The Saint - Chapter One (DRAFT)

Chapter One

by Miles Foley 

Disclaimer: this was an attempt (in vain) to catalogue a strange and visceral dream as a story, which I have come to accept will not work. However, there are some good moments, albeit fever-dream-esque.

It was a hazy afternoon when Errard arrived in the city. He would soon find most afternoons were hazy – the strange fog in Everton never seemed to lift. The city itself was wide, but filled to bursting with crowded, jagged streets and the roads bowed peculiarly towards the south, like the grey ground decided it was too tired to continue. He’d begun renting a room with an old wicker-woman who watched his daily actions with one good eye. Every morning he would pull on faded trousers and step over broken and twisted willow limbs and she would be sat in the front window, never moving save for her fingers, that flicked so blindingly fast he guessed she could make a basket in under an hour. He never saw her finish any, though.

In the beginning days, Errard search for a job. He desired anything really, his mind was not set on one profession. It was rarely set on one thing at all. Butchers, baker’s… candle stick makers. He appealed to them all, surely someone must have work for a young - albeit sickly - man. But they all turned him away. He was too young or too inexperienced. Some simply looked at the sad state of his clothes and made their polite excuses. It was two weeks into this solemn journey he came across The Library. It masqueraded as a second hand book store, but Errard would soon learn the lone keeper was loathe to part with any of their precious volumes, never selling a single one. However, if you were to ask nicely, you would be allowed to read them by making yourself comfortable in one of the seven long and winding rooms of the library. It seemed to stretch back further than any other store on the street and lowered its rooms one by one into the bowels of the earth, apparently nestled under the next few blocks of streets. Errard was drawn initially by the window display. An old, gilded copy of a playwright’s masterwork sat front and centre, golden flowers embossed into the green linen of the cover. He had always had a fondness for beauty, and rarely did he find it among the sharp roof corners and looming black stones of the world around him. The door sighed in annoyance and a tin bell announced his entrance. Within was a worn, ornate counter littered with books, paper, even a scroll or two. And behind that, the Owl. She was severe in her structure, with hazel eyes that seemed capable of boring through diamonds. No inclination of the head, no greeting, no kind word. She just watched as he drifted across the threshold, his long legs suddenly feeling gangly and misshapen under her gaze. Strangely, without a word or gesture being shared between them, Errard – like all who entered The Library - understood that he would not be buying any books from this place.

The light inside the adjourning rooms was a warm, dull brown, and motes caught the eye in every direction. Dust seemed to litter the place like snow. He stepped through the first room (History), then the second (Geography), then the third, fourth, fifth, and the sixth. This was where he saw them. A man, crooked and grey, like an old tea towel freshly rung with dishwater, sat at a low-lying table in a chair too close to the ground. His fragile hands shook as he moved to turn his book’s page, breath wavering as though his body could not decide if it would keep living. And next to him, a girl like gold, around his age. Her hair was woven softly behind her head, and she wore a blue smock faded to the strange colourful point just before white. She sat completely upright, looking down at the book in her hands and soaking up every word. Occasionally she would pause to make a note in a tattered linen journal on her left-hand side. Errard stood for a moment, entranced by the two. The quiet was broken when she looked up with eyes even more fierce and piercing than the Owl’s, but instead of dead amber they were the colour of summer waves. The boy’s breath hitched as she assessed him, seeming to see his past, present and future along with the obvious – that he was poor and lost. After a few moments of consideration, she nodded to the third low seat at their table, like they were waiting for him. “Sit.” Unthinking, Errard did as he was told. One day he would realise he did this much too often. The young woman brusquely slid a book towards him and smacked the cover lightly. Her eyes had returned to her own book, as though his presence was no longer interesting to her. Errard lifted the thick, worn volume. It was a paperback with a black cover and simple white title in serif font. A small pale blue symbol was printed on the bottom right corner, as if stamped with a passion.

It was heavy, looking to be about 800 pages, with the glue tightly packing the cheap paper into chunks. It looked painfully dense to read. The cover read ‘The Saint’, and there seemed to be no index, no printing information, or further illustrations to ease the eyes. Errard looked up questioningly.
“Uh, I apologise for not understanding, but is this a recommendation?” he asked, lifting the volume. The woman’s eyes shot back to him.

“It’s a requirement.” His ears lifted a little bit, as they tended too when he was in a distressed state.

“For your… book club?” he asked. She let out a humourless huff, the closest thing to laughing he would see her do in these early days.

“Yes. For my ‘book club’.” The older man had said nothing during this time, simply moving through his pages one at a time, never taking notes. Errard wondered if the girl begrudged him for that.

“Th-then I’ll be sure to read it,” he managed, trying to smile. The room was too warm, too choking. “Should I… um. Should I rent it out at the counter?” She did not dignify this question with a response. “Can I get your name?” he asked instead.

“Florence.” He took this information with a quietness. The name seemed too soft for her, and yet no other could replace it. Errard held his hand out to the gentleman, which was left unshaken. “And this is Gray,” said Florence. “Now sit down and read or get out.” The boy, not wanting to squander any new friendships that may be afforded to him in this crooked city, sat, coughing on the heat and the false snow. He opened his book with a crack of the too-tightly bound pages and, finally pulling his mind away from the world, began to read.

…

Taking in one of the Saint’s books is not a natural experience. While one might sneak a paperback from their satchel on a slow work day and indulge, or take a copy of their favourite play to review in the gardens, the texts of St Irving are far more different. As soon as your eyes alight on the first words, your mind is pulled into a pool of grey-blue water, almost too cold to be refreshing, instead being biting and raw. Understanding the text requires love and knowledge, but Errard had neither to shield him from the power of what he was seeing. Images of cracked skulls, leaping creatures, flaming burrows and indigo fingers flew past his eyes and his spirit. Songs whispered to his mind direct, ears and lips rendered useless by their mundanity – no human could utter these things. He was falling and flying and sinking and swimming and suddenly met with a great black stillness that seemed to hover and assess him. The darkness was so cold – it was like water, rushing through his lungs and veins and begin his eyes. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t even panic. The darkness and Errard simply stared at one another, until the boy was rushed to the upside-down surface, choking and sweating. The Library was dark; the sixth room’s doors closed and locked. Florence and Gray were gone, leaving 3 more novels and a simple notepad and pen for him. A piece of paper held under the first book read ‘Your homework – due Friday. F.’ He was still gasping for air, feeling for gills and whispers that weren’t there and crying out into the silence. Breathing hard, he felt something soft hitch in his throat, and coughing he forced the thing forward into the pages of his book.

It was the wet stalk and flower of a forget-me-not.