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It was very late and you ought to have been home in bed. And yet there you were, in the stacks at the university library, spectacles perched atop your head and your pen held in your teeth as you worked tirelessly on reorganizing the mess left behind by students cramming for their exams.
The dark clouds which had been looming on the edges of the sky all day had finally coalesced into a storm which pounded at the tall windows. The library was filled with the noise of it, with rolling claps of thunder and wind that howled against the stone edifice of the ancient library and whistled through the drafty aisles of books. But for you, the cacophony faded into the background. How could you be afraid there in your favorite place? Since you were little, books had been your constant companions and your dearest friends, and the library had been your solace and refuge for so long that even a storm as violent as this one could not shake your peace.
Then, you heard something which did make you freeze. Hidden beneath the tail end of a low-growling roll of thunder, you heard the familiar high creak of the door near the stairs. The hairs on the back of your neck and arms stood up on end as adrenaline flooded your system. You were not alone. Silently, you placed the book you'd been holding back down on the table and, on tip toes, crept to the bookcase near you and peered around it.
There, near the stairs and the front desk, a flutter of motion. You'd just caught the hem of someone's cloak as they went around the corner, but it was enough to know for certain that someone had come in.
Your heart was pounding in your chest, but your mind raced to think of a reasonable explanation. Perhaps it was a professor, or simply a student sneaking in for extra time to study. Gathering your courage, you straightened up and began silently creeping across the room towards the shuffling sounds for a closer look. You would see who it was, what manner of trespasser, and then decide whether to announce your presence or not.
As you got closer, you noticed the small puddles of water where the trespasser had stepped. The door they’d come in led to the main hallway, but you wondered if they had broken in somewhere else. Would you find a shattered window the next morning? Would you be blamed for it? You pushed the thought aside, those were worries for another time.
You stopped at the edge of one of the long bookcases, your pulse in your ears as you looked around the corner. It was a man, a very tall man. He was dressed far too roughly to be a student or professor, and your fears that it was someone come to steal some valuable antique manuscripts or something of the sort were heightened. But what could you do? The man was massive, there was no way you would be able to come between him and his intended plunder.
All you could do, you realized, was take as careful note of his appearance as possible in order to pass along the information to your superiors and the authorities. You held your breath and continued watching him as he, carefully and slowly, scanned each book as he moved slowly down the aisle. His head was cocked to one side in order to read the spines of the volumes, his long and unkempt hair shielding his face from your view. All you ere able to note was his general size, and the oddness of his clothing. His attire was wet from being outside, bedraggled and seemingly put together at random. His slacks were too short, showing an inch or two of ankle above his shoes, but his coat was large and hung off his broad shoulders limply. He seemed to be desperately poor, if his clothing was anything to go by.
Suddenly, he looked up and seemed to cock his ear. He didn’t turn toward you, but you froze, willing your heart to silence as he seemed to sense your presence. Lightning flashed through the room, followed immediately by a deafening roll of thunder, and in that flash of light he turned his face to the side and, thankfully, the thunder masked the sound of your gasp as you caught sight of his profile.
He must have been some sort of burn victim. His skin was a patchwork of grafts stretched over an angular face. Horror rushed through you at the sight of him, followed soon by silent self-admonishment for being so frightened at the sight of what seemed to be a victim of war or some horrible accident. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from him as, apparently satisfied that he had imagined any sense of being watched, he returned to his silently methodical perusal of the volumes.
You watched him like this for some time. His movements were so at odds with his frightening appearance. He moved slowly and with purpose, almost worshipful in the way he picked his way through the aisles. When he reached out his hand to gently follow the words on the spines of the books, you noticed the greyish blue tint of his skin and, the initial shock at his appearance having passed, your heart constricted with pity.
He did not seem like a thief. But he simply could not be a student nor a professor. A man like him would have been spoken of, you’d have heard of him before. He seemed to be looking for something in particular, perhaps he wanted to learn more about his condition. He was far from the medical books, if that were the case. Your habitual instinct to help people find the information they were seeking in the vast library, your training, kicked in. Gathering your courage, you cleared your throat.
The man visibly jumped at the sound, his head jerking round to look at you with wide, frightened eyes. You were struck by how, despite his great size and frightening appearance, he had all the air of a young deer frozen in fear at the sudden appearance of a hunter, his muscles twitching with the compulsion to run. He was frozen like that for just a moment, then, in a flurry of motion, he reached up to pull a scarf up over his nose, obscuring most of his face, and turned to rush past you towards the door. The scent of wet leaves and rain washed over you as he passed and you turned and called out,
“Wait! What are you looking for? Perhaps I can help.” The ordinary question rang quite oddly through the strange moment.
He stopped, his back to you, and took a breath, then slowly turned to look back at you over his shoulder. His large, dark eyes were still untrusting, but you thought that perhaps there was a glimmer of hope there.
“I work here. It’s after hours, and only students and teachers are supposed to use this library. But…” Your words trailed off. But what? He looked so sad and alone that you couldn’t help but pity him? Such things were best left unsaid.
“I look for…” his voice was dark, lower than you could have anticipated, and seemingly ragged with disuse “an old friend.”
You took a step forward. “A friend?”
“Milton.”
Your fear melted away then. How could it not? Your lips quirked up in a small, warm smile. “You’re in the wrong section. Milton is this way.”
You led the way to the proper section of the library. He followed, silently, several steps behind you. When you glanced back at him, you found him gazing up, those large doe-like black eyes taking in the sight of the tall bookcases with apparent awe. He looked up at the books the way one might look up at the architecture of a grand cathedral.
When his gaze suddenly dropped to you, your heart skipped a beat and you looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring. He must have been weary of being stared at, looking as he did, and you couldn’t explain that you’d merely been noting his reverence, not his scars.
“Here he is,” you said, finally reaching the correct spot and reaching out to indicate the collection of volumes.
The man looked at you strangely for a moment, then at the books. Gingerly, he tipped out the copy of Paradise Lost and rifled through it with his fingers. On closer inspection, his hands were not merely ashen, they seemed to be bruised. It would have been rude to ask, but your curiosity grew about this strange man’s injuries.
“Only students and professors are allowed to take books from the collection,” you said quietly.
He looked up at you and blinked.
“But…as there is no one else here and the storm is so bad, you might as well stay and read for a while. I have work yet to do.” Your voice came out in a whisper, despite the noise of the rain beating against the windows.
“And tomorrow night? May I come back?” He, perhaps mimicking you, also kept his voice low. The words seemed to rumble from deep in his chest.
“I…” No, it wasn’t allowed, yet you found yourself answering, “I don’t see why not. I shall be here.”
His gaze was so direct, so piercing, that you looked away and felt heat rising to your face, surely making your ears turn red.
“Thank you,” he said.
You nodded once, your gaze on the floor. Suddenly overwhelmed by his nearness you slipped past him and returned to your work, your hands tingling and your heart racing.
For the rest of the night, you strained your ears for the soft, muffled sounds of him turning the pages of the book. He’d taken up a position near a lamp, leaving his sodden coat over the back of a wooden chair and curling his long limbs beneath him as he folded into an upholstered one. Crouched thus strangely, he remained otherwise motionless for the rest of the evening.
You worried about having to tell him to leave when it was time for you to go home. But allowing a non-student to use the library after hours was already illicit enough, let alone letting him stay there without anyone in attendance. And yet, when you returned from the coat closet with your wrap and your bag, ready to head home for the night, you found that he had already slipped away. The chair was empty and the coat gone.
Going back to the shelf where Paradise Lost was kept, you found that it had been placed neatly back.