Chương 31: Chapter 28 ~ Fables and Finches

07/11/1111 EotTS 10: 51 The wonderful part about being a student and having days without classes or employment, was being able to chose one's own schedule, but this came with its own set of drawbacks; this was the obligation to use these rest days to be responsible and complete course work: to-day was one such day; where the first thought after waking and rubbing one's eyes, was the required reading assigned by Professor Ihvilakh on the third.

Kawvel in hand, she dragged herself from beneath the covers and to her desk, more specifically, to her glasses and clock. Pushing her uneven hair back and away from her face, she languidly balanced the felt pads on the bridge of her nose and peered down through the lens, checking the time; it was quarter to the eleventh hour: the alarm really should have been set. She pushed the glasses up further and turned back to her bed.

"I am sorry, Kawvel," she started.

"I am in a rush today, I do not have time to talk... yes, I said I was sorry." With one hand, she threw the pillows into a passable pile and set Kawvel atop, then pulled up the sheets: with that, the bed was made—is it made well? no, but there is no time to care for the pedantries of what constitutes a 'made bed.' Next was the daily divination; it had been forgotten for the two previous days, but that was about to change.

She produced the box from beneath the pillow, removed the deck from the box, shuffled it, and set it on the desk.

"How will my reading go?" Gysel asked the divination deck. She drew the top card and set it face up. It was the Third Daughter of Lamps: the illustration depicted a robed woman holding a lantern (or lamp) in one hand, and a spill in the other; she was standing before a shelving unit with four shelves, displaying three lanterns on each, of a similar design to her own, two of which were lit, but the other ten were not.

Judging by the illustration, this meant commitment; the robed woman seemed to be tasked with lighting the other lanterns from the lantern in her hand using the spill. This made sense, seeing as how the book to be read from cover to cover to-day would make an excellent doorstop once it was finished. Placing the card on the bottom, Gysel returned the deck to its box and tucked it away, back under the pillows.

She stood at the side of the bed for a moment; what would be easier, to go over the bed to the wardrobe, or to go around the bed? seeing as how the bed had just been made, the latter would be the better option. She opened the wooden doors and looked at the clothes inside.

It was cool outside to-day (at least the autumnal air blowing in through the window was), so it would be best to dress warmly: thick wool socks, tweed pants, blouse with a sweater over top, and a shawl, all brown save for the blouse, which was green. Once dressed, she put on her shoes and watch, then left for breakfast.

After breakfast, Gysel went to the Academy bookstore, like she usually did, but to-day was not a day where the shelves were to be perused, deprived of whatever books satiated the caprice until no more books could be carried back to room '547'; to-day there was intent in the searching, a book to be found, specifically: Vlishathelby. At least one of the two days off each quarter should be used to read, as it was certainly needed since Professor Ihvilakh had instructed Vlishathelby to be read twice by the tenth.

On previous visits it had been seen: it was a tall, thick, blue cloth-bound book, with the title stamped in silver paint; thus, its exact location was known, so Gysel hurried down the aisles, pulled the last one from the shelf, and turned on the heel of her shoe to return to the counter, but she did not get far, for the texture of the cloth was very irritating, and she stopped in the middle of the aisles.

The cloth was a rough, cheap linen and not from the Academy's own presses (they did not make cloth-bound books), so Gysel opened it to look on the inside of the front cover to see who the printer and publisher were: the Rhikyn Brothers.

She groaned; there was barely enough will-power to fight the urge to return the book to the shelf and just accept the poor grade: there were few things worse than books printed and published by the Rhikyn Brothers; their cloth-bounds and leather-bounds had glued instead of sewn text blocks, so when purchasing one of their books, one was paying a premium for the aesthetic of the spine but getting the quality of a paperback, but worst of all, the paper quality was horrifically inconsistent, making for an irritating reading experience from a tactile perspective and an even more irritating re-reading experience as one had to order the pages by hand as they fell from the text block and floated away to take refuge under the nearest piece of furniture.

She opened the book with great delicacy, careful not to damage the text block, to what roughly appeared to be the middle (it was hard to tell, as they were too cheap to include a ribbon marker) and ran a hand down the paper, grimacing the whole way; the paper felt coarse like the first tabletop made by a carpenter's apprentice, sanded against the grain and poorly stained, leaving a warped surface with tiny little bumps.

Now, with all of this being said, the covers of Rhikyn Brothers' paperbacks had a nice-feeling, waxy finish (one of the few compliments that could be given to the company), and the gamble on the paper was worth the feeling of the cover, so she shut the book and walked to the counter.

"I want a leather-bound hardcover of this," Gysel said to the clerk.

"I do not like the texture of the pages, nor the feeling of the cloth." He looked up to Gysel and sighed.

"Good morning, Gysel."

"Good morning." Gysel held the book out to the clerk. He plucked the book from her hands, open it, hmm-ed, then turned it around, and tapped a line on the inner cover.

"This edition is only available in clothbound or paperback."

"Where are the paperbacks?"

"We ran out. We only had one hundred, and they went fast. If this is the last one, it's best you claim it." He held the book back out to her. Gysel grumbled and took the wretched mass of cheap paper and offcut fabric, or simply, the book. Tucking it under her shawl, and between the arm and body of her blouse, she dug into her pant-pocket; producing her keys and shook them with a smile. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"Yes, yes. I know. Enjoy." He waved.

"Thank you," said Gysel—will what lies within the text be enjoyed? perhaps, will the reading experience be enjoyed? Gods no. Gysel left the Academy bookstore, and began to search for a way to get to the small garden she saw from her window.

With a back-track to the cloister, a turn east, two rights, a left, the ascension of one stairwell then another left, a dead-end, fifty paces backwards followed by a right and seventy-five paces forwards (with a few side steps to avoid a gaggle of gruelingly slow walkers who insisted on taking up most of the hall) a left, the descension of a difference stairwell, two more lefts, and one final right, Gysel found herself peering through the window of a door on the east side of the building; she gave it a tug: locked, but it had a neighbor to the right; she tried it and found it unlocked (the neighbor to the right was who to go to for sugar).

Gysel stepped outside; a thick layer of the autumn morning fog was in the air and hung above the laid brick path that went forward with a slight left curve before being consumed. Thoranyn, being the southernmost point of the continent, had been granted the boon of having a dozen extra days of autumn when compared to most of the Empire.

Father had said: 'The snow starts every year in the far east on the fourth of the Mourna, and the weather quickly makes its way across the Grand Northern Forest, then down, typically arrives around your birthday, give or take a few days.' With his daughter now being a half-maiden's travel further south, the snow would probably arrive around the twenty-eighth; this meant a cool cup of tea in the chilly autumn gloam could be enjoyed on the twenty-first.

"Where are you heading off to, Gysel?" a voice asked; it was Thyres.

"I am going to the gazebo on the northwest side," Gysel answered.

"Oh, I know the one," Thyres turned and pointed.

"There is a gate between some hedges on the right. Through there, follow the path down the side of the building, and it will be at the end. How did you find it?" Gysel nodded in thanks.

"I can see it from my window."

"It's a good spot for reading."

"Yes, and I have a lot of that to do. Goodbye." Gysel walked around Thyres.

"Goodbye, Gysel. See you later."

"Yes," said Gysel, not turning around—no, he probably will not, unless he intends to come to the gazebo and read quietly. She gave him an over-the-shoulder wave and pressed forward. Iron gate, on the right; the first two gates were wooden, and the dark walls of the Academy were still visible behind the hedges which surrounded them, but the third gate was iron, so Gysel peered through gaps in the bars: the foggy image of the desired destination could be seen behind them.

She opened the latch and pushed the gate inwards, stepping into the secret garden tucked away behind it. The city wall that separated the Academy grounds from the void above the ocean ran down the left-hand side; its stones were verdant and turquoise from the spiraling sprigs of ivy and large legions of lichen, both of which had been belligerents, quarreling over the quarried territory for centuries.

To the right was a long row of trees and lamp-posts (set up in the alternating pattern of oak, lamp, maple, lamp), this pattern marked the threshold between the walking area and the level, blonde mulch, but in a few places the roots of the trees broke through the layer of mulch, one of which breached like a serpent before diving back below at the rose bushes planted at the base of the Academy's ivy-covered walls.

There was a flagstone path peaking out from between the leaves, which made a passably straight line to the gazebo. On both sides of it, there was probably grass, but one could not tell for certain without clearing the blanket of leaves (something which was not the job of the reader). The scent of the fallen leaves overpowered the rose bushes and was mixed with feint hints of sea-salt coming up and over the city walls.

At the far end was the gazebo Gysel had seen from her window, waiting silhouetted by the lamps in the fog. She walked to it, up the steps, and to the cushioned bench that sat against the back horizontal railings. Brushing the stray leaves from the cushions, she sat down and admired the interior before starting the book.

A bird feeder dangled in each corner of the gazebo; three of them had holes the size of small coins with the tips of large seeds sticking out and no traffic; but the feeder in the south-east corner had small holes for flax seeds, and was bustling with birds, more specifically a large charm of finches; there were always about ten finches on the feeder (the moment one left, two would try to fill its spot, bicker in chirps or fight, then the defeated would leave, forced to try again at the next opening), and two dozen hopping around on the ground below it, picking through heap of husks, looking for the rare edible seed among the dregs.

They were a different kind of finch, one that had yet to be seen until now: they were small (small, being the standard finch size, this observation came as little surprise) the ones on the feeder had a pastel blue plumage with white spots around the body and upper halves of the wings, but the tail feathers and the tips of the wings were black with white spots, and the top of the head and beak were completely black; the finches on the ground had the same coloring on their head and beaks, and on the feathers of their tails and wingtips, but the blue was not present, instead being a dark brown, speckled with a lighter brown.

Finches were fantastically fascinating little birds: they were not loud like the birds that lived in the reeds around the ponds, nor were they aggressive, also like the birds that lived in the reeds around the ponds; they were calm, quiet, and did not mind if one was nearby as long as one did not make any sudden moments, and their soft tweeting and whistling also made for an excellent ambiance for reading.

Using her sleeves as gloves, Gysel opened the book, and like with all of the editions of ancient texts printed by the Rhikyn Brothers, there was a very specific ritual that one must partake in when starting a new book: firstly, the skipping of the notes left by the localizer (or in this case, the translator), for they were pointless (you did your job); secondly, the thumbing through of the introduction, and deciding whether it is worth reading or not (in most cases, it tended to be the latter); fifty pages of introduction in a seven-hundred and sixty-two page book—turgid, bloated, and certainly skippable, the fewer gritted pages that have to be felt and flipped, the better.

Snuggling herself comfortably in the cushioned bench, Gysel started on chapter one, or as it is labeled 'Fable One.' Halfway through the fifth chapter, a squirrel hopped up the steps of the gazebo and stormed over to the husk-heap; finches flooded away, flying into the foliage of the hedges and ferns around the gazebo, their once soft and steady chirps loudened and turned stochastic as all the finches around the gazebo joined into the call, drowning out the susurrus of the wind through the leaves.

Gysel stomped a foot on the planks, and the squirrel fled, and the finches soon returned—foolish squirrel, flax is for finches! The squirrel did not return to the south-east feeder, but did visit the feeders with the larger seeds: it chewed rather loudly.

Gysel finished the book after about nine hours of reading (something which could not have been done if time had been wasted reading the drivel written by people who thought they were important enough to go before the original author), and the moons had long since taken their place in the sky. She checked her watch: thirty-two past the twenty-second hour, or, time to turn in for the day. In the time that had been spent reading, nobody had been seen, not a word spoken, and every second of it was fantastic.

She headed to the cafeteria for dinner, then to the baths, and after shutting her windows, finally crawled into bed. To-morrow, the whole day would be repeated, for the exercises required one to read the book twice.