A clamoring murder of crows roosted in the trees above my head. Mostly crows, but I guess there were some grackles, too; the red-winged blackbirds and their obnoxious, shrieking cries had all flown somewhere warm for the winter. They were gathered beneath the thick canopy, down below where the trees cupped and gathered the precipitation of the season. It was warmer here, beneath the trees, but not quite warm.
I was covered in scratches and sore from moving but I could not forget that I was being hunted. Making it to this depth of the forest was an amazing feat for me as it was. I kept hoping whoever was pursuing me would get lost in the trees, or think that I went a different direction; maybe up the Rapax and into another court.
The trees were odd here and I couldn’t put my finger on why until I almost ran smack into one which was shaped in a spiral and cut-out like a staircase. “Oh.” Up I went, no hesitation, and it was only when I’d reached the top and took a breath that I wished I hadn’t:
I knew that smell. It made me want to sneeze.
Old book dust.
Sure enough, here the trees all came together in some shape or form, like a vertical puzzle, and turned into branching hallways lined with shelves upon shelves of books. It was dusty, like no one had been here for a while, but I could take a look out a window-type porthole and see this place went on for miles. Maybe no one had been in this wing in a century, but someone had to know this was here.
It was The Library, obviously. Not a library but (narrator voice) The Library. Delumine’s pride and joy. Every noble aimed to have a personal collection that rivaled The Library. The boarding school I’d been locked up in for years was lauded as to have a base of knowledge comparable to The Library.
This time I did sneeze. A cloud of dust went up into the chilly air. The nightbirds made a distant soundtrack as they jumped and fluttered above the tree-made roof. Occasionally there would be a loud, echoing splat as one of them shit.
I wanted to leave but wanted to see at the same time. I don’t hate books, just being forced to read them, and I did come here of my own volition. My eyes scanned over the titles, leather covers, many of the words lost simply to the passage of time.
There was a loud thud that was not the noise of a bird shitting on the roof. I was so engrossed in looking at the books that I nearly jumped out of my skin. I turned to look over my shoulder, feeling that almost imperceptible change in a room when someone else enters, afraid, for a moment, that my pursuers had successfully pursued me.
“Who’s there?”
