A Poetic Ending

The shadow loomed closer, jagged teeth protruding from its lips. Its face was nowhere to be seen; mist shrouding its beady bottomless eyes. I ran faster, not looking back down the empty hallway as the creature drew closer. With a snarl, its long claw grasped me. Its talons ripped into me-

I shuddered, closing the tight bound book with a snap. Horror was not my theme.

Familiar walls of solace wrapped around me with comfort, its sepia glow seeping into every crack and nook in the vast bookshelves. All around me, little slices of joy call my name. Here, no battles are to be won, no dragons to best, and most importantly no ominous creatures chasing me down a hallway.

A harsh and ghastly wind snags around the library with chains of icy slush, the warmth still brewing within despite the ongoing flurries of snow outside.

This month would be rough, with stocks and food running treacherously low.

I walk slowly down the aisles, breathing in the scent of relief. All around me, shelves span out, lined up neatly near tall windows that stretch to the ceiling. Everything was so cold outside, but here, nothing could perforate the warmth radiating from the giant hearth found at the entrance of the library. My eyes snag on a slim veridian book, the gold embossed letters catching my eye. Atlas of the World.

As I made my way to the hearth, a place for me to curl up and soak in heat, a voice called my name. “Amaris? How’s everything going?” The mellifluous voice belonged to Ms Burts, the most pulchritudinous lady inside and out. Looking around, I saw her standing near the hearth, a warm smile dancing on her lips. Despite the cold outside, she wore a thin coat, the wool resting gently on her bony frame. I greet her kindly,  my smile pulling at the corners of my eyes as I give her a hug. 

She talks some more, mostly worried about the weather this season. “The winter season will be much harsher this year. I wonder how many will survive,” She says softly, her voice firm with conviction yet catching on the tone of sorrow. I grimace, starting to feel the duplicity of winter sinking into my chest. 

“Ma has been struggling a lot. She doesn’t have a job, and can barely feed the two of us,” I mutter, eyes dropping down to study the tightly woven mat. Despite being in a family of two, just mother and daughter, food was still scarce.

Ms Burts stares at me with commiseration, then gently places something in my hands. Hot warmth floods through the tencel fabric, wrapped securely around a smooth glass object.

“This is for you. A gift for your perseverance,” She smiles, and I swear light glows around her like an angel. This was one of the countless times she has brought me a gift. Last time she had given me a small pastry, and now this. I take the smooth object masked with fabric, slowly pulling the taupe fabric off. As the cloth slides away, the gleam of a newly embossed book shimmers in my hands. I gasp, realising the library stamp wasn't engraved upon its cover. A book just for me. Delectation tinged my vision as I recognised the book as the atlas I had been eyeing earlier. Except it was the newer edition, deeming the price way too extortionate. I gulp, questions already zooming in my mind. “Don’t you worry, it’s a gift; it’s free.” She gives me a reassuring pat, and turns away to sort the books piling up at her desk.

I trudge out of the library after a bountiful of thanking, and into the forbidden wintry winds, talons seizing me and pulling at my curls. Nevertheless, I sped up, guilt running through my heart. How was I to pay her back? She had denied the money I had, but I was determined to remit her actions. My boots cracked down on ice shards as I made my way home, a small abode in the distance.

“Ma?” No answer. I stepped into the threshold, taking in the washed out glow of the single oil lamp we owned. The cottage was bare, with only a couch and a threadbare blanking adorning its span. There was Ma, lying motionlessly upon the couch, her breath rattling unsteadily through her chest. The cold was percolating into her, its chains pulling tighter on her heart each day. Work was weighing its feet upon her.

Another thing I vow to change.

I set the thick green book upon my desk, scanning the attic, deemed to be my room. Then, as I caught a glimpse of a bookmark poking out the edges, an idea crept into my mind. With a sudden bolt of determination that struck down hard to my heart, I rushed to get ready for bed, already feeling rejuvenated for the next morning to face my perilous task.

Blood was strewn everywhere. Sinking into snow, flaring up against my abode. I wound out more, tossing around threads around handmade signs pounded into the soft snow. Beautiful Adornments! Low prices for plenty of bookmarks! Black charcoal etched deep into the cardboard sign flared at me. The last of the paper streamer ended in my hands, the red coiling off the small cardboard roll. I can probably create another toy with this. I thought, pocketing the small scroll in my pocket. I had dove into the small box in the corner of my attic, the most of our scarce possessions. Charcoal sticks and paper streamers awaited me. Ma had explained that the streamers had been a gift from her grandma. Colours had always been her connoisseurship, colours that added life to our world. Speaking of colours, the warm gold hue of the oncoming sunrise pierced ahead, snow settled deep into soil with a clean pellucid sky beaming ahead. The former blizzard was out of sight.

Grinning, I set about makeshift boxes in the snow, then proceeded to drag out the rickety table that rare meals were always served on. I sighed contently, dragging my hands through the dozens of colourful bookmarks and knick-knacks in the box, all homemade. I had crafted them with leftover streamers and cardboard, adding little scraps of inspiration as the quote covers. Unknowingly, I had thrifted many toys into a store of book trinkets. Now, all I needed were customers. 

My plan had been simple; gather the local snowy owls that often perched in the woods on the outskirts of town, and tie small ribbons of red with notes that led to my abode, the birds acting as live advertisement. My idea had stemmed from the pages of the Atlas, where many countries had used birds as delivery messengers. 

But here I was, wrangling with a plump grey feathered owl, its beak tearing into my flesh repeatedly, yellow eyes bright with ferociousness. I snarled, frustration building up within me like a dam. As I grappled with the feathery creature, Ms Burts’ words suddenly echoed through me, or rather her actions. Always have good intentions from the heart; approach with kindness. I regained my composure and combed the feathered creature until it calmed; then, as it started to be more complacent, I began my work once more.

By midday, two dozens of owls had been sent out across town, and a few hours later, many families came with their children, eager and rosy cheeked as they peered around the boxes. In most of the notes, I had included the time frames for a little story telling session. After all, one of the things children loved the most was a magical escape to another world. I smiled, staring down at the thin blue book in my hands, the story of a girl, a fairy godmother, and evil stepsisters.

By the end of the day, I had collected more coins and nickels than I could count. Money had overflowed the small tin can I had reused from the jar of cookies Ma had gifted me last Christmas, and now here it was again, brimming with a new flavour of joy. I looked ahead, watching all the families leave, the last of their children disappearing down a bend through the bush. Elation sped through me as my mind made calculations on what this money could bring me. A week’s ration of food if we were careful with the portions, and a few gold coins to treat myself for a gift. Wait. Perhaps not ‘myself’, but rather the fairy godmother in my own story. 

Weeks sped by with ease as I continued my small business, affording many meals for Ma and I to devour. I worked endlessly on the surprise for Ms Burts, striving for the day her goodwill would be repaid.

The winter was over. I took a deep breath, looking behind me. Green grass and trees grew around me, having escaped the wrath of the winter. I turned back, entering the library, welcoming its familiar warmth. Ms Burts was instantly there, and words tumbled out of my mouth. I thanked her precociously, grateful for the times she had always been with me. Tears welled in her eyes, but I wasn’t done. I handed a small, yellow notebook into her hands, and felt strange deja-vu awash me. She smiled as she flicked through the pages, recognising my neat loopy handwriting that stretched across the page. I had conjured a book with the last of my coins, and started journaling and writing poems, all revolving around her goodwill. Poems that consisted of tunes of my life, each page containing the gratitude I felt for Ms Burts. She smiled, and we embraced, joy filling the air ceremoniously. 

Sometimes gratitude can come in many different forms.