point I retreated down the winding staircase to the library. The room
was dark, a pretend fire burned in the fireplace and the books were waiting for
me. I jumped up to the second shelf and walked about the titles until I found
something comforting. The cover art reminded me of some dream that I could
never completely remember. Elves, fairies, dryads, and even birds danced upon
the cover. Wildwood Dancing looked so
terribly intriguing; if there were ever a world out there that looked like
this, I would live there. I bet Finn would too. She always said that she could
live in the Wildwood; and every time she picked up the book she did. This book
was old, with a cracked cover and the spine was so soft it could be turned
inside out. I settled next to this and shut my eyes. When I was ready to come
back up, perhaps Finn would have made him leave.
That was not the
case. I sat on the cool, tile floor with elegant poise. I hoped that Finn felt
the commanding vibes that emanated from my eyes. I had gotten off the shelf and
climbed all of those stairs, just for her to ignore me.
I did not bother
coming up the next day. I was on the top shelf deciding between two paths that
were diverged in a yellow wood, when I heard her getting up. Finn’s feet hit
the floor then the usual few stumbling steps to the kitchen. A couple minutes
later the smell of hazelnut filled the house and Finn’s footsteps were more
purposeful. I waited for her to call me. I did not hear the familiar echo of
her voice down the steps. Instead I heard the scuff of slippers as they padded
out of Finn’s room. I knew that it couldn’t be her because she hadn’t left the
kitchen, and these feet were heavier than hers.
I stayed on my
shelf. I didn’t need her voice drifting through these books, complaining,
describing, and speaking to fill the air. I breathed in heavier and thought I
detected more oxygen than normal. But my ears echoed with the footsteps that
were neither Finn’s nor mine.
Eyes On a Bookshelf by
Janna Herchenroder is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
I feel the wind through the window screens and the smell of green leaves and spring flows through the house. And rain.
