Beyond the bookcase

When we cross over an abyss and the night is dark, the wise rider releases the reins and surrenders to the instinct of the horse_ Armando Palacio Valdès

Finally, Izzabel was in grandma's library. At last, she would quell her curiosity. The curiosity Grandma had been building up in her since she called the book Izzabel was reading counterfeit. Already, she was staring to see why Grandma felt she had superior taste__ a library with numerous books she couldn't choose from.

Grandma's collection was fascinating, Izzabel couldn't have been more pleased. Or surprised.

Surprised because she had to learn of it from her grandmother, who was literally forcing her to view her treasure.

"Be careful there," Grandma said, carrying her flowerpot out.

"They're just books, granny."

"Never say 'just books'. They're a plane that transport you wheresoever they will. They have such capable souls."

Izzabel rolled her eyes. Not that she did not respect the old lady's words, but Grandma was overly sentimental; everything made sense to her, even the groaning of a chair when you sat on it, the screeching of a door... Everything seemed to communicate something, because_well, the universe is a world of thoughts and feelings.

Grandma's recommendations were beautiful. Always beautiful.

Izzabel had been looking forward to her first reading but when she looked up at the book, she asked again if really Grandma had said 'the eleventh night's sail'. She was in dismay. Was this some kind of test? She had been express on Grandma's last visit to Madison about her scorn for black covered books; the few she had read, only about two, left her with a question, the same question: what if the story had been different? She had been denied space for a good laugh by the savage racial wars in the first book, the second was unsatisfactory to her; why should a clown be executed for his ineptness? how could three friends die in three consecutive days because of a simple mistake?

She became even more confused when she discovered the shelf held six books with the same title among other black books. She turned to speak to her grandma but she wasn't there.

She reached up and took out one of the books. She would take her chance with this book, who knows, it may hold a surprise; Grandma guarded her books well and took pride in her recommendations.

She was examining the book when a click sound made her look up.

The bookcase had receded into the wall. There was now room for her to hide herself if she wanted to. Was Grandma a kind of secret agent? Why did she have such provision? What else was she yet to discover? What else was hidden?

She stepped in the space, searched for a button on either side but there was none. She took out her phone and turned on her flashlight. She was amazed to find more space. It was narrow and dark, she couldn't make out it's end.

Her curiosity kept her going and as she turned back, she saw the bookcase moving forward, sliding back into place. Why was it doing that? She hadn't touched anything. She rushed to stop it and get out but she only banged into it, falling backward.

She dialed Grandma's number, there was no answer. Dad's number wasn't connecting, neither was mom's. She couldn't reach anyone. Not even her sister. She was trapped.

That was it, the blockbuster for black-covered books.

She looked round. Then it occurred to her. What if it was a passage and not a hiding place? She walked straight for a minute then came to a stop. She couldn't tell if it was a door or a wall: there was no keyhole. She pounded it and her hand hurt. Leaning against it, she slid down dejectedly. Would things be different if she had selected another copy? Did someone plan this? Not Grandma, not her! She shook her head.

She leafed through the pages of the book. It was filled with diagrams. The first diagram was eleven boxes in two rows. Written on the top of the page was 'twelfth night'. After musing for a minute, she got up. Her jacket had wiped the surface of what seemed like a wall, or an unbreakable door and she could see a row of boxes, six in number. She instinctively wiped the other side. Eleven boxes in all. Finally some light! She turned to the book for further direction but nothing made meaning to her. She stared at the cover. THE ELEVENTH NIGHT'S SAIL: Four words. She counted four boxes. The first row, she called day and the second, night. She inserted the book in the fourth night box and hoped she was doing the right thing. She stepped back and watched. She heard a sound; Something shifted. Then all was still.

In an instant, the floor shifted to the side and she fell. With nothing to hold on to, she fell uncontrollably, till she hit the ground.

Very slowly, she opened her eyes. She was alive. Her head wasn't broken. She prayed her other parts were fine too.

Gradually, she lifted herself up. Hands to her chest and on her hip, she turned over, groaning. Every part hurt.

All around her looked green. Above, there was nothing but sky, cloudless sky. No buildings on sight. She had fallen in a glade. But in what part of town? She looked around for the book. No sign of it. She began walking desolately.

She was jolted out of her reflection by a sudden noise. What was that?

She was frightened out of her wits when she saw one, two, three, four foxes running in her direction. Never had she seen a fox or wished to see one. She dashed into the woods and hid behind a tree, watching them. As they drew nearer, she moved from one tree to the other.

She was most excited when she saw a shelter. Without considering the danger she could encounter inside, she bounded off.

She met the door locked, went round to the window. Just around the corner was a barrel, which she used to climb in.

The room was small and tidy, with just a bed and a cupboard.

All she wanted to do was sleep and awake from this unbidden nightmare.

"Seth."

A wave of relief swept over her when she heard the voice.

Then she heard the voice of a man.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you."

It was getting dark but she could guess who they were: her sister and a man, who was backing her. Most likely her husband. How was her sister in Ireland?

"I wasn't expecting you," he said.

"You weren't expecting me last time either, but you looked a lot more pleased." She moved closer to him.

"If I wanted..." He began,

"Let's go inside, shall we?" She was walking to the shack, not wanting to hear what he had to say.

Izzabel wondered if they had a tiff.

"Moira!" He called after her.

Izzabel was appalled to find that he wasn't who she thought he was. What was Moira doing with this...this good-looking gentleman, dressed so formally? She was tempted to get out.

"I'm not going in there. I'm going down." He indicated toward the south.

"Oh! Okay. Let's go."

Oh, poor Denise. She liked him. Moira seemed genuinely exultant to have married him.

She didn't want to think so much on it. She was probably just seeing things... And hearing names.

She tried to console herself with a poem Grandma had shared with her:

So far from home,

So long the road,

So low from nowhere.

So much for nothing?

Be not anxious!

Let hope be your staff,

Courage your paddle,

Thru tales of war.

Bind the rupture,

And let peace be thy stay.

Not really consoling, she thought. She liked it's simplicity, but it wasn't right for the moment.

She shut her eyes.

"Isabel. Isabel." Someone tapped her.

She awoke with a start.

"Relax, it's just me," he said.

She wouldn't have slept if she thought someone was coming. Why did it have to be this guy, this strange gentleman?

"How long have you been here?"

"Long." She was disgusted.

"I didn't know you were coming."

She didn't understand why he spoke so fondly.

"Of course you didn't," she said blatantly.

"Are you alright?" He asked, sensing her innuendo.

"Am I alright?" She was filled with indignation.

"You saw your sister," he inferred ruefully.

"I'm still trying to understand what I saw."

"Isabel,"

"Izzabel," she snarled.

"What?"

"How long have you been seeing each other?"

"This is the third meeting you're not aware of."

She didn't expect him to be upfront, but she wasn't expecting such a reply.

"Don't do that. I know nothing about this. I will never support this."

"Isabel, you need to get your thoughts together,"

"Don't call me that!"

She got up, unable to control herself.

"The baby she's carrying, is it yours?" Her eyes were boring into him.

"Moira's pregnant?"

She sighed heavily. Head against the wall, she tried to put her thoughts together. Something wasn't right.

"There must be, there has to be a misunderstanding." She dropped down on the bed.

Life isn't so twisted, people just fail to acknowledge the specks that broaden the way, she reminded herself.

"I know I..." He started to say.

"Before today, when was your meeting?" She asked.

"Over seven days ago,"

"And the meeting before that?"

"Over fourteen days ago."

She didn't think it right to ask but he was responding genially, which meant he approved.

Moira was seven months pregnant, no way he was responsible if he was telling the truth. For some reason, she believed he was.

She was silent, and still.

"Isabel, look at me. Look at me. Please."

She turned to him.

"It's still you. It's always been you, it will always be you."

What was that? Was he drunk? She searched his eyes.

"Have you gone mad?"

"Why do you keep doing this? Don't you see all that I'm doing for us? I believed you when you said nothing had changed, but you don't seem to trust me enough or think I'm worth the fight." He was restive.

Calm down. Acknowledge the specs.

She moved closer to him. "I was in my Grandma's library today, when something strange happened and I fell here. While avoiding a pack of red foxes, I found this place. Got in through the window and then you two came along. I don't even what this place is or how to get home. So believe me when I say I do not know you." Her voice was soft.

It was his turn to be silent.

"I've heard stories, I've seen records, I Know of the wars. But this is my first encounter with an outsider," he said meditatively.

"I don't understand."

"Come with me."

She had so many questions and worries; night had fallen, her family would be worried about her. There was a high possibility of them encountering a wild animal and he said she couldn't get to her sister.

She walked obediently beside him; thankful that he wasn't a complete stranger.

She was anxious to get out of the shrubbery. He took her hand as they crossed over a gulch. She headed wearily for the bulrushes.

"This way," he redirected her attention to a pathway she couldn't have otherwise noticed.

She was exhilarated when the buildings came into view. It wasn't exactly what she expected but she could get home from there.

"Is this where Moira followed you?"

"This is where you'll get an education," he replied.

They moved quietly between the dimly lit houses. Stopping at one of them, he knocked on the door.

A brawny looking, brown bearded fellow appeared in outlandish clothes.

"Seth." He sounded a bit surprised, yet, he let them in.

"Duncan, this is..."

"Izzabel. IZZ," she helped him.

"Oh!" Seth looked at her. The alteration in her name had just become clear to him.

Duncan was about to speak.

"She's an outsider," Seth babbled out.

Duncan glanced between them. "You're serious?"

He eyed Izzabel and walked away. Seth followed him.

Izzabel looked round the small house.

The house was dull indeed. The walls were completely bare but for the lighted sconces.

She had felt the rawness in the air on their way.

The poignant crackle in the fireplace told her she was not welcome.

She imagined it was going to be a long night.

"What do you think you're doing?" Duncan questioned.

"She doesn't know anything."

"How can you be sure? Whatever she is, she could be here for anything. Open your eyes. The modified version of the lady Isabel, the Bibliothec of Connacht, shows up between Con and Mun. And you call it happenstance? I don't think so."

"Duncan, she's..."

"Not the Bibliothec. She can't stay."

Their attention was drawn by a screeching sound. They turned to see Izzabel settling into a chair opposite a man who had come from one of the two rooms.

"I'm Rodgers," he said calmly.

"Izzabel," she responded.

He smiled at her; he didn't mind her Jean pants, black shirt and sneakers; obvious indication of what she was. Different.

Duncan approached the small table.

"What are you doing?"

"Sit down, Duncan. Maybe we could charge her home with some of your fear current."

Duncan's face crimsoned.

Rodgers was brownskinned and comely. Seth seemed to trust him.

Izzabel's parents were uptight since Grandma's call. Donn Neill had been trying to console Juliette since he returned from his business meeting in Dublin.

"Should we call the police?" Juliette had asked.

"And tell them what? That our daughter went off with her new friends and is unable to take our calls because of a hangover?"

"I know my daughter, she doesn't do those things."

"There's always a first. This is a new place. Ireland, Juliette."

She gave it a thought.

"Why won't someone take her call then?"

"I wouldn't do that,"

"Neither would I," she muttered.

"It's probably just a pre-birthday celebration," Donn said.

"A what?"

"She's turning twenty-two."

"That doesn't make sense. She was born October. This is August. And we've only just arrived."

"Would you rather presume something worse? Let's hope for the best tonight, and if she's still not back by noon, we'll take other measures."

He succeeded in making her go to sleep in the room while he stayed up.

He had checked Grandma's to confirm. Not one of the neighbours saw Izzabel leaving.

On receiving the news, Moira had to agree with her father. But Denise had a different opinion.