Ranger's Apprentice; The Final Pieces

A perfect birthday present

I've always enjoyed vintage stores. They make my mind restless and curious. Not because of the smell, or the antique looks of the stuff inside, but because of the antiques themselves. Everything inside a vintage store has been used by someone else, and thus has a story. Every other object has its own history, its own story, its own mystery. And I love unravelling those. 

I immediately head for the bookshelves, my favorite part of the store. As I walk between the hundreds of books, my eye catches a glimp of a shelf I have never seen before. 

An old notebook lays on the shelf, dusty and unloved. I run a finger along the gold framing,  and it comes away dirty. In the grime that must have taken years to form there is now a streak of gold. I hold it up. With the light that struggles to make it through the grime on the window the letters are subdued, but I can already tell it's been important to someone. 

Bound in red leather, cracked and dry with age, the thin volume smells faintly of pipe tobacco and dust. The pages within are brittle and what remains of the book's original stitching is barely holding it together.

A faint scrawl on the inside of the cover declares that the journal once belonged to Gilles MacFarlane. Somewhere deep down I recognize that name, but I don't know who it is. 

I turn over a page. It smells warm and dusty, like the inside of an attic. The fragile old pages almost become delicate snowflakes with the touch of my hand. Most people would have left this book without as much as a backwards glance, but I was enthralled. I appreciate the beauty of an old book, and even more the cursive handwriting I now read. 

A figure moves through the close standing trees, silent as a shadow. The young man, it looks like one, lifts his right arm. A huge longbow comes in sight, and within a matter of seconds the man has shot four arrows, each of them neatly hitting the target. It's unsurpassed. As if it wasn't enough, the young man starts climbing a wall no ordinary person would try surpassing. For every other man it would be impossible, but this young man does it easily. As soon as he jumps off the wall, he rolls a bit to break his fall, smoothly ending on his feet. He can't help the satisfied grin spreading over his face as an older man walks over to him and proudly pats him on the shoulder. 

"Well done Will," a deep voice says, "Well done."

I suddenly remember the name of MacFarlane and can't help the surprised gasp that escapes from my mouth. It can't be. It's practically impossible. The entire series is finished, and all books have a proud place on my shelves at home. Yet I'm still holding this medieval notebook in my hands, and it's all the proof one could hope for. There is only one possibility. This is real.

At the counter is an old woman, not the kind you pity with their old bones and feeble limbs, but the kind who could still run an army kitchen given half a chance. She stands quite tall and slim, her short grey hair neat and likely styled with old fashioned rollers, the kind women used to sleep in. Her face is made up with discrete make-up except her lips that are cherry red. Were she any paler her mouth would be garish, but against her sun-kissed skin it looks right.

I hold up the red notebook. 'How much costs this one, Mrs. Tully?' I ask, barely holding back the excited I now feel. She closely examines the in leather covered pages and answers, with this typical, old voice: 'I've never seen this before. I know every single object in this entire shop but I've never seen this one. It must be destined for you dear; take it, as a birthday present.'

'Oh, thank you, Mrs. Tully!' I exclaim, while a wide smile spreads over my face. 'I'll take good care of it, I promise!' She laughs softly at me, as I pass the counter and open the door.