The Bookkeepers: Tales of Agras

Isaac did not like much of anything. He didn’t like sports, and Jimmy Anderson had made fun of him multiple times for that because—well, what kind of fourteen year old boy from Brooklyn didn’t like baseball? He didn’t like cars, either, and he wasn’t looking forward to driving one like the rest of his peers were. No, Isaac didn’t like sports, or cars, or superheroes, or metal music or cool, new-generation technology. Isaac liked books.

In truth, saying that Isaac Summers liked books was comparing Earth’s moon to the brightest star in the sky, Sirius. The lanky boy depended on them, on the weight of their pages and the smell that wafted as he buried his nose deep into a story. He read anything and everything, from the classics of Goethe and Cervantes to the latest John Green novel. It didn’t matter, as long as it was good. So it didn’t matter whether he was at school, or his home, or a wedding or church: Isaac was always reading.

And of course he was reading when just last month his parents entered the room and told him of their upcoming divorce. The blonde was no fool, and he’d guessed it would come sooner or later. They had tried, they did, but there was no family bond anymore. Maybe that was why they bought him so many books—so that he wouldn’t realize they weren’t even in the house most days of the week in order to avoid each other. In any case, Isaac put his book down as a sign of respect and told them it was okay: he was pretty independent when it came to cooking, cleaning and watching after himself. But then his mother, Linda, spoke up.

That was how, a month later, Isaac looked through the window of his father’s car, away from The Phantom of the Opera and into the deep woods of Maine. He didn’t realize he was frowning until he met his reflection, and he tried to soothe the expression before his father could ask him what was wrong.

Because everything was wrong.

Moving away from Brooklyn wasn’t really a big deal—he had no friends, and the only routines he took were fencing lessons with a mediocre teacher and horseback riding from time to time, when he had enough time. It made him angry, though, due to the fact that it disrupted everything he’d created. Isaac did not like change, and moving from a big city to a small town meant that everything was about to change. He didn’t know much about uncle Connor, he didn’t like the sound of St. Theodore in Maine, he didn’t like the worsening weather and he didn’t like how he was supposed to start High School in a place where everyone supposedly knew each other.

Isaac was invisible. A shadow. He liked it that way because then he didn’t have to be held responsible of friendships. Friendships meant going out, and going out meant having to socialize for long periods of time, which meant less time to read and less time for himself to be alone and enjoy his solitude. Sure it got lonely sometimes, but that was how it had always been, why change it now when everything was just fine?

It had been five hours and a half of a car ride, without any stops because his father insisted that the sooner they got to St. Theodore’s, the sooner Isaac would be able to rest. After all, he’d packed his bags at the last minute—he blamed it on his book, but he knew it was because he didn’t want to move away. He threw one last grouchy look at the sign welcoming them to St. Theodore’s and returned to written words, feeling his stomach ease as he began to forget the outside world.

“We’re almost there,” Warren, his father, spoke up with a smile. “You’ll love it here, Isaac. You uncle’s in charge of a very big library and he will let you read whatever you want. You mother will be in Quebec, just a few hours away, and she’ll visit you whenever she can.”

“But you’ll be in Australia,” the blonde didn’t glance away from the inked pages, yet Warren knew he had his full attention on him. Isaac worked that way. “You’ll be so far away, I won’t get to see you in… in a really long time, dad. That kind of sucks.”

“I’m sorry, buddy,” the man ran his free hand through his chocolate locks, the same shade as Isaac’s eyebrows. His son also had his same eyes. “I’ll try to come every Thanksgiving. And you could also come visit me on summers!”

“Aren’t there like, really big bugs on Australia?” Isaac scrunched his nose and shuddered. Warren began to laugh. “I mean, I know there’re quokkas and koalas and kangaroos but why would you want to live somewhere where spiders can eat your face?”

“Because it’s a great job,” he answered after a good laugh. “It’ll do everyone good, Isaac.”

There was a beat of silence, in which Warren swallowed and tried not to ask something utterly idiotic, like whether Isaac was mad at them for separating. Isaac, as sad as it was, was pretty mature for his age. He understood these things and he knew it was for the best, complaining only to himself about having to move away. He hadn’t demanded everything, and the adult found himself more than grateful for that.

“I’ll miss you,” the teenager mumbled.

“I’ll miss you, too, bud,” his father retorted with a sigh.

The rest of the car ride was spent in silence, the soft sound of the Bon Iver CD keeping them slightly relaxed. As they entered the town, the trees and the foliage became thicker, letting little light pass through the gaps between the green leaves. It created multiple shadows, brushing against Isaac’s closed eyelids. It was a persimmon light, the one reserved for the sun when it began to set on summer evenings.

He still had his eyes closed when the vehicle stopped completely and his father sat back on his seat. The fourteen year old boy turned to him, watching his tired features—the divorce had taken something out of him. Maybe a burden, maybe something not so bad that he didn’t really want to lose, but he seemed exhausted. They should’ve made those stops.

They’d halted in front of a big building. It was wide, tall and seemed to be pushed right against a wall of rocks, almost burrowed into it. Grandiloquent pine trees guarded the sides of the library, contrasting against the dirty white of the paint. The arched windows were completely clean, though, and the door a deep, dark wood that Isaac didn’t know the name of. On the steps leading to those front doors was a man Isaac guessed was uncle Connor.

The blonde pushed the door of the car open, stepping into the humid air and immediately being assaulted by the intense smell of pines. Clutching his book, he looked back at his father and grabbed his bag, walking towards the brown haired stranger. Warren was close behind him, waving slightly and receiving the same salute from his brother.

“Hey, Connor,” Warren spoke, his hand moving to Isaac’s shoulder when they ceased to walk.

The man in front of them was younger than Warren—Isaac knew this because his father was forty-one and he’d told him his brother was thirty-six. They shook hands awkwardly, like the brothers who hadn’t seen each other in seventeen years but decided not to talk about it, and then Connor settled his green stare on Isaac. It startled the young boy to see the very same eyes he wore, with the greyish hue and the golden little dots around the pupil. Connor was tall, like his father, and he sported a simple, brown sweater, jeans and boots. A pair of oval glasses framed his square face, and the hits of a stubble could be shown. His hair was a shaggy mess, just like his father’s.

“Hello, Isaac,” Connor smiled. He had straight teeth. “Your father’s told me you like books a lot, right?”

Isaac shrugged, looking away. He didn’t really feel comfortable meeting new people, and after such a long ride he just wanted to read for a while and pass out. He felt his father squeeze his shoulder softly and pat it once. Connor chuckled.

“He’s tired,” Warren spoke, as if that explained everything. “I’m glad he can come here with you. He’ll be happier than in Brooklyn, I know it.”

Change doesn’t make me happy, Isaac thought.

“All of you are welcome at St. Theodore’s, Warren,” uncle Connor told him, and he seemed to be telling the truth, as far as Isaac could tell. “It’s no trouble at all. We’re all friends in this town.”

“I’m glad,” the eldest man sighed and gave him a tired little smile before he turned to the car. “I’ll start getting the bags out.”

“Want some help?” Isaac looked up.

“You go explore,” he winked at his son, watching the little spark ignite in his eyes when the sentence left his lips. He ruffled his hair, kicked him softly on the rear and laughed as Isaac bounced up the stairs, shoving the doors open.

He knew that his father and uncle were going to talk—he wasn’t that stupid—but his sense of adventure and the little hope for something exciting and strange made his heart pound. Isaac had read about big libraries in far too many books: big ones, scary ones, ones that held secrets and others that had none at all, ones that kept dangerous books within its shelves and others that were only there to aid people. Yet as soon as the teen passed the entrance, he let his jaw drop.

It was unlike anything he’d seen, at least in real life. Dyker Branch Library had been the most disappointing building in all of his life, yet St. Theodore’s Public Library stood tall and proud on its three floors. He walked inside slowly, his steps echoing through the building like in some kind of cheesy horror movie. The lights, despite the fact that they were a soft yellow, covered the entirety of the first, second and third floor to easily let eyes read and minds search. The first floor seemed more of a lounge than anything but when he looked up he could see that the second and third floors had tall shelves.

There was nobody, of course, so Isaac dropped his bag, left The Phantom of the Opera on top and rushed to the stairs, looking at the side to watch the height he climbed. Soon he was looking at lightened up hallways divided by Fable, Fantasy, Fiction In Verse, Folklore, Historical Fiction, Horror and Humour. He was about to move towards the Historical Fiction section when his name was spoken, and he looked over the railing to see his father beckoning him over. With one last, longing look at the third floor, Isaac descended the staircase and met Warren, almost grinning at him.

“This is straight up your alley, uh, kiddo?” he laughed.

“It’s so big,” he breathed out. “It’s so much better than in Brooklyn.”

“It is,” uncle Connor called from the entrance. Isaac realized his luggage was now next to his bag. “You’ll sleep in the East Wing, with me. That’s the only part of the building that isn’t freezing cold in winter. Your room is on the second floor, you can find it easily.”

“Thank you,” he said for the first time, still distracted by the thousands of possibilities he now had for the rest of his High School years. He promised himself to read at least half this place, if he could. He wondered what kinds of books were in the strange sections and the old ones. “It’s all so cool.”

“I’m glad you like it,” uncle Connor rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’ve got to go,” Warren spoke up softly, like a whisper, as if he were afraid to break something. When Isaac’s shoulders rose slightly, he knew he had—so he kneeled down in order to be closer to his son’s height, now looking up at him slightly.

Isaac was so gangly. He was skinny, with only a bit of muscle on his legs and arms thanks to those fencing lessons and the horseback riding he did occasionally. Yet he was still small, still fragile, and he couldn’t believe he was leaving him alone with his little brother, who hadn’t taken care of someone in a long time. He was afraid of making a mistake, but as soon as green clashed against green he knew he needn’t worry. Isaac could take care of himself.

“I’m going to miss you, too,” he said, and pulled Isaac for a hug.

His son embraced him back, chin falling on the crook of his neck.

“I’ll see you sooner than you think,” drawing away from the warmth of family, Warren watched as the blonde raised his thumbnail to his mouth, biting on it whilst refusing to look at him. He made sure to let his hand rest for a while on his head after ruffling his hair once more. “Love you, kid.”

“Love you, too,” Isaac mumbled.

And then he left. Just like that, he left and Isaac was now alone with an uncle who didn’t know anything about him and probably didn’t care much, anyway. It wasn’t like Isaac could feel anymore nervous or awkward, so he swallowed and walked to his bags, taking them into his shoulders and his arms.

Without a word, something which Isaac was grateful about, uncle Connor helped him out and nodded towards the right door of the entrance, pulling on it with his foot. There was a small, quaint living room full of mismatched furniture and an old TV, still full of shelves with books, but those looked worn out and well used. It made Isaac think of his own books, all supposedly delivered to his room in three cardboard boxes along with his bed and the rest of his things.

They passed the kitchen, which was almost as big as the living room, and then they were climbing the stairs, Isaac following his uncle to the second floor. Entering the first door to the left, Connor let his bags on the floor and turned to see his nephew’s reaction. The blonde looked around, surprised to find it bigger than his old room, though not incredibly so. His bed was made, which he was extremely grateful for, and he had more shelves than before—he guessed they’d been there before. A simple, dusty carpet and another arched window that let him see the infinity of pine trees surrounding the library. He wondered where the hell his High School and the rest of civilization was supposed to be.

“How do you like it?”

Isaac glanced at his uncle, found him incredibly young for some reason and shrugged once more.

“It’s pretty good, I guess,” he tapped the cover of The Phantom of the Opera rhythmically, trying to convey his need to be alone. “Thanks, uh… uncle Connor.”

“It’s no trouble,” the man looked at him for a minute before opening his mouth and quickly closing it again. He shook his head, told Isaac that if he were to need anything, his room was above his, and shut the door behind him. Isaac had a feeling that they would get along.

He had no quarrels with the room, really, it was spacious and good enough for him. His cardboard boxes were stacked against the corner, near the window, but Isaac couldn’t bring himself to start unpacking, feeling slightly betrayed by his parents even when he had no right to. As soon as he began to feel panic over school, he shook his head and dug around one of his bags, producing his pyjamas. He’d have time to worry the next day, when it was time to go to school and not time to sleep—or read.

He threw himself onto his bed, snickering a little as it squealed slightly, and opened his book where he had left it. It was probably well past-midnight when he finished it, softly placing it on the shelf as the first book with a little grin on his lips. He did enjoy reading new books—and arriving in this town could mean a whole new scale of fantastic adventures if his anxiety let him.

With that positive thought in mind, Isaac drew up the thin sheets of his bed, relaxing in the summer warmth the building provided and closed his eyes. He’d worry about what was next when tomorrow came.