Little Curiosities

A familiar, musty breath wafts up from Undercroft’s belly to greet my anticipating nose and I descend the staircase with measured, almost paranoid steps; one fall could be catastrophic really. The temperature shifts to a more comfortable warmth, like that I’d expect to find beside the fireplace in winter, even still close to the surface, and with a white-linen sleeve pulled over my knuckles I wipe the sweat beaded across my brow. Perhaps I should have freshened myself before pursuing this sacred sanctuary. A smear of filth now sullies the fabric and I stare at it with weight like lead forming in my stomach. Untidiness is one thing, but uncleanliness is another… Rolling the length back along my arm, I manage to hide the mark and satisfy, for the time being at least, my intrusively obsessive nature. In a final gesture I tug the now layered cuffs to flatten out formed creases. Moving forward I have taken the time to unstrap and remove these old leathered boots (a task made harder by my inconsistent strength), before entering of course, a habit fondly adopted over the years. Naked toes curl around the rigid curve of the mighty Oak’s roots, smoothing along each polished surface and revelling in the feeling of stability and safety that the ancient tree’s longevity implies. The long, heavy cloak always upon me, is resting now pushed back behind my shoulders and both arms are bent at the elbow, hugging my boots tightly to the chest. When at last my soles plant safely upon the polished clay floor of Sidhe’s sunken treasure-room, I draw in a long breath and exhale after at length, pushing out all of the (secret) nervousness that has lured me to these depths. Lit lanterns, perhaps by some magical flame for they never seem to douse, cast a welcoming hue across my feet as I step between polished wooden shelves, each tier stacked neatly with bound histories, tales and other records. My hand finds the leather cover of my own unfinished journal, caressing it affectionately. Dilated pupils, suddenly ringed by very thin green, pass intently over thick and thin spines; none are dusty, I note. In fact, there hasn’t ever been a finger come away unclean from these perfectly made and maintained artefacts. Thoughts wonder quietly, fascinated, who keeps them so? Who’s are the eyes that have witnessed so much, to fill so many pages? I wander for a good while, viewing and musing over the hundreds of titles available. Then at last, compelled by mounting intrigue, fingers ascend and find the top of a considerably thick tome, a brown one, and they leaver it free: A Short History of the Gods, is impressed upon its cover. The book rocks off the shelf and falls like a boulder (a considerably oversight on my part), before colliding with my unsuspecting toes and landing with leaves exposed on the floor. Heat flushes my cheeks and I glance around the small corridor, feeling more than mortified. As luck has it, nothing moves; not even the golden light flickers on the wall behind me. I sigh heavily and climb awkwardly down to join it, coming to rest cross-legged on the floor. Rubbing bruised nail-beds, I flip back to the front cover, pressing it closed sub-consciously, before turning again to the very first page. Again the title reads A Short History of the Gods, but this time I smile, relaxing forward, and whisper dryly, “short indeed!: On the next page there’s a foreword from the author (a name I neither know or care to pronounce), and I gather the relevant pages to skip over. In truth I’m only here to learn of Mort, his herald Ludo too, so I skim through the countless pages before his turn is revealed. Briefly I think of Jigano. He is my motivation after all, and then begin to read, digesting each paragraph with interest and intent.