Monsters (6 page)

Bruce was smitten. Jane wasn't pretty. She was feisty. Her father thanked him profusely. He told him he was always welcome at the forge, but Bruce wanted to hear that from her. She wasn't the only one that could be stubborn, and stubbornness had many forms. With a bunch of dried wild flowers in hand, he knocked on her door.

“Why?” came the curt reply from the other side of the door.

Bruce smiled. How did she know it was him? Thinking about it, he realized, who else would knock? Perhaps she saw him walking up to the forge. If nothing else, she’s consistent, he thought.

“Why not?” he called out, being sure to speak with an air of confidence. The more this played out, the more intensely curious he became about Jane. He was beginning to understand something his mother had told him, something all mothers tell their sons, that beauty is more than skin deep, that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

“That's not a reason,” came the reply, but the words weren't terse. If anything, they had a soft ring to them.

He ignored her, looking at the flowers in his hand and asked, “Are you dressed?”

“Does it matter?” Jane replied, although she sounded closer to the door than before. Whereas when he'd first knocked she sounded distant, as though she were lying down, now she sounded as though she were standing next to the rough-hewn wooden door.

“Well,” Bruce replied, thinking about it further. “A gentleman would never walk in on a lady undressed.”

“Then I'm naked.”

“And I guess I'm no gentleman,” Bruce said, lifting the wooden lever slowly and opening the door.

Jane was fully clothed, standing just a few feet from the door, holding her bandaged arm in front of her. She was wearing a dress that once must have been pretty, but the pattern had faded and the frayed edges spoke of hard times.

“You're rather persistent,” she said.

“And you're rather dressed,” he replied with a grin.

“Disappointed?”

“A little,” he said, winking at her as he handed her the wild flowers. Being autumn, all he could find were dried flowers in the market, colored husks of a former summer glory, but he'd scented them with a few drops of lavender oil, hoping they were a substitute for real flowers. She sniffed them. The look in her eyes was something he treasured. He no longer saw her scarred skin, her pale features or her straggly hair, he saw her dark eyes, so warm and intelligent.

“Thank you,” she said, her face lighting up with a smile.

“I knew there was a thank you in there somewhere,” he replied.

She blushed, which surprised him. He was so accustomed to how she hid her emotions that such an open display was refreshing.

“How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you.”

“There, you see,” he added. “Thank you isn't so hard to say now, is it?”

She reached out with her good arm, punching him lightly on the shoulder. “No, it's not.”

Bruce sat down on a chair by the table as Jane placed the flowers in an empty wooden jug. He noted she took some care in arranging the flowers, playing with them, teasing them into just the right shape, pretending they were alive and vibrant. He figured it was her way of signaling her approval. He liked her smile. She may not have been pretty, but when she smiled she lit up the room, at least that's the way he felt about her.

“What are you looking at?” she asked, realizing he was staring at her.

“It's nothing.”

“Oh, no you don't. I know the wheels are turning inside that little head of yours. What are you thinking?”

Bruce laughed. “Seriously, it's nothing.”

“It's something now,” Jane protested, her good hand resting on her hip.

“It's silly,” he said. “Your smile. I really like your smile.”

She laughed.

“And your laugh.”

“OK, Bruce Alexander Dobson. Why did you come here? Why did you bring me flowers?”

Bruce raised his eyebrows. She'd done some homework on him. He wondered what else she knew about him, not that there was anything to hide. In some ways, it was quite flattering to hear her say his whole, formal name aloud. Bruce swallowed the lump in his throat and figured now was the time to be blunt, just like her.

“I came here because I'd like you to teach me to read.”

She paused, only for a split second but it was long enough for Bruce to see her mind running, weighing his request, wanting to understand his motives. She had to be thinking about denying being a reader, but as the moment lingered, it became harder and harder to deny. To lie, you had to be quick, and he knew that better than most. She'd been caught off guard, she wasn't quick enough.

She stuttered in defense. “I—I.”

As one second stretched into two, he could see the anguish on her face, the sense of being trapped. It was too late to deny it. For better or for worse, she'd have to come clean with him and he knew it before the words left her lips.

“How did you know?” she blurted out.

“I knew," he replied, “because you're so confident in what you know.”

“Who have you told?”

“No one,” Bruce replied, raising his hands in his defense. “I haven't told anyone, and I won't tell anyone.”

“How did you,” she stopped mid-sentence, and he understood this was scary for her.

She looked at him with suspicion, as though she were trying to figure out whether he had an agenda, whether he was fronting for someone else.

“I guessed. You... You were so assertive at the tollgate. You knew about rabies. You knew what to do. I figured the only way you could be so confident was from reading.”

Jane pulled up a chair, sitting down at the table, her hands just inches from his. Her visage changed, her smile dropped.

“This is bad. This is very bad. I've been too careless—reckless. You cannot tell anyone,” she pleaded. “Men are scared of women who read.”

Bruce reached out and held her hand, saying, “Not all men.”

Her fingers were warm, soft to touch. He should have let go, but he couldn't. Somehow, by reaching out, he'd broken through an unspoken taboo.

He ran his fingers up over her hand wanting to reassure her of his intentions. She breathed deeply as his hand ran around her wrist. Her skin felt as soft as fine silk. She flinched, and he could feel her sense of hesitancy. Jane clearly wanted to pull away, and yet she did not want to let go of the moment. He could see it was too much for her, too soon, so he pulled back, saving her from a decision either way.

Jane laughed, relieving the tension.

“Why now?” she asked. Her eyes cast upwards looking at the roof. She wasn't talking to him. He wasn't sure who she was talking to and figured she was speaking metaphorically. “After all these years, I finally find someone that wants to learn, and yet I probably only have weeks to live. Why now? Why not five years ago?”

She looked him in the eye, as though she were trying to read his very soul. “You want to read? Do you know what you're asking? Do you understand the burden you're taking on?”

“I want what you have,” he replied.

Jane breathed deeply in response to his comment. She ran her good hand through her hair, ruffling it as she thought for a moment.

“I'm dead anyway,” she said with a sigh.

“You'll survive,” Bruce said.

“Now, look who's full of confidence? Lesson number one: when it comes to knowledge, there are two kinds of confidence. The confidence that comes from understanding, and a fool's confidence, the bliss that comes from ignorance.”

“But you will survive,” Bruce said. “I'm sure of it. I can feel it.”

“I appreciate your sentiment, really I do, but lesson number two: your feelings are irrelevant. This cold world cares not for what you believe, for what you think, or for what you feel. There's no magic, no wishful thinking, no earnest desire that can bend nature to your will.

“You want to learn to read? OK, I will teach you to read. In the days I have left, I will instruct you, but I warn you, with every privilege comes a burden. It will take you years to learn to read properly.

“Reading is far more than picking words off a page. It is to breathe in another's soul, to walk in their shoes. When you read, you lose yourself and inhabit another's life, the life of one that went before you on this Earth.”

“Sounds fascinating,” Bruce replied. “When do we begin?”

“Hold on, cowboy. It's not that easy. This isn't something you can pick up in an afternoon. At first, you'll struggle. For months if not years. You'll wonder if it's worth it. You'll lose patience. You'll lose interest. You'll think it's not worth the danger of being caught by the villagers, but if you push your mind, drive it hard like a plow horse breaking the frozen ground in spring, then you'll learn what it really means to be a reader.”

She paused before continuing, looking deep into his eyes and he felt as though she could read his very soul.

“This isn't a game. This isn't some curiosity or hobby. To read is to understand the mind of the past. To read is to open your mind to another. For all your life there has only been one, there have only been your thoughts, your will, your reason, but all that will change.

“When you read, it is more than simply looking at words on a page and knowing their meaning. To read is to see inside the heart of another human being, to hear their thoughts inside your own head, to think as they thought, to see the world through their eyes.

“There was a time when everyone could read. Well, not everyone in the whole world, but at least here in America, and yet even that was short lived, just a few hundred years.

“For most of history, there were just a handful of people that could read in any generation. And those that could read often abused that power, manipulating others. History abounds with those brave souls that stood up to this abuse: Socrates fought the Senate, Christ fought the Scribes, Luther fought the Pope.”

Socrates, Christ, Luther—Bruce knew these names. He'd heard them talked of in legend, sung of in nursery rhymes, but he'd never met anyone who actually knew something about their lives. He was electrified to think of all Jane could teach him.

“Make no mistake,” she continued. “Words are powerful, they drive agendas. Words mold people. A handful of words can bring about more change than all the years of a man's life. Words have the power to bind or to set free. Here in America, slaves were lashed for reading. Books were banned or worse, burned, such was the fear of what could be wrought by the written word. Who would have thought such scribble, the dark marks of type on white paper could stir the soul, rouse the slumbering masses to action?

“Nations have fallen to the power of words. Do not be deceived, words cast a spell far greater than any conjurer could ever imagine. Their magic lies not in the supernatural, not in some mystical power, but in moving the hearts and minds of men. Knowledge is alchemy, turning lead into gold, turning letters into words, words into concepts, ideas into power.

“Reading is both a blessing and a curse. Once this door is open, it cannot be closed. Once you know, you cannot forget. Oh, you may try, but once you have drunk from the well of knowledge, there is no turning back. Once awake, you can never sleep again.”

“I'm not afraid,” Bruce said, holding his gaze on her eyes.

“Ah,” she said, laughing. “You should be. These peasants, they have no idea. They hide behind their superstitions. Just a few years ago they killed poor Helena because she could read, thinking she could conjure up some dark curse. If only they knew the curse they already bear, the curse that befell this world from outer space, the curse that humbled the strong and the mighty, the curse that turned their cities into a wilderness.”

“Who was Helena?” asked Bruce, sensing Jane's comments about her were more than factual.

Jane wiped a tear from her eye. “Helena was my friend. She taught me to read.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. Helena lived a thousand lives. Helena soared among the planets, she climbed the highest mountains, descended into the depths of the ocean. She traveled back in time. Helena sat at the feet of Aristotle. She watched as Rome fell. She saw the wars of men devastate this world time and again, but through it all, words survived. For Helena, though, there was no greater treasure than the dawn of reason, the rise of science. She spoke with Newton, struggled with Einstein, watched as Darwin sailed the Galapagos.”

“And as they burned her at the stake, after torturing her for days on end, she spoke no ill of them. She bowed her head, refusing to cry out in anguish. Hers was a life like no other I've known.”

Jane paused, and Bruce could see she was lost in thought, reliving her emotions in that moment. Tears ran down her cheeks.

“Will you teach me to read like that?” he asked softly.

“I will teach you,” she said. “Even if I have only days left to live, I will pass on what I can. I will teach you for Helena's sake, because that is the way of readers.”

Bruce approached the crossroads beyond the village as the dark of night gave way to the first hint of the coming day. A faint orange glow sat on the horizon. At first, he thought Jane hadn't come, but she was there, dressed as a man. In the low light, he didn't recognize her until she came up to him and spoke in a harsh whisper.

“You're late.”

Bruce was taken aback by her appearance. Somewhat surprised, he didn’t say anything in reply. He followed Jane, fascinated to see her wearing a baggy shirt and farming trousers. Her hair was bundled up beneath a broad-rim hat. He was walking his horse, just as she had recommended, and had to hurry to keep pace with her as she marched off along the southern track. Although he doubted anyone would overhear them in the dark forest, he whispered in reply.

“Where are we going?”

A fine mist hanging in the cool air as they spoke.

“It's called a library,” she said, signaling with her hand for quiet as they marched along the path. “Once we clear the borders we can mount up, until then it would attract too much attention.”

Jane wasn’t taking any chances. They walked in silence as the sky lit up in blood red hues, slowly softening as the sun crept over the horizon. Birds called in the breaking dawn, which was a good sign as birds tended to be quiet when some large beast lurked nearby.