poemtry and prose

“mommy...”

And that is how the dream always ends. The feeling of my mother abandoning me or me being stolen away from my family and the place i call home. The dream is so vivid, scary enough that i always awake in a sweat, and coughing, as I cannot breathe. But in the end, no matter how hard i try and remember the rest, it escapes me.

The clock on my table reads 5:00 AM. It is dark outside, the sun hasn’t awaken yet. Mosi, my faithful calico, snuggles at the foot of my bed. Purring, she doesn’t stir when i sit up. Mosi used to move when the nightmares started but i guess even she can get tired of running every time i wake and cough. Pulling the security of the blankets and the night’s rest off me, i go into the bathroom.
The faucet dumps a mixture of warm and cool water into the basin and i stare into the mirror. Probing my own eyes, trying to search for that key to unlock the dream. Always back to that dream. My blue eyes display nothing new, and yet i feel as if something new and exciting is going to take place. A change is coming. My face, round, with a hint of oriental flair has not changed. My black hair, matted from 6 hours of sleep, doesn’t look any different.

i gently place my hands under the water, cupped as in offering and splash a handful on my face. The water washes the rest of the night away and prepares me for the beginning of the day. i relax into myself and start doing my chores and get dressed to head to the library.

The air outside is cold and crisp. Fall weather, the scent of winter and the promise of snow laps at my throat. The first rays of sunlight peak over the eastern mountains. From the looks of it, the red and blue and orange dancing across the sky, it’s going to be a nice warm and possibly windy day. I tug my black leather jacket closer to me and start walking towards the Lincoln Bay Library.

The campus at 6 AM is eerily silent. I guess the bunnies and birds are also planning and studying hard for their midterms, i think to myself. The music of my breathing and feet hitting concrete instill a meditative beat into my head as i think about all the research that needs to be completed by noon. I love that class, i never knew that anthropology and the studies of comparative religion could be so intriguing. My pace quickens as the dark form of the library looms over the pine trees seated around it. The soft glow of lights inside beckons me, the stacks of books calling out to me.

The air inside the library, by contrast is warm but old and dusty. The head librarian, Sarah (she’s almost like a mother to me) walks over pushing a cart filled with books prepared to go back on the shelves. Out of habit i scan the cart, hoping to find one or two books that may help me with my research.

“Good morning Kendra. I see you are up early again today. You must really love your classes to want to be here so early.” she smiles and pauses next to me.

“Hi Sarah,” i begin. “Yes, I’m back. Had that dream again tonight. You know the one i told you about last week. In any case, i figured that it wasn’t early enough to get a head start on researching things for my anthropology paper.”

“Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that you are still having that dream. You know, Chamomile tea at night always seems to help when i cannot sleep or have bad dreams.”

“Really? I may have to try that next time i cannot sleep. Thanks for the tip Sarah,” i retort and start making my way downstairs to the basement level of the library.

Sarah means well. She’s been like a surrogate mother to me since the beginning of my college years at Adams. But sometimes her recipes of restful sleep or sickness cures get a bit too much to handle. Maybe i should use her knowledge for that next paper on home brewed cures and beliefs. I chuckle, shaking my head.

The basement isn’t as well light as the rest of the library. Most of the older books on obscure topics sit here. I know this level almost like the back of my hand and could probably find my way around it in the dark. The stacks appear golden against the myriad color of hardbound and soft back books, their titles and knowledge teasing me with promises of learning. Unlike the upper levels of the library, the walls down here are bare, no campus activity fliers have been placed on the bulletin boards. The first racks on the left store the upper-level English history class books, while the right side racks contain theory on linguistics. The books i currently have an interest in sit almost towards the back of the library, where most people rarely go. It’s quiet back there and i frequently go there when i need a quiet place to study for exams.

I set my backpack down, remove my notebook and pen, and walk over to the AP455 shelf. Books on cultural beliefs, ritualistic religions and mystical texts stretch on for shelves. I believe, after spending a few hours on these shelves alone yesterday, that there are about 300 books related to my paper on Mayan Calendar Mysticism. Not exactly the topic i wanted to choose but interesting and fascinating in it’s own right. I grab the most glaring and familiar book on the Mayan beliefs, a book by Carlos Rameriz, and start gleaming through it, looking for key topics and words and other routes of research topics and books.

The Mayans had this mystic calendar system of 13 moons, or months, also known as the Law of Time. I guess one can map their entire life, personalities and accomplishments onto this calendar. Sort of a very ancient form of Astrology where time of the normal world intersects the time of one’s spiritual world. They based their calendar system on biological 28-day cycles instead of the 30/31 day Gregorian system. Combined with their spiritual notions that were then placed over this calendar it gave them a very accurate idea of time. Supposedly, it’s more accurate than the current Gregorian systems.

I yawn and look up at the clock noting a few hours have passed. The temperature in the library has risen and from the windows it appears as if my prediction on the weather was correct. It is sunny out. I barely noticed it, the research kept me busy and focused. I didn’t even notice the noise level in the basement had risen as well. I set my notes down besides me and stand up to stretch.

That’s when the book catches my eye. It wasn’t there yesterday, i think to myself. I finish stretching and move closer to the stack. The book in question sits on the top shelf. Even at my 5’7” inches the stack and the top shelf loom over me. I walk around in-between the stacks, looking for a step stool or ladder. The book caught my eye and instead of climbing on the shelves i want to carefully remove the book. Five stacks down i find a stool and carry it back to where i was.

I get on the step stool, and sneeze. “Bless you” i hear from a voice around the other side of the shelves. “Thanks, “ I halfheartedly retort. The shelf is very dusty and from the looks of it, the dust hasn’t been disturbed for a while. Which is odd because i am sure that the book wasn’t there before, at least not yesterday when i began my search. But the big book is there now. It’s blue-grayish spine poking over some of the other books near by.

The book is oddly out of place sitting there. There are no library marks on the spine, the title or author doesn’t even appear. My heart skips a few beats, excited at the anticipation of what may lie inside. Normally, when i find a book like this, I’d have ripped it off the shelf by now, fully delving myself in the story and knowledge it has to offer. But this book, it’s different. I want to read it but i also don’t want to disturb it from it’s resting place.

My curiosity gets the best of me and i carefully grab the book and step down from the stool. It’s heavier than i expected. I run my hand over the book, it’s textured cover feels cool to my hands. There is no text on the cover of the book either. Only a faded, engraved symbol of a pentagram that has been flattened over time into the book. I raise the book to my nose and it smells of a mix of handwritten ink, aged incense and mold and dust. I resist the urge to sneeze again.

Looking around the library, i grab my gear and head over to a table. The sun shines brightly on the table. I set the book down with a small thud. It’s definitely heavier than it appears. I hold my breath and crack the cover open a little bit. I’m a bit afraid of breaking the spine and don’t want to destroy such an odd book.

The pages are brown, weathered by time and the moist air. The pages have been hand written, the black ink beginning to separate out into it’s blue and green components. The scriptive cursive, gives the appearance that the book may have been written in the 1800’s or earlier. I thumb through some of the pages and discover ornate and intricate illustrations decorating the pages.

I open the book a bit more. To the beginning. Instead of a title or publisher’s mark indicating the date the tome was written or published, there is a small inscription beginning halfway down the page. It reads:

“Let this grimoire feed my soul
And my majick.
I will serve the Goddess
And give reverence to the
Powers that Be.
I am Pagan
A stone in the Ancient Circle
Standing firmly balanced on this Earth
Yet open to the winds of Heaven
And time’s endurance.
May the Old Ones witness my Words
And guide my journey
On this path.

The passage is signed, the ink a bit waterlogged, by someone identifying them self as Aurora MourningStar. Whether or not this inscription serves as the introduction to the knowledge within the book or as a poem written to the owner is beyond me. But the words, comfortingly familiar, draw me in.

I close the book again. I need this book, i want to take it home. I panic, afraid that Sarah may not let me take it out of the Library because of the lack of proper library identification.

I push the book back on the desk, my mind’s wheels turning, mulling over the information i have just taken in and the dilemma i find myself in. This book calls me and feels strangely familiar. There is no one left downstairs, i am alone. The notion doesn’t even strike me and in one fell swoop i grab the book, carefully and quickly dump it into my backpack and rush out of the library, my heart pounding.