Burning crosses

Burning crosses

The night sky lit up as the fires below in the city started raging. The wood of the houses and shops had dried in the last weeks of summer, when temperatures had gone up higher than ever before, as long as people could remember. Now some unfortunate soul had tripped and knocked over a candle or torch and the city turned into a blaze.

Thick clouds heavy with rain moved high above the fires, reflecting the light and turning night into day. Slowly the fires made their way through the city, while its inhabitants fled for their lives or ran for water in an attempt to stop the flames from destroying their homes.

From the top of the church, it was clearly visible that the city did not stand a fighting chance against the raging inferno. Down in the streets in front of the church, there were carts being loaded up with the valubles from inside. A big wooden cross that had been hanging above the altar was now being dragged onto one of the carts.

The priest gave an ironic laugh when he saw the people struggling with their load. After the last fire some fifty years ago, the church had rebuilt the city in its own image. Altough very impractical to defend, the town had become a holy place. The shape was visible from the nearby hills and had become somewhat of a tourist attraction on its own.

The embers came in through the open doors. The sight of the fire through the doors was one that could only be described as the sight of hell: buildings burning, the heat that struck everyone that looked out, and the realisation of the fact that there were people in those flames. As the heat of the fires became unbeareble, the people that had stayed behind could only look at the glow from behind the doors and pray that the blaze outside would not destroy the church, and them with it.

The heat of the flames became to much for the doors and set them on fire. For those who had stayed behind, it was the moment of realization that the church was also lost. Some decided in this last minute that they wanted to survive and ran to the back door in an attempt to escape the blaze. The door opened, and through it came scorching heat.

From the top of the hills, those that had escaped the city could see the tragedy unfold. To some the thought occurred that their world was coming to an end with the burning of the city, and that god had lost his throne. Before them, the city build like a cross was fully ablaze with its church at its center. Now all the crosses in the city were burning.

The bookstore

The dim lighting gives the store the old, dark and dusty look that you might find in an old building or an old library. As I walk in trough the door, a doorbell comes to life and a - to my surprise - young lady leans to the side of a book case from the top of a ladder to see who has just walked in. “I’ll be right with you,” she says, while placing a few books on the top of the rack and then climbing down. For some reason I notice her clothing, a long grey skirt with a white blouse that doesn’t have much trouble hiding her curves.

“How can I help you?” she asks when she stops in front of me. Her eyes, the colour of which is difficult to see in the dim light, fascinate me and I almost ask wich colour they are. I restrain myself, and instead give her an awkward smile. “I'm just looking around, if you don't mind.” Only now I notice her glasses that give a short twinkling from the reflected light outside as she turns around. “Let me know if you need anything,” she says as she walks back to whatever she’s been doing before I came in.

I start walking past the rows and shelves of books, letting my mind run free. This kind of bookstore isn't very common anymore. Shelves filled with books, with the older ones in the back of the store in the dimmer light from the sparsely placed lightbulbs, the smell of paper in the air as if the books that are for sale have been standing there for a very long time. When I reach the older books, looking at the spines and reading the titles, I feel a strange sensation. Nothing unpleasant, just something like you feel when someone asks you questions and you need to think about the answer.

A wild thought occurs to me when the sensation disappeared again. The smell and feeling of the book store suggest an aura of mystique. New book stores are sterile compared to this one and seem to lack the thing that would bind customers to come back. The lady I saw when I came in appeared again behind me with a shy smile on her face. “Can I interest you in this?” she asks, holding out a book bound in dark brown leather.

‘Werewolves’, the title reads. I look at the lady with a bit of surprise. “How did you know I like stories on werewolves?” The question has left my mouth before I realise it. Even in the dim light, I can see a faint blush on the lady's cheeks. Her eyes drift down but her posture, which doesn’t really match with her bashful look, seems to say ‘I would like to tell you, but I fear that you would get mad if I did’. Only for a few seconds is this visible, before the lady composes herself again. Somehow I find myself very attracted to her. The thought of asking her for a drink briefly crosses my mind.

“You seemed the type that likes this kind of book. Am I wrong?” she says. Automatically, I shake my head to indicate that she was right. We walk back to the counter and once there, I can see her eyes clearly. They are as grey as a cloudy summer’s day.

From behind the counter, she takes the book from me again and looks up the price.

“The book is 12,50 but you can have it if you take me to dinner in a few days.” As she says this, I can see her cheeks flare up bright red. The sensation I noticed earlier comes back again. I look at the lady, but can’t see anything on her face that suggests that she is behing my silent questioning. In my mind I demand that the questioning should stop, and the feeling goes away.

“You’re very good at guessing,” I venture, trying my best not to make it sound like an accusation, but more like an compliment. As much as that is possible, the lady’s cheeks turn even redder. “My name is Jack. How about tomorrow?” I say, before she can respond to my remark. Relieved that she doesn’t have to reply, she smiles and holds out her hand.

“Yoana, and yes, that would be nice," is her answer. We exchange phone numbers and I walk out the bookstore, a book and a date with a beautiful, yet mysterious woman richer.