The Book Keepers

I could hear them bickering in the main library; two opposites both alike in their story telling however separated by different genres. Richard was consumed with dark and mysterious tales, crimes, torture and the truthful side of unhappy endings that make you need to take a break for a breather. Grace his un-companion as I’d like to describe her was the fantasy, the magical thinking, the warm fuzzy feeling you get when you read something delicious and have to put it down to relish in that sensation of happiness. Their argument was about what to do with a story.

It’s the book keepers here who maintain the story; uphold its integrity when multiple readers distort the text and over time the word’s meaning change when colloquially repurposed. I only know of two book keepers: Richard and Grace; they own a small library and combined bookstore; a façade to their true endeavours however it’s hard to deny they don’t enjoy sharing their favourite novels with new readers.

I would like to call myself an apprentice but neither have claimed that title for me and I’m too embarrassed to ask – so I'm just a shop keep. I’ve been here for some time now and often wondered where their minds drifted to when I'd catch them daydreaming. I’ve been told multiple times this isn’t how you immerse yourself in the story. The truth is a story can only take you so far within the own depths of your imagination, it’s another to step into its pages and experience it for yourself.

“Well, I have plenty of examples of where it has worked before.” Grace said in an uptight tone. I imagine she’s parading over to a bookshelf, velvet pink skirt floating behind her, her aesthetic was that of a lady. “This is different.” Richard said blatantly. “This is different.” She mocks him. I peep through the door and my guess is correct. Richard in his annoyance drops himself into one of the armchairs that looks like it’s been pulled from the 19th century. The main library has two levels, all the walls are bookshelves, there is a fireplace currently on the right side and there’s a large window to the left with thick red curtains. There’s another building on the other side of the window but I’ve seen Grace open it several times to let real fresh air into the stale room and a meadow appears rather than a brick wall or the inside of the clothing store next to them. At the moment rain clouds fill the sky and light rain speckles onto the window.

Grace makes an “ah-huh” sound to confirm she found the book she was looking for. She plops it down on the centre table, a mess with piles of unfinished books, loose paper and nick-nacks taken from their favourite books, of course un-named ones otherwise they wouldn’t exist in the text anymore. She snaps her finger over one of the candle wicks and brings it to life: a creation from her own imagination she can make it do whatever she wants but a normal candle is just a normal candle that requires a match; someone else’s rules she told me. Richard likes to prank Grace. One time it was a door, the handle didn’t work, and it wasn’t until she got frustrated and slammed her fist against it did it open. Different imagination different rules.

Richard sighs, “Did you find what you were looking for?” There’s annoyance in his voice, like it doesn’t matter what she found he’s not going to consider it.

Grace looks up at him, “Why do we bother? We can’t even agree on this, it’s not going work.” She huffs, rolls her eyes and turns away to put the book back. I hear Richard lightly chuckle in amusement and sigh, “Well perhaps we put it away for now, sleep on it.” I watch them climb the staircase, Richard a few steps behind and cross the landing that leads to the upper level. Grace hits the door open with her fist, and I wait for Richard to close it behind him before I move past the crack in the door I’ve been peering out of.

The smell of this room is unreal, it changes depending on the person in it. Whilst musk and honey florals are still reminiscent, they begin to fade as I’m comforted by my own existence. I can’t put a name to the scent, but Richard isn’t a fan of it, so he knows instantly if I’ve been in here. Now is a perfect time because it would be hours before they'd return and realise I was snooping. Time changes so quickly in the main room though, it felt like it was only just closing time and I came to saying goodbye for the day when it’s already too dark to see past what flames are still alight. You always keep some form of light so if a character comes out of their books, they know they’ve come to the right place and will wait for either Richard of Grace to consult them. Another duty of theirs is to help characters find purpose if the readers start to confuse their importance or don’t pay enough attention to their necessity in the story.

I wanted to see what they were arguing about, because from what I heard it sounded like they were talking about the same story, a collaboration which between them is hard to believe. One could survive writing something small like Richard referencing how two characters are romantically connected within a thriller but asking him to write about how a Lord would propose to his secret lover, a Lady of equal status whose parents oppose their union would be like asking Grace to write about how the murderous demon came out of a sink drain and pulled the body through the hole and now the rotting smell of flesh confuses the missing person’s family for weeks until the plumber discovers it.

It just simply doesn’t happen that way. Grace lives in a world of romance and fantasy. Richard might as well be considered a criminal with the things he writes.

So for the two to need each other’s assistance for a story is unusual. I found one of the torches that worked with just flicking the switch and I scanned it over the table trying to find what they might have been looking at. I carefully flick the pages open without moving the back of the book from the table as to not disturb anything. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, maybe they had just been trying to write a book together like the many times before and had given up, hence the strewn pages of various handwriting and unbound manuscripts.

The black notebook on Richard’s chair came into view of my torch light. He’d never leave this lying around. I hesitated; I wouldn’t know what he’d do if he found me reading it. I would be fired for sure and I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to close a door on the idea of more than just watching characters from the words in a book. Once I decided to open it, there was no turning back, I unwrapped the cord binding the pages together and flicked through. It was notes mainly, dot points, there was Grace’s handwriting which had been scratched out repeatedly by what looks like a quill because the fibre was peeling.

There are notes scribbled everywhere and the plain page annoys me because there’s no lines. Some of the pages have a line drawn in the middle with Richard and Grace’s writing on either side. The sentences they write mirror each other with the same meaning only different word choices. “…the tides were rough, the crew had return to their beds to wait out the storm…”, “…the crew below deck, awaiting the storm to settle…”. “…I was tallying the losses from the last attack…”, “I watched him calculate the lives lost in the ship attack…”. “…It’s not safe here, but I can’t let her go…” “…I can’t stay here but I don’t want to let him go…”.

I’m catapulted across the wet floorboards; the rain is pelting down on my back and the feeling of fabric is heavier now as I realise I’m wearing a coat to match my surroundings. My face hurts from smacking onto the floor and I groan as I feel the sting on face. I look up and terrified to see a face with melting skin falling off its skull before I’m knocked in the back of the head into darkness.

I can feel movement around me. I’m being lugged over someone shoulder before being tossed overboard. Panic sets in as I feel paralysed, I brace myself for the impact of water when I land into a bunch of arms. The world is moving around me, voices I can’t understand comprehend meaning. I don’t know what they are saying but the meaning comes to my head “…Le Tresor…”. I know from book keeping that you will remember key points of the story even if you don’t remember reading it. Captain Balthazar and his ‘Corsairs’ skeleton crew are ravaging the seas in search for what I have translated to just now as treasure. Their reasons for picking this particular ship – nothing, as far as Richard and Grace have decided it is completely random. What I know is I’m now in a dingy being taken to shore.

My vision comes back just in time for the tarp around me to be opened and I’m tossed onto the sand. Hands pull me up to meet none other than Captain Balthazar, the skeleton I first saw on the ship. His words translate to me: “Where’s the treasure?”

“Whuh?” I try to say ‘what?’ but the confusion has me speechless. He throws a shovel in my hand and I’m pushed inland and through the trees of the island. I just keep walking as I stop and think of everything I was every taught (well actually overheard) from Richard and Grace about book keeping and I’m panicking as everything is drawing a blank. You can make things up as you go, I know that but how? Your imagination? I’m desperate, the treasure has to be around here, surely that’s going to get me out of trouble and out of the story? I get the urge to start digging when I slip over a wet sand patch in the middle of the path. There’s a rock there too that says ‘here’. Subtle.

The corsairs take over and all I can do is watch over their shoulders just begging for treasure to appear. A chest emerges and gold spills out as its opened, the light it emits takes over and I’m blinded into darkness.

I awake startled with a figure coming into focus. Richard is holding the book open, pen in the other hand. Grace appears at my side with disappointment in her eyes, “What do you think you were doing immersing yourself in an unfinished story? They are unpredictable and wild even when the story is finished, but no ending in sight and you could be lost in there forever.”

“You’re lucky I knew where the treasure was.” Richard said, the smell of fresh ink still in the air he slammed the book close.

“I’m still confused why on earth are you helping Richard write something like that?” I ask Grace. She smiles, “It’s called Mer des Amoureux or ‘The Sea of Lovers’ and Richard is hopeless at romance as you can see.” Richard yells out from the top of the stairs, “Grace couldn’t write a war between two ships even if the Captains were in love.” Grace raises an eyebrow, “Don’t give me ideas that you won’t let me follow through with.”

Richard talks as if I’m not there, “Return the shop keep to its book for now, we’ll find another tomorrow.”