In the Library

I have opened the book.

The front page is not parchment at all but a pressed sheet of gold etched with the image of a beast I have never seen. Its head looks like a creature I saw in the Bestiary Father Lucas brought me. It was called a crocodile, but the body of this beast looks more like a cat's, spotted and lithe. The massive back legs belong to some other animal I do not know. I think this creature is not made by God.

The flickering candlelight makes it seem as if the beast's haunches are quivering like a cat ready to pounce. It frightens me. I turn the page.

The other pages of the book are parchment but they do not feel like goatskin or calfskin. They are too rough. The script is crowded and thick, and I cannot read the words. I do not know the language.

My eyes are tired with the strain. I want to creep back to my bed and sleep, but my heart races with panic when I start to move away from the book. I am bound to it somehow. I stare at the words, refusing to blink until my eyes water against the burn, and I think I start to understand them.

But the letters seem to shift and move as I watch them--like they will burst with life and crawl off the page. If only they would hold still, I might read the first words.

Day Nineteen, Brach-manod, 1246

I have come to the library to look at Father Lucas's book.  It is late.  There was only my candle shining as I crept through the abbey halls.  I heard only the sounds of mice scurrying in the darkness.  This Mouse shimmied up the shelves and snatched the old book from its hiding place.

It is lying on the floor in front of me, but I have not opened it.  I brought this parchment       and ink to copy what I might find in the book, so why can I not make myself open it?  I want to know what is in it.  My desire makes me shiver.

I have lifted the stained cover to my face and smelled the muskiness of the old goatskin and the sour sweat from the hands that have held the book over the ages.  The faded twang of the shed blood on the cover turns my stomach.  It smells like rot. The people who spilled that blood--were they fighting to protect the book or trying to destroy it?

I know there must be secrets in the book or else why would Father Lucas hide it from me?  He shows me everything, teaches me everything.  I tell him everything, too.  He knows what I can do--like what I did to the chickens and how I see and smell and hear all things.  I am not normal.  He calls me special.

I want to know why.  Father Lucas will not tell me.  Fear dilates his eyes when I ask.  If I am special, surely God made me so for a purpose, but I must know who I am before I can understand my calling.  And if no one else will give me answers, I must seek them for myself.  Perhaps this book is a start.

I want to open it.  But it feels wrong, like a betrayal.

Oh, I wish I had someone to counsel me and tell me what I should do.

Day Eighteen, Brach-manod, 1246

Father Lucas has brought back a book he will not let me see.  It looks very old.  Dark streaks mar the tawed cover.  They look like fingers clawing to get in or out of the book.

He keeps it on a high shelf behind the other books.  He does not know that I saw him with it.

I was sneaking into the library last night to use the blue ink Brother Dusan made.  I took only a little, and afterward I spit into the inkwell to fill it so he would not know that any ink was gone.

 

I wanted to make a picture of Father Lucas like those of Isidore I saw in the Bestiary.  I needed the blue ink for his eyes.  I used my blood for the lips.

This is my Father Lucas. 

He is my best friend.  The picture is not a good likeness, but I will get better now that I know I can steal the ink.  

I might try to reach the old book as well.