The tent is certainly one of the
biggest he has been in, yet it is the most cozy. Where the other tents had led
him to other worlds and shown him strange sights, this tent feels as familiar
as his own house, though he has never seen anything like it. The walls of the
tent are invisible, hidden behind towering bookcases. Shelves and shelves of
richly coloured volumes, tomes and even scrolls with gilded edges line the
sides of the tent and disappear into the shadows above. The tent is circular
but where it would round off it joins with another circular room with a domed
roof. In the centre of the room is a koi pond, black and white fish swimming blithely
above a plane of glass. Light ripples on the bottom of the glass and filters
down into the room below. Below it is a sunken bed, the same size and shape as
the pond, only it is filled with pillows and small patterned blankets. It seems
to him that someone could get lost in the abundance of feather stuffed fabrics
and Indian silk, all in an array of midnight blue and black. There are stacks
of books around the sunken bed, though more shelves line the walls of that room
as well. A ladder leans against the bookcases, attached to wheels that spin on
a golden railing around the room.
The space has the musty smell of many books in one space and
dusty, ancient wood, and even from his position close to the exit he cannot
hear anything beyond the tent flap.
He takes his time, perusing the shelves and wondering if and
why patrons pull these books out and read them, burying themselves in novels
when they could be enjoying the circus. It takes him a moment to realize there
are no titles to the books.
He moves on to the second room and finds he can still not
choose a book. They are so different, some have a pearly glazed cover and
others have embossed or illustrated spines. Some are of leather and some are of
thin board. The ones on the floor around the bed appear no different from the
ones on the shelves. They may be fancies of patrons who have previously come
across The Library.
The books on the floor seem as good a place as any to start.
He takes a step over the bed and falls gently into it,
cushions blooming up around him like a blue and black tide. It feels as soft as
falling into a cloud.
The first book he picks up is off the top of a pile, in
mahogany, pale gold in swirling lines bordering the cover. He carefully opens
the book but finds no words. He is distracted by the blank pages almost
immediately by something else. The smell of heavy wet earth, and very faintly,
the scent of musky animal fur. There is the warmth of the sun on his neck. He
closes his eyes and gold and green light filters through them. From somewhere
close comes a birdcall. He inhales deeply and the air is cool, his skin warm.
He lies not on a bed of silk but on a bed of, moss? He feels it between his
fingers, moss and sharp twigs. The bird calls again, closer. He wonders if it
is an exotic bird, or something he has seen before in the English countryside.
He opens his eyes again and the book falls from his fingers,
snapping shut as it hits his lap. The feeling of a forest is immediately gone. The
book is just a book, in the pillows, but he puts it next to the bed carefully,
as though is holds an entire forest in its pages that could collapse if handled
too harshly.
His next choice is from the bottom of a pile across the bed.
He navigates his way through the cushions to get to it. It is small, pale
pearly purple, the colour of wisteria, with delicate silver filigree in the
corners. He lies down again and opens cover. The floral scent is light at
first, until he notices the layers under it. First there is lilac, fresh and
bright, then there are hyacinths and dog roses, hollyhocks and bluebells. The
grass is cut short beneath his boots, there is dew soaking through his socks.
Cicadas hum around him and a smell comes wafting on the warm breeze. Scones,
strawberries and some sort of vanilla cake. He even smells fresh tea and
reaches out his hand, half expecting to feel a bone china cup slide into it.
Instead he hits the side of the bed and his eyes flutter open. He did not
realize he had closed them. He closes the volume and the feeling fades, leaving
him slightly hungry and wishing for a cup of tea.
While searching through the piles at the edge of the bed, he
rests his knee on something painfully sharp. It is the corner of a royal blue
opus tucked into the side of the bed, protruding from the cushions. The cover
has a silver spiral raise of wave-like lines that shimmer when it passes under
the light from the koi pond.
This book creaks slightly as opened and before he is trapped
in the smell of salt, he smoothes down the corners of the pages. Salt stings
his face, is accompanied by the smell of wet sand and woodsmoke. Wind whips his
hair into his eyes and the feeling of being on something large and shifting,
something that moves too much to be still land, is so overwhelming her almost
falls over. Cold droplets hit his skin and roll down his wrists. The ground
beneath him tilts again and this time he does not catch himself. He falls to
the side and finds himself gasping against a red cushion, face pressed into a
row of buttons, the book feet away and in danger of falling into the pillows
again.
He picks it up and puts it beyond the books that border the
bed, making a note to keep the design on the cover in his mind, should he ever
rediscover this tent with Sage.
He looks around excitedly, wondering which book to pick
next.
A black leather volume peeks out from a stack to his right. As
he pulls it out the ripples from above the pond sail across it, decorating he
otherwise plain front. It has a braided length of rope looped around it and he
undoes, with difficulty, the knot holding it together.
The first feeling he encounters upon opening the book is
cold. It is like ice piercing his bones, and clinging to him with the wetness
of mist. Something crunches beneath his feet, like hard packed dirt. There is
wet stone, curved at the top and rooted in the ground. There is darkness, no
play of light behind his eyelids. There is whistling, like the wind, and the
rustle of dry leaves across grass. A feeling of unease creeps over him, shivers
in his spine. He has the sense he is being watched and when footsteps come
toward him, he is sure of it. There is a muffled thump, something silver
flashes, his fear intensifies and pain radiates from his chest. There is a
scream that he cannot discern whether it is male or female, or even human.
Something falls. Grayness creeps into his eyelids, then red, scarlet and
pooling like paint. The gray turns to black and the cold reduces him to
shivering.
He slams the cover closed, breathing deeply to slow his
heartbeat as he does up the coil of rope with shaking hands. He places the book
on the edge of the bed and shoves it hard, sliding it across the floor where is
hits a bookcase and rebounds a few inches, coming to stop far away from him.
He feels disturbed and frightened; glancing to each shadow
to make sure it is empty. He looks around for another book, wanting to end his
experience on a better note. He picks the warmest looking one he can find.
Radiantly coloured like embers and bound in fabric that shifts between shades
of red and orange in the undulating light. There are tiny stars picked in
silver thread that shimmer as he moves back into the centre of the bed.
When he opens the book there is an intense heat, as though
he is standing only a few feet from a roaring fire, the sparks rising into the cerulean
sky like early stars. There is the smell of smoke and spice and something
sweet, like figs and honey. The feel of feathers against his skin and the heat
increases, making him flush. Something soft on his cheek, a gloved hand maybe.
There is a rippling laugh, two flutes with blending melodies and a pair of lips
that whisper in his ear words he doesn’t catch, either from the softness of
them or they are in a different language.
He turns his head to hear the words again but when he opens
his eyes he meets the wall of the bed and another stack of books. He places the
book back carefully on a pile, feeling a guilty at his desire to tuck it away
somewhere it will remain unfound and undisturbed, in the hopes he will find it
easily in the future. He is not sure if he wants to open another book so he
rises from the bed, as best as he can without falling back into the sea of
pillows, and pulls himself up onto a part of ledge he has cleared. He is
careful not to touch any volumes on his way out.
When he pushes the flap of curtain open and steps through he
relaxes with the familiar scent of the circus. He turns and pulls the coal grey laces through each silver
grommet and sets off down a path in search of Sage. He considers taking his
coat off as the night is warm, but he catches the sound of wind whistling and
finds he is too cold.
Text by Lucie MacAulay
