Diary of Leonard Claudhard, wandering poet

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14 of December:

After a full day of traveling, I arrived at a small village by the name of Brancug. The place was tiny, and I would rather continue towards my destination, but the sun was setting, and the clouds outside promised rain, or even worse, snow.

Not wanting to get trapped by the weather in the middle of the road, I decided to rest at the village. They had a small and rather affordable inn, grimly named "The Sweet Bonnes". I decided to book some place for the night, and go for a walk before sleeping. The town was rather tiny, quaint in that way only British towns can be, although it had an ambiance, a je ne sais quoi that made me feel uneasy. Like there was something just under the surface.

I walked to the edge of the village, were town and land abruptly turn into cliff and sea, and looked at the horizon, listening to the whispers of the waves for inspiration. From there, I could see an island, connected to shore by a sturdy stone bridge. The island housed a large building, which rather looked like an abbey, but it gave no signs of habitation, outside a lit window and smoke from a lonely chimney.

Curious, I asked at my return to the inn about the strange structure. Apparently, it used to by an abbey, but had been abandoned, and later purchased by some fund and turn into a private library. The place was only inhabited by a lonely caretaker, a strange woman everyone referred simply as "the librarian". With more questions than answers, I headed to my room and went to sleep.

15 of December:

I woke up in the morning with the distinctive smell of the white and cold fields. I opened the window to a marvelous snowy scape, delicate flakes still descending from the skies. My own cold body woke me from my stupor, and I closed the window between sneezes, and got prepared for the day.

As I went to the inn's desk for breakfast, I heard that the so-called librarian had been here first thing in the morning, asking around, and apparently would like to meet me. I shrugged, wondering what she would want, and decided that I have nothing better to do. I am pointed by the locals in the direction of the moor, which, as I approach, I see a female figure coming out from.

The librarian was unassuming, brown hair tied in a bun, a long black dress that didn't seem very appropriate for walking into a forest, full of pouches and pockets. I see her causality storing some animal bones in one of those.

"Hello, dear! You are Leonard, the visiting poet, right?"

Her voice was that of an old woman, with an absolutely perfect diction. However, she looked rather vigorous and energetic. I simply respond:

"Yeah, Leonard Claudhard, wandering poet, at your service, Madame. I assume you are the librarian that the locals warned me about."

"Yes indeed. I do have a name, but everyone calls me librarian. I don't mind, is a rather accurate description. I was hoping I could hire your services?"

"What for?" I ask, slightly confused.

"I need some help cleaning the Hush House, the library as you called it. Place is old and is quite the strenuous prospect. I would pay you, of course, A Florin for a day of work."

Cleaning is not a very dignified job, but I was short on money, and the pay was rather generous. I'm a poet, this was far for the strangest thing I have done for a hot meal. I accepted, and we marched towards the Hush House.

"Chilly day today" she says as we approach the place. "Not unusual for here, but it can be quite the nuisance for most. Although is a good opportunity for some, the tracks in the snow make easy catchings for hunters. And I'm sure a fellow with your sensibilities can appreciate the beauty of Winter."

The way she pronounced the last word sent a chill down my spine. In my surprise, I simply noded, and we reached the entrance of the house. There was small cottage nearby, apparently her residence as caretaker.

"Oh my, you look rather pale" she said as she invited me inside her cottage. "You should get some heat by the fire, I'll go fetch you a drink."

I try to enunciate a polite rejection, but she is already opening cupboards in search of some glassware. She fills it with a strange blue liquid, and hands it to me.

"Here, an herbal remedy. Great for the cold"

Too afraid of looking impolite, I brace myself for the taste of whatever is in the cup. However, after the first sip, I realise it is surprisingly tasty. I finish it, leaving a cold, bittersweet taste in my mouth.

"This was very nice of you. What was it?"

"Is called Solomon's preparation. I make it with an algae that grows here".

Before I can ask about the strange name, she takes the empty glass from my hands, and gestures to me to get up. I follow her into the library proper

"So the issue is the old dining hall" she says as we travel through halls, stairs and bookshelves filled with strange tomes. "Place was left full of mirrors, not very smart of them. I could clean the room myself, but someone needs to calm the place first"

"What do you mean 'calm the place'? Do you want me to remove the mirrors?"

"Oh, no dear, that would not be safe at all, better not touch the mirrors. I just need you to get some poetry into the room, to calm down the mood"

"So want me to read poetry to an empty room??" I ask, completely out of my depth and deeply confused. I am starting to question the sanity of my host, but two shillings are two shillings, and people of my profession know better than to be picky with their income.

"Of course not, dear. Reading poetry would be very unwise. She would probably find it offensive. No, no, you have to improvise poetry to a room".

I try to say something, anything, but I am so full of questions I don't even know where to start. I open my mouth, in a feeble attempt of protest, but she cuts me before I even have the chance to start.

"Here we are. The dining hall. Go in, I am sure you will do great. Chop chop!"

She opens the door to a dark room. I she the silvery reflection of many mirrors hanging on its walls, and she practically shoves me in. I manage to formulate the most important question pressing me.

"What kind of poetry?!!" I practically beg

"Something about endings. About what remains after death, about the winter and about Winter. Something sad and beautiful, nostalgic, hopeless, but strangely soothing. I'm sure you manage, deary" She says as she closes the door.

I find myself in the strange room, the silverware neatly placed on the table and full of dust. The many mirrors that now , devoid of light, glint with the spare reflections they can catch. I clear my throat, and for a second I think of how ridiculous my predicament is. The thought of simply staying in the room for half an hour, getting out and pocketing the money crosses my mind.

And then.

Through the corner of my eye, for the briefest of seconds, I see something. Looks like the reflection of a human figure, but of a pale blue. I dare not look, but I can tell is female, and attractive (what can I say, I have a knack for that kind of thing)

I feel the room temperature falling (or maybe is just my own fear) and for a second I freeze. I feel that that thing, whatever it is, is getting closer. A realisation hits me.

"I am going to die" I said out loud, between sadness and resignation. An for the briefest of seconds, I feel, although I can not see her, that she stops. Then I remember what the librarian told me. I need poetry to calm her down. So I continue.

"Some day, I am going to die. Some day, my hair will go white and fall, as the snowflakes fall on the moor. Some day, my body will fail and there will be no cure for it. Some day, only clean bones under the snow will last".

I go on, composing a eulogy to myself. I dare not commit to ink the rest of it, for I fear the power in those words. After a while, I feel the cold recede. As the danger seems to have gone, I feel myself overwhelmed by dread. I fall on one of the chairs and start crying softly.

I feel my wits come back to me after a little bit, and with them, all the accumulated adrenaline and survival instinct. I sprang up and RUN as fast as my legs will carry me.

I see the librarian in a blur as I exit the room and hear her clear voice.

"Great job deary, you look a bit pale. I made a teapot worth of hot cocoa, if you want some"

I do not stop to talk to her, much less for cocoa. I run down stairs, push the front door open and cross the gigantic stone bridge back to great Britain proper.

I grab my stuff from the inn and get away that very same day, snow and cold be dammed. Needless to say, I'm not setting foot on that bloody library as I draw breath.