The Scribe
The arid smell of burning wax wafted up his nose. He dipped
his quill inside the nearby inkwell and placed it on the parchment scroll,
still fresh. Months of experience made his hand hover, without spilling one
drop of ink.
Ink costs money after all. As do quills and parchment. The
scribe was very fussy over the shape, measure and texture of his stationery. He
was strict in the type of quill he used, believing some to be luckier than
others. His educated mind knew that this was utter rubbish, of course. But he
maintained that if a writer was not a slave, a flirtatious confidant, of his
own thoughts both rational and not, then that writer is not a very good one.
Maybe a chronographer. Or perhaps a stylist of words. Or worse, a royal scribe,
may they all be cursed with vivid imaginations to haunt them in their sleep.
He had placed the parchment between two lit candles. He sat, placid,
listening to foreign noises outside his room. The whining of horses, the
barking of dogs, the incessant huffing of that elderly woman.
It was night and darkness swallowed the world, all save for
the small amount of luminescence provided by the two candles. His eye twitched
as the one on the right kept flickering, much to his annoyance.
The scribe missed the cold. This heat was unbearable and the
blank parchment reflected his state of mind. The hot meal eaten at the tavern
had not fulfilled its promise, leaving him famished for something else. He had
tried to quench his thirst with all manner of vice in the past: gluttony, lust
and avarice. But now he knew that no plate or bosom, blade or coin could
replace the serenity of the ink snaking on the page, writhing into shapes, each
with its own meaning.
Each with its own story.
His meditation over, the trance morphed into corporeal
movement. The tip of the quill began dancing on the page, creating. Words,
still moist and supple from their christening, made his eye twinkle. The
scraping sound rang like a siren’s song and a lover’s promise.
He needed not see his script, much less read it. His hand,
already intimate with the inner machinations of his mind, needed but the
slightest of pushes.
Hours passed by. A story was created, but not read. He did
not need to read it. He simply lusted after the following word. The story spoke
of the unthinkable: the future. Years to come, where all men held magick and
power. Whereby they bent light and heat to their will and pieces of artifice
did their bidding. A world of many worlds. He wrote of men soaring through the skies
and navigating the dark fathoms of the oceans. He wrote of the scariest feature
of them all: a world where wits were valued and every man spoke, acted and was
a nobleman. Everyone was intelligent and powerful. All were mighty, so long as
they believed it so.
He knew that he could never report the story. Not to his
people. Not in his time. It will be placed in that special pile, with most of
his valued work. Work which any man in his right minds would burn in an
instant.
But he was not in his right mind.
The ecstasy of the writing had now got to him. He will
continue until the darkness covered his eyes and dulled his senses. But never
his mind. He would only cease when his hand would shake so badly that the
sculpting of the words would be compromised
Hours passed. Light snapped into the room like one of those
switch and bulb contraptions he wrote about. He mused at the irony that when
light and life flooded the world, his would cease to function. He dropped his
quill and rolled up the parchment. Someday, he thought, someday he would
publish these stories. Someday his name and creations, his fantasies, will be
on every man’s tongue. Every child will aspire to become a scribe.
Someday.
Maybe on the same day that man can be everywhere, when he can
bend light and heat. On that day, his stories will leave the dusty bag. They
will leave the dark recesses of his mind and flirt with everyone else’s.
It only takes a bit of perseverance. And his, the scribe
knew, lasted through the eons.
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