The Librarian

Port Crow is not a town you can find on a map. The birds have made sure of that. Its exact location is debated amongst scholars, way-finders, and enthusiasts, but most everyone who's been there agrees: it feels like the American Northeast. You can tell by the decaying sailboats in the harbor and the dead lobsters in the traps by the docks. There, abandoned buildings sit enduringly on a tumultuous sea.

Tonight, lightning flashes, sending sparks across the powerlines hanging over town. The powerlines hang low like the heads of the few folk who walk the streets, unbothered by the storm. Strange folk, their business is anyone's guess, but you're certainly better off not to ask. We ignore them like they ignore the storm. Like the world ignores the Port.

Here, one can barely hear the alleycats in between the thunder. Their caterwauls are as constant as the waves. Rain run-off races down the hilly town to the delight of anyone who has ever crafted a paper boat and given chase, but the storm's torrents strike fear in any regular boatswain. The roads flood toward the sea. The port's tenants (the crows, themselves) seek shelter in the confines of an old Victorian down by the docks. Once the Library, the sign coated in salt above the front door reads: Por Cro res.

There were more letters once, but like the town, no one has bothered to fix the sign. And before you ask, No, it's not Latin. Folks from here descend a different line.

Inside the old library, there are rows and rows of bookcases but no books. An old printing press sits beside the stairs to the cellar, its gears rusted and aged. In most houses dockside, there is no cellar, but it makes sense to have one here. The Librarian has positioned his wheelchair against a waterlogged table toward the back of the room. Even now, rain splatters in from the busted windows, leaks in through puddles on the roof, and falls to make a crow feather soup in the bowed floorboards. Some droplets even threaten to silence the Librarian's candle, which is already nearing the end of its nights. The crows wait patiently for the librarian--dozens, no, hundreds of them, taking up the spaces on the shelves once belonging to tomes of history, philosophy, and tales from much farther and long, long ago.

The Librarian makes no move to protect his candle's flame from the many aquatic dangers that threaten it. And although the night is ripe for a tale, he sits wrapped in his shawl, unflinching.

​

That is until a fledgling crow perches itself on the sill facing seaward. This one wears a green scarf around its neck. Many of them are adorned as such. An attempt by the Librarian years ago to keep track of the creatures. There's Michael-Wallace with the monocle, Shin with his ankles wrapped in athletic tape, and Miranda the Stoic with the birthday hat. All heads turn to see the green-scarfed crow on the sill but quickly turn away upon spotting nothing tucked beneath her scarf. There is a collective scuttling of bird feet--a murder's sigh--and the feeling that the night will be as silent as it is long.

But Mary Beth has a secret, and even in the nest, she was known to play tricks. The green-scarfed crow raises her back wing, and a scroll falls, clattering to the sill.

There is a flurry of black wings. A frenzy of squawks and squalls. A race between crows to seize a spot on the Librarian's table.

When the feathers settle, it's a wonder at all that Mary Beth manages only to sprain an ankle squeezing through. But when she does, she hops toward the Librarian and a sea of black parts before her.

The Librarian has seen better days. His head is down, and Mary Beth can see he's shivering. The candle before him does its best but provides no heat. It occurs to Mary Beth that the Librarian cannot pull his shawl too tight around his shoulders. If she were larger, she'd bring him a dozen, no a hundred blankets; she'd seen about that many in the abandoned houses in town. Waterlogged, molded things, but perhaps a few are salvageable. Maybe she could organize a team to help her in the morning...

When the Librarian looks down at her, his features are shaded. His eyes and cheeks look hollow and dark. His brown hair has become as black as her feathers. The shadows and furled wrinkles on his face make him look older than the young man he is. But nothing ages him quite like the frown he's been wearing for months. Tonight, Mary Beth hopes that will change.

"What are you bringing me, Mary?" he asks as she drags the scroll across the table. He uses one hand to reach for it, and the other holds tight to his shawl.

But he stops mid-reach to reconsider. "I'm not in the mood for it," he says.

The room ignites in a dispirited "Caw" as the Librarian wheels himself away from the table. There is the shuffling of bird feet. The murder watches as he weaves slowly through the Victorian, ignoring the thumps and frenzied noises from the cellar down below. The chairs he'd lifted atop the tables years ago are still there, upside down, much like the town--close, but not quite in the right place.

The murder caws again, and this time the noise seems to reach the Librarian. He surveys the room as if seeing the group of them for the first time. Lightning. Thunder. The Librarian looks to the windows. "It certainly is the night for it," he says as the rain falls harder outside. His mouth quivers as if to say something else, but he speaks no more.

His gaze lingers momentarily on the front door before shifting to the small bell above it as if expecting it to ring at any moment. The unpolished brass bell is the only non-wooden, un-rotted thing in the shell of what used to be the library. The Librarian waits beneath it before wheeling back to his candle.

Despite wheeling away many minutes ago, he finds Mary Beth is still on the table, struggling to unroll the scroll with her beak. She's bit through the rubber band holding the scroll together, and the Librarian spots it on the floor. It reminds him of dried worms on summer concrete. How long has it been since he experienced the sun like that? Below him, Mary Beth calls for others to help her. Her caws are short and labored, but soon, there are several crows poking and prodding the scroll by her side. It's noisy work. Two crows stand at the scroll's corners as Mary Beth unrolls it. It's a slow process, but more join her, standing atop the parchment to keep it from rolling back up. Even Miranda the Stoic joins in.

The Librarian watches but says nothing. It has been some time since he's given anything this much attention. He notes that it is not a terribly long scroll... the tale inside must be relatively short...

The Librarian looks toward the low-burning candle. Just a few more flickers and the Victorian will return to darkness. He notices then that Mary Beth has finished her labor: the scroll now stretches the length of the table, but the crows don't seem impressed by this--their eyes are fixed on him. Here, in the darkness, he sees what little light is left reflected in their eyes. It's a piteous look for most of them, but Mary Beth's eyes are blazing. Her chest heaves up and down but protrudes as if she's proud--as if even the librarian, at ten times her size, wouldn't dare deny her this.

There is a moment where all is silent. Even the rain seems to pause. The Librarian inhales. "Let's make this quick," he says, and on the exhale, aloud, he reads.