Inside the Pages

Parchment crisp, maple scented and trenchant within the surroundings. Lining the cabin walls, architraves to ceiling covered with loose pages stuck together and stapled harshly to the wall creating a wallpaper of words, ideas and ink.

A young girl begins to wander around the room. Taking gentle steps her dainty feet treading lightly on the pages that line the floor, wrinkled from years of travelers steps, mud tracked and crunching like autumn leaves under her tired weight.

“Is this your first time?” a voice questions her presence upon the creaking of the cabin door, wood chips continue to fall as the harsh wind struggles to push the oak against its frame.

“I recognise your face, but then again so many like you come through that door, rasped, droning on and on, in hopes of an answer.” The figure notices her olive skin prickle with goosebumps, uncomfortably she glances around the room in search of the voice. “Are you one of them?” he calls again.

“Am I one of who?” her voice meek compared to the large cabin

“So this is your first time.” The figure makes his way across the creaking floorboards towards her. The crunching pages mixed with the siren-like creaks of the floor create a comforting melody, his lagging left foot limps against the grain forming a steady beat. The figure seems to dance to this tune, flowing with the notes of the inked pages and pine floor.

The light from the oil lamp bounces around the room flickering against the bearded man. He appears from the shadows of the edge of the room. His eyes glisten as the flames dance along his iris, creating red streaks across the stormy grey that surrounds his pupil. The lines that guard his onlooking eyes only seem to deepen in the dim light.

“Join me for a bit, I’ve missed the company,” The old man takes a seat on the aged furniture, the wooden chair struggles against the weight of his rounded stomach. Lifting his left leg onto the nearby tartan ottoman, he looks expectantly at the young girl.

She hesitantly walks over to the adjacent chair, sweeping her trailing skirt to the side she takes a seat. “How long can I stay?” her voice pipes up a few decibels.

“As long as you like, some stay for a few moments, others...longer” The man points to a back corner, shifting uncomfortably at the pain in his leg, and with a short grunt pulls his veined arms back into his lap.

The girl follows his sight, her eyes glance to the back corner of the cabin, and makes out another figure. She hadn’t realised anyone else was here and let out a small gasp of surprise. She wonders how long the wrinkled woman had been here. Her greyed hair speaks of centuries-old, her frail and bony body reminds the girl of Greek mythology books she’d often stumbled upon in her grandfather’s library. The lady doesn’t move, and the girl isn’t sure if she could even if she wanted to. “How long has she been here?” she whispers. His mouth twitches at the question and a small huff of air follows from his sloped nose.

“She arrived not long before you, just after the young man departed, he didn’t stay long, seemed too highly strung,” He seemed out of breath with each word, the gravel that rolled at the back of his throat with each vowel made him seem almost annoyed or angry, or just wise enough to know a lot more than anyone the girl had met before.

“Do many people come here?” The girl seemed hesitant to ask, and the man’s grunt only put her more on edge. She awaited his response but the man took his time, he slowly stuffed tobacco into his pipe and flicked a match to light the end. The room filled with the smell of smoke and leather and at once she was comforted by memories of her grandfather, and the leather-bound books he used to share with her.

“There used to be more,” he sighed, white air seeping through his teeth and out his nose when he spoke. “I built the cabin many years ago, a place for travelers I like to think.” He took another long drag from the pipe, and an odd expression filled his face. The girl couldn’t make out whether it was pain or sadness, but she thought a kind of melancholy seemed to dwell deep in the crevices of his wrinkled skin. “At first, there were many. From the moment the last nail was hammered in and the furniture dragged through the door and across the pine, people clambered their way up the stairs and filled the room. I couldn’t breathe. From wall to wall people stood, sharing stories, taking mine and listening. Really listening.” The girl’s ears perked at every word that came from his pale mouth, her eyes glistening for not wanting to break eye contact.

“Then, over time, they stopped, the occasional person strolled through. Not many stayed to listen to my whole tale, but a few did. Some would return. There are a few kind faces who I have helped shape with each visit, they’re my favourite. They tell me of their stories and I tell them more of mine. I like to think our words and tales live together, they’re all entangled in a story somewhere.” He no longer looked at the girl when he spoke, and his whitened skin seemed almost luminescent the more he spoke. The girl didn’t take her eyes off of him. She watched as the man’s lips twitched with each word, and a gentle smile pressed at the edge of his mouth. She was entangled within his story, and something within her longed to listen to the man forever.

“Your mother is calling, do you have to go?” She couldn’t hear the nasally call of her mother but she knew the man was right, she should be leaving. “I hope you come to visit me soon, I’d like to hear your stories too.”

With this the girl got up, readjusting her skirt and patting off the dust it had collected. The oak door creaked open before she could even begin to walk towards it, and a young man, clad with suit and tie, pushed firmly against the door. The bottom of his trousers were gathered in mud, from the journey here, and his hair was tousled from the harsh winds. The old man smiled.

“I didn’t think you’d come back. Come, take a seat.”