The Bookshop

The bookshop sits at the edge of the last village, in the very corner of the world. Those who pass it on their travels know it to be very, very old. Any contemplation of quite how old it might be, or how a book shop could have stood in a place that did not always exist, since before the concept of a book, or even a village, came to be, causes only confusion, and a mild headache, so people do not contemplate it. Such eternal truths are not for them… Not until their time has come.

I used to pass it, and longed to know what lay behind the imposing wooden door, beneath its carefully calligraphed name and large brass bell. Nobody knew what the bell sounded like… But, one day, they inevitably would. I could make out stacks of dusty tomes, reaching up into infinity, through the slightly clouded windows. I once walked over, and pressed my nose to a window pane, hoping to sneak a peek, just a little further inside.

Then, an elderly man appeared on the other side of the glass, wearing small, round spectacles and a stern expression. He was neatly attired in a crisp, white shirt, and smart, black waistcoat, but his white hair was tousled, as though he had raked his hand through it too many times that day. He frowned at me, and wagged his finger.

His lips did not move, but I understood his meaning well: “No. Not for you… Not yet.”

I wondered if it was he who wrote the notes: The mysterious, handwritten letters, carefully sealed in wax, which appeared three days after a passing. Father had allowed me to open ours, after my mother died. I had cracked the red seal with trembling, tiny fingers, and unscrolled the parchment, taking in the careful, flawless hand of the scribe, before beginning to read:

“Dear Sir or Madam,

You have registered an interest in receiving news of Teresa Balan’s final choice. She has picked a volume named ‘Psych… Psych…”

My father had peered over my shoulder, to get a better look at the word, and nodded, swallowing heavily. “ ‘Psychedelia’,” he’d murmured. “Of course, she loved psychedelic artwork from the ’60s. It makes perfect sense that she would have chosen to inhabit such a world.”

I’d gazed up at the garish and confusing pictures on our walls, and wondered why Mother would want to spend eternity in such an aesthetic, when she could have chosen a fairytale, or a comedy.

“Will you choose to follow her there, some day?” I’d asked my father.

“You must never ask that,” he’d replied, “When I am gone, you will receive another note like this one, and only then may you know what I have decided.”

Years passed. My beloved grandmother died, and we received another note, in precisely the same handwriting, informing us that she had chosen a volume named: ‘Grand, Historic Houses.’ I was more approving of that one, and allowed myself to fantasize about joining her in that realm, one day, taking tea in sumptuous drawing rooms, and reclining in sun-dappled, exquisitely landscaped gardens. Then, I thought about my mother, trapped in an infinity of spirals and colour, and shapes that appeared to be moving, though they were not, and felt guilty for not wanting to go and keep her company in the disarray. Finally, I reasoned that I would have a long time to make my choice, and resolved not to dwell on it until the time came.

I fell in love with a boy named John. He had the broadest smile, and brightest eyes that I had ever seen. We laughed and danced, and had such passionate moments and private jokes between us, that I could not imagine any two people alive feeling closer… Until I discovered that he also laughed, and danced, and had such moments with my best friend, Kate.

I cried for days, and chewed my pillow until it was soggy with saline spittle, and wished them both all of the curses of the world. When I heard that John had died in a boating accident, part of me felt a little guilty, wondering if I had hastened his demise with my ill-wishes.

Three days later, a scroll arrived, sealed with red wax, just as my mother’s and grandmother’s had been. I furrowed my brow, wondering what family member could possibly have passed away without my knowing of it.

I unscrolled the parchment and, to my surprise, read:

‘Dear Sir or Madam,

You have registered an interest in receiving news of John Miller’s final choice. He has picked a volume named ‘Seafaring Adventures.’

It occurred to me then that ‘registering an interest’ simply meant ‘loving,’ and I thought that the man who wrote the letters must be incredibly stupid if he thought that I would want to spend eternity with John, who had so decimated my young and fragile heart. I also wondered why John would have chosen to spend his afterlife in the very thing that killed him. Passions were passions, I supposed.

My father remarried and, though it pained me to see him look at another woman the way he had once looked at Mother, I tried not to begrudge him his happiness. I sometimes wondered if, in the case that his new wife died before him, he would choose to follow Mother to ‘Psychedelia,’ or go where his second wife had gone. I even wondered what would happen if all three of them went to ‘Psychedelia.’ Would both of his loves be jealous of each other, and squabble over his affections, or did such mortal pangs and yearnings disappear in the mists of infinity?

I fell in love again, this time with a man named Ben, who I met at university. His smile was not so dazzling as John’s, but something in his enormous eyes told me that it was just for me. As the years went by, I realised that we knew each other in a way that John and I never had. There was a truth between us, more passionate than any dance.

Father had a second daughter: A pretty little blonde named Emily. I expected to feel jealous, but I was old enough that she and I did not require the same things from him, and I doted on her slavishly, looking forward to the day when Ben and I decided to have children of our own.

When Emily was two years’ old, she contracted glandular fever and died. Every one of us was heartbroken, but I had never seen an expression akin to the utter agony in her mother’s eyes, as she sat blankly in the garden, staring at nothing, her pretty face a perfect mask of disbelief and emptiness, as she clutched Emily’s favourite, yellow blanket.

I tried not to look into my stepmother’s eyes when I gave birth to my own daughter, Eve, or my younger son, Jack. I knew that I would find envy and renewed grief in the depths of her soul, as she watched me and Ben delight in our offspring, when hers had been so cruelly ripped away.

There were happy times… for a while. One day, a drunk driver crashed into my father’s car, and killed him instantly. I thought that I too might die, of grief, but Ben’s patient love, and the bright faces of my children, convinced me that I did not want to follow my parents to the bookshop too soon.

We waited for the scroll to arrive, informing us of Father’s chosen path. I doubted that he would go to Mother, now, and resigned myself to the fact that she would remain all alone in ‘Psychedelia’ until it was time for me to make my decision. We had received a wax-sealed note when little Emily died, informing us that she had chosen to inhabit a volume of nursery rhymes. I expected that my father would follow her, and that his wife would, one day, follow them, and finally have the family that she had expected to have. I also supposed that my mother would have understood.

However, we waited, and waited, and no scroll came to tell us of my father’s eternal decision. My stepmother and I almost came to blows, each one accusing the other of having received the parchment, but having kept its contents secret. Ben made peace between us, and pointed out that we had all loved Father, and were frustrated by our grief.

Perhaps it was too great a decision for him to make within three days, I reasoned. Perhaps the final choice sometimes took longer, and he was still in the bookshop, browsing through volumes that had swallowed up everyone he’d ever loved, trying to let his heart lead him to the right place.

So we waited, and waited, and waited again, but we never received the note. Ben had to physically restrain me from marching down to the bookshop, throwing open the forbidden doors, and giving the white-haired gentleman a piece of my mind, for his negligence. That was not how things worked.

In time, life returned to some sense of normality, though it never ceased to weigh on my mind that I would probably never know where my father had chosen to go, due to some administrative error in the endless tapestry of infinity.

My love for Ben grew deeper by the day: Less passionate, and yet more intense; Less turbulent, and yet more colourful. We watched our children grow, together… For a time.

When I discovered that I had developed the same illness as my mother had, I knew that I would not have so long to watch them, as I had thought. Ben clung to me, in the darkest nights, as I tried to mask the pain racking my body, with a gentle smile, and he sought to hide the tears in his eyes with kisses.

“I will follow you wherever you go,” he whispered to me, as I faded. I believed him. It tortured me that I could receive no such guarantee from Eve or Jack, at their tender ages, because they had many loves to encounter, before they decided which book to eventually inhabit, but it heartened me that, in time, I would spend eternity with Ben. Perhaps it would seem that no time had passed at all, when he arrived to join me. Perhaps hours, and years, and ages had no meaning in the world beyond the one I knew…

And, so, it came to be that I found myself, once more, standing in front of the imposing, wooden door of the bookshop, gazing up at the brass bell, which I knew I must now ring. I tugged at the chain, and it sounded, clear as the sky, yet deep as the earth; Sweet as birdsong, yet solemn as night.

The door creaked open, and I stepped inside. I had not expected the shop to smell so… earthly. The bookshelves were arranged in a circle, around an ornately carved, wooden table. They stretched so high that I could not quite see where they ended. Perhaps they did not, for there is no end to the end. The books were old and new, ragged and pristine, grim and brightly coloured. Many were covered in dust, and I knew that the aroma that surrounded me was the musk of ages.

I was so entranced by the weight of the atmosphere that I barely noticed the elderly gentleman, until he stepped forward. He looked exactly as he had when I was a little girl. He pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat, and nodded approvingly.

“Eliza Balan,” he commented, “Right on time.”

I gazed at him, suddenly fearful, as I appreciated the magnitude of it all. “What happens now?” I asked, in a small voice.

He gestured for me to join him at the central wooden table, upon which sat an enormous volume, bound in black leather. “This,” he stated, “Is the index of all of the books that we have for you to choose from. I will give you a little time to make your decision. Choose from the heart. Choose with wisdom. Choose with certainty… For it is the last choice that you will make.”

An icy chill of indecision gripped me. “What if I can’t choose?” I whispered.

“You must choose,” he replied.

“But, what if…” Something occurred to me. “My father! We never received a note to inform us of his choice! Is he still here?” I peered around, hopefully.

“Everybody chooses,” snapped the man.

“Then, why didn’t we…?”

“No more questions,” he insisted, “You have little enough time to decide which book will house you for all eternity! Do you realise how long that is?”

“N-not exactly,” I admitted.

He fixed me with a steely stare. “A very long time indeed! Now, I suggest that you start looking through the index.”

I swallowed heavily, and made my way towards the enormous, leather-bound book. I opened the cover fearfully, and saw the names of volumes, written out in lists, in the same, neat handwriting from the scrolls.

“Did you write all of this?” I gasped.

“I told you, no more questions!”

I dropped my head deflatedly, and began to peruse the index. As I read the title of each tome, bright visions flashed into my mind, of the world I might inhabit according to the book I chose. I was almost certain that I would find Father, and little Emily, in the book of nursery rhymes, sitting on tuffets, eating curds and whey, or baking blackbirds in a pie. I longed to see them, but was that the infinity in which I wanted to be reunited with Ben… If he even came to me? Who was to say that he would not find another to love, as my father had? Furthermore, I hoped that Eve and Jack would live long and healthy lives, and would be in no position to wish to inhabit a world of nursery rhymes, when their times came.

I thought of my mother, all alone in ‘Psychedelia’… But, perhaps, she was not alone. Perhaps there were others there, with the same fond memories, enjoying the twisted otherness of their atmosphere, all having a fine time together. And, what would Ben say, if he did decide to follow me, and found that I had doomed us both to ‘Psychedelia’?

I began to panic. I returned to the idea of joining my grandmother in a world of grand houses. Surely, Ben would like that… if he came… Or, would he prefer a life of seafaring adventures, like John?

“Now, you’re just being silly,” I muttered to myself. Perhaps I needed to think about the things I loved, and go somewhere that I might be happy, regardless of who did or did not follow me. My mind went blank, and I could barely remember any of the books or topics that I enjoyed.

I breathed deeply to steady myself. Cookery. I liked cookery… But an eternity of cooking? Would one pie not begin to resemble as another, if I did nothing but bake them forever?

I enjoyed dark, gothic romance novels. Perhaps eternity in such a sensual, decadent world would be amusing… But, would it simply become unwholesome, with no alternative to counteract it?

I had studied history at university, where I’d met Ben. Perhaps it would be fascinating to live in a book set in the middle ages, or during a great war, or… Fascinating, certainly, but would it actually be pleasant? I began to contemplate having to wash in a trough, or waiting for an invading army to reach the citadel.

Travel books! I could choose a nice volume, with beautiful pictures of sun-drenched hammocks, and perfect beaches… But would I come to miss the snow?

It might be fun to be a detective, and solve exciting crimes… But, I could only choose one book, so my inner sleuth would have only a finite number of cases. Would it not get boring to yell: “Aha! I’ve solved it” for the thousandth time?

Was there anything that wouldn’t get boring?

I sighed deeply, as I realised that the only thing that would never get boring is love. That, surely, was why we received the notes, so that we could be reunited with the people who we did not want to be without. My mother, and grandmother, and John, and Emily, had all made choices based upon their passions, but how could I know that they had not come to regret it, and longed only for the ones that they’d left behind?

“You’d better hurry up,” observed the elderly man, checking his pocket watch, “You’re almost out of time.”

“What?” I gasped, “But, it hasn’t been three days!”

“Where do you think you are?” he retorted, “You have no concept of time!”

He was right. I had no idea of where I was, or if time even existed.

“I- I…” I stammered, my mind reeling, as I thought of everyone, and everything, and… “Then, I choose this book,” I announced, with an alarming clarity.

“Which book?”

“This book: The index.”

His lips tightened. “You must choose a book. That is the index.”

I narrowed my eyes stubbornly. “It is also a book. You never said anything about books that may not be chosen.”

The little colour he had drained from his pallid face. “I told you to choose with your heart. I told you to choose with wisdom. I told you to choose with certainty.”

“I have chosen. Of that, I am certain. My heart wants access to everything, and my wisdom has found a way to ensure it. If I choose the index, I will be able to visit every land, every dream, and every adventure that penmanship has created, and all of the loved ones within them. Is that not so?”

“I told you,” he sighed, almost defeatedly, “No more questions.”

“Never mind,” I replied, nonchalantly, “I am decided.”

He looked at me, with an expression that was hard to read: Something between contempt, and… Was that pity I saw in his jaded eyes?

Before I’d had time to consider it further, the bookshop faded, and I found myself standing somewhere bleak and barren, without a single book to be seen. I glanced down at my feet, and realised that I was standing on parchment. There was something in the air… Dark shapes, perfectly executed, in a careful, flawless hand: Words, or, to be more specific, titles. It was then that I realised the truth of it. I was indeed inside the index, surrounded by the titles of the books in the bookshop… But, where were the bright images, of all that the volumes contained? Where were the visions I’d had of sumptuous rooms, and sandy beaches? Had they only come from my imagination?

I opened my mouth to scream, but stopped when another figure stepped out of the nothingness, and my scream turned to a delighted cry of recognition.

“Father,” I exclaimed, “You’re here!”

He ran forward to embrace me, but his expression was not one of joy.

“You made the same choice,” I said, excitedly, “That’s why we never received a note!”

He nodded, solemnly.

“But, what’s the matter?” I continued, “ Aren’t you pleased to see me? You must explain to me how this works! How do we access the worlds inside the books?”

“We don’t, Eliza,” he stated, close to tears, “The index does not contain all of the stories, facts and pictures from the books, only the titles of the books.”

I froze, as his words resonated. “Surely, you can’t mean that…?”

Again, he nodded solemnly. “There is nothing here for us, but each other, until the day that another, poor, hapless fool cannot decide.”

And so, the bookshop sits at the edge of the last village, in the very corner of the world. Nobody who passes by rings the brass bell, until the day that they must. Inside, they will find peace, beauty, solace, or adventure, if they are brave enough to choose it… and nothing, if they choose everything.