The Bookseller

A Story by Emily C

A little spur-of-the-moment drivel.

The city was breath-taking. Incredibly tall, thin buildings with burgundy roofs made up the majority of the cityscape, their bleach white bodies reflecting the shining sun away from the streets and the people in the buildings. It was in a hot climate, and tough, scraggly palm trees sprouted by the paths alongside the tiled road. People walked in long flowing robes of every colour, their heads shielded from the heat and glare by circular hats made of light wood wrapped in cloth. People took great pride in their appearance in the city, adorning their robes with jewels, dyes and patterns, wearing large earrings and long golden necklaces. Some even draped strings of pearls on their sun hats, which glowed in the midday sun, swinging lightly as they swayed down the streets.

People in the city did not walk. They glided, they strutted, they swept along their way, carrying with them canvas bags full of books, food and exotic beauties, but mostly books. It was a scholar city, dedicated to the importance of education and catering to the extra-curricular activities that came after. Many of the shops lining the main roads sold valuable textbooks and scripts at extortionate prices, and the book trade was by far the strongest in the city. Nearby the heart of the city, their lay a peculiar bookshop; for it did not sell information books, or any scriptures of any kind. It specialised in fiction, and for this reason it was generally avoided, except for the average scholar who mistakenly entered the shop looking for a rare piece of information.

The owner of the bookshop, a weary-faced kind-hearted old man named Grayson, had a deep love of fictional books, and he found contentment in strolling throughout his dusty, dis-used bookshelves and feeling the soft leather spines of the most wonderful stories he had ever collected. He almost didn’t want to sell them, though he wasn’t particularly worried about that. The public were only interested in gaining knowledge, and rarely visited his lonely, out-of-place little shop. They had lives outside of their schools, colleges and universities, but they usually spent that time chasing up a particularly rare textbook of some kind, or travelling down to the local restaurants and ale houses. They were the few cool places in the city, everywhere else being stifling.

The tired old man was not completely alone in his unorthodox bookshop, for he had acquired a young apprentice, a woman named Lucille who seemed to be the only other person in the city to share his intense love of the impossible. She would spend hours and hours categorising and re-categorising his entire collection of books, handling them like sleeping children. When she’d done that a few times, she would pick up the first book she saw and delve into it, revelling in the new worlds and strange characters that she found locked between the sturdy covers on the pages. Grayson loved the young woman like his own child, and felt safe knowing that when his time eventually came, as he could feel it edging closer, his bookshop would not be left to ruin. The stories would not remain unread and unloved, because Lucille would be there to nurture them. He felt he could not thank her enough for standing by him, even when to everyone else he was regarded as senile, invalid, destined for the streets.

She was reading then, wearing the customary long robes, in a deep wine red which suited her pale, creamy complexion perfectly. She was wearing small studs in her ears, which when she tilted her head as she read, would catch the light and flash a thousand different colours. Around her neck hung two thick chains of gold, and her sun hat was laid beside her, her dark crop of silky hair free flowing down her back. Grayson watched her with keen interest, and he was overcome with sadness. He knew that soon he would not be there; he would have to leave his impossibilities behind along with Lucille, who was his reality. Everything he loved could be compressed into one room, and that suited him just fine. He saw that Lucille had closed her book, and he went over to talk to her. She lifted up a smiling face full of innocent adoration toward him, and he returned the gesture whole-heartedly.

“My dear,” He said, taking her long-fingered hands into his gently, “I want you to do something for me,”

“Anything,” Was the immediate reply. Her eyes were a fierce blue, set into a slight, elfish face.

“Next week, I would like you to close the shop for me, and then I want you to come and see me; I’ll be at the top of the highest church tower in this city,” He said to her, his eyes full and serious.

“Of course,” She looked puzzled, but Grayson would tell her no more, and shuffled away in search of his duster �" the mysterious fiction shelf was beginning to look white.

The next week, Lucille closed the shop as she had seen Grayson do a thousand times, pocketing the long brass keys and shouldering her bag half full of textbooks and half full of storybooks. She could see the highest church tower in the city even from the entrance to the shop, it stood a little way out of the centre of the city, but it was a magnificent structure to behold. A discoloured white in colour, with a domed roof brushed with gold leaf, it had a tower that was thin and spindly, stretching almost to the clouds, where a ceremonial bell waited for the day it would be rung. It had not been done in months, as little had happened in that time which was cause for a celebration, and so it was left alone mostly, only being tended to by the silent monks who lived underneath the church, in the cool darkness of the earth. Lucille walked leisurely to the church, greeting the few who passed her by. People were friendly in the city, and it was normal to have complete strangers walk up to you and wish you well.

She approached the entrance to the church; a high archway held steady by two great wooden doors. She timidly pushed one open and found rows and rows of church benches deserted, and not a single monk to be found. Candles burned brightly, dripping wax onto the stone floors and creating hot puddles. The sunset lit up a huge circular stained-glass window in front of her, the dying light turning the colours achingly beautiful. She did have a purpose, however, and so began to climb the many, many, many stairs to the top of the tower. She did not count them, and had to stop several times for she was so out of breath, weighed down by her heavy books. She could not imagine Grayson, with his weak knees and thin ankles hobbling up these before her, his white beard swinging merrily. She was almost afraid that she would find him collapsed on the stairs, but she had nearly reached the top and there was no sign of him.

She eventually entered the bell chamber, and looked with wide eyes upon the grandeur of the celebration bell. It looked like merely a dot from the ground, but standing directly in front of it it was immense, with painstakingly carved decorations covering it from tip to base. She spotted the familiar white wisp of Grayson’s hair, and saw that he was looking out toward the mountains and over the city. Smiling with relief, she moved to stand next to him.

“Lucille,” He looked surprised, and his breath was slightly laboured, “I trust the shop has been taken care of?”

“Yes, I have the keys here,” She moved to give him the keys, but he pushed them away with trembling hand. Lucille looked at him quizzically.

“I asked you here,” He paused to draw breath, “For a specific purpose,”

“Yes?” She waited for him to gather his breath.

“I am dying,” He said simply, and Lucille’s expression convulsed through a multitude of emotions- fear, disbelief, before finally settling on pain.

“You can’t be,” She said, already pushing back tears. Looking at him properly, though, it was true. He was shaking like a leaf, his hair was thin and he was old. He had to pass on, just like everyone eventually would.

“My dear, you know as much I do that I would love to be lying right now,” He said sadly. He shook with a violent fit on coughing falling to his knees. Lucille fell beside him, hands holding him steady.

“But what about the shop? What about me?” Lucille said when the coughing subsided, but they didn’t rise again.

“I have left the shop to you,” He said, his eyes swimming and unfocused, “And I know you will treat it with as much love, and as much respect as I have in my 112 years,”

Despite her efforts, the tears were beginning to stream down her cheeks and drip onto the light fabric of her robes. Grayson grabbed her sleeves suddenly, very tightly, and Lucille leaned in to hear what he had to say.

“Lucille… I have known you for a long time. You came to me when you were just a small child, barely even a teenager, and you wanted to buy one of my books. You said ‘I want that big one with the red cover’, and I got it down from the shelf and showed it to you.

“You know, I have never forgotten… How much you loved my books, and how much you still love them. I remember our time together with a smiling heart, and I am sad that I must leave you now. I will miss you very, very much. I do not want you to dwell on me, though. You must move on to your own bright future.” He let out a painful cough this time, and Lucille openly wept, clutching at him with claw-like hands, unwilling to let her friend go.

“I- I can’t!” She sobbed, lowering her head, but with the last of his strength, Grayson gently pushed it back up, his fingers growing wet with her tears.

“You must. I love you, Lucille Gothan. Perhaps one day, we will meet again, though I fear it will not be in this world. Be… Spectacular,” He said, and then his eyes closed and did not open again.

“Grayson… Grayson!” Lucille sobbed for a few moments, unaware of anything but her own grief. Then she saw the bell in the corner of her eye, and she could almost feel its weight crushing her, pressuring her. ‘Be spectacular’ he had said.

She stood up, letting Grayson’s body fall to the stone floor. She looked at the bell, and it seemed to be challenging her. Mocking her. She saw the thick rope, the brightly coloured interwoven threads like red cloth being waved in front of a bull. She snatched the rope and pulled with all her might, again and again. It began slowly, but the bell began to move, picking up momentum as Lucille pushed herself, vision blurred from the weeping. The first toll was loud and low and it vibrated through her stomach with a humming feeling. The next was louder. The one after that louder still. Soon the noise was so great that she was sure it could be heard throughout the city, and it began to drown out her sadness.

She was ringing the celebration bell. Not for a death, but for a beautiful, whimsical, spectacular life.