Darren was a bachelor, he would say by choice, and was also very particular. His life was lived like a sacred ritual, each day the same as the last. He woke every weekday morning at 5:20am sharp, showered, and shaved his salt and pepper stubble with a vintage safety razor. He then brewed an extra strong cup of coffee and prepared breakfast which consisted of steel cut oatmeal with a quarter cup of blueberries and half a pat of grass fed butter, never more.
Although he was what most people would consider content, Darren had always felt like his life was missing something indescribable. It was as though his soul was this jigsaw puzzle nearly complete, the hole was in the vicinity of his heart, and he had no idea where to find the missing pieces.
"It was as though his soul was this jigsaw puzzle nearly complete, the hole was in the vicinity of his heart, and he had no idea where to find the missing pieces."
Just before leaving for the office Darren always watered his bonsai tree, a ficus of the variety sold at Walmart, with one half cup of spring water perfectly measured. For the last ten years Darren had cared for the bonsai as though it was his first born. He even gave it a name, he called it Moe because the shape of the tree’s foliage reminded him of the mop top haircut of the lead stooge of the same name. His boss had given him the ficus as a gift for his fifth anniversary with the accounting agency.
The night Darren first brought the bonsai home to his apartment a thought entered his head. He had the distinct impression that, in some inexplicable way, Moe’s well‐being would forever tied to the security of this job. He believed with all of his being that as long as he kept that little tree healthy he would never need to worry about his future at the agency.
In Darren’s mind his theory was substantiated the following year. He had overslept by only few minutes and was running late, as a result he had forgotten to water Moe. This couldn’t have happened on a worse day, it was the day of his annual performance review at the agency and his absent mindedness cost him dearly, he received a measly ten cent raise.
Each Saturday morning Darren allowed himself the luxury of one extra hour of sleep, any more would be wasting the day away. Upon waking his Saturday ritual was almost identical to the previous five mornings except for one: instead of taking the northbound train to the office he crossed to the other side of the station and boarded the southbound train to the Snelling Avenue stop. Just across the street from the Snelling station stood Wimbley’s Books and the hand painted sign out front, in bold red letters read, “Rare and Out of Print Books.” Darren spent nearly every Saturday weeding through the stacks of books, intoxicated by their mustiness. Wimbley’s was the one of the few places on Earth where he felt like he fit in.
Sometimes he would pack a sandwich and a piece of fruit in his messenger bag for sustenance enough to spend the entire day there. From the moment he got off the train he felt as though a magnet was pulling him towards the front door of Wimbley’s shop. His strides were longer and a little more hurried than usual as he crossed the busy street. Sam, one of the old man's clerks had left Darren a cheery voice mail on Tuesday morning with the news that his book had arrived. It took all of his restraint not to continue right on past his normal stop that night after work to pick up the treasure.
Darren worried over the matter for the rest of his workday that Tuesday but was concerned that any deviation in his routine might throw off his luck for the rest of the week. Darren turned the doorknob and stepped inside Wimbley’s shop and as he did the tarnished brass bell that hung above the door rang and alerted the staff he had arrived.
“It’s Darren, nine o’clock...punctual as always. I have no idea how you waited four days to pick this up, you have more patience than I do,” Mr. Wimbley said peering over top of his wire rimmed glasses.
“It wasn’t easy. I was just so busy,” Darren answered blowing into his hands and quickly rubbing them together.
The treasure that Mr. Wimbley spoke of was a copy of a fifteenth century Irish illuminated manuscript obtained from a rare book collector in Dubai. There were only three known copies of this ancient manuscript created by a lone Irish monk.
Legend has it that the monk, whose name had been long lost to history, lived in a two room stone house that stood alone amongst the craggy cliffs of the Irish seashore. The monk was tasked by the Vatican, with converting the two Gaelic tribes in the region to Christianity and quickly earned their trust. Things didn’t quite go as planned. After living among the native people for only a few months the monk had a change of heart and began to adopt the native peoples’ dress and their way of life.
He was so taken by the power of these people’s spiritual beliefs he had meticulously transcribed the Gallic druids’ oral tradition, word for word. Each page of the book was handwritten in flowing calligraphy; although it was officially untitled, the book was referred to in collector’s circles as The Gaelic Book of Wisdom. It contained three hundred and sixty‐five passages, one for each day of the year. The monk made two additional copies, he kept one for himself and the remaining two were gifted to the chieftains of each of the two tribes. When the word got out that the monk failed in his missionary work, assassins dispatched by the Pope himself to put a swift end to the shenanigans.
The Gaelic Book of Wisdom was now considered one of the grails of ultra rare book collectors. A person had be in the inner circle to even know about, let alone, get a chance at owning something as special as this. Darren’s ticket into this rarified world was Mr. Wimbley and the price of admission was earned slowly over decades of patronizing his bookstore and thousands of dollars changing hands.
One of Wimbley’s long time clerks, Samantha Fletcher or Fletch as she was called by the regulars, came from behind the counter and handed Darren a pair of white gloves.
“Now I know you’re a virgin..I mean when it comes to owning rare books. You’ll want to wear these whenever handling it. Otherwise, the oil from your skin will discolor the pages. Always remember, this book is an irreplaceable artifact. It’s so easy to forget in today’s world of disposable things how fragile and valuable something like this is.”
The Conclusion of Superstition
~Eric Vance Walton~
(Gif sourced from Giphy.com)
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