I intend to put up stories, published and unpublished, as time goes on. I hope you like the following offering!
THE BOOK COLLECTOR
Leonard Maxwell pressed the doorbell for a third time. Squinting through the rain, he re-read the newspaper cutting. The door before him spluttered into life. A figure stood in the shadows, silent.
'I have an appointment to see Malbus Grinn.'
A long hand ushered him in.
The hallway was dark and cold. The figure hung up Leonard's dripping coat, then stepped into what light there was.
'I am Malbus Grinn. Please come into my library.'
Leonard was led through shadowy rooms into the most magnificent private library he had ever seen. He could tell by the smell, by the ancient, virgin odour of the books. Leonard Maxwell prided himself on being a connoisseur of such things. He could sniff out the publishing date of a book, identifying its vintage from the fruity sourness of the leaves and bindings. He was a self-acknowledged master of his craft, and certainly up to this challenge.
'Mr Maxwell, I have studied your resume and I am impressed with your history. You are an expert cataloguer and indexer. A talented librarian indeed. I hope you will be gentle with my children. They are all precious to me.'
'Your collection exceeds all of my expectations,' said Leonard.
'And this you sense from a distance, without picking a book from its shelf? I can see I have chosen the right man. Let us dispense with formalities. Please call me Malbus.'
Malbus examined Leonard's features as if he were settling down for a good read. Leonard struggled to repay the compliment. Malbus Grinn's body had a curious twist to it, which continued its contortion up to his head. He shifted from foot to foot in a disquieting manner, his pointed face poking through the dusty air like an animal's through the bars of a cage. Finally, he relented, smiling the thinnest of smiles.
'I will offer you generous terms of employment, if you will begin working for me tonight.'
'Tonight? Let me see. Yes, I could begin tonight.'
'I am not here during the day,' said Malbus, 'and my own work consumes me at night. I live alone, so there will be no one here to disturb us.'
Leonard nodded without thinking.
'I have a key for you.'
'You are very trusting,' said Leonard.
'I am one of those rare beings who believe that you can judge a book by its cover. Would eight o'clock be suitable?'
'Yes. Do you have any special instructions before I begin?'
'One. I will leave a note on the library desk.'
Malbus handed Leonard his terms of employment.
'You are very trusting too, Leonard, taking my word without looking at the offer. Please read it over and sign it. There is a copy for you to retain.'
'Your children will be safe in my hands,' smiled Leonard.
'And you will be safe in theirs,' grinned Malbus.
*****
Leonard was held up in traffic and didn't get to Malbus Grinn's house until half-past eight. He opened the door and rushed in. The power was off. Frantically flicking the switches made no difference. He made his way by memory and moonlight to the library. On the desk lay a candlestick, candles and matches. There was no sign of Malbus.
In the yellow gloom of candlelight, Leonard saw a note apologising for the lack of electricity. It was attached to a letter, which he carefully studied. This can't be right, he thought. He read the letter aloud.
Dear Leonard,
Before you commence, I must inform you of my peculiar request. The book on the desk is where I wish you to begin.
Read it, and then catalogue it. Suffer me this indulgence.
I will explain all in due course.
Malbus
Leonard sat back, thrown. His agitated breath made the candle-flame dance. His first reaction was anger, but the more he fumed the more diffuse his annoyance became. There was a calmness in the library, almost a silent anticipation, that eased his distress. It was as if the darkness itself was settling his mood.
The prize is worth the madness, he thought. I will indulge Malbus for the moment.
He turned his attention to the book. It was a first edition of Daniel Defoe's Robinson Crusoe. London. William Taylor. 1719. He caressed the calf bindings.
So Malbus wants me to read it first, he mused.
Leonard was a skilled reader. Few people realised that there were skills to reading. It was not about how quickly you read or how cleverly you interpreted the text. It went beyond the physical grammar, or the emotional journey, or the intellectual stimulation. It was a spiritual marriage. To read with skill was to have intercourse with the divine: to mate with meaning. Luckily, Leonard was always up for some literary conjugation. Wetting his dried lips, he began Robinson Crusoe.
The hours passed. Despite the absence of any heat, he didn't feel cold. He read deep into the night. There was little noise, apart from the wheeze of his breath and the creaking timbers. As he sailed further into the story, the book-casings of the library drifted into the tarred innards of a ship, and the tiny flare of desk-light swung into a lamp of hope burning in the fog.
Leonard was getting into the story. From time to time he pulled out, letting himself rest. Once the juices were flowing again he dived in, reckless. Robinson was well established on his island when dawn appeared. Leonard left his, and headed for the mainland. He was confident he would finish the book tomorrow. Then he would find out what Malbus Grinn was up to.
*****
Leonard arrived at eight o'clock that evening, making the happy discovery that the power was on. Nevertheless, he chose to read the rest of Robinson Crusoe by candlelight. He had surprised himself by not picking over the jewels in Malbus Grinn's bookcases; still, they were all the more tempting for remaining untouched. He would have his way with them when the occasion presented itself. He had to pass this test that Malbus had set him, for surely that was what it was; a test to prove Leonard's skill at becoming one with the word. But Malbus was in for a shock. Leonard knew the art of reading. He was the Casanova of bibliophiles. A black sea engulfed Leonard and his wavering candle. Before long he was with Robinson; a silent, hidden Man Friday.
Around midnight he was startled from his reverie. He had the distinct feeling that someone was looking over his shoulder. He searched the room with his eyes. It was the story. He was giving so much of his love to this book that he had become disorientated. He had penetrated so many paragraphs; seen so many chapters to their climax. He experienced the revelation that he was the conceiver, not Defoe; that only Leonard Maxwell could truly read Robinson Crusoe.
A strange odour crept through the room. At first, he thought it was the old smell of the library returning, so far had he travelled in his reading adventure. But no, this odour was different, with a peculiar foulness to it, like the remains of something. It grew stronger, until its pungency was unbearable.
It was only then that Leonard noticed that books were missing from the shelves. The familiar lines were broken. There were gaps. A terrible fear tore through him. Cracking sounds snapped the air, followed by a grating of teeth, or nails, or bone. At the edge of the candlelight, a figure was taking shape. The light blew out.
All was quiet, except for Leonard's frenzied breathing. Then another breath joined in; then another, until there was a chorus of them, heaving; gasping for air.
'All style and no plot, I'd say.'
'Needs more depth of character.'
'What do you think, Robinson?'
The candle burst into life. A long-bearded man, covered in stinking goat-skins, was running a knife through his coarse fingers.
'He's certainly not the King James Bible.'
'Is he your first one?' asked Peter Pan.
'Yes,' said Robinson Crusoe, 'but he's so stodgy, like boiled parrot.'
Laughter rang around the library.
'If he had pictures, I might have liked him more,' said Alice.
'Or a drop of kindness,' said Don Quixote.
'Or a drop of blood,' said Dracula.
Leonard sat like an entranced child, watching the changing array of faces dipping in and out of the darkness, colouring the air with their smiles and scowls.
'Come away my children. You have had your fun.'
Malbus Grinn stood before Leonard.
'Do not try to say anything. I promised you an explanation. Charles Dickens was my creator, but I never made it into print. They call me a half-form. Half-human, half-book; or more precisely, half-character, half-book. Hence my twisted spine; being one then the other, you understand. You humans will think us up, but it does not stop there. Why should you have all the pleasure of reading us, without us reading you? And why should you have all the pleasure of collecting us, without us collecting you?'
Somehow, beyond reason, Leonard Maxwell found words coming out of his mouth.
'Books can't come to life. We are the authors. We are the librarians of books.'
'And I am a librarian for books, Leonard Maxwell. London. William and Martha Maxwell. 1938. I believe it is now time to see how you end.'
Then Malbus grinned and blew the light out.
