She awoke not sure she had even slept. The semi-darkness still surrounded her; Silence covered her. Looking at the corner store she could just about make out the clock on the signage. She worked out that thirty-five minutes had passed since she had relaxed on the bench. It was now enough into the night that the air had cooled but not to the point where a shiver would present itself. Turning her head sideways she stopped part way through the movement. Remained motionless as her vision took in the scene before her. In the middle of the road a large coyote, confident and unmoving stared back at her.
Her eyes moved to check how many there were, a response more than a deliberate action. The lone cayote tilted its head and looked puzzled by the sight in front of it. Dirty red and grey fur belied tense muscles, its head angled downward, its eyes unmoving. The shallow figure had contrasted the photograph of the town, another living thing beside another living being. The deep pink like raw flesh flashed as its mouth opened and its long tongue cleaned sharp white teeth. Its body held slightly to one side, its left paw maybe an inch from the ground.
Grace stayed motionless, doubtful that a gunshot was going to echo down the street the noise ricocheting off the buildings as if each collection of stone and timber was alive and shouting. The stand-off was all but a few seconds but seemed longer. Each inhale and exhale giving notice of prey, giving away sign of intent. Her father had told her that Coyote normally hunted smaller animals, rabbit or even snakes and that as a child she needed to be reminded that they were not pets but animals to be feared.
Now, no longer a child, Grace breathed deeply before moving slowly to stand on the bench. The lips of the coyote pulled back and its throat rumbled a long deep noise occupying the air between them.
Its front legs straightened propelling it forward at a frightening rate, its mouth hung open, saliva dripping from well used teeth.
Each building screamed out, one after the other as the gunshot tore through the growling silence. A single note carrying itself along the pavements and walkways like a noisy child.
Grace opened her eyes and sat up with a start. Jerked her head and looked at where the Coyote had stood, should have stood, only moments before.
Darkness and silence still swallowed the town. Nothing stood waiting to feast, no sound of gunshot echoed around her. No other life presented itself. Grace sat up and stared at the empty ground, almost willing it to contain the Coyote she had dreamt of only moments before. Just a glimpse of another lost soul. As quickly as the vision invaded the details began to fade.
Sat alone, the ultimate silence beckoned her forward, reached out to her like the mother she longed for, with bone and flesh wrapped around outstretched fingers guiding her, the warmth comforting her.
Standing, Grace pressed the palm of her hand against her jacket pocket as her senses returned. Over half the night had passed and sleep was a warm welcoming blanket of forgotten troubles waiting to cradle and soothe her.
She opened her eyes wide as if an announcement was being made. The extra light aided her while allowing her eyes to get used, once again, to her surroundings. Walking along the road she ignored the perceived danger and stepped along neither the left nor the right side. Heading for one of the larger buildings she briefly read the sign out loud for no other reason than to hear the words spoken. “Alonetown Library”.
Each double-spaced letter was polished brass against the pale stone surface. Each letter earning its right to be spoken with purpose.
Grace grabbed the door handle and pulled. The event itself should have been innocuous. She expected the door to do what it was designed to do, to fulfil its purpose in the world and allow her entry. Several attempts at pushing and pulling had no effect. The thought occurred that libraries have open hours, a thought that seemed ridiculous in Alonetown.
Looking through the glass door Grace could just about make out the black lettering on the wall opposite. ‘Knowledge given and Earned’. The font size differed on each word with the last word being the largest.
This was the first time she could remember of finding a locked door in the town. Even as a child she had sometimes struggled to pull the big doors, but they had always relented. Never had she been denied entry. The library itself had once been the pride of her father’s design with a larger version carrying a thousand times more books located in in one of the northern cities. The curve of glass and wood provided not only the space for books but allowed life to thrive around a large tree which towered within the height of the building. The tree in city library reached to the glass ceiling of the third floor, its branches shy of the walkways and pillars filling the double height space of each layer with a million shades of colour. In contrast, the tree within the library of Alonetown stretched its full height toward the glass covering the stout two storey confine. Its shades of colour no less than its larger sibling. Not quite in miniature, more of a practice for the main event. The tree had been Grace’s idea. At one time, at a younger age, she had seen a paper tree on the wall of a classroom that now time had diminished. Enthusiastically she had described the tree to her father and how they had sat in a semi-circle facing it while they listened to the teacher narrating stories.
While designing the library her father used to say about knowledge being the driving force of any community. To have knowledge, to understand truth, keeps the people of any community from the ignorance that segregates and divides. At every opportunity he taught her that each of us are individual, each different in belief and being. No two people the same therefore all should be as equal.
Grace had grown up understanding that no one should be defined by thier differences, to see their reflection as something other than beauty, however, the amplified flaws were more difficult to ignore.
The difficulty her father had to overcome was conditioning the books themselves. The moister created was controlled by vents in the pillars holding the walkway around the tree. These needed to be cleaned from time-to-time which Grace took on as her job. Her way of taking care of the living part of the library.
Staring through the door she felt saddened at not being able to enter. Not being able to walk around the tree and feel the grass underfoot. Feel, breath and smell such big life in such a small space. Memories were made in this building. Beautiful memories full of places beyond the confines of glass, beyond the confines of the town, beyond the confines of her own life and time. The large map on one of the walls allowed Grace’s imagination to visit the whole of the world and still be back for dinner.
Many of the books had been read and re-read while she rested against the tree, sitting on grass with unseen characters generous of time, guilty of imagination. The stories clung to her long after the books were placed back within their borders. Many pages contained the theory of solitude; however, Grace had always connected with the lone character. No expectation, no judgement, no constrains. She often wondered if the trade-off was worth it. If the words she saved made her life fuller or more fraught against the absurdity of it.
Most of the people she had known outside of Alonetown were distracted from life, distracted from thought. Living vicariously through avatars which replaced flesh in times when people forgot who they truly are. A means to release the bindings of the real world. To escape any realisation that they have little chance to achieve what society shows them. This is what you should be earning, this is the success you crave, this is the body you should have, your smile white, your hair shining, your outfit accentuating a desired figure.
All of it distraction.
All of it absurd.
Grace had found her smile in new experiences. In meeting new people who held no agenda other than to meet new people themselves. No endgame, no pressure, no manipulation.
These people were rare. They hailed from all walks of life. They held a common belief of individualism and were more than often difficult to talk too. Shy and reserved. Unsure of themselves but consciously aware that life had beautiful things to offer beyond the big screen, beyond the image, beyond the noise. True experience lay on their doorsteps, with people they never noticed yet passed every day. Souls wanting life but settling for imitation.
The building before her was the most important to her, to her father. This building was the consciousness of the town. Its stone, wood and glass set to march through time and allow minds to be used and possibilities fulfilled. Placing her forehead against the glass Grace was taken by surprise by a small bird, not shackled by the ticking of time, hovering for a moment near the edge of the window a few feet from where she now stood. Its wings beat fast against the air as its head jerked from side to side before plunging itself forward into the small cracks and crevices. The effort it used traded by the food it found.
The action pulled Grace back to the moment. She opened her eyes wide and searched around for the small bird. The solitary angel flying in the semi-darkness had now disappeared, or maybe was never there at all. Time for imagination manifested itself in many ways through the silence and stillness.
The moments passed as she gazed at her reflection in the glass doors. Aged but not old. Young enough to start a family but without the means, or will, to do so. Singular in every sense of the word. Grace smiled at herself. A gentle smile as though smiling at a child to show them that what they were doing was ok. That what she was doing would not hurt anyone, would not cause physical or mental pain to another living soul.
As the smile faded, she turned away from herself and walked back to the road. Making her way to Main Street she sheathed her hands into the soft lining of her jacket pockets. Standing at the crossroads she looked along Church Way in the direction of the darkened church.
Stepping off the curb she paused for one thoughtful moment before turning and heading up Main Street toward her old house. At first her pace was subdued, slow steps seemingly unsure of their purpose, heading in a direction other than where she wanted to be. Only when she reached her car did her steps become more purposeful. After taking two stone stairs at a time she stood briefly under the outside light its motion unencumbered by its short chain.
This door opened first time.