Scattered Light pt.1
From Greenthings
| Line 66: | Line 66: | ||
<p>Alex had indeed learned his lesson; next time, he'd have to be much more careful.</p> | <p>Alex had indeed learned his lesson; next time, he'd have to be much more careful.</p> | ||
| + | <br> | ||
| + | <br> | ||
| + | [[Scattered Light pt.2]] | ||
Revision as of 08:42, 2 January 2008
If you'd asked the owner why, he would've known exactly what you meant; and he would've looked at you dissapointedly from behind the wire-rimmed spectacles that seemed to be almost a job requirement for anyone that spends their lives with books and given you a lecture on the value of education and the need to bring the wonders of knowledge and ancient lore to any who so desire it. He could rattle off that speech in seven different variants depending on the tone and social class of the speaker and in three different languages, not so much because there were really so many people dropping by to ask (though there were a good number), but because sometimes, in his eyes, being prepared for the one time it was genuinely necessary to explain oneself was worth paging through a comparative dictionary of High Realm to find exactly the right words for best impact. Besides- he would have thought, if not said- it was fun.
The shop did look out of place; it was in something of a nicer lower-class district of Chiaroscuro, but that wasn't saying much, still constantly surrounded by dust, dried-out trash and urchin children. The latter wasn't often a problem- most of them tended to ignore the shop more than anything- though he did get the occasional problem with little filchers, believing that a shop that looked so nice must have something valuable in it, regardless of whether they could understand what. The former two were far more common, and the old man spent much of his days sweeping, puttering around, and rearranging things slightly so that the sun didn't catch for long enough to fade the books.
At the end of a particular long fine day in the heat of the summer, the Sun not so much setting as He was starting to turn down the broiler a little, the man was in the back looking over some things. A new shipment had come in, and in his mind, it was absolutely necessary to inspect things as soon as it was possible; the particular titles and editions and little bits and pieces of each small shipment were terribly important, each minutia, each little bit of information to be carefully pored over, checked for accuracy, and written down in the little book he had that passed for a catalogue, then in the accounting ledger, then in this and that for the customers- he ran the place himself, of course. Who else would want to? The various bits and pieces of the business were promptly and meticulously recorded, in small, clean hand, rain or snow or raging fire be eaten by a rabid mole hound.
Opportunist that Fate is, this entirely unremarkable afternoon was the perfect time for something to happen.
Outside in the streets, several of the local children were engaging in an uproarious game of kickball. The game had begun with chosen sides, but had eventually devolved into a free-for-all; one older child had taken the ball and attempted to run off with it and most of the others had decided to form an angry mob to get it back. After a good chase, one rather large boy finally tackled the offender and tossed back the ball to the whooping crowd, and those gathered had formed a happy anarchy of throwing back and forth between whoever and whatever.
Under a canopy not far from this, a pale boy was sitting, seemingly watching the crowd but, mostly, scratching in the dust with a stick. Every so often he paused, stared at the ground, and nudged one or two of the dusty marks back with his sandal. In the middle of this, one of the older girls who'd been at the forefront of the chase stepped out of the crowd, looked around a bit, then promptly walked over and plopped herself down by the boy.
"'Ey. You alright?"
He looked up at her, startled slightly. "-muh?"
"'Ey, I said," she grinned. "I've seen you around, white-hair. You ain't one t'just be sittin around an' not talkin to nobody, what is that?" She leaned over the boy's shoulder to look at what he was doing.
Grimacing, he leaned away from the girl. She was significantly older than he was, and well-dressed enough that she had obviously run off from one of the rich quarters; that might explain her being so overly friendly... "It's just figures. Stuff I saw, trying to figure out what it means."
"You're tryin to figure out what [i]that[/i] mess means?" She leaned over even further. "You got a buncha little Flametongue sh- stuff that don't mean nothin' and some Low Realm characters and what is that, a kitty?"
He blinked at her and turned his attention back, glaring at the dirt. "Low Realm."
"Yeh."
In front of them, the kickball game had drifted off a short ways down the street. The girl looked down that way, listening to the racuous crowd.
"So why you playin with that stuff? White-hair get too hot?"
"Not really..." he sat down the stick and stared, "just looked interesting. But I guess it's not something I can figure out this way, is it?"
"Naw." She stood up and nudged the smaller kid with her foot. "I gotta go, but you know what, now? People learn that, they got books, right?"
"Uhm. Suppose so..?"
"Right. So there's a book-seller's right over there, why don't you go get you some books?" She flashed a grin brighter than the Sun then was and ran off.
The boy paused to consider that for a moment, still glaring at the dirt. "But... I don't have any mo-" He looked up.
Yeah. That's not surprising.
He stood up, brushed off his clothing and headed towards the bookstore.<p> -- <p>Red light from the setting sun poured through the massive stained-glass windows like dark honey. This place had obviously been beautiful, once, and though the entire thing seemed now to be covered with dust, it wasn't far from what it once was. The pale boy in the doorway stood gaping for a long moment, glimmers of joy and faint memory flashing behind his eyes, until he heard a door close far in the back of the shop. He jolted to life and dashed behind one of the nearer shelves.
An old man walked out of the back room clutching a folder full of paper and slowly made his way to the front, sorting them as he went. From behind the bookshelf, he watched as the man set the lock on the front door, turned the sign, and settled down in a chair in the light. Collecting his senses, the boy snuck his way further back into a nook between the bookshelves, far out of sight, and thought.
Well I can't exactly say anything now. He'd think... I don't even know what he'd think. Volumes and volumes of books surrounded, big and small, leather-bound, old and new, stretched almost to the ceiling. And... I'm not sure he'd be wrong, either, really. He slid a book out from the shelf and examined the spine.
An Illustrated History Of The Blessed Isle
For most mortal boys to make that expression, about three more years and a D-cup is required.
"And what exactly do you think you're doing with that?"
He jumped at the stern voice, and again at the hand on his shoulder a moment later.
"The store is closed. How did you get in here?" Clutching the book close, the boy sputtered. "Oh, nevermind; just get out and don't let me catch you doing this again." The looming man grabbed the book away and sat it back on the shelf, dragging the boy to the door by his shirt-collar and depositing him outside.
"Right. You've learned your lesson, I hope? Now go home." He turned back around, a strange, sad expression on his face, and shut the door. Hard.
Alex had indeed learned his lesson; next time, he'd have to be much more careful.
