Chapter 52

Witticker’s mind swam with confusion as he stood shakily in the New York Public Library. He found himself at the back of a large hall filled with long wooden tables, each lit dimly with small candles invoking a sense of reverent calm. His entire focus was drawn to the series of flickering lights branching out from table to table. He wasn’t quite sure how the small candles were able to conjure their mystical ambience, but nevertheless; it was so.
He began to reason that this train of thought, being directed solely on candle light instead of his location or his way of being there, could be considered, at the least, tertiary. His abrupt entry into the library from the advancing hoard of tribalistic city-dwellers had sent his normally observant and calculating mind into a dizzying storm. From the moment the door clicked shut from behind Witticker could only remember brief snapshots from the arrival at the library.

*~~*

…A grand marble atrium with expansive staircases framing each wall…

…Long wooden hallways with doors on each side peeking into large rooms with red curtains…

…Walls lined with portraits posed in rigid sitting positions…

…A large wooden door, only slightly cracked, being pulled open…

*~~*

And as if he had awoken from an afternoon nap that had gone on longer than planned Witticker suddenly found himself very aware in the table-filled hall. As his brain began to ask the questions appropriate to the situation he noticed Edward next to him in the room, leaning on the wall, staring down the aisles of chairs. Witticker had learned through experience that the subject of Edward’s focus was generally one of collective importance. He casually turned and looked in the same direction.
The tables were populated in general intervals, implying the feeling of a full room without each table being overly crowded. Those present participated in the traditional academic traditions. They poured over mounds of paper, drank steaming coffee from ceramic cups, talked in muffled tones while exaggerating emphatically with their arms, or, which seemed to be the most prevalent, all three at once. The specific locale of the room which Edward had been directing his gaze seemed to not only be of interest to him, but to most of the people in the immediate area.
The table in question was situated on the left side of the hall, from their vantage point, and was occupied on both sides by men and women dressed in a casually elegant way, the look of a chic think tank. A few of the men smoked on fat cigars while almost all the ladies held their sticks of tobacco on the end of thin plastic cylinders. Smoke rose from the area as if someone had poked holes in the table and it had begun to leak all the hazy after-product it had collected through the years.
The smokers on the sides of the table were directing their attention to the head smoker, a man at the head of the table who even Witticker found to be a visually engaging subject. He was very skinny with an average build, but, in comparison with his colleagues, appeared to be the largest at the table. His hair was blond and tossed about on his head as if it had been pulled in agony over a very serious question that presented no clear answer. He wore thin wire-rimmed glasses which sat nimbly at the end of his nose, implying that he was giving great thought and attention to whomever he was speaking with. His ensemble matched his physical attributes with bright khakis at the bottom, a black argyle sweater vest over a white button-up shirt in the middle, and done up in full with a loosely-fitted black tie on top. He was the picture of the idealized intellectual and, from his overly exaggerated mannerisms and condescending tone of voice, it appeared that he knew it.
The head smoker, as if suddenly aware that he was being watched from afar, glanced to the side of room where Edward and Witticker had been leaning for the past several minutes.
“Okay,” mumbled Edward, “this might get a little strange.”
Having already experienced several peculiar events in the past several days which Edward had remarked upon as being merely standard, Witticker became immediately nervous at the prospect of being greeted by any person worthy of being described as ‘strange’.
The skinny man rose from his sitting position and began to push through the aisles of chairs in Edward and Witticker’s direction. He moved with a light swagger, but his stature was slightly bent and, thus, the swagger communicated less of a confident stride and more of an old man’s gait. To Witticker’s surprise Edward left his resting position and began to walk towards the advancing man. Witticker quickly followed, dodging through the walkway littered with chairs.
He noticed as the two men drew nearer that the people at the tables had stopped their own gesturing and coffee drinking to turn and watch the imminent exchange. Finally, only a table’s length from the other, the two men stopped, glaring distastefully at one another.

*~~*

If the setting had been different the latent observer would have been easily convinced that a showdown between rival cowboys was about to occur and that a gunfight, very likely to the death, was imminent. However, in the locale of the library reading room, this was not as much implied.

*~~*

“What brings you back, Edward?” crowed the skinny man, his cold and sharp tone betraying his words, which might be considered welcoming if offered in a way that was even remotely warm or friendly.
“Oh, just business,” replied Edward, disregarding the overtly hostile nature of the skinny man, “I’m fine, by the way. How are you?”
“Don’t pretend to teach me any lessons in pleasantries,” snapped the man, “you people shouldn’t even be allowed to set foot in this place.”
Edward casually took a cigarette and lighter from his pants pocket and with a quick snap of his wrist brought flame to the small silver fire box. He placed the cigarette in his mouth and carefully lit it.
“But I am allowed,” mumbled Edward out of the corner of his mouth, “and that’s that, so how about you go back to your table and discuss something important or revolutionary. I’m sure you have a lot of that to do today.”
Edward took a step forward to pass the smoker. The skinny man quickly stopped him with a hand to his chest, his fingertips squashing the crease on Edward’s lapel.
“You don’t get to brush me off anymore,” returned the skinny man, “We’re not equals like before. I’m much more important now.”
Edward stared at the hand on his chest. Witticker, who had witnessed several supernatural feats of strength from Edward in the course of their time together, feared for the skinny man’s health.
“Okay, Horace” said Edward, taking a step back to where he had been, “what do you want? I’m rather busy, you see, so this’ll have to be quick.”
“You act so smug,” replied Horace, “but you’re nothing anymore.”
Edward chuckled at his adversary.
“That’s just another way of saying I’m everything. Just depends on how you look at it. Or had you forgotten all that? Or did you never get it in the first place?”
Edward walked closer to Horace, placing his cigarette in his right hand, and cupped his hands to his mouth, feigning a whisper.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot the policy of this place. Leaving out bits and pieces here and there. I’m sure you’ll forgive me. I’ve been away for a while. You know, actually trying to help the world instead of sitting at tables chatting about the sorry state of things.”
At this Edward took a long drag and blew a cloud of smoke in the face of his verbal opponent. He then turned and began to walk back towards where Witticker stood. As he watched Edward walk away the man named Horace looked to be frozen in volcanic rage, bubbling with violent tension. As if spurned on by a screaming mob Horace suddenly leapt towards Edward, releasing a guttural cry from the depths of his soul. Instinctively, Witticker grabbed Edward and pulled him out the immediate conflict as the crowd around them suddenly sprang into action, rushing to hold Horace back. The pasty man had quickly changed into a red-faced ball of anger, screaming and shouting as the crowd pulled him back from his violent desire.
“You’re nothing! A wasted shell! Nothing!”
The picture of a fistfight was far from anything that the halls of this reading room had ever seen and all of the spectators were captivated, excited by the possibility of witnessing any physical altercation. All, except one.
“Stop this at once!” bellowed a commanding voice from the opposite end of the hall.

*~~*

Malcolm Dietrichs was considered by most of the people that knew him well to be one of the smartest, if not thee smartest person in the living world. Those same people were also aware that he suffered no bullshit. He had held the position of senior librarian in the New York Public Library since a time well before the birth of most of its current residents due in no small part to his insistence on getting directly to the point.
His age had been a general fascination among the library populace for several years, most people placing him, on average, between ninety and one-hundred and five years old. However, the number was of little consequence as Dietrichs benefited from his extensive longevity, which commanded him respect in every sphere of his life.
In fact, the only catch of his long-lived life was the style and state of his appearance. Most residents could not remember a time that the aged book keeper had not appeared emaciated. Tottering through the halls on legs no thicker than a fresh sapling, his trunk suckled in upon itself from lack of any indulgence, his arms stretching nimbly from his body like bent broomstick handles. His face was long and sagging, the skin draping from his cheekbones as if hung like loose fabric. In contrast, however, his beard and hair, the only physical conditions still under his direct control, were always very well kept; having been combed and clipped to the extent that even the most discerning eye could not have found a white hair out of place.
Despite this aged physique, Dietrichs was still very much a part of the day-to-day operations in the library. He was regularly consulted in any forum for debate and his word, while not always substantial, was final. He was a well-respected director with an authoritative personality and, thusly, his decisions, judgments, and conclusions had never been questioned.

Except once…

*~~*

The crowd in the hall slowly turned their heads to the senior librarian who had just put an effective hold on all movement.
“Edward, my office,” rumbled Dietrichs, “five minutes.”
The dusty old man turned and left the hall. Edward grabbed Witticker and began shuffling through the tables as the remaining crowd shuffled back to their tables. The two darted down the thin walkway toward the door the senior librarian had just exited.
“Wait, what’s going on?” cried Witticker, running after Edward, “you’re not going to leave after what just happened back there?”
“Did you hear him?” shot back Edward, “Five minutes! Let’s go!”
Witticker jogged after Edward out of the reading hall and into yet another dark hallway into what seemed to be a series of dark hallways towards another in a series of undisclosed destinations.