Rule number 9: There’s no place like home, so keep it well stocked.
It’s quite clear that someone has been living here. Someone with a very strange decorating sense and apparently an aversion to regular showers. Three of the four copper-brick walls that enclose the Observatory are plastered with posters of Batman and various musicians. On the fourth hangs the kit I used earlier. Touring the space under their unblinking stares is unnerving to say the least. Beneath each wall is a considerable amount of books. Some are stacked into piles reaching past my knee and others are placed haphazardly on shelves a stone’s throw away. He didn’t strike me as an avid reader. There is a workstation located next to the door separating this room from the other room, where I had gotten the water from. Every square inch of the wide desk is cluttered with all manner of tangled wires, electronic components, and other paraphernalia.
A beaten up radio hooked up to a microphone and bright red headphones are all I can recognise from the pile. The purpose of the rest of the objects escape me. I can only wonder what he uses them for. On the adjacent side of the room is a second entrance connecting to a room obstructed by tattered, brown curtains. Near that corner of the room is a pool table and a luminous, green and black pinball machine. All in all, nothing too out of the ordinary. Muy normal. I’m almost disappointed.
I retract that statement when my attention is pulled to a beautifully ornate, leather-bound book encased in a pristine, glass case placed on a wooden podium reaching up to my chest. It sits half hidden in the shadow of the wall. The wall on which the only window in the building hangs like a suspended tear. The midday light streaming from the window barely lands on it yet by some miracle it’s still clearly illuminated. It seems to draw the light in upon itself regardless. Upon closer scrutiny, its cover is inscribed in Latin and depictions of religious figures in a style that goes back to the height of the ninth century. Of course, I reject the first conclusion that presents itself in my mind. It’s too outlandish a claim. “Esto no puede ser real,” I whisper. Yet each time I rest my eyes on this manuscript the truth leaps out at me, daring me to dismiss it again. El ladrón. He’s stolen The Book of Kells.
Returning to where he lies half-naked, I examine him once more. The stench of sweat wafting off of him is nothing to scoff at. I could almost swear that it’s beginning to take form as a snarling, green hydra, but I digress. I watch his chest rise and fall feebly. He’s alive. But for how long? I could sit here watching him until the sun dips behind the earth but that won’t do anyone any good. If his journey culminates here then it wasn’t meant to be. I can’t change his fate, I can only live with it. For now I have to occupy my hands, and consequently, my mind. I shove my hands into my armpit to quell their trembling.
Within a few minutes, I’ve retrieved my axe. The weight of it feels good in my hands as the blade tips down under the influence of gravity. It feels comfortable now. It was much lighter the first time I held the smooth, hickory handle in my grip. A birthday present from my father. Just what every seventeen year old girl wants, right? Thinking about him leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and a sharp pinch at the base of my skull. I rub the back of my neck out of habit. Another gift.
With every passing day it becomes heavier, harder to raise and even harder to swing. I know it can become heavier still. There will come a day when I can no longer lift it. When that day comes, what will the world look like? Who will I be? I let my fingers trace the letters of the engraving I made in the handle a few months ago: “Tenax”. I didn’t learn Latin for nothing. I set myself down on the cool, concrete floor, taking out a whetstone and begin to sharpen the axe. Small circular motions on the edge of the blade will keep it honed, deadly, and useful. I allow myself, my mind and consciousness, to flow into the repetitive work. Because if I don’t then my mind will begin to wander. Wander into places I don’t want to be in. When I finish, I sharpen each knife as well. All the while, keeping one eye on the princess and his uncertain condition.
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Why is it so draughty in here? Correction: why is my chest naked? Waking up in a cold sweat, my mouth is drier than the Sahara and my leg aches something terrible. My memory is a tad bit fuzzy too. Though I can’t remember if that’s a new development or not. All things considered, I’d say I either had a very good time or a very bad one.
“You finally awake there, sleeping beauty?” A voice calls out from the dark.
The sun is no longer anywhere to be seen, I am no longer on top of a building, and my shirt is no longer covering my chest. One of these is not like the others. My first instinct, of course, is to cover my modesty with my arms as my eyes seek the source of the question.
“Hah! Don’t bother, it’s nothing I haven’t already seen.”
Blood rushes to my cheeks in response. I don’t know how I feel about that. My eyes eventually adjust and I make out the Duchess’ hunched figure on the floor not more than four metres in front of me. Once again, she’s in the middle of a carving.
“How long was I out for?” I call out trepidatiously.
“Couple hours,” is her terse reply.
“Were you watching me this entire time?” I feel so naked now.
“Had to keep an eye on you. Make sure you didn’t die on my watch, Scratch.”
“Scratch?”
“New nickname. On account of the uh-” She motions languidly with one of her knives at my leg which I can now see is bandaged.
“You know, I never thought I’d say this but I’d rather you called me princess.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, Scratch.” She resumes her carving.
“Yes yes, Duchess.” I say in the haughtiest tone I can manage “But thanks.”
Lifting myself up to my feet proves no small task as I try to force the pain arcing up my leg away from my mind. I only partially manage and proceed to hobble my way toward the window. Pulling on a black cord beneath it unfurls a thick covering that completely obscures any light that might leak out from the building. My own blackout blinds, sewn by yours truly. I’ve yet to find someone interested in buying one though. So hard to come by good customers these days, honestly.
From the same area I pick up a wooden lamp to set it in the middle of the room. Within seconds of turning it on, a warm yellow glow fills the room casting our shadows on the walls. The light soaks into the Duchess’ fiery mane but shies away from her mask, unwilling to touch it. Which only serves to add to the overall gloom of her face. To remedy that I put to her the two greatest words anyone can ask: “You hungry?”
She lifts her gaze from her carving to look at me for a moment. Her silver-grey eyes betray nothing of whatever thoughts are coursing through her mind. I’m quite sure she’s about to refuse me. In that moment, the deep, rumbling mating call of a humpback whale emanates from somewhere inside her. In a quiet, almost defeated voice, she answers: “Yes.”
They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. The same is true for women but that particular path changes weekly. I’m just hoping I chose something that’ll at least make it past the liver.
After fifteen minutes, I return bearing the gift of food in the form of two piping hot bowls of spicy chicken noodles. To my starved self it smells heavenly. Placing one of the brown, ceramic bowls in front of her I plop myself down opposite her with the lamp between us. She gets the guest bowl I don’t have a use for anymore, I take the chipped one for myself. Whispering a small prayer over my food, I’m prepared to dig in only to find the Duchess is staring blankly at hers.
“I didn’t poison it if that’s what you’re worried about,” I say through a forkful of noodles, scalding my tongue in the process. I knew I should’ve waited.
“It’s not that…it’s hot,” She declares as if it’s the next great discovery of our lifetime, like sliced bread or internet pornography.
“Believe me, I know it is. I think I just burned off half of my taste-buds.” I continue to shovel noodles in my face anyway. Don’t look at me like that, I haven’t eaten in over a day. Hungry doesn’t even begin to cover it.
“No, not like that. This food is hot, the water from before was warm too. Even the lamp. How?”
“Oh that. The whole place is hooked up to the solar panels I installed on the roof.” I take a moment from devouring food and fork to point above us to illustrate my point.
“Solar panels? Where did you find working solar panels?” She asks, somewhat incredulous at my statement.
“A garage sale,” I reply offhandedly, choosing instead to focus on the deliciousness of the noodles in front of me. The Duchess narrows her eyes at me.
“Okay fine, we scavenged it! I’m a scavenger, it’s what I do.” As you can see, I’m not very tough under pressure. Popcorn in an industrial crusher.
This seems to appease the Duchess as she unclasps the mask around her face and begins to wolf down her portion of noodles.
Uncovered, she’s not much to look at. Okay, I lied. Whatever reason she had to cover her face it’s not because she’s hideous. Quite the contrary in fact. She is, without a doubt, very aesthetically pleasing. Even the small mole above the left corner of her full and curved lips only enhances her face.
Somewhere between her third and fifth bite she jerks her thumb behind her to the corner of the room. “That explains why the most famous book in Ireland is in your musty house.”
“You mean my pièce de résistance? I like to think that I liberated it from a lifetime of confinement actually.”
“I’m sure you do. And it’s so much better off in your possession here?”
“It really brings the room together, don’t you think? Adds to the feng shui and stuff.” I can’t help trying to articulate my point by making wave motions with my arms. And I’ll be damned if they aren’t the best waves you’ve ever seen on this side of the Irish Sea.
I don’t know if it’s what I said or maybe it’s how I said it, but she bursts into laughter without warning. The kind of giggle you’d make after ringing someone’s doorbell and darting off immediately as a kid. Pure and unadulterated. Mere seconds later her hand flies to her mouth to clamp it shut as if she just did something she shouldn’t have. For a brief moment her guard was dropped. I saw a chink in her armour I wasn’t supposed to see. But for that moment we were transported to another world. Two people having noodles for dinner, laughing for the first time in a long time. Our enlarged shadows on the walls are nothing more than warped caricatures watching us intently. A moment I think we both needed for our own reasons. We finish in silence.
After dinner I lead her past the tattered curtains and up the spiral staircase beyond it to the room I use to sleep. It’s much smaller than the space we were in before but it’s enough. The contents of the room total up to be one wide, grey mattress and a purple blanket. I offer her the blanket and lay on my back at one edge of the mattress. It’s cold but I’ll survive. Through the glass ceiling above me the stars I know and the constellations I don’t wink back at me. Now that’s a view I could never get tired of.
“Selena.”
I’m not sure of what I just heard seeing as I was halfway to falling into the sweet embrace of slumber. But I force myself out of it to deliver another one of my responses crackling with unbridled intelligence: “Huh?”
“My name is Selena.” She hesitates before continuing as if unsure if she should. “Mi madre couldn’t decide whether to name me Luna after the moon or Selene after the Greek moon goddess so she named me-”
“Seluna!” I interject.
“That’s not what I said and you know it.”
“Oh I know, but this seemed like a much better alternative.”
“You’re very annoying, you know that?”
“It may have come up once or twice in conversation. What did your dad want to name you?”
Her reply doesn’t come for a good minute. I am beginning to think she’s drifted off to sleep when it does. “I don’t know. He was too occupied with work when I was born.”
We don’t ask about family members. Who knows who’s been lost or is roaming the streets hunting for the remnants of humanity. So I choose to keep quiet. It doesn’t seem like she wants to talk about it anyway. Instead I tell her, “We’re going to be busy tomorrow so let’s get some rest. Goodnight, Selena.” Selena offers to share the blanket with me and I take her up on it. “Goodnight,” she replies.
And it is a good night, isn’t it?
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