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Shifting Sideways by Jennah Sharpe
Saturday, December 2, 2006
Rated "R" by the Author.
This is the beginning of my work in progress. I'd love to hear what you think...
The book was innocuous enough. It was beautiful, well crafted but seemingly harmless. How could a book be anything else?
Charlotte Allen was sitting behind her desk when the woman came through the door of her bookshop. Charlotte’s specialty was rare books, the kind only collectors searched for. Very few of her customers actually bought one of her rare or antique books lining the shelf furthest from the harmful light of the windows. She had to admit she was surprised when the elderly woman laid down a worn, hardcover copy of The Rift. The title was gilded copper script, it pages tattered at the edges and yellowed with age. The cover depicted cliffs, ones that you would find along the coasts of Britain. Charlotte had never been herself, but she was blessed with a vivid imagination.
For a moment, the book held her attention. Forgetting the woman before her, she trailed her fingers down the spine of the book, aware of how old it was and how many times it had been read.
“This is for you,” the woman spoke in a raspy voice sounding as old as the book she presented.
Charlotte looked up. The woman was dressed in a long dress dotted with tiny rosebuds. Her grey hair wound into knot on the top of her head and a crocheted cream-coloured shawl hung over her hunched shoulders. The wrinkles on her face and hands told of a life full of happiness and joy. There were no calluses, no frown lines, no bags under her eyes.
“For me?” Charlotte asked, returning to the here and now.
“For your collection, dear. It’s someone else’s turn to read it. Take care of it. It’s a very special book. Not one for the faint of heart. It takes a strong soul to survive that book.”
“What genre is it? Is it a drama? Sounds pretty intense.”
“You could call it a drama with a bit of romance tossed in. And yes, it’s intense.” The woman stumbled over the word intense as if it wasn’t in her vocabulary.
“How much do you want for it? I’d love to have it,” Charlotte asked, resisting the urge to stroke the book’s velvety cover.
The woman waved her hands. “No, no. It’s not for sale.”
“But you said—“
“I said it was for you. For your collection. All I ask is that it comes to no harm.”
Charlotte wasn’t sure what to say. It wasn’t often in the book business that money didn’t come into play. In fact, it was almost never.
“Thank you. It will have a good home here. If you want to have a look,” she gestured to the back of the shop, “You’ll see my books are well cared for.”
The woman shook her head. “That’s quite all right. I know it’s in good hands, dear. I wouldn’t have brought it to you otherwise. I must be going. Errands to run, you know.” She pulled her shawl around her shoulders and turned to go.
“Wait,” Charlotte called. “What’s your name? I’d like to mark you down as one of our donors.” She scanned her desk, searching for a pen and something to write on.
Hand on the door, the woman raised her eyes and gazed at Charlotte as if unsure how to answer. When she finally answered, Charlotte felt it was given somewhat reluctantly.
“I’m called Marie-Claire Duchene McEwan.” She pushed open the door, sending the bell above the door into a jamboree of tinkling. It closed slowly behind her.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. McEwan,” Charlotte called. The woman did not turn around.
Strange, she thought. Ms. McEwan was concerned about the care of the book yet willing to see it in someone else’s hands. Charlotte would never have done that herself. Books were possessions to be valued, to be prized at the very least. Why Ms. McEwan could have let this book leave her hands was beyond Charlotte.
The golden velvet of the cover beckoned her hand. She reached out to stroke the book, amazed at its obvious age. Charlotte instinctively knew there would be no copyright date. Some research was called for in this case. She’d be lucky if she could find the author listed in the first few pages. She adjusted her reading glasses and very carefully lifted the front cover. The lovely whoosh of paper lifting apart thrilled her. Her first journey into a new book was always exciting. But here, she didn’t have the time to read. There were too many customers for her to truly enjoy a new story.
She hunched over her desk, looking for a date of publication, an author’s name, a location, anything really. There was nothing. Nothing except a small sentence. Our land is your destiny. Funny. It didn’t sound like a dedication. The script was beautiful and intricate. Someone very talented had taken the time to write out the pages of the book by hand. Here and there, the ink had smudged but it was more than readable. It wasn’t even truly noticeable that it was handwriting. Charlotte knew because she studied these things. It was unlikely anyone else would have noticed.
Charlotte slipped a long fingernail beneath the page and gently lifted it. Just then, a loud hum stopped her. Her hand went to her forehead, expecting a sudden migraine but it didn’t come. With the hum, nausea grew in the pit of her stomach. Charlotte let the book fall closed, took off her glasses and rubbed at her eyes. What had she eaten for lunch? French onion soup and a coffee. That wasn’t bad, was it? Her stomach rolled once more before settling into an uneasy calm.
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