A month passed.
But nothing really changed. A notable pharmaceutical company became my client, so I spent most of my time at the laptop. On good days I would just work and watch TV, feeling numb; on bad days I would keep crying until getting tired of it. Sleeping was as difficult as ever – medication helped only spontaneously. Sometimes, when walls got too close, I would walk outside without any direction. Living like that was bleak yet simple: everything either reminded me of Fae or didn't. And still, sometimes the idea of seeing her would appear out of nowhere; without slightest warning. Knowledge of her passing would fill my thoughts – and only I was to blame.
It is surprising how many details and moments I remember of those times: sitting in the living room doing nothing; staring at the digital alarm clock; all the long road trips without destination and so forth. Sam got interested in those trips, so I had to assure her that there was nothing fun about them – they were mostly about stopping randomly and staring at the thick forest surrounding secluded roads. It wasn't therapeutic at all – just another pointless activity with miserable highlights: every passing truck would present the quiet idea of steering left. It does sound abhorrent now, but there used to be nothing special about it. In the local shopping centre, I would climb to the third floor and take a look over the railing – wondering if the height was enough to kill you.
Still, I never really tried ending it; I didn't even seriously consider anything like that. Maybe it was simply natural for me to stay alive, no matter how pointless everything had become. And even if things had ever gone too far, perhaps Sam's friendship would have saved me – she had told me about her own plans of buying strong medicine and enough alcohol, but the final push never came. I suppose human can adapt without even realizing it; loss can be bearable. If everything had remained stagnant like that, who knows what would have happened to me in a couple of years. But things had already changed, and they kept doing so.
I had a meeting with one of my client's representatives: a surprisingly young man with precise haircut, tired eyes and gray suit. His appearance wasn't too much of an exception; most of the people I met looked more or less the same – only his age made a difference. That, and his demeanor: he was quite talkative and open, despite his (and my own) depressing looks. We set up the meeting in local cafe and talked about strategies for a product launch. He had done most of the work beforehand, but I was able to help with a few details. Not that there was anything extraordinary about this appointment itself – one among others; nothing but rigid business.
Once the meeting was over, we both set towards the office building. We passed a book store on our way – a pretty little shop whose facade was decorated with many wooden ornaments; title Lang's Bookstore was written above the door. It was a familiar sight, yet I had never actually visited the place personally. In front of the showcase was a small stand filled with books and magazines, displayed so that bypassers' interest would get caught – and it worked, as my companion started closer inspections.
''...ja, zwar könnte man heute nicht ohne sein Handy leben, doch Bücher werden nie nutzlos. Fräulein Conway, take a look.''
Even if the man seemed open before, a few sci-fi publications from 1970s made his precise looks and expensive suit a bit absurd: suddenly a fan of fiction was talking to me about spaceships and clouds of nanobots.
''If you ever find yourself interested in balanced fictional storytelling, I suggest Lem's work to you – not many elements in his stories are black and white, sozusagen.''
''Can't say I'm much of a reader myself'' I replied. Eventually we continued walking, as our schedule demanded so – if it hadn't, the man would have spent the whole afternoon in the shop. Though his enthusiasm did have an effect on me: I decided to visit the store after work.
I walked carefully between wooden shelves filled with old books and some magazines; I still remember the gentle scent that lingered in the store – it fit well together with the brown colour scheme and the small size of the shop. Newer publications were closer to the entrance; modern crime stories and drama. The further away you went from the door, the older books you found – so I wasn't surprised to see ancient ones in the far back, next to an emergency exit. There was an atlas from 1895, a worn out Bible, books about gardening (whole series from 1940s) and a 50-year-old math book (Complex Analysis, stated the title).
I followed the shelves for a while until spotting a small, strikingly red book – it wasn't too thick either, unlike the ones surrounding it. I swept away some dust from its side and took a look at the name:
Singularity: Transcript of a Resurrection
There wasn't any notion of the writer; nothing but those words, printed in black on the violently red cover. I checked the first pages, yet they were blank – there wasn't even a list of contents; nothing but the intense smell of yellow, ancient paper. First handwritten passage was on the fifth page:
I am a believer
on my knees before Crimson One
in day without noon, shrouded in mist
in night without morning, shrouded in darkness
trembling, I call the Beast
were He to listen why I am here
Needless to say that I couldn't understand the writing at all – which then again made it a bit interesting. I jumped between different pages, realizing that most of them contained similar short poems – always written in the middle of the paper. They actually seemed like prayers or manifests of some sort, yet I had no idea what kind of religion this book could have represented. I kept inspecting it until a picture appeared: on page 79, there was a black symbol drawn below the piece of text. It consisted of two concentric circles with a large rectangle inside them – very simple design, yet made with great precision. Above, the text said the following:
A call from abyss, met my own voice
A sight in nothing, saw my own eyes
One, I ask you, I give you
bring light, darkness
bring steel, water
bring blood, bone
see me bow
I kept reading those lines until they grew disturbing – something about the whole presentation made me nervous. There was apparently certain logic in these prayers; they seemed to tell a progressive story – with really vague, spiritual elements. I kept reading while getting ready to declare the whole thing nonsense, yet the very last page stopped me: last piece of text with one more picture.
I am a witness
on my knees before Crimson One
and those who passed, now returned
hear me, see me
a witness to Crimson Ceremony
and those who passed, now complete.
I remember how it felt reading this poem; as if I was getting physically ill, sensing the unnerving hints of sickness. Underneath the passage was that black drawing: two concentric circles with four smaller circles inside them, defining a square. Between those four circles, two line segments crossed each other – it was exactly like the image in Sam's book. I tried remembering the caption from it, yet all I recalled was the tribe's name Penobscot. This was clearly a coincidence and not too improbable one either, given the context of Sam's book and her studies. I returned the red book to the shelf and headed towards exit – I had to get fresh air.
Outside the shop everything was the same: street was busy, filled with traffic and pedestrians. But I felt different; I couldn't stop thinking about the writings and the drawings. Walking around and dodging bypassers brought only more anxiety, until some kind of clarity finally arrived: the book was about resurrection of the dead. This Crimson Ceremony supposedly brought dead back to life – and of course I would get interested in such fantasy. It was just an ancient spiritual text; there had to be numerous similar ones. Back then I felt utterly stupid and pathetic – Fae was gone and nothing could change that; seeking solutions from black magic would have been beyond absurd. Even so, after walking around for a few more minutes, I went back inside the shop – couldn't have done anything else in that moment.
On my way to the red book, an elderly man approached me.
''Excuse me Miss, are you okay? Can I help you?''
He was wearing a white T-shirt and glasses; his gray hair touched his shoulders, which fit well together with a precisely cut and long goatee. I stared at him for a while – he was distant, somehow far away from me.
''Maybe I can help you with something?'' he repeated with a worried gaze in his eyes. I nodded – strongly enough to regain awareness and ability to speak:
''Do...you work here?''
He smiled.
''Sure do. I am the very owner of this little business; Stephen Lang'' he said and stretched his arm. I shook his hand by reflex.
''Conway...Emily.''
''So how could I be of help?''
''I found this book, but I don't...there's no...''
''Are you not feeling well?'' he asked slowly, probably wondering if an ambulance was needed.
''No, no, I'm fine. I just found this book, but there's no writer...not even a publisher.''
''Oh, I see'' he replied with a confused tone. ''Shall we take a look at it together?''
I nodded again and led him to the shelf at the back.
''This...this red book. It caught my attention, but there's...it's nothing but these weird spiritual writings. So I just got curious.''
The man inspected the cover and flipped around some pages.
''Oh yes, I remember this one – it was here already when the previous ownership changed. I brought lots of new publications here, but some of these treasures are still in this shelf.''
''Do you have any idea where it comes from? Who wrote it?''
The man sighed, yet he didn't seem bothered – just puzzled.
''I'm afraid I don't know...''
I just stood there, staring at the strikingly red cover and barely hearing the man's words. I still remember each of those little moments; each time I got lost in that unnerving colour – it made breathing difficult.
''...can I buy it?''
''Of course. It is an interesting read for sure...prayers and chants of unknown origin, and – ''
The man took a quick pause; he smiled.
''Oh right, I haven't even priced this one...''
He quickly checked some other items in the shelf until arriving at a suitable value:
''Let's say 17 dollars – sounds good? I take that you are interested in religions.''
''No...not really. I just saw something similar...''
''Something like this book?''
''Yeah, a study of these...pagan symbols. Or rather, a small presentation...very short one'' I stumbled verbally while handing him the bills and coins. The man was about to continue, yet I had a request to make:
''I'm sorry, but could you try to find the author? Maybe the previous owner knows something.''
The man nodded while thinking for a moment.
''Sure, I can make some calls...my predecessors moved to Michigan, but I'll do my best to reach them.''
I thanked him, smiled and bowed slightly – mere possibility of finding more about the book was reassuring. I wanted to think that there was nothing weird about such interest; tried my best to rationalize it (even if I had no meansto do so). Lang asked for my number so that he could be in touch if he finds something, though he wasn't overly optimistic in this regard. After leaving the store I paid very little attention to any surroundings – all I knew was that violent red colour; its overwhelming contrast with everything around me.
