Bookworm Journal

October 2, 1823 Page 1

The previous evenings promise of slumber was allusive and fleeting. I arose early for my eagerly awaited journey to Tudor Books in earnest anticipation of what "Vintage Stock" might reveal itself to be. The restless night was still hanging upon the lids of my eye and hollow hunger had invaded my midsection. To combat these sensations I reinvigorated myself by simply pondering upon possibilities of what might be learned at Vestow's beloved friend's bookshop.

I readied some tea and enjoyed an omelet and biscuit for breakfast. With the howling of my stomach subdued, I fetched my cloak from the garment rack and was off to the shop. Exiting my parents manor on new October day the street was quiet and damp with dew. The smell of horse was thick in the air as it is prone to be on damp mornings of this like. The chatter of early morning business being negotiated drifted from the end of the street but other than that it was quiet and peaceful. I started down the street to the river as I would need to traverse its breadth to get to the shop in Kingston. I approached one of the few boats-men open at this time and negotiated a fair rate for travel to and from Kingston and enter the private ferry.

Upon landing  on the opposite dock, "Six of the clock at this dock, understood."

The boats-man grumbled his acknowledgement of our agreement and I started up the wooden staircase to Market Street in Kingston. I queried as the the location of the shop with the owner of the general store. According to the owner, I had a bit of trek before me as it was a mile down Market Street and another half to the store on the corner of Wyoming and Gershom. The owner offered to arrange transportation to the shop for a modest fee but I refused him, saying it was such a wonderfully brisk day and I would manage on my own.

I wrapped my cloak about me and started down Market in defiance of the cold October breeze. When I reached the corner of Market and Wyoming there was a newsstand outside a tavern. Even at this early hour there was a ruckus inside the tavern as patrons drank and sang to piano music. I sat upon a watering troff's corner and rested for a moment before continuing on my journey.

Such a journey was rare for a woman and unheard of for a young lady such as I. I find walking with one's head down gives you a certain amount of anonymity and privacy plus it avoids unwanted attention. Only looking up every so many steps I completed the first half of my journey.

The purveyor of the newsstand was yelling the most solicitous headlines to attract interest in this weeks articles but anyone with half a mind could deduce it was a slow news week as the headline was "Woman witnesses devil upon a coach in Mountain Peaks." 

I purchased one copy of the rag and started down Wyoming Avenue to my final destination. Reading as I walked, the article was vague and uninformative, almost the whole of the information was contained in the headline alone. Sara Ruth spotted what appeared to be a deformed creature seeming to wait upon a coach in a local cemetery. The article went on to explain that Ms. Ruth was suffering from an extreme headache at the time, and was struck unconscious completely as approached the scene which lay on her route to home. When she awoke the coach and devil were gone alike. I finished the article just as I crossed over Gershom PL and  reached my destination.

I stood before a two story structure with slits of yellowed windows which seemed high on the walls. The door was pristine glass and "Tudor's Books and Such" was written in black paint upon the pane. To my dismay the sign which hung upon the door read "Closed". I again took perch upon a watering troff and waited the whole of what seemed an hour.

People where started to enter the streets and I was beginning to draw some attention from the men outside the feed store on the opposing side of the street. Their eager glances remaining a little too long for a young lady's comfort in my estimation. I needed to get off the street before I things escalated.

Then it happened. "Miss. excuse me, Miss," a large deep voice inquired.

I jumped from the troff and rapped upon the shop door sharply. The wooden sign jumped and clattered, to and fro on the other side of the glass. I could hear boots on cobble stone crossing the street and getting louder and the voice continued to get louder full of the same inquiries.

Visions of being pulled into an ally and injustices being forced upon me that these types of men say makes "Ladies" into "Women". I was so naive to attempt this trek alone. I pounded on the door  louder. A thought exploded in my head I called out "Uncle Charles!". The boot steps slowed but didn't stop.

"Its Jessica, Aunt Bev-," I slowed to think, "-verly sent me. sent me to look at your books," I yelled praying for a benevolent face to appear on the other side of the glass.

None did.

All that appeared was a reflection over my shoulder in the glass of a dark figure as a large hand landed on my shoulder and spun me around into a pock covered face, foul breath,  and blood shot eyes.  "I's been callin ya miss," a stench filled voice said.

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- D.Alan