Dreams of the Quill

by Flak

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The tea cups sat on the table between us, mostly drained. Zimmers had told the butler not to worry about them, to call it quits for the night. It had begun to rain, and a faint, pleasant hammering could be heard on the roof two floors above. The window in the room had thick white curtains drawn across it, but I could still see the rainwater trickling down the pane. It was an image I’d seen many times, and was easy to reconstruct in my mind. All that aside, it was nice to focus on the hidden window. It gave me an excuse to not respond to the question at hand.

I reached out for the tea cup and brought it to my lips, as one idly sips water in a restaurant while waiting for the food to come. Only, the tea cup was empty. I set it back down again, turned from the window, and faced Zimmers.

I rubbed my temple with the forefinger of my left hand, sighed.

"To be honest, I don’t even know what language that was that I wasn’t understanding."

He busied himself with the tea pot, pouring more cold tea into my cup. Sitting back, he took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

"I guess I must have butchered it horribly," he said quickly. "I looked up some basic Japanese phrases, thinking I could at least give you a warm welcome in your own language."

"Japanese? My language is English."

"Are you not bilingual then?"

"What would lead you to that conclusion?" I asked blankly.

"Yamano Kaze."

"What do you mean?"

"Your name," he replied, sounding even less sure of himself than before. "It’s Japanese, right?"

"Oh. Right." I felt incredibly stupid right then. "Yes, that it is. Folly of an ostracized teenager. Yamano Kaze is not my born name, I took it on around the age of fifteen, maybe. I’m not even sure of the time anymore. It’s just what I respond to, now."

"And the name under which you publish."

"It’s my name, after all."

"So you’re not at all Japanese?"

"Not one bit."

"And you don’t speak the language?"

"I used to, I think. Maybe a little. I let it die, you know. I didn’t have room for it in my head any longer what with all that’s been going on the last eight years."

"I think I can understand that. Apologies for my assumption, then."

"It’s nothing to apologize for."

Silence settled in as I took a long sip of tea. The small clink of the tea cup as I put it back on the saucer seemed to echo throughout the room. The quiet of the following minutes seemed to draw them out into eternity. I blinked once, twice.

It wasn’t a small clink at all, a racket was made as the china clattered. I vaguely realized there was something wet covering my hand. I looked down at the tablecloth, darkened by the spilled liquid. My hand felt impossibly heavy, the sofa impossibly welcoming. I could have melted into it, filled its every crevice with me. It was inviting.

"Kaze, are you alright?" Zimmers’ concerned voice plied through a sheet of bubble wrap around my ears. I realized my head was on my shoulder, and righted it.

"Just fine," I heard myself mumble. "Maybe a little… tired."

The faint hammering of the rain on the roof was replaced with the incessant pattering of hail on the window pane. The curtain seemed to symbolize every obstacle I had ever been unable to surpass, and I faded out staring dimly at its whiteness.

Upon waking, I found myself to be lying on the ground between the couch and coffee table where I’d fallen. The white curtain was drawn wide, and the room was bright with natural light. Falling from me as I stood was a warm red quilt. I bent down and scooped it up, feeling its weight once before folding it and placing it neatly on the sofa.

"Oh, you’re awake, Kaze?" Zimmers walked in just then. "Sorry that the quilt was the most I could do for you. It would have been impossible for me to get you into a bed."

"No, I’m sorry. For falling asleep on you like that, and making a mess."

The coffee table had a different table cloth on it, a cheerful checkered green and white.

"Don’t worry about that. More importantly, are you rested now?"

"Yeah, I feel great!" I stretched, then hastily covered my yawn with a hand.

"Wonderful. Say, Kaze, would you come with me? I’ll get you a bite to eat from the kitchen, and then we can head upstairs and get started?"

"Sounds good to me," I replied, excited at the prospect of food. I hadn’t eaten a filling meal in weeks, and had grown quite gaunt thanks to that. I doubted my ability to put away food was what it used to be back in college, but at the time I felt I could eat a whole cow.

* * *

"In here, Kaze."

The big door swung inwards, and the first thing I noted was the huge amount of dust in the room. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind us. In the filtered light coming through the lace curtain over the window, I saw immense piles of books and stacks of loose papers. Filing cabinets lined two walls, a desk sat beneath the window opposite the door. On the desk, a small lamp and an assortment of pens.

"There are places like this?" I wondered aloud.

"It seems you understand what this room is, Kaze."

"A sanctuary of literary art. A shrine to what has been read and an altar for what has yet to come. A drawing board. A lab. A… desk." I looked back at him when he didn’t respond, only to see a broad grin on his face. "What?"

"As expected of Yamano Kaze," he murmured.

I turned back to examining the room and reached for the handle of one of the cabinets.

"Is it okay?"

"Please."

I pulled it open, and almost choked on the dust that came out. When it cleared, I could make out the covers of books. Titles. Authors. Everyone from Conrad to Homer to Shakespeare to Dostoevsky to Fitzgerald to Dickens.

"This is… amazing," I said in a hushed voice. "You have a veritable library."

"That wall’s cabinets are full of literature."

"And the others?"

"My life."

"Journals?"

"Mainly."

"So that set up at the desk…?"

"No, that’s for you. I’m done with journals and diaries. I’m done with recording. This space is yours now, and you’re the only one aside from me, the dust, and some sunlight that’s ever been in here. This is my request, Kaze. Make good use of my life."

Of all the things one can entrust another with, life must be the heaviest burden. It is not passed on smoothly like a piece of fruit or a used video tape, but instead handing it over weighs down on both parties. I gazed into the old man’s vibrant eyes, saw the life in them. Shakily, I extended my hand. He took it, and I could tell he understood.

I will make great use of this meaningless life of yours, Robert.

And you will live on forever.

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