True Immortals

I know I’m hiding from the week as I wander through the stacks, my fingers tracing the spines of the books stocking the shelves of my favourite store. The smell of ink and paper, the colours and art on covers.

The Archives. My Happy Place. Just what I needed.

To be frank, it’s been a rubbish week and I’m ignoring the constant phone calls from people asking me to give more when I just don’t have anything left to even sustain myself. I can’t avoid them forever, but it is a different world in here.

The likes of Tolkien, Bronte, Stoker, Shelley and Dickens share space with King, Harper, Rice and Martin. Voices from the past resonate through the space just as loudly as the fresh new voices.

And this is my favourite time to be here, when it’s quiet. Everyone else is at work or congregating for meals in noisy food courts. Here I am, in the cool quiet alone with some of the people I admire most, listening to their words echo through my head as I sip my take away coffee.

I’m not looking for anything in particular, just appreciating the calm. I know I will have to deal with everything sooner or later but for the moment at least, I’m free.

My favourite books to browse are the used books in the back of the shop. I love reading the hand written dedications.

Happy 18th Birthday Connor! We couldn’t be more proud of the man you have become, Love Mum and Dad. I wonder who Connor is? That was 50 years ago. I wonder why his book is here, on this shelf, in my hand rather than his.

Congratulations Darling! I will forever remember this day. 21st April, 1940. Who wrote the dedication.... who is Darling? 1940.. I wonder who had the money to gift a book during the war....

These books have stories outside of the ones the Author published and I wish they could answer my questions. Maybe part of the charm is the mystery.

Taking from the shelf, a copy of one of the Lord of the Rings series with a cover that matches the collection of Tolkien’s works I’ve been building at home, a folded paper falls to the floor. Old fashioned writing paper, yellowed at the edges.

To my Dearest John,

A little gift to remind you of home.

Though life may pull us in different directions, it is my fervent wish we find our way back to each other some day. And if it is not to be, then may this token bring you fond memories of this life and we will find each other in the next, for none may live forever, no matter how hard we try.

Yours truly.

Maree.

The sentiment is striking. A acknowledgement of mortality in a book with characters that are immortal. Of course, not all of them are but the Elves, while not invincible are immortal. Tucking the letter back into the back of the book, it occurred to me that as a race, we spend an inordinate amount, of time and money, on attempts to stay young and even prolong life, as if we can achieve immortality.

Still mulling over the almost obsessive preoccupation of our species with living forever, I almost run into Mat.

‘Ooh, watch where you are going! Hi, Lilly! How are you?’

It turns out reading my book as I walk is not really a brilliant idea. My goodness, what is this boy’s mother feeding him? He’s grown again!

‘Sorry Mat, off with the fairies. I’m fine thanks. How are you? Graduation must be soon!’

‘I’m good! Classes are done, but the grad ceremony isn’t for another couple weeks. I’m looking forward to it. I’m taking a gap year before I start Uni, work here for awhile, save some money to help pay tuition.’

‘That sounds like a good plan. It’ll be good to see you around here.’

‘Thanks. What have you got there?’

Smiling, I hand him the book. ‘One to go and I’ve completed the collection.’

‘Yeah! This one came in a couple days ago. I'm sorry, I should have thought and put it aside for you.’

‘It’s fine. Though if the middle book comes in with the same cover style, I’d really appreciate if you could put it aside for me. It’d complete my collection!’

Chuckling, Mat passes me a Please Reserve card so I can put my details on it if one comes in.

‘Did you know Tolkien was orphaned at the age of 12 and became the ward of a Catholic Priest until coming of age? He had an interesting life. No wonder his stories are so out there.’

Raising my eye brow I look at him in surprise. ‘No, I didn’t know that, but I suppose life experience is a big influence on a writer.’

Handing my new treasure back to me, he smiles. ‘We studied him and The Hobbit for our English final. He died in 1973 at 81. And new generations still talk about him and his ideas 40 years later.’

Thanking Mat, I feel a little more grounded and ready to deal with the world again after my brief reprieve. Studying the art work on the cover of my newly acquired copy of The Return Of The King a thought occurs to me.

All the chemicals, money, treatments and contraptions in the world, but the secret to achieving true immortality has been owned by writers since the dawn of time.

Author's note.

The Archives is a bookstore in Brisbane, Qld, Australia. Actually called Archives Fine Books. It is a wonderful place to get lost in. I haven't been there in years, but I remember it well! If you are ever in Brisbane, I recommend checking it out.

Outside of a few facts and the store, this short story is a complete work of fiction.