The Quill and the Quire (2)

Part two of a macabre tale of prognostication that asks, "What if one were to write about fictional tragedies of the future ... and they came to pass?" The discovery of an ancient artifact sends Vance Henderson on a terrifying race against time to save the present and all that he holds precious.

To read from the beginning click HERE.

Accepting Bourne's offer, we left the pub for the short ride to his house atop the hill overlooking the small village. It wasn't late, but he wanted to introduce me to his lovely wife, in addition to familiarizing me with their quaint bungalow.

He checked the miniature barn serving as a mailbox as we passed through the picket gate and onto the pathway of flagstones evenly spaced on a well manicured lawn. He paused by the front door and pulled aside a loose shingle which revealed a small niche containing a spare key to the house.

When the door opened we were met by a short frumpy woman who nodded when introduced to me as Meara Bourne. Taking my jacket, she motioned for me have a seat on the sofa before then scurrying off into the adjacent kitchen.

After the three of us had shared tea and a pleasant chat, Jonathan showed me the guest room and the location of the facilities. As they had to rise and leave at four in the morning to get to the airport in time to catch their flight, they retired to their upstairs bedroom and bid me goodnight. Although it wasn't very late, I decided that I might as well get some much needed sleep also. It had been a long flight across the Atlantic and I hadn't slept in over thirty hours.

I was fast asleep at almost the same moment my head touched upon the pillow and slept through the night. When I arose at six the following morning, as was expected I found myself alone in the Bourne couple's house. Finding only teabags in the kitchen, I resigned myself to the fact that a shower would have to serve as a temporary substitute for the cup of coffee I was craving.


Would things have been different had I chosen to settle for a cup of tea that morning? Perhaps if I had waited to leave the house until the dense fog had dissipated under the heat of the rising sun, I would have found instead other open establishments.

The blinding flash of lighting was but a precursor to the tumultuous rumble of thunder that followed in its wake only seconds later. The percussion rattled not only the windows throughout the small house, but indeed the bones in my body and the teeth in my mouth.

I huddled, no I cowered against the wall as another flash of brilliance lit up the world beyond the confines of the humble cottage. The inevitable roar of thunder resonated as if it were centered solely over and around the hilltop property upon which the Bournes' had built their home. A sudden loud snap somewhere above the roof line brought my eyes to bear upon the window in time to see what had been the top most part of the stately sycamore come crashing down into the yard.

The building tempest outside, the demonic quill and quire in the other room; I had no choice but to face one or the other, or both! My life would be empty and meaningless without her. I had to find Alicia!


Blanketing the small village below, a damp fog had crept in before the sun had yet risen. I buttoned my jacket and lifted the collar about my neck as I closed the door behind me. Somewhere down there, I reckoned, I felt I should be able to get a hot cup of coffee.

Driven by my craving and with the aid of gravity, I traversed the distance from the top of the hill and into town in little time. Noting the echo of my footsteps upon the cobblestones of the main thoroughfare, it appeared that I might be the only person up and and about at that early hour. By no means could I ever be considered an early bird; quite the contrary, the worm had little reason to fear me.

Establishment after establishment was still hidden behind drawn shades and signs reading 'closed.' It was almost unworldly to have been walking about a still-sleeping town at seven in the morning. It was only the faint the glow of the streets light above in the mist that gave any credence to the fact that the town was inhabited.

It was then, when I'd stop to light a cigarette that I saw a light in a shop window several blocks ahead. Although the light was faint like the street lights amid the willowy tendrils of the fog, the window offered the prospect of warmth inside. Tossing aside the cigarette I hadn't wanted in the first place, I walked in the direction of the small shop.

Above the door, animated by the wind a weather-beaten shingle creaked on its rusty hooks. The faded letters, barely legible, made a simple statement: "Antiques by Agnes." It struck me as both quaint and odd that an antique shop would be the first business to open in the town.

Irony aside and not knowing what to expect, I stepped inside. Curious as what would be considered antique in the small burg, I let my eyes wander over the interior of the shop. As should have been expected, everything was covered in dust, arranged in no particular order and nondescript in appearance. I studied the two closest display cases, one full of old tchotchkes, and the other of glass paperweights.

My curiosity satisfied, I was about to turn and leave when I heard a shuffling sound coming from an unseen back room. From behind a tattered curtain hung in a doorway, a small unassuming spinster emerged. Her pace was measured as if each step had been choreographed for effect. She smiled appreciably revealing a mouth with several missing teeth.

Her speech, combined with articulated hand gestures seemed to be rehearsed as if to best utilize the acoustics of the old shop that served as her stage. "Can I help you, sir? Is there something in particular you wish? I assure you that my merchandise is authentic and of the finest quality. Not one item is a day under a century old or in need of repair," she espoused with proud fluency.

I didn't have the heart to tell her that I had no interest in antiques and that I had no intentions of making a purchase. I thought it wise to omit the fact that I'd only entered her shop to escape the cold morning air outside. Half earnestly I smiled and replied, "I'm just browsing. I'm an impulse shopper. If something happens to catch my eye, I buy it."

Although she seemed satisfied with my response I sensed contempt in her demeanor. For some reason I felt compelled to add, "I'm a writer for an American travel magazine. I do have a fancy for old unique pens and desk paraphernalia. Perhaps you could suggest something along those lines?"

Her entire countenance seemed to undergo a sudden metamorphosis. The smile returned to her lips and dominated her wrinkled face. I'd said the right thing.

"So, a writer are you? Educated at some fancy-shmancy American college no doubt?" she mumbled with sarcasm. "Now let me see, might I have anything of interest to ... a writer?" Her questions, not intended to be answered were more for her own edification.

As she ambled from table to counter to display case, I couldn't help but sense that she knew exactly what she was looking for, as well as its precise location within the shop. It was just as likely that she was rehearsing in her head the right sales pitch calculated to make me the proud owner of the object in question.

My eyes came to rest upon it only moments before her hand touched it. It was in that trice that I knew I would not be leaving that shop empty handed. Even the coating of dust upon it could do little to hide its beauty. The craftsmanship was simply exquisite. Without knowing what it may have contained, if anything at all, I had to have that leather stationery case.

"This quill and quire set is the only one of its kind in existence," she said. There was little doubt that she knew the sale had been made and all that was left was the bickering over its value. "Its exact origin is unknown unfortunately, but I can verify that its age exceeds nearly three hundred years. This set is listed on our family's original inventory ledger dating back to ..."

"Excuse me, madam," my interruption startling her, "I'm sure that it is indeed ancient and that your family's records are impeccable. How much?"

She drew in her breath, exhaled slowly and whispered something inaudible before answering, "Three hundred American dollars would be an equitable sum. Of course, if you think that too expensive, perhaps we can reach ..."

"Three hundred dollars it is," I responded. "I assume that cash will be acceptable?"

Although pleased that she'd received her top figure, I could sense that she was chagrined that she'd been denied the ritualistic process of bickering over the price. Staring at the three one hundred dollar bills on the counter, she failed to acknowledge my departure.


(To be continued ... Part 3.)

№ 1734