Mary glared at the church as if was a naughty child and tutted such was her feeling about it. It wasn’t as if she would ever have children. A light flickered in the library window. How could that be, she mentally scolded herself. She was certain she’d had blown out the candles. She took her responsibilities very seriously since the vicar had given her permission to archive the Church’s forgotten Library, she had coveted the keys and she doubted the vicar had noticed his new key to the library had disappeared. If it wasn’t bringing money into the parish he wasn’t interested.
They hadn’t been able to find the keys to the large chain on the rusty iron door. The blacksmith had broken it and fitted a new lock. The vicar had been displeased, which was his default attitude, there had been much more pressing work required but he’d been curious as to why the room had been locked up and Mary had offered to pay, which had satisfied him.
The room had been remarkable and unremarkable, maybe they’d expected to find hidden treasures to pay for some of the pews and the roof which needed replacing. But, sadly it was full of dusty books and a large table; presumably used to study the books. He had quickly lost interest until Mary had expressed a quiet interest in looking after the library. The wide staring eyes and open mouths that this strange, mousy, quiet child had spoken meant there wasn’t a question that she wouldn’t be given the responsibility for the library. The unsettling girl was hidden away and that was fine by them. She almost saw a flicker of a smile pass between the vicar and her mother, they were pleased to hide her away, forgotten.
The first time she’d seen the library she’d been in awe, too overwhelmed to speak. Not that speaking was expected. Quiet Mary; the girl who rarely spoke. Speaking involved being confident and having a purpose to your speech which would be processed and picked apart by the listener. Mary had learnt at an early age to keep her mouth shut. Talking got people in trouble. She’d seen it in the village, smelt the burning bodies strung high for all to see. No, she was happy to be Quiet Mary.
When she stepped into the room, she knew she was home. These were objects she could speak to without judgement. She’d been so afraid the vicar would change his mind but he’d welcomed her free labour sorting out the library which had been left untouched for years. The previous vicar had locked it away and its existence had been forgotten by the parish until they’d stumbled across it. She had always felt a pull towards the church and it wasn’t God. How these people believed in a invisible being was beyond her but of course, she valued her life so kept quiet. But, in the library she felt love, acceptance and finally, she belonged.
After three years of careful cleaning and cataloguing she’d discovered but never mentioned, the artifacts hidden in the walls.
Thus, Mary frowned at the light still flickering in the window. She had to go back in, unlock the heavy gate at the bottom of the stone staircase, climb the tight, spiral, uneven staircase to the second iron gate guarding the library. She decided not light all the candles on the way, many tripped on the uneven steps but not her, she could walk the path blindfolded.
She sighed, she would be late home now and wouldn’t be able to cut through the graveyard to her home as she normally did. Her mum would be mad, again. Mary sighed at the inevitable and removing the key, she opened the main door, groaning and using all her strength to push it open. She smiled, it always gave her a thrill to enter this place and not for the same reason as many.
Her mother was a most pious woman and if Mary was allowed to give her opinion on her, vicious, mean and bitter. Mary knew that she had been responsible for Gerta’s trial. Mary shuddered as she closed the door behind her. Gerta had been a healer and nothing more but these were hard, suspicious times and no-one was safe, not even kind Greta who had healed many in the village. Not one person had stood up in her defence the day the Witchfinder arrived.
The charges were lame. Of course Gerta was seen out in the early hours and at dusk, everyone knew plants and herbs needed to be harvested at certain times to produce an effective poultice. But no-one spoke as they dragged her from her home, tied her to a post and after a long sermon by the witchfinder, set her on fire. Mary couldn’t look and instead stared at her mother. A smirk formed underneath her homespun scarf, used to stifle the smell of burning flesh. Mary had said nothing. The villagers had turned and closed their doors behind them as the Witchfinder rode out of their village. They had said nothing.
Slipping the library key from the chain around her neck she opened the door. She frowned as she saw no light shining from the room, puzzled she held her candle high. Maybe it had gone out as she’d come to investigate but there was no residue smell. The fire in the hearth was out and she shivered slightly as she moved into the room. Without thought as to why, she blew out her candle and waited.
Mary turned, there was nothing for her to worry about, nothing here, no intruders. She listened for a few more moments but she had to get home, her mothers temper would be bad enough at her delay. As she reached for the door a light flickered under the ornate dark wooden bookcase which covered all sides of the room but this one was special.
Her heart raced as she moved over to the panel and moved the carefully cleaned and catalogued books and pulled the lever hidden from view. She never would have known it was there if she hadn’t been so diligent in her work. She pulled the shelf forward, books and all to reveal the secret place.
Inside was a strange array of items as well as books. She’d known what they were. Known they needed to be protected and they had chosen her. The bright light she’d seen from outside was emanating from the pages of the book. Mary carefully reached in and lifted out the heavy leather bound book and laid it carefully on the table, squinting.
“Careful now,” she whispered, “we don’t want anyone to know do we.” Mary nearly fainted as the book seemed to heed her words and the yellow glow diminished and the light didn’t penetrate the rest of the room.
She’d looked at this book so many times over the years and wondered why a plain bound empty book had been hidden away.
Mary closed her eyes as laid her hands on the book. She wasn’t just in a library full of dusty old books as the vicar had said. She had found more than books. She had found her purpose.
(please note this is just a bit of writing practice for me and this hasn’t been edited so there will be mistakes.)
C.L. Peache 