the book

The Book




His knees bend and with his hands hanging loose to the side they become aware of two long slippery narrow wooden objects to their rear. They clasp and form a tight fist like grip around these mysterious things. With his back straight he lowers his buttocks and they rest upon a soft texture of unknown description. He gulps in fright as he sinks and his back gently hits the soft yet hard mellow puff behind him, his relief is expressed when he realises he hasn’t sunken very far at all..

He stretches out his left leg and then raises his right, and places it across his left ankle, his two thighs side by side forming a pair of blue lips in the middle, from the Levi jeans he is wearing. His arms are elevated and his hands placed behind his head; the fingers weaved into one, the elbows pointing decisively forward, forming two complete triangles.

Chatter; all about, all at once. Carefully listening, these people are not talking to each other. Two men on his left, talking about beer, the rugby and of course women. Beyond the guys, in front of him now, a sweet aroma of lavender and red roses, the sort of smell that can only be of the female origin. Their soft yet loud voices, one two three, at least four or five are talking all at once. Each trying as hard as they can to compete and get their message across. Rugby again features on their lips, but they appear to know more than what those boys do. Yet something’s different here, the thirst for knowledge has not yet disappeared and they ramble into the goings on of New Zealand social culture, and history, English too. What are these girls up to?

To his right the rustle of paper is heard, as if someone is turning the pages over in a newspaper, that thread of final resistance, as the pages try to cling to each other before giving in when they are forcefully ripped apart. From beside this scene a deep croaky voice whispers “that silly George Bush, to think my friends died for men like him”. And a squeal of sigh, that could only be a Nana reply, “Now, now Bill, don’t get too over excited you have your heart condition to remember”. After that it’s a bit vague as to what they say, but an argument erupts and a kettle is boiled red hot.

He’s enclosed in some sort of surrounding, maybe a circle or a square of chairs, all these people appear to be stationary their voices neither seem to fade or stop, they certainly seem near to him.

A breeze too light to move a leave, but heavy enough to caress his cheek, picks up and carries this scent, its very unusual and being unclear as to what it is. The breeze happily obliges and teases the hairs with in his nose, adding to the excitement of his senses, what could this smell on earth possibly be. One by one the scent is dissected, liver, kinas or sea eggs to the untrained fisherman, roast pumpkin and eggs!!! No this smell is not nice at all.

He reaches down and with his right hand picks up a stick, with his two hands on the slippery narrow wooden things he hoists himself up, and moves slowly through a gap, that looks wide enough to run through. It’s as if he’s trying to escape that most undesirable of smells.

He’s moved about 6 feet by now and is standing still apart from his left hand. His fingers are doing the walking, they hover not quite touching, but not too far away to be resistant to the cold emigrating from what is before him. His fingers are clearly shaking. Looking bewildered, his hands travel high and then low, to the left and to the right are wide open spaces of this huge solid mass that just does not want to move. So he moves, searching for an answer. A metal stand suspended at shoulder height protruding what must be two of his hand widths out into the open, obstructs his path.

His fingers have done their job well, they race over this stand and when they come to a sudden halt, they are on top of a hard 50ml thick object with many bumps on it. Promptly he pulls it out, and turns in a 180 degree angle.

He pauses; a door squeaks against its metal base, it needs some CRC. There’s a constant crackle of dry autumn leaves and a stream of water, slurping its way down the bath drain but he’s inside, how can this be? Mutterings, many, too many voices full the air, and they encase him. A draft is formed, yet patiently he stands there and waits, until the silence is once again back .The odd chatter is heard, but it’s at a distance, then with his stick he strides out into the wide open spaces, moving at a confident rate, with his stick swinging to his left and right. He approaches a smaller obstacle, knock, knock, as the stick hits something wooden.

“Can I help you Sir?” he hears the young gentle voice of a girl say. He raises his right hand and feels a flat smooth surface about tummy height and explores it checking that it is safe and clear of obstructions to place his 50ml object upon.

Beep, click, click, a scatter of movement by the girl is made. “Have a good day Sir”, she says.

He raises his left hand and reaches for his book, slowly turning a half circle. a warmth coming from outside beckons him, begging for him to spend the few remaining hours of the day basking in the glory of fresh air. He pauses again for a few seconds, hears little but the birds singing beyond. With his stick freely moving from left to right in front of him, he walks to forwards following the heat. Stopping only for a moment to raise his right arm and move his hand in a small wave like motion, as if to say good bye. His journey to the library is complete.