Antique Mysteries
Luckily the only thing that barred his way from the lone window in the bedroom was an old-fashioned rocking chair. Unfortunately, it was piled high with blankets and discarded clothes. Odd that everything else was so neatly kept, yet the woman let her most personal items just pile in the chair. He slid the rocker out of the way and eased open the interior shutters, opening the window. The small rose bushes beneath would likely scratch his legs, but there really was no other option. He could not chance getting caught in the cottage. Heaving one leg over the window's edge he reached back to pull the rocker into place, spilling a few clothes on the floor. 'Damn it all to Hell," he muttered, then swung himself out, drawing the shutters closed and closing the exterior window as softly as he could. He could feel the blood trickling down his leg where the thorns from the rose bushes had punctured and torn his calves. He waited there at the window, listening to be sure she was in the cottage before he made his way round the side and off to the relative safety of one of the side paths that led through the rocky terrain. He heard her drop her basket on the table, the clatter of the tea pot filling with water. He smiled at the mumbled curses as she struggled to light the ancient stove-top. Then he set off.
He edged slowly round the cottage, then moved quickly to the path lest he be seen lurking about too close to the rental. Everyone in the village knew, of course, of the strange dark-haired woman renting the rambling old place. It definitely would make tongues wag if he were seen loitering about. Once on the path he headed straight toward the village. It was nearing opening hours and he needed to get to his shop.
Opening the door, he was greeted first by the wonderful chime of the entry bells and then the earthy scent of old dusty volumes. His was an antique book store, filled here and there with a few curios, enough to get the tourists' attention, but not enough to detract from the bookish feel of the shop. As always, the tall stacks brimming with knowledge and tales from the past put him at ease in ways that no person ever had. He strode to the rear and ducked behind the little curtain that separated the shop from his small office. He hung up his coat, fingering the little green notebook thoughtfully, then setting it on his desk. Smiling at the remembered American curses, he went about the tasks of making his morning tea and putting plaster on his legs. There was something almost magical about that first morning cup. The strong full flavor cut by a bit of rich cream. It was his one full indulgence and he savored every sip. Counting colesterol was not his favorite pasttime, but with his heredity, it was necessary. He picked up the notebook and, with his cup, made his way to the desk at the front of the store.
Sitting there and brooding over the morning's events, he stared out of the window. It had all seemed so clear last night. He could hear the pure notes calling from the sea. He could picture the intricate dance of the music in his head, and could almost place faces to the lovely voices. It seemed the faces were just on the edges of his memory, lost to him, like the frayed edges of a dream. He knew he should give up this endless searching, but somehow he was just driven to find the key that would unlock that vision and place faces with those voices. He couldn't explain it, but it had become a compulsion for him. Lord knew the town folk had become to think he had gone "between." As the old woman up the strand had said, "Ye've been on't the other side, lad. There's a piece'o ye there now, don't be expectin' ta feel whole again. They own that part, sure." He was beginning to think her mad ramblings were true.
"Blast and damn," he thought, "the tea's gone cold." He made his way back to refresh the cup wondering if he would see any traffic in the shop today, and hoping, oddly enough, that no one would come. Hot tea in hand, he leaned back in his chair and opened the little notebook. Her handwriting was a mixture of neat small entries, hasty looping scrawls and intricate artistic curving letters. It was actually quite interesting just to look at, such distinctively different styles. Whoever she was, she was, at minimum, unique. He flipped back to the front of the notebook, focused now on reading the content.
The bells chimed, bringing him abruptly to his feet. He slid the notebook into his desk drawer, somehow terribly conscious that he should not be looking at it at all. Glancing to see who had come in, he felt the color drain from his face.
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