I found myself back in the chair, the sweat on my shirt clinging to the leather. By now it was mid-afternoon, the sun bearing down on a city so used to its relentless march. From the corner of my eye, I saw the old man stir. He was stood by the desk, a hand atop the pile of books, his mouth poised as though ready to speak. In the stagnant heat, I realised I had no notion of the duration of our silence—time, I felt, had become uncertain; I could no longer trust in its regular divisions.
“There is more proof, if you wish,” he finally said, selecting a book from the stack.
I heard myself scoff. “More proof? What proof have you offered but your cryptic words?”
The man’s eyes wrinkled, each line holding the secrets of his years. “You remain, friend, do you not?” He was chewing on some unseen morsel, his beard twitching with the movement of his jaw. He shot a glance to my feet. “You are bound by your own proof.”
His words stung. When I first arrived, I tried to show him, unzipping the bag to reveal what was inside, but he’d stopped me in a wild panic, flailing his hands and covering his eyes, yelling at me until I had sealed shut the bag. I could have left then, perhaps, turning my back like I did with so much else. But I stayed, and in all his madness—and with only my words to describe what I so wanted to show—the man believed. He believed in an instant; yet even with it by my side, feeling its longing, knowing what it had done, part of me still could not.
I let out a slow exhalation. “Fine. Give me what else you have.”
Smiling, he began to leaf through the pages of the book he held. I caught sight of illustrations and sketches, diagrammatic representations of things indescribable, or those whose sight threatened to make my gorge rise. I averted my gaze, waiting until he found whatever page he sought before turning back to accept that which he proffered.
“The demise of Darik. 1256 Anno Domini, if you wish the date,” he said, thrusting the book into my hands. I took it, and he turned to rummage behind the table for something else. It was a magnifying glass, its handle of a deep brown wood. He tossed into my lap, where it landed heavy against my crotch.
I looked up at the old man.
“Use the glass,” he muttered, his voice almost impatient.
“I don’t see why—”
“Use the glass,” he repeated. “Then you will see.” And at that he edged his way into his chair, to slump down and sip at his tea, observing how I would proceed.
I turned my attention to the book, looking first without the glass at the drawing occupying an entire page. The scene depicted a man—Darik, I presumed—hanged from a tree. There was no denying the talent of the artist, the fine pencil work creating a detail that was uncanny. As I squinted, I reached for the glass, moving it across the page and adjusting the distance. The lens was smeared with grime, and I took a moment to rub it on my shirt. I tried again, finding the image clearer, and I stared into the face of this man Darik, the hard lines of wrinkled brow that terminated with a jaw hung slack. The rope, taut around his neck, stretched up to a thick branch, numerous others forking their way out of frame. Under magnification, I could make out the distinctive shape of the leaves—an oak in autumn, I was sure, and as I studied closer I noticed one leaf was mid-fall, twisting its way to the ground. I could almost feel its feathered descent, the pull of the earth, the path it would take, imagining the way it would flutter and turn through the air to finally settle among a patch of its kin. To settle there, right next to—
I dropped the magnifying glass, a small cloud of dust puffing out from around the lens. I stood up and pushed back the chair, but my movements were too rapid and they mixed with my shock and dehydration to send me reeling. The room began to sway. It span and shrank, a darkness intruding from the corners of my eyes. I staggered towards the doorway like a drunk, bumping into bookcases, uncaring of what I might knock over.
Air. I desperately needed air.
(For on that page, etched into that illustration, there it lay. At the bottom of the tree, beneath the dead man's feet, was a single, unforgettable shape. The size and geometry were unmistakable. Five faces, five places. The fivestone.)
“It has found you, friend,” I heard the old man call out, the murmur of his voice reaching me as though through water. “It has found you,” he repeated, before he let out a wild laugh.
The threshold of the doorway offered a chance of sanity. I looked out to the street, inhaling the air as a breeze licked at my skin. The day had advanced faster than I thought; the sky, now a deep azure, spoke the approach of dusk.
“It can't have,” I said, regaining my composure, though the sweat continued to leak from my pores. “No, it can't have. I found it!” I said, as much to myself as to the man whose name I still did not know. Before me, people milled about, unaware I stood perilous on the precipice of insanity.
“There is no ‘No’,” I heard from behind. “It is fact, it is truth. Come, friend,” he said, and though he remained in the room, I imagined his hand there on my shoulder, the pallid fingers turning me around. I could smell him, the thick stench that had assaulted me the moment I’d entered. I could walk away, I thought once more. Out and into the streets of Marrakech. I could pretend that nothing of the last months had occurred, and that here, now, I had simply bumbled into a bookstore of things ancient and strange, and had spent, for whatever reason, half a day listening to the mad rantings of its owner. I could return home with the silly tale, regale it to my friends over dinner as I brushed aside questions of why I'd left without word, and Mara would laugh in that way she did, the way she used to when we first met, the way that made her dimples—
I swallowed hard.
I could not tell Mara.
Mara was dead.
To be continued… (here)
Hello. This is Part III of And it was lost, a retelling and rewriting of the first story I ever attempted to pen. You can find Part I here and Part II here.
Thank you for reading. Should you feel so inclined, you can like and leave a comment via the buttons below.
See, when I read these words: “and as I studied closer I noticed one leaf was mid-fall, twisting its way to the ground. I could almost feel its feathered descent, the pull of the earth, the path it would take, imagining the way it would flutter and turn through the air to finally settle among a patch of its kin.” I was in the scene, inside the bookstore, but also immersed in the image of the book, next to the hanging man, possibly fluttering down side by side with that leaf in mid fall. And this speaks to the magic of your writing, of your descriptive and evocative ability. Absolutely beautiful, Nathan.
Excellent stuff Nathan. The only words I was disappointed in were 'to be continued' not because I wanted it to end but because I have to wait. - Jim