The Lake and the Library (5 page)

Cut, prick, pull,
yank
, and the thing came free. He presented it to me, proud and grinning, my painful performance butting out any chance for a meaningful reply.

“You keep it,” I offered. “It can be your trophy.” He seemed to laugh but no sound came out. He bound my hand carefully with the rag he had used to clean the wound, and after one last examination, the artist looked pleased with his work.

“Thanks.” I sniffled, digging the hand into my eye to get rid of any offending tears.

He smiled, taking the hand and dabbing my cheeks with the bandaged part of it. His touch was a cold surprise. I tried to look away as he helped me up, steadying me and checking for other injuries. I shied away from the fussing.

“I'm fine, really,” and suddenly he was only a few inches away from my face, unblinking, staring down into me. Until now I hadn't realized just how tall he was compared to me, at least by a head, and I shrank back. His hard jaw insinuated only a shadow of a beard on that gaunt face, and he wasn't smiling, anymore. I stepped away and into the open, finally composed.

“Was that you up there?” I pointed to the accident site, and he followed my gesture. A nod.

Teenaged ineloquence took over as I fiddled with my bandage. “Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”

He looked at me intently as I tried to stop my brain from conjuring some other grim hypothetical had he not come to my stupid rescue. With a look up I finally let myself smile, put aside the hesitation, and held out my bandaged hand. “I'm Ash.”

Taking it by the fingertips, he bowed an exaggerated courtier bow, but I didn't get a name. I swallowed, ignoring that he hadn't let go yet.

“Um,” I tried, “got a name?”

The smile faltered. He dropped my hand like it was dangerous. After a few seconds, he turned around and wandered off into the stacks. I followed.

“Hey!” My voice bounded through the dusty place as I trailed behind him.

But as the walls opened into the full grandeur of the building, now fully lit, my pace instantly slowed. It wasn't just the number of books. It was because it was less a library and more a palace. Chandeliers hung heavy from the ceiling beams; lamps were buried in sconces lining the walls. The woodwork, though dusty, was dazzling in turns. And a clock ringed in antlers sat silent on the rear wall above the Fable Door (which was as beautiful inside as it was on the outside). It was as though all my dreams filled the shadows in and gave it light.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the silent stranger boy cast a fervent glance over his shoulder, unable to rein in a look of distracted longing and fear, as the shadows crept back into the room. And though I saw these things, I was far too enraptured by what I had stumbled into to register anything happening on my periphery. I turned my back on all of it because my brain was still madly trying to unearth the reason behind this place. I was so naive to think that reason belonged in this library at all.

I cocked my hip and twisted around, looking for the boy. “So how did you get in—”

He was gone. The frosted lamps flickered. I blew the hair out of my face, wiping my nose with my wrapped hand as I turned around to leave . . . but something grazed my face. There was a small piece of paper stuck inside the rag.
Must have been in his pocket
, I guessed. On it were two letters scratched desperately into the paper:

LI

Then the lights started going out, row by row, following a distant roll of thunder. I took this as my cue to go; it was suddenly so cold.

Behind me, the clock above the Fable Door started ticking.

He calls upon the Earth, and she responds that she feels life and joy. She then proclaims, “And death shall be the last embrace of her/ Who takes the life she gave, even as a mother/ Folding her child, says, ‘Leave me not again.'”

She closes the worn book against her hand, a flesh bookmark, and she stares out the window. The gravity of the lake hangs just in the distance, saying something she's been straining to hear for days now, tuning out other sounds the better to listen. She barely notices the doctor amble in, his
tut-tut
preamble about not having left her bedroom in a week pinging in her ears like the dead channels on her radio. These country doctors, remarking on her books, too, like the only one she ought to be reading at this point is a holy one. She humours him with a glance, trying to look demure, but it comes off as vacant. He flashes a light in those eyes and, sure enough,
tuts
again. Then the blood pressure cuff is too big for her arm. She nearly smiles at the doctor's palpable frustration that she's lost more weight, that she's obviously been hiding or just ignoring her food. He thinks the smile is just a tick.

Ruth, the housekeeper, comes in, hands folded in front of her and patient for the verdict. The doctor takes her out into the hall to discuss “proper care,” which Ruth should be responsible for. She'll probably just get another tired scolding instead.
You should be watching her more carefully, what she eats and drinks
,
and Ruth, stubborn as steel, will retort,
We're doing the best we can, but the lady's gone right off her head since the terrible thing with her son, and right after her husband, too
.

Once their conversation fades to the other side of the house, she climbs out of her chair and the body groove she's left behind. She somehow shambles across the gulf from chair to wash basin, which has been filled and untouched since morning. Leaning over the water, her reflection is pockmarked, rippling. She puts her hand right over the surface, floats it over, lets it sink in carefully. She is not surprised at the lack of sensation. She removes her hand and plants both of them firmly on either side of the basin, anchoring herself to the washstand. She bends, her face whispering into the water like they were two parts joined. She counts. She swallows. She stops counting.

Blackness. Suddenly she's on her back, choking up water onto the country doctor's bloated chest. The dead radio channel finds a signal, and a crackling laugh bursts from her lungs with the water gurgling behind it. “I told you she was off her head, I told you!”
Rustling, shouting, and “She can't be left alone—”

“What did you say, ma'am? Calm yourself now, you're hysterical.”

“Easier,” she repeated, covering her mouth, trying to hide the smile. “It's easier than I thought.”

I
passed through our red door like a ghost, for a second wondering why it was open now, then remembering that it had never been locked; I had only imagined it so. I could hear Mum in the middle of another coughing fit, hacking something up in the upstairs bathroom. I dropped my bag in the hall.

“Mum? Are you okay?”

She poked her head out of the doorway, cigarette in hand as she stared. “You're soaked! And dirty!”

“No, really?” I kicked off my shoes and made to shake off like a dog. She mock-shrieked and bustled down the stairs, grabbing me in a hug and muddying herself up in the process. I laughed, trying to drown out the evident rattling I could hear in her chest as she clutched me to it.

“I know I'm the kid, but you're the one with the bad habits.”

She just smiled and made me hand over my muddy sweatshirt. “Worry about yourself for a change. Where were you? Rolling around in the receiving ponds by the plant?”

She moved away, depositing my sweater in the laundry on the way to the kitchen. I was glad she left me alone, because I couldn't hide the muscles tensing in my face. Where had I been? It was a straight enough question. After I wriggled out into the open, into the deepening dark, I knew that I had walked and walked, but until Mum had asked, I had no idea how my feet got me home. I felt completely detached, like I'd been sleeping, like it was suspended above me but it hadn't happened at all. I do remember looking back though, seeing the building like I always had, except now it looked less solid, like a mirage about to fade away.

“
You
okay?” Mum chided from the kitchen, the kettle clicking off. My mouth couldn't form the words, and the dream memories hung full of holes around me, trying to coalesce into sense, and failing.

I shrugged it off, tried to look convincing, huddled around my mug when she offered it. “Fine,” I finally got out. I didn't have the constitution to deal with phantom boys and abandoned libraries right now. I needed to prove it wasn't a dream before I let anyone else in.

“I'm sorry I was out so long, sweetie. I had to take a split shift for the new nurse and had to sign some papers at the real estate agent. Oh, and were you in the garage, earlier? You left the door open, scatterbrain.”

I slumped into a rickety chair at the table, letting my lungs deflate through chilly lips. “Sorry,” I muttered, closing my eyes and relaxing as the heat of the tea washed through my marrow.

I could feel Mum watching me through her half-lidded eyes, the way she watched her patients while their IVs dripped and they made it through the night. She was looking me over for vital signs, or the lack of them. “Things'll be different soon,” she said.

I perked up, forced a reassuring smile. “Sooner the better, right?”

Unable to catch the words from spilling out, I suddenly thought of Tabs. I imagined her lying on her bed with
The Slider
album playing behind her thoughts, dreaming hard of cosmic dancing right out of Treade in my wake. If I could whisper her into a bottle and carry her away with me, I would. But there's no enchantment in Treade, remember?

Or is there?
I cast an unsure glance to the bandaged hand in my lap.

“So where were you? Waiting things out at Tabitha's? In the mud?” Mum smiled, her smoker's creases crinkling deeper. Past the smoke, her smells of LypSyl and the lemon disinfectant from Treade General where she spent her days — and most nights — were usually comforting. They didn't help me now, though, just put me on edge as I tried to wake myself up.

A mouthful of tea inspired an evasive reply. “I get the feeling I've ruined the summer for her. Leaving at the end of it, and all.” I sighed, because this was the truth, but it wasn't what was at the forefront of my mind.

Mum eased back into her chair, fiddling with her half-blonde, half-mousy locks. “You've been best friends for ten years, sweetheart. It's a hard hit, but she has to learn to deal with change.”

I prickled, seeing Tabitha's set mouth when she said she and Paul had made other plans without me, had given up on me without warning. “Well, it's her problem, isn't it? Guess I'll just let her deal with it . . . I'll wait
that
storm out here for a while, thanks.”

I wrapped my pruney fingers around the mug, making sure to conceal my bandaged hand behind my back as I groaned to my feet, kissed Mum gratefully, and headed to my room. “I'm going to paint a bit,” I lied.

I did a quick shoulder check from the hall. Mum was getting up to change the radio station, her best friend, her own electric Tabitha. The voices were her confidantes, like the intercom at work that echoed distresses and desires. She'd rather bare her soul at a frequency right now, and she knew I'd rather bare mine at my walls. Her nursing expertise saw my teenaged apathy and treated it with a tried and true dose of silent withdrawal and keep-it-to-yourself. Which suited us fine. She was energy sapped from the demands of managing other people's lives, and I was wrecked from managing my own.

Things'll be different soon
, echoed in my skull.

I shut my bedroom door so it barely made a sound against the carpet. I breathed out the mysteries tumbling inside me — the library, the boy — exhaling them in the vinyls hanging on my walls, in the posters and printouts papering the rest. Old concert and play tickets from city trips, cards, notes written in Sharpie; they absorbed my secrets as they always had, with room to spare. My mind fast-forwarded to taking it all down and pasting it on foreign walls.

Keep my secret for me
, I asked the room.

Putting down my tea mug on a side table, I sprang from the floor like a haphazard bird, careening to the bed. I flicked the crystals hanging off the night table lamp; beyond them I saw the dancing canvas princess by the window looking resentfully away. I had used elements of Tabitha's face on her, and the result left me wanting to turn the painting the other way.

I looked at my hand.
Li
. I tested the word on my tongue. Or is it a name? Lee? Was that how you said it? Or lie? Li. Li-brary.

I rolled up to the edge of my bed, slowly unwrapping my hand. When the bandage ran out I turned it over. My palm was clean and pink. Nothing there. Not even a scratch.

I shut my eyes, still trying to wake myself up.

M
y Polaroid camera hung from my hip, tapping it as I came to a stop. I fingered the knobs, biting my lip as I scrutinized what I now knew as “the library.” The sun winked above me like a lucky coin, goading me on. I didn't know how much further luck was willing to take me after yesterday, so I recited some ground rules to myself before going in:
Be brave. Be careful. And don't climb anything.

Click click.
The processor released a black-and-white Polaroid tongue that I shook before dropping it into my bag. The camera had been a gift from an aunt who once drove all the way to Treade to give Mum a piece of her mind for moving to the middle of nowhere. The camera was to keep me busy. And it would. With it, I could get instant proof that this rabbit hole was real. A digital camera could be tampered with before the evidence was produced. These pictures would be the solid proof that my injured (had it been?) hand had failed to be. I obviously couldn't trust my eyes anymore, that was certain.

Down on my knees, squishing the damp ground underneath, I squeezed through my opening in the wall. The table legs came into focus and the bookshelves, too, but I stopped myself, sucked in a breath, and listened. The lights were on, but I hoped nobody was home. It wouldn't take much for some meddling kids to have discovered my hole and crashed the party. But all was silent. After slithering through the opening, I got to my feet with slow, steel-spring determination. For a second I reconsidered having come alone, but I needed a few things figured out before anyone else followed in my uncertain footsteps.

I sneaked past the lofty bookcase and took a good look around the centre of the room. Everything was meticulous and untouched, barely a grain of dust or a cobweb in sight. The paint and varnish looked as fresh as the day it'd been applied. The lights shone with crystal clarity. In the dark of the storm and the glow of my flashlight, it had looked dingy and unkempt. Had someone been in here to clean house since yesterday? I raised my camera and clicked. My heart valves flapped like wild wings as I wandered further, finger finding the capture button for every little thing I saw. It wasn't long before I stopped collecting the pictures, instead leaving them in my wake to come back to later. Reloading the camera from the packs in my bag became rote. I was too lost in what I saw; the books, the sheer magnitude of the space, all contained and standing away from me with apprehensive beauty. It was like nothing I had ever seen before, and only a trace of what I dreamed of.

Aim and click. I'm suddenly girl-Hansel, Polaroids my bread crumbs in this looming forest whose trees have been pulped and printed. I stopped at the far wall, got a good close-up shot of the antler-bedecked clock, and leaned in closer to see that the antlers were attached to tiny, prancing deer, encircling the mother-of-pearl face. I suddenly realized that the clock's ticking was counting the seconds with my pulse. I pulled out my cell phone, and sure enough, it was keeping perfect time. I leaned in even closer, impulse dictating I touch the clock face to make sure it was really there—

Something flew across the room and smacked the clock just where I was about to touch it. I wheeled backwards, accidentally sending my camera flash in the direction of the onslaught before throwing myself behind a reading table. I breathed hard, looking around wildly and finding no one before I shakily scooped up the last five photos I'd taken.

I shuffled the pile. There was a picture of the curving twin iron staircases snaking up to the library's second level; another of the never-ending row of shelves captured from a strange angle, then two more of the ghostly, untouched tables . . . but I doubled back. There was something crouching behind the staircase, which was very close to my right. I looked from the picture to the stairs, squinting. A shadow. A face.

It wasn't clear enough, though, whatever it was. A reflection of light off a lamp, maybe. I sighed and berated myself for being such an idiot, acting like I was trapped in a Nancy Drew mystery and was about to be set upon by a flock of ghosts. I got to my feet and decided to go after all the pictures I'd left behind.

But after taking one look at where I'd only just come from, I froze. No pictures. How could I have expected otherwise? There was something in these walls slowly eating away at the reality it inhabited, and I'd become a part of it.

A creaking echoed from behind me. I stood mannequin-still, eyes and head swivelling around slowly.

“I know you're there! I'm not stupid!”

My defiance ricocheted through the empty building. When it boomeranged back, it sounded almost as dumb as the idea of coming here alone. I wasn't about to be scared into leaving, though. Not by a long shot. A role reversal of cat and mouse was imminent.

Swallowing my suspicion, I went the casual route, strolling around and taking more pictures at my leisure. With a pause, I glanced back at the ground a few feet behind me. Pictures gone. Of course. I turned and kept on, walking down the centre aisle, aiming up.
Click.
Spit
.
Click
.
Spit
. Reload. Pause. Turn. Gone. Okay, time for plan B. I started snapping pictures feverishly, stepping backwards as the pile of fresh photos at my feet grew. They didn't disappear, and for a second I felt vindicated.

Almost, anyway, until I backed up into something. Someone.

Whoever it was didn't even give me a fair chance to turn around. There were hands suddenly pinioned around my arm and torso, pushing and trying to pry the camera out of my hands. When I couldn't fight any longer and had to let go of the camera, the momentum of letting go drove me forwards in a half spin. I caught myself. It was
him.

He experimented with the camera, recoiling and shocked when a picture came out. At that he grinned, aiming it at my face to snap a few.

I lunged at him. “Don't do that! You're wasting film!” I tried to grab it but he buckled backwards with a half step, teasing me, taking more, and dancing away. He wanted a chase, and I was more than willing to give it.

Midsprint, I whined, “Give it back! It's an antique! You're gonna wreck it!”

I skidded to a halt as he ducked around a darker corner. As soon as I lost sight of him, he was gone, but a few flashes from above gave him away instantly. He was lazing on his belly on top of a bookshelf without a care, even for heights, and thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Okay, okay!” I shied away behind my hand. “I get the point; you can stop any time.”

He gave a mock-pout, saddened that I wasn't amusing him anymore, so he turned the camera on himself and snapped one. While he sat, temporarily distracted by sudden blindness, I scaled the ladder nearest to him, but stopped just out of arm's reach remembering yesterday. I held out my hand.

“Give it here, whoever you are, and I promise I won't sue for damages.”

He cocked an eyebrow and curled a half smile, those strange eyes looking for a fair trade but willing to give in. The camera came close to my hand, and as I wrapped my fingers around it, he yanked it towards him, bringing me, rolling ladder and all, right to him.

I shrieked. “This isn't funny, just let go—” But his ice-chip eyes were concentrated on me, relentless. I wanted him to just
say
what he wanted, rather than keeping me constantly suspicious. He was coming in closer, closer, his pupils about to devour, until he pinched my nose and made a throaty honking noise
before letting the camera go. I rubbed my nose, disgusted that I fell for it and muttered “Idiot”
while checking the camera over.

He kept watching me like an amused feline, face planted in folded arms and fascinated as I hung the camera around my neck. I grappled with my thoughts, still shaken and uncertain about what was there between us. Impatient with myself, I finally said, “So I guess you're L-I.”

He wrinkled his nose, shaking his head.

“Um. I mean. Li?” I pronounced it “Lee.”

At that he looked genuinely insulted. I threw up my hands. “Well, maybe if you just
told me
what it is I wouldn't keep guessing wrong.”

He leaned back on his arms, crossing his ankles and looking bored.

“How about ‘Lie.' As in li-on?”

He squinted, wrinkling his nose again like he was trying to work out whether or not I was right. Then he made a face like it hurt him to think, and at the end of it all he shrugged, conceding, and gave me a slow clap. “Lie” it was, then. I couldn't dodge my own smile.

“Are you this annoying to everyone who asks?”

Li's grin engaged every muscle and line on his face before he raised his shoulders cartoonishly, again.

“Figures.” My mistrust was waning, though. He was just a prankster. Messy, rumpled, partway good-looking in a dogged kind of way, and only irritating as far as he knew it was amusing. But there were still some unanswered questions that were gnawing hesitation into my bones.

He also wouldn't stop staring.

“So . . . How'd you get in here? Did you follow me through the back?”

Maybe we were fellow trespassers, unified under breach of conduct, which made me feel a little less guilty in treading all over someone else's memories. Li didn't bother with a reply, though, now too busy digging around in the breast pocket of his faded wool peacoat to give me a second's notice.

I wasn't about to let it go. “Well?” I insisted, drumming my fingers on a shelf. “Are you going to say
anything
or what?”

A Polaroid suddenly cuffed me square between the eyes. I rubbed my face, and before I could blurt a “
don't
” he was chucking another one. I caught sight of the big pile of pictures he'd scooped up from the library floor, the pile that had started this whole thing in the first place. He flipped his thumb over the edges, back and forth, like he was a hotshot blackjack dealer straight off the tables. Without those pictures, I had nothing to take back with me, nothing to show. He knew I needed them, picking another one and handling it like a ninja star under his thumb.

I dove further up the ladder, defying what happened the last time, and went after him. But Li was already to his feet, flipping over the balcony and mounting the second level like a lemur. He twisted and waved the pile around, flicking one out and snapping it in my direction.
Onslaught occurring, counterstrike!
I ducked as three sailed past my head, and in spite of myself, I laughed.

Despite not knowing him, despite having almost met such a terrifying end yesterday, despite the sheer mystery that cloaked this entire place, I felt like I could be free here, and chasing after Li, wherever he was leading me, was what I needed to do. But when I got to the top of the ladder, I remembered how much I hated heights and could go no further.

He clicked his tongue and whistled, beckoning.
All right, new plan
. Without a beat, I scurried down to the floor and made a break for the spiral staircase on the left. I looked up to the balcony to make sure I could find him amongst the stacks, but he darted into the dark where I knew he'd be waiting.

When I finally made it up, trying to rein in my panting breaths, the black monolithic shelves hid him well. My chest quaked, body tensed for the attack, smile unable to be pushed into a concentrated frown. I caught myself wondering why I was chasing a total stranger.

“Come on, Raggedy Andy . . .” I murmured, biting my lip as I slowly took in each corner.

I patted the bookcases as I passed them. Solid. Nothing hiding in them, behind them . . . safe. I cast my searching eyes just ahead and up. At the end of the aisle was a short staircase with a black door at the top. I fixated on it for a second, wondering if he could've sneaked away up there, but there was a rush of air on my right. Out and fast came Li, and I braced myself as he lifted me from behind, twirling me as I kicked the air midspin. His hands held fast and kept me airborne.

“Okay, okay!” On a reflex I kicked out, which made the up-til-then perfect performer catch his foot and bring us both down. We slammed tailbones-first into the hardwood. All I could do was laugh at the look of utter shame on Li's face at having made such a terrible landing. I was surprised that we were having fun, were laughing, were finding all this
acceptable
. Especially since I didn't know anything about this mystery boy.

I sat up and shuffled back-first into a shelf as he composed himself, but he got me by the ankle. He held out his hand, pointing to the camera, then flicking what was left of his photo pile. A trade.

I huffed. “Fine then.”

The pictures and the camera changed hands, and we both weighed our prizes as equals.

“Agh.” I scrunched my nose at one of my mug, captured midscreech. “Too much of a close-up.”

He snagged the picture from me and held it up to my blinking face. He shrugged as if to say,
looks the same to me
.

I flicked that one at him. “Gee, thanks.”

I dove back into perusing the stack at hand, until the camera flashed and I flinched away. “Okay, already! One's
enough
! What's so special about my face, anyway?”