Hawkswood (Short Story)

Resting his hands on a rusted parapet, Mr Firbank gazed at the highest rooftops of Ceraphoon and sighed with increasing discontent. A light rain had been falling all morning while a thick layer of mist had been ever present for most of the week. Firbank had been reluctant to step outside and face the tears falling from the firmament, but his lungs yearned for fresh air and his mind sought the haven of an open space away from the narrowing jaws of the clustered office.  

Firbank turned to a cigarette to placate his inner turmoil. He took in the view he'd seen hundreds of times before but never tired of - pristine Ceraphoon. The vast city and capital of Raincronia was steeped in history, yet great stories were now an almost alien concept. As Firbank continued to smoke and ignore the persistent rainfall, he yearned for the next great spark of inspiration that would rock the foundations of the literary world. 

Returning to his office, Firbank grimaced at the sight of his desk. On either side were piles of manuscripts; the dreams of countless aspiring authors, carefully pieced together in the hope of giving the next masterpiece to the world. Firbank knew different. His employer - Essenias Publishing House - hadn't produced a best seller in years and now the long winter of obsolescence had manifested itself in increasing redundancies, falling book sales and the very real threat of liquidation. Firbank didn't know how long he had left. All he could do was search hopelessly through the unrewarding pile of manuscripts and believe salvation was within the pages of one of these books. 

It was close to the end of the working day when Firbank heard a gentle knock at the door. Without invitation, the usually jovial Wilkins stepped into the office. He held a large book under one arm and looked around the room suspiciously. 

'Do you have a minute, Firbank?' he asked, closing the door before he had even received a reply.  

'Make it quick, Wilkins,' Firbank replied, 'I have to get through the rest of this pile before I can go home.' 

'More romance novels?' 

'How did you guess?' Firbank tossed the latest manuscript to one side and leaned back in his hole-ridden leather chair. He beckoned Wilkins to take a seat before sharing out the last of his cigarettes and ignoring the company's policy on smoking indoors. 'All these writers seem to think love stories are the way forward but it's been done so many times that everyone is bored. Don't get me wrong, love is an enduring institution but these amateurs are not doing anything new with it. How much longer before we're as redundant as these novels?' 

'I'm thinking more a well-earned retirement than redundancy,' Wilkins said, a sly grin bringing life to his face.  

'Retirement?' Firbank replied, as he finished the last of his cigarette. 'We're not due to retire for another thirty years, Wilkins? What are you talking about?' 

'Have a look at this.' Wilkins released the large book from beneath his arm and handed it to Firbank. 

'What is this?' Firbank asked, as he began flicking through the pages. Wilkins smiled as he watched Firbank's inquisitive eyes suddenly widen with wonder and possibility. 

'Interesting reading, wouldn't you say?' Wilkins asked, popping a small sweet into his mouth to stave off the suspicious scent of cigarette smoke.

'Is this real?' Firbank replied. He flicked through the book again taking in not just the words and revelations but the painstaking images and sketches that accompanied them. 'Wilkins, this book answers many of the questions that have baffled historians for centuries. Eglacius and the fall of Arlvayamond, the final resting place of Leansja the Great, the truth behind the passing of the dragons and the mystery behind Mufessius the Doppelganger.' Firbank paused for a moment; his eyes were fixed on the edge of the desk as his mind sifted through a forest of repressed memories. When Firbank's eyes finally blinked and shifted from their statuesque position, he faced Wilkins. 'Where did you get this?'