“I see.” Bonnie curtsied. “And I apologize again.”
Sarah’s smile lit up her face, making her look like a delighted grandmother. “No need, dear girl. I apologize for being abrupt with you about my marital status.”
Bonnie folded her hands over her waist. “I was only asking because we’re trying to find the wife of a man named Merlin.”
Sarah’s eyebrows lifted. “Merlin, you say?”
Bonnie nodded rapidly. “Have you ever heard of him?”
“The name is familiar . . . very familiar.” Sarah rolled her eyes upward and tapped her finger on her chin. “Perhaps I knew him at one time, but I cannot remember him now.”
Bonnie twisted her ring nervously. “Uh . . . may I ask why you don’t wear a ring?”
“You may ask”—Sarah rubbed her naked finger, her hands trembling slightly—“but I have no answer to mysteries I cannot understand. To hear Jasmine’s interpretation, I am an underborn, that is, a member of a lower class, so I am not privileged enough to receive a ring.”
Billy took two steps closer. He didn’t want to interrupt Bonnie—she was doing a great job—but the conversation was becoming so interesting, he didn’t want to lose a single word.
“How many others are there like you?” Bonnie asked.
“I know only of Dorcas, the seamstress, but Jasmine tells of dangerous foreigners who have no dragon’s eye, and they are driven out whenever they set foot in our town. She allows Dorcas and me to stay, because we are harmless old women.”
Bonnie touched the book on top of the stack. “How does Jasmine keep everyone from asking about the past? Don’t you wonder where you came from or how long you’ve been here?”
Sarah rifled through the pages of the book in her hand. “Not everyone here is spellbound by her prophecies.” She slapped it closed and set it down. “We are simply accustomed to thinking only in the present, so the past does not occur to us.”
“What about the people who go to the theatre? Are they influenced by Jasmine?”
“By her prophecies? No. By her power to punish? Yes. But she allows them to go. She sees it as simple foolishness that amounts to nothing. The people still seem to get their work done.”
Bonnie picked up a piece of paper from another stack and scanned it. “Do you ever go?”
“I tried twice.” Sarah shook her head sadly. “But it seems that underborns are not allowed.”
Bonnie glanced up from reading the page. “Did a strange wall keep you from going through the door?”
“Yes,” Sarah replied, her eyes narrowing. “How did you know?”
Billy stepped up to the counter. “The same thing happened to Dorcas.” He pushed his hand into his pocket, wishing he could give her the ring, but he knew he had to wait for the sign he’d been given. “We’ll go back and see Reginald now, if it’s all right.”
“Of course,” Sarah replied. “But be warned. Although Reginald is harmless, he is a bit eccentric.”
Billy and Bonnie returned to the area near the back of the store. “What do you think now?” Bonnie asked. “Is she Merlin’s wife?”
“Makes sense to me. When you mentioned his name, it seemed to ring a bell.” Billy pushed one of the doors and peeked into a much larger room. Row after row of standalone bookshelves, rising from the floor and reaching to the ceiling, blocked much of his view. Old dusty books sagged the rows, as if threatening to collapse the shelves at any second.
Swinging the door farther, he walked in, feeling like he should tiptoe in the hallowed sanctuary of ancient codicils, as though the books themselves might shush him if he even swallowed too loudly. Bonnie followed, her anxious breathing sounding like the wheezing of an old woman. They padded through a corridor between the rows, Bonnie whispering the labels on each shelf as they passed. “Alchemy. Allegories. Art. Astrology. Biographies. We could get a lot of information here.”
The room opened up into a bleak studio, the only light coming from a series of transoms near the ceiling. Two long wooden tables covered much of the dusty floor, dozens and dozens of books spread across them, some open, some piled high in precarious stacks. A musty odor pinched Billy’s nose as he drew closer.
A man stood at the side of one table, his head down and his hands flipping page after page of a book. He jotted notes on a piece of paper, grabbed another book off the top of the nearest stack, then slapped it open on the table, starting the process over again.
The man looked familiar—reddish hair, strong hands, confident motions, but his face remained hidden, buried in his work.
Billy cleared his throat. “Reginald?”
The man looked up, his tawny face haggard, his eyes bright and inquisitive. “Yes?”
Billy squinted, not daring to believe what he saw. That face! Those eyes! His stomach flipped. He could barely breathe. “Dad?”
The man’s lips parted, mouthing Billy’s greeting, but his brow lowered as if he was unable to grasp the meaning. Picking up a book and clutching it in both hands, his eyes darted back and forth. He appeared to be wrestling with a memory, something that begged to break through to the surface, but he just muttered quietly with a British accent. “Parenting books are in the ‘Self-help’ section behind me, four rows in, turn right.” He lowered his head again, returning to his frenetic study.
Billy gulped, trying to push down a familiar lump in his throat. This man looked so much like his father he wanted to sprint forward, vault the table, and give him the hug to end all hugs, all the embraces he had missed over these many months of torture. But he couldn’t. This was Reginald, a man who seemed not to recognize him, or at least pretended not to, and although his voice carried the same low tones, Dad’s accent had never sounded British at all.
Billy grabbed Bonnie’s hand, glad to hold onto someone who knew who he was. He whispered, “Let’s get closer and ask some questions.” He strolled to the table and picked up a book, pretending to be interested in the title. “What are you studying?”
Reginald pointed at the book, then at the table, barely looking up at all. “Put that down, please. I will need it in a moment.”
Billy dropped it back in place. “Sorry.”
Reginald placed both palms on the table and sighed. “I apologize. It is my job to help the library’s patrons. Please forgive me . . . what did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. It’s Billy.” He cocked his head toward Bonnie. “This is my friend, Bonnie.”
“Billy. . . . Billy. I know that name from somewhere. Have you been in here before?” He tilted his head upward, tapping his finger on his jaw. “Oh, I am sure you have. You checked out books on . . . Oh, what was it?” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, yes! Art. Pencil sketches, to be precise, of various beasts. Didn’t you specifically search for examples of dragon art?”
Adrenalin surged through Billy’s body. Reginald had to be his father! Who else could know about his interest in art and dragons? At the same time, however, he felt as though a vacuum cleaner had sucked out his insides, heart, breath, and soul. What good was it if his dad didn’t know who he was? This was the worst torture of all. This man was like a visible picture of Billy’s memories, a father he loved but who could give no love in return. Watching him was like hugging a portrait, the joy of a familiar face, but aching hollowness when no arms hugged him back. Still, “Reginald’s” latent memories had to mean a spark of hope existed somewhere in his mind. All Billy had to do was figure out how to fan it into a flame.
“I see from your reticence that you have forgotten,” Reginald continued, “but I distinctly remember you from somewhere, definitely something to do with art and dragons.”
“Oh, sorry. I got lost in thought. But you were right. I’m an artist, and I’m interested in dragons.” Billy pointed at Reginald’s pencil lying atop his notes page. “May I show you?”
“Yes. Please do.”
Billy drew a quick sketch of a dragon and slid it in front of Reginald, desperately hoping to prod his memory. ??
?What do you know about them?”
“Mythical creatures,” Reginald replied, glancing at the drawing. He nodded toward the shelves on his left. “Mythology is between Music and Names. But if you want my opinion, they’re not worth the time or effort to study.”
Billy laid his hand on a book, remembering not to pick it up this time. “Whatever you’re studying sure seems important.”
“It seems that it’s only important to me.” Reginald opened a binder filled with newspaper pages. “But I’ll tell you about it. I am already considered the village idiot, so what difference does it make if you think me mad as well?”
Billy grabbed Reginald’s forearm, hoping his touch might have some effect. Reginald tried to pull away at first, but when Billy wouldn’t let go, Reginald’s arm relaxed. “Please trust me,” Billy said softly. “I won’t think you’re mad.”
Bonnie sidled up to Reginald and peered at the newspaper pasted to the facing page of the book. “Is this your town’s newspaper? The Daily Herald?”
“It is a simple, one-page newspaper for the locals.” He tapped on the page with his finger. “Notice the date?”
Billy scanned the paper, drumming the pencil on the table. “Uh, no. I don’t see a date anywhere.”
“Exactly.” He turned the page. “Now, do you see any similarities between the two issues?”
Billy took the page and flipped back and forth between the two. “Yes. They’re identical as far as I can tell.”
“Exactly, again.” He pointed at the headline. “For example, read this story on the Founder’s Day picnic.”
“I saw this on Sarah’s counter,” Bonnie said. She put her finger on the article and moved it slowly down the page. “Looks like everyone’s getting ready for the big event at one o’clock this afternoon, so they’re supposed to get their shopping done early today.” She ran her finger along the last line. “There will be food, fun, and friendship, so come on out and celebrate with your neighbors.”
Reginald fanned through the pages in the binder. “I collect them and put them in this book, and every single issue is the same. Every day the entire village attends a community picnic, and they never seem to realize that they did it the day before. And as I watch the people in this community, and myself, for that matter, I get the distinct impression that the picnic isn’t the only repetitive event. Everyone goes through the same routine every day. And it seems that I am the only person who is aware of the repetition.”
“Have you shown anyone your collection of papers?” Billy asked.
“I have shown the mayor and the constable.”
“What did they say?”
Reginald let out a “humph,” then closed the book with a thud. “They accused me of collecting a stack of copies of today’s paper and concocting an insane story in order to get attention.”
The door between the library and the bookstore squeaked. Billy lowered his voice. “But they can’t be serious. Why would they accuse you of lying?”
Reginald didn’t bother to lower his own voice. “They are serious, and as sincere as a mother’s love. They have no idea they are racing on a hamster’s wheel. And as each day goes by, I feel as though I am beginning to repeat my own actions. I seem to forget what I did the day before, so I often do it again, remembering that I did something yesterday only after I have repeated it today. Therefore, I am convinced that I am slowly becoming one of them, and I will fall into a repetitive pattern day after day, blindly stupid to the fact that I am treading the same ground I trod the day before.”
Reginald waved his hand across his books. “Even as I do my research on the origins of this town, I get vague notions that I have read the same books, analyzed the same thoughts, and come to the same conclusions, only to forget them by the time I awake in the morning.” He drew back his arm and slung the binder across the room, scattering the newspaper clippings through the air. “Ha! I won’t be reading you again anytime soon!”
Breathing heavily, he ran his fingers through his hair. “I . . . I apologize. As you can see, this could easily drive a man mad. I think I would be better off as one of the robots, unaware of my condition, happily repeating my daily routine.” He suddenly gave Billy a strange look, his brow lowering. “But if you are one of them, you must have come in here yesterday, which means that I have forgotten your visit.” He picked up another book and slammed it on the table. “There is no hope! I am doomed to a fate worse than hell!”
Billy couldn’t help himself any longer. He wrapped both arms around Reginald and hugged him with all his might. “No!” he cried. “You’re not doomed! There’s a way out of here.”
Bonnie joined in the embrace from Reginald’s other side. “God will clear your mind. I know he will.”
Billy felt Reginald’s heart race, thumping against his ear like a ravenous woodpecker. A deep voice oozed from Reginald’s lips, barely a whisper. “God? . . . Did you say . . . ‘God’?”
“Yes,” Bonnie replied softly.
He pushed Billy gently away and pulled free from Bonnie as he turned to face her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, his eyes filling with tears. “That word haunts my nightmares, but I can’t remember what it means. I try to remember, and it seems for a moment that I understand, but then the memory is lost and I am left with a vague impression. It is a fish in a stream that I try to catch with my hands, but it swims away just before I close my grip, and I can only feel its tail as it slips through my fingers.”
Reginald picked up a thin pamphlet with the words “The Waiting Room” on the front. “There have been others like me. I see it in their eyes. When I ask them about God, I catch a glimpse of a tiny spark, but it is quickly snuffed like a paper match in a gale.” He opened the pamphlet to the first page. “Look. Here is a tract an old woman handed me this morning.” He motioned toward a stack of pamphlets on a nearby chair. “I have dozens of them, so I suppose she brings me one every day. In any case, it seems that a prophet has predicted the coming of a king, and all who believe the prophecy are supposed to go to the theatre and wait for him.”
He closed the pamphlet and tossed it to the table. “When I read these pages, I feel that spark, the same one I felt when I heard you mention God, and I hear a siren song to join those mad folks who wait in line.” He ran his hand through his hair again. “Everyone already thinks I am crazy, so I often ask myself why not go to the theatre? After all, who is the madman, the fool who sits in a dark theatre waiting for a show that never begins, or the fool who is quite happy living day after day in endless monotony, not even noticing that he has carried a bucket of bolts from a shelf to a workbench and back again ten thousand times over his tedious years?” He bent down and rested his elbows on the table, intertwining his fingers behind his head. “Either way I choose, I play the fool.”
Billy leaned over to look into Reginald’s eyes. “But you would be the biggest fool of all if the king showed up and you were still here studying old books and newspapers.”
Reginald spread out his arms. “But the whole story lacks credibility!” He picked up the pamphlet again and turned to the last page. “You see, according to the prophet at the theatre—whom only a very few people heard, mind you—this deliverer king is supposed to open a doorway to a new world, and those who pass through will meet a greater king who will determine whether or not they go to everlasting peace.” He pointed at a line on the page. “But here is the crux of the problem. The prophet said, ‘Every person who chooses to follow the king must give up his will and become the king’s servant.’” He threw the booklet down again, spinning it on the table. “Servitude is not exactly the kind of salvation I had in mind, so why should I believe a story that promises a deliverance of chains? It just makes no sense.”
Bonnie picked up the pamphlet and opened the cover. “Servitude’s not so bad if your master is fair and noble.”
“True enough, but . . .” Reginald pressed his fist into his palm and twisted it like a pestle in a mortar. “I must be more than wheat i
n a mill. I cannot believe that I have only these two choices—to suffer this daily gristmill or else submit myself to a king who will also grind me as he pleases. Is servitude really better than toiling in this village? At least here I have a shred of hope that I can . . .” He stroked his chin. “How should I put it?”
“That you can run the grinder,” Billy said. “That you can be in control.”
“Exactly!” His face reddened under a furrowing brow. “What did you say?”
“I said, ‘That you can be in control.’ You don’t want someone else deciding your fate.”
Reginald’s eyes narrowed, the red in his cheeks deepening. “But do I deserve the same fate as all the mindless robots in this town? Since I am able to see through this veil of despair, is it right that I must stand in the same line as those who cannot see past their noses, only to learn that at the end of the line we will be fitted with rings for those same noses?” He slammed his hand on the table. “I am not a lemming who leaps into a void simply because my fellow lemmings have done the same. What do they find at the bottom? Nothing but dead lemmings.”
He crossed the aisle to a parallel table and threw open another book, an old tome filled with heavy parchment, yellowed and empty. “Look here. This is the work that helps keep me sane and proves that I do not belong here.” He turned the parchment leaves back to the first page. “As you can see, there are quite a number of old runes.”
Billy leaned over, bracing himself with his palm on the table. “I’ve seen writing like that. It’s ancient English, right?”
“Of a sort. While I was trying to figure out where to shelve this book, I opened to the first page. Since it was blank, I assumed it was a logbook that no one had bothered to use, but suddenly these letters appeared as if by magic. I knew deep in my soul that this was new, that I had not done this the day before.” He turned the page. “I immediately translated the words to modern English, believing that writing on a blank page was a sure sign that I was doing something new.”