Scar Island(40)

“Last time I was here, you said something,” Jonathan began. “About—running a lighthouse, or something. What did you mean?”

“Just what I said.” The librarian’s voice was distracted, his eyes still scanning the shelves to find a book for Jonathan. “I used to run the lighthouse. Years ago.”

“What lighthouse?”

“Ours. Slabhenge’s. The island was first a lighthouse. Even before the asylum. Going way back. Hundreds of years. That is its true identity, really. Before all the tragedy. It still has the lighthouse. Unused, of course. For years and years, unused.”

“Where is it?”

“At the top. Of the middle tower. The one above the warden’s quarters. The Admiral’s now, of course. Keep going up the stairs. And you’ll find it. Dusty and in disrepair. I’m sure.”

“And you were in charge of it?”

The librarian sighed.

“Oh, for a while. Not much to it. Wash the windows. Check the wood. Polish the mirrors.” The librarian’s voice quickened and smoothed out, just as it had when he’d been talking on Jonathan’s previous visit. “It’s very outdated. Not electric. A place for a fire. Giant mirrors to magnify and reflect the light. The mirrors spin by hand crank. Had to make sure those were oiled and ready. I only had to light it a couple of times, during big storms. Don’t know if I ever saved any ships or not.” He coughed a scratchy, jagged cough and then chuckled. “Probably still a stack of wood in the bin up there. Rotten, I’m sure, and dusty, like everything else on this island.”

“Oh.”

Jonathan read a few more book titles. Some of them were so worn with age that they were unreadable. Some weren’t even in English.

“Can I ask you something?” Jonathan asked.

“Of course.”

“Not to be … rude or anything, but … how come you talk so much easier when you talk about stuff from a long time ago?”

The librarian straightened up to look over the shelf at Jonathan.

“Do I?”

“Yeah. You normally talk kind of … slow. Like it’s hard. But when you talk about, like, the old days, you smooth right out.”

“Hmm.” The librarian cocked his head even more sideways than usual. It was almost all the way to the side. His neck looked painfully twisted. “I don’t know. I wasn’t aware. That I did.” His mouth screwed into a tight, thoughtful frown. “Well, the past is easier. It’s done. It’s there for me. To look at. I can live there. And know where I am.”

His eyes drifted away from Jonathan, up toward the ceiling. As he spoke, they shifted slowly around the room and down to the floor at his feet. His voice got a little quieter with each limping sentence.

“It’s the present. That is so hard. Working at it. Finding your way. Forward. Picking your path. Having to leave the past. Behind.” His voice was barely a hoarse whisper. “It’s so hard. Easier, I think, to stay in the past.”

“What about the … future?”

The old man shrugged.

“I don’t need a future. I have a past. Instead. You can really only have one. Or the other. I think. And I like my island.”

“But it’s a prison.”

The librarian smiled. “It’s a home.”

Goose bumps broke out on Jonathan’s neck. He tugged nervously at his sleeves.

The librarian’s head slowly untwisted until it sat at a more natural angle. His voice rose back above a whisper.

“Here you go,” he said, handing a book over the shelf to Jonathan. “This one. Is perfect. I think. One of our newest books.”

Jonathan took the green-and-black book from the librarian’s trembling hand.

“One of your newest ones?” he asked. The book looked like an antique.

“Yes. We got it. Just before the asylum closed. For good.”

Jonathan traced the letters of the title on the cover.

“Lord of the Flies?”

“Mmm. Quite modern. That one. Also has an island. As a matter of fact. And a group. Of abandoned boys.”

“Abandoned?”

“Mmm. Left to fend. For themselves.”

Jonathan gulped and looked up at the librarian, then quickly away.

“Really.”

“Yes. Doesn’t go very well. I’m afraid.”

Jonathan squeezed the book into the crook of his arm and picked up his lantern.

“Off?” asked the librarian. “So soon?”

“Yeah. They’ll be wondering.”

“Yes. I imagine.”

Jonathan opened the door and stepped a foot into the corridor. He turned in the doorway and spoke one last question to the man’s curved back.

“What’s your name?”

“My name?”

“Yes. What’s your name?”

The librarian turned with shuffling steps to face him. Ninety-Nine was nestled in the crook of his arm, leaning into the old man’s scratching fingers. The old man blinked once, then twice. He closed one eye and reached up from the rat to scratch his own nose. His gray tongue licked his chapped, powdery lips, and then his hand dropped back to pet the rat once more.

“My name.” The scratching slowed, and then stopped. “Why, I’m not sure.” His voice was tinged with wonder, but not worry. He seemed only mildly curious. “It’s been so long since anyone has called me anything at all. I used to be a son. Then an assistant. An employee. A lighthouse keeper. A librarian. But now … well, I suppose I’m—nothing.” He smiled, an unsteady, slightly troubled smile. “Ninety-Nine has a name. But it isn’t really his. I suppose. He’s just borrowing it. I guess you could call me that. Ninety-Nine. If you wanted.”