Reader - A Short Story

They called him the Reader.

This was partly because no one knew his real name. He kept to himself most of time, hiding away in a large manorhouse on the outskirts of town. But I think he would still have borne the moniker even if things had been otherwise. It just fit.

Every Tuesday he would come walking into town - summer or winter, rain or shine, he came. The very picture of inevitability. Feet crunching against the gravel, eyes fixed on the ground, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his coat, he would make his way past the houses and the shops and the eateries, without so much as giving them a glance. He would not stop – no, not once – till he had reached his destination: a small, homely-looking bookstore with a wordy array of novels, short story collections, and non-fiction titles staring outward from behind the window glass. It was a mere hole-in-the-wall, nestled between a bakery and a clothing store. Above it, suspended by wire, hung a wooden sign that read THE READERY in large splintery letters.

And into The Readery the Reader would go.

Half an hour would pass, maybe even an hour. Then the bell on the door would ring and he would emerge with a book under his arm. He always bought one. Always. It might be the latest bestseller or a piece of classic lit – it didn't matter. What mattered was that he never left The Readery empty-handed.

On a particularly chill and drizzly Tuesday in February, I happened to take shelter under the eaves of that bookstore. I hunched myself into one corner, shivering, disgusted at the weather. I pulled my overcoat tighter around me, then shoved my hands into the pockets, trying to coax warmth back into the tips of my fingers.

That's when I saw him. He stepped off the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street and sloshed toward me through the puddles. He smiled politely as he came up and then reached for the door and disappeared inside. Just like that.

I had the sudden and inexpicable urge to follow him, though to this day I'm not sure why. Perhaps for the simple reason that I really had nothing else to do. I unrooted myself from the sodden pavement and clasped the slippery brass doorknob and opened the door.

Stepping into that bookstore was like stepping into another world. The air was warm and dry and the fiery amalgam of candles and electric lighting threw an orangey-white blush over the place - an errant contrast to the oppressive, wet greyness of the world outside. The pungent odor of ancient books and the crisp, sharp smell of new ones mingled in the air with that of the wooden shelves. Somewhere in the back of the store a phonograph played. I closed my eyes.

“Can I help you find something, sir?”

I hit the here-and-now again with a jolt. The speaker stood behind a counter on my right, busily sorting through a large stack of books. She was elderly, maybe mid-sixties. Stocky build, white hair, wrinkled skin. The owner, I assumed. She paused in her work, questioning. I smiled and shook my head. She nodded and smiled back and resumed her sorting.

I caught sight of him again, poised by a bookshelf on the opposite side of the room. I walked toward him and casually selected a book from the same shelf and made a show of thumbing through the pages, all the while watching him out of the corner of my eye.

His interest was fully engaged by the weighty volume in his hands. Eyes poring over every letter, every word, every sentence, every paragraph. Fingers sifting the crackly yellow pages. It was an old book. Very old. Like him.

Suddenly he looked up and grinned a wide toothy grin. "Chaucer," he rasped happily, indicating the book he was reading. "You read any of him?"

I said that I hadn't.

"You should," he said, head bobbing up and down. "You really should." Then, after a pause, "How d'you like Milton?"

"Pardon?"

He nodded toward the book I had absently-mindedly pulled from the shelf. "Milton," he said again. "How do you like his work?"

"Oh, this," I said, awkwardly turning it over in my hands to get a good look at the title: "Paradise Lost". I shrugged and tried to look appreciative. "He's, um, pretty good," I said lamely.

He just smiled and bobbed his head again and returned to his book. After a minute or so, I ventured to ask whether he read much, knowing full well what his answer would be.

"I love books," came the enthustiastic reply. "Love them. My house is full of them. And even then, I can't stop myself from coming here every week to get a new one. I started collecting them years ago, you know, and haven't stopped collecting since. I could start my own library if I wanted to," he laughed. Then he stopped. He looked up, sober-faced. He leaned toward me. "Would you like to see it? My library, I mean?"

I was a surprised and delighted. Apparently he wasn't the total recluse I'd taken him for. I felt a thrill run up my spine, recognizing a tremendous opportunity to see something nobody else, to my knowledge, had ever seen before. "Sure," I said. "Thanks."

Excitement danced in his eyes. He tucked Chaucer under his arm and beckoned for me to follow. He paid at the counter and exchanged a few cheery words with the lady behind it and then swept out the door with me close on his heels.

I didn't so much mind the rain or the cold or the greyness now; my mind was abuzz with anticipation. I quickened my pace to keep up with him, and together we walked through town and out of town and along a dirt road that was now turned to mud. Shortly thereafter, we turned off the road and started through the grass and up a rise. His house was at the top. Large and grand and impressive, yet marked by evidences of age and decay. We went up the rickety wooden steps and onto the rickety wooden porch and paused as he fumbled with the lock.

Then we were inside. I nearly tripped over a stack of encyclopedias lying on the floor just inside the door. "Look out," he admonished with a chuckle.

I was looking, but not at my feet. I was looking at all the books. Stack upon stack of them, littering the floor in a sort of choatic orginization. He took hold of my arm and guided carefully me through the maze.

In every room we went through it was the same: books everywhere. On the floor, on the wall, on the furniture. Everywhere. I opened my mouth, then clicked it shut, stupified.

He led me to the den and told me to stand still while he cleared away a place for us to sit. I gazed around me at the sea of words and blinked. I even tried pinching myself to be sure I wasn't dreaming. He looked round. "Well," he grinned, "what do you think? Quite something, isn't it?"

My tongue fumbled around uselessly in my mouth. "Amazing," I finally managed to stammer. "There must be a gazillion books in this place."

He laughed and bent to gather up another pile of books off a seat cushion. "More than that, probably. Upstairs is full, too."

"How many of these have you read?" I breathed, reaching to pick up a copy of Huckleberry Finn and then turning it over in my hands. "How many? And how long did it take you/"

"Read?" He straightened and turned to face me, wiping his dusty hands on his trousers. He smiled, but it was a strange smile this time. An unnatural smile. He licked his lips. "Why," he said, "I haven't read any of them, actually. I just like collecting them. That's all."


ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Corey Poff is first and foremost a sinner saved by grace alone. He's sixteen, an avid writer, and a lover of books, movies, music, logic, Reformed theology, history, guns, and the great outdoors. And Italian food.