Marginalia

        Charles Shriver felt the tension melt from his shoulders as he drove down the highway. He had spent more time watching the clock than he had spent working that day. It was always impossible for him to focus on anything else in the time leading up to his annual trip. The sky was gray and the forecast called for a periodic and gentle snowfall over the next two days, which was just fine with him. In fact, he would prefer a blizzard to come swooping in so long as it waited for him to reach his destination. His car would remain parked and unmoved for the duration of his stay just as it did every year. The cabin had been in his family for two generations, but the land on which it sat went back much further. Just how far Charles wasn't sure, but it was far enough that records of such dealings couldn't be found. It was a simple structure, made with materials gathered from the neighboring forest. His grandfather had built it over the course of a year using little more than a hand axe, a saw, and a level of patience Charles knew he could never match. There was no electricity or running water, but there was a wood stove that could heat the entire place better than any furnace and a stream no more than a two-minute walk down the hill.

               It wasn't a place built for comfort or luxury and yet as Charles parked his car and breathed in the silence all around him, he felt at peace. He performed a quick inspection of the cabin and the property, making sure the structure was still solid and hadn't been invaded by any industrious animals or bored teenagers. He paid the woman that lived on the far side of the hill to check in on the cabin a few times a month so there were rarely any surprises when he showed up and this time was no different. He unloaded the various supplies he had brought and then walked down to the stream with a plastic five-gallon bucket rattling in each hand. Once he had been able to fill both to the brim and carry them back without so much as a heavy breath.  Now he filled them about halfway and felt the ache in his knees and wrists with every step. The whole process was getting harder every year. Charles recognized it and he knew there would probably be a time when he would take his last trip to the cabin and not even realize it. 

               He set the buckets of water just inside the door of the cabin and began loading the cast iron stove with newspaper and twigs. Once the flames began to catch, he tossed on a couple of larger logs,  filled a medium sized pot with water from one of the buckets, and set it on the flat top of the stove. In one corner of the cabin was an angled drawing desk that bore years’ worth of smeared and swirled ink stains. From a small canvas bag Charles retrieved various tools and implements which would be vital to his work over the next two weeks. First, he replaced the various candles that sat on the shelves in front of and beside the desk, most of which had been burned to nubs during his last visit. Next, he retrieved several small pots of ink and placed them on a horizontal ledge built into the bottom of the desk. The jars bore no markings or labels of any kind. The various colors had no names, but each was easily recognizable to Charles. Like most of his supplies they could not be bought in any store or from any website. He had made the inks himself in the week prior to his trip. It was a delicate process that took years of experimenting before he found a consistency that worked for him. Charles then reached into the bag and pulled out a small pocketknife. The handle was made of a dark wood that had been worn smooth from years of use but when he opened the blade it was polished to a mirror finish and the edge appeared sharp enough to cut a single strand of hair as it fell through the air. He placed the knife next to the bottles of ink and removed the last items from his bag. The quills he used had never been anything special. They were simply whatever he happened to find on his walks along the trails near his home. Usually goose, but on occasion he would come across turkey, or hawk feathers. He collected them all regardless. He had never felt that any species of bird was better than any other. What mattered most was the proper carving of the tips and the delicate motions of the writer's hand. Charles grabbed each quill in turn and using the knife he shaped the tips with delicate and precise motions. When he was finished the water on the stove had begun to boil and Charles grabbed an old tin camping mug and a box of tea from another set of bags he had brought with him. He dipped the mug into the boiling pot, added a tea bag, and while it steeped, he retrieved the final piece he would need to begin his work.

               The wall opposite the desk and the stove had a large bookcase that Charles’s grandfather had crafted shortly after completing the cabin. Each of its four shelves was full of tall and thick leather-bound books. There were no titles on the dusty spines, but they were all unique in some way. Some were a deep maroon, some were bright blue, some the color of natural leather. Some were embossed with ornate patterns, while others had no embellishment whatsoever. From the top shelf Charles removed a volume that had a smooth lavender colored binding with a grid like pattern of various geometric shapes running down its spine. He gently wiped a layer of dust from the top as if he were stroking a newborn's head. He carried the book over to the desk and opened it to the first blank page, which happened to be about three quarters of the way to the end. The parchment was firm and thick, and the pages cracked and moaned as it opened. He steadied himself on the stool as he stared at the blank page before him, breathing in the familiar smell of the tome.  He took a slow sip of tea before opening the largest of the ink jars and dipping the tip of one of his freshly cut quills into the black substance within. Then, he began to write.

               What he wrote was the story of his life, or more precisely, his life in the past year since his last visit to the cabin. The book contained a detailed description of everything that had happened to him, with each chapter covering one year. It didn't matter how big or small the events were.  Everything got recorded, significant and insignificant alike. Births, deaths, marriages, friendships, illnesses, meals eaten, weather patterns, dreams. All were treated with equal respect and reverence. That was how it had always been. The other books that sat on the shelves contained the stories of Charles’s father, his father's father, and on and on through the generations. The oldest volumes couldn't be opened or even touched any longer for fear that they would crumble to dust in the reader's hands. Charles had once asked his father why the books weren't kept in a safer place, where controlled temperature and humidity and limited light would slow the decay of time. His father had simply answered that it was the way it had always been and that for every story that faded, a new one was written. Charles wasn't sure he understood but he had never asked the question again.

               The work was slow as it had always been, but Charles found himself taking more frequent breaks. While he used to be able write entire pages without stopping, now his wrist began to ache and his eyesight went blurry after just a few lines. It didn't bother him much. The process was about precision and not speed. It had been a hard lesson for him to learn as a child, but his father made him practice over and over until his movements were smooth and his script was as solid and uniform as any printer in the world. He hadn't been allowed to begin writing in his own book until he reached a point where no one could tell the difference between Charles’s work and any of the unnamed books on the shelf. Only then did his father teach him the process of crafting a book of his own. His father walked him through the necessary steps, but Charles had been responsible for selecting the materials and adding whatever embellishments he saw fit. The only rule was that no wording was allowed on the cover or spine of the book. Each volume should be identifiable by its design alone. 

               Charles was able to work for several hours before the pain in his wrist became too much and he could no longer hold his hand steady. He set down his quill and replaced the cap on the jar of ink before walking back down to the creek to soak his hand in its cool clear water. When he returned to the cabin, he lit several of the candles around the desk and looked over the day’s work. The lettering was impeccable as it always was and as far as he could tell there were no spelling or grammatical mistakes that would need to be scratched out and rewritten. One of the benefits of working more slowly, he figured. With one page completed, he stared at the blank spaces in the margins. Although the script in every volume of the family story was identical, that didn't mean there wasn't room to add a more personal touch. Some focused on the writing itself, making their stories come alive with vivid imagery and poetic language, while others took advantage of the margins to add illustrations and other artistic flourishes. Charles was a member of the latter camp. His writing was often flat and mechanical, but nearly every spare bit of page was filled with sketches, doodles, patterns, full illustrations relating to the story on that page, and any other visual flourishes his mind could come up with. 

               It used to be that when Charles looked at the blank margins, the drawings would appear in his head and all he would have to do is follow along with the patterns. Now as he sat in the candlelight drinking another cup of rapidly cooling tea, he saw nothing but empty stretches of parchment. The sight of the other books had stirred something in the back of mind that was just now making itself known to him. He was long past the age his father had been when he gave Charles the final approval to begin working on his book, and yet he was left with no one to teach or guide. His own son's story had ended long before he was able to construct his book. Now there was nothing for Charles to do with the skill that he possessed except to keep practicing it for as long as he could. With every page he filled the remaining space in the book would get smaller and smaller until the day came when he closed it for good. Charles thought about what would happen to the books when he died. He had no one to leave the property to. Would it be sold along with all its contents?  Would the new owners read the stories? Would they be filled with curiosity, wonder, heartbreak, laughter, and boredom in equal measure? Or would they simply see them as pile of garbage that needed to be cleaned out. Perhaps the cabin would simply sit and rot. Maybe nature would creep in and reclaim what once belonged to it and turn the books to dust before they ever had the chance to be read again.

               Charles didn't know what fate waited for the beautiful and unique works with which he had been entrusted, but he figured they would last for a little while longer at least.