Eyes On a Bookshelf

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.