Arabella and Kurt: In the Land of the Wyrd

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It was a golden autumn morning in Briny Cove, Maine, and the trees around the little storefront bookshop were an explosion of oranges and yellows and reds.  The salt-tinged wind was tangling itself relentlessly in Arabella Thorne's wild black curls, lifting them and tossing them about so they swept across her round, lightly freckled pixie face.  She lifted one hand and brushed the mop of ringlets away from her elfin features, blinking a pair of large, sea-gray eyes against the whirling breeze.


The sign over the door read Yesteryear's Scrawl Antique and Rare Books, and Arabella had been its main proprieter since her friend and owner of the shop had retired.  Orville Milton still often came by to visit, and she could see him now at one of the cast iron patio tables that graced the front of the little coffee shop next door.  He had a large, book-shaped parcel laid out on the table before him, and was swathed in a heavy coat, knitted scarf, and trilby so she could barely make out his dark wizened face and wild shock of snow white hair.  He was very slowly nursing an enormous mug of black coffee.  It was decaf, Arabella knew, because he couldn't have caffeine anymore, but Milton had been taking a cup of black coffee at the beginning of his day for more years than he was ever willing to admit, and he wasn't about to stop now.

She stepped up to him, palming the keys to the bookshop from out of the enormous purse that she referred to as a "shoulder bag" because she thought "purse" sounded too froufrou for her tastes, and gave him a gentle nudge on the shoulder.  He turned, and she was greeted first by the sight of kind brown eyes over a hawkish nose, before a broad smile overtook his features.  "Well, there you are!  I was starting to wonder if you got lost."

She laughed a little, leaning down to give him a sideways hug from where she stood beside him before smooshing her lips fondly against his weathered cheek.  "My car wouldn't start.  I think it's mad at me-- must've pissed it off when I floored it on the highway last week when I was driving out of town."

A gnarled finger wagged at her, and Milton gave her a severe look.  "You oughta be careful with that fast driving, dearie.  I got no intention of outlivin' you."

"Orville Milton, you'd better live forever, or I'll be hunting your ass down and dragging it back here," Arabella said, but then grinned.  "You're right, though.  Of course.  As usual, you old fart."  Her curls bounced gleefully as she gave a quick, beckoning tilt of her head towards the front door of the bookshop.  "Come in out of the cold.  I'll be opening up soon."

Milton scooped up the parcel and followed her into the shop, still sipping at his coffee.  Arabella closed and locked the door behind them so she could get the shop ready for customers.  She moved around the floor space briskly, her long patchwork peasant skirt flapping about above her dirt-smudged white Reeboks as she worked to set out displays, count the change drawer, and set Etta James to her sultry crooning in the background.  Milton attempted to help, but she firmly steered him over to one of the reading chairs and made him sit, tutting about his heart condition.  Despite a feeble protest, he sank into the overstuffed leather, setting his cup on the table, his hat next to his cup, and placing his hands on the parcel that he had lowered to his lap.

Arabella turned the key in the lock and flipped the "Yes! We're Open!" sign in the glass-panel door, then whisked back to Milton's side, pulling the other reading chair in the arrangement closer to him with a rasp of wooden legs on carpet.  She indicated the mysterious parcel.  "Now.  Whatcha got there?"

Milton's regional speech patterns always seemed to fade into something more articulate, cultured, academic, whenever he began discussing his vast and varied areas of interest.  Arabella remembered again that he had come up from New Orleans many years ago, transferring as a professor of anthropology to the local university.  He had one hell of a sharp mind behind that sweet, grandfatherly nature of his.  She watched, fidgeting a little out of habit, as he pulled loose the twine and carefully slit the taped seams of the brown paper.  "I was given this book by an old friend at the university," he said, gently tugging the aged leather tome free of its packaging.  Arabella caught her breath as she saw the book; something about it felt... ominous.

"He can't place the language," Milton said.  He was studying her face closely, curiosity flickering in his intelligent eyes.  "In fact, he believes it may be written in some kind of cipher.  But he can't break it."

Arabella reached for the book, then rapidly pulled her hand back, as if burned.  She glared at it, rubbing at her fingers.  "Where did he get it?"

"He didn't say."

"And you... what, you want me to put it up for sale?"

Milton's thin lips curved into a thoughtful frown.  "Not just yet.  I thought maybe you'd like to take a gander at it.  See what you might be able to... see."  He coughed, and Arabella squinted at him.

"To see what I might see," she said.  "Okay then."  Gritting her teeth, she reached again for the book, this time with both hands, and lifted it from his grasp.

Its energy was ferocious.  Her eyelids fluttered and a ragged gasp was ripped from her throat, but she clenched her hands until her fingers were digging into the soft leather (probably not smart, if she wanted to sell the damn thing, but she wasn't sure she wanted to anyway after this), and steeled herself against the onslaught of rage and fire and the scent of brimstone.

She looked at Milton.  He watched her expectantly, and not for the first time, she wondered if he knew her secret.

"Damn.  Thing's heavier than it looks," she said weakly.  "I think I should hold onto this for a bit.  Maybe I can find out what it is before we decide whether to put it on the floor or not."

He grinned his toothy grin at her.  "Good!  I'd expect nothing less.  Now, you do your thing, and I'll be gettin' myself outta your hair now.  Got things ta do, places ta see.  Chess ta play.  Looks like ya gotta customer comin' in anyway."  He plopped his hat on his head and paused, head tilted down expectantly for his peck on the cheek, which Arabella cheerfully gave.  He then swept out the door, doffing his hat at the young man in clergy's garb that passed him on the way out.

Arabella gave the newcomer a friendly smile as she gathered the paper packaging remnants in one hand, the book still carefully and uneasily clutched in the other.  As she looked at the man, his image seemed almost to flicker, and for a split second, she saw... a creature, all blue skin and glowing yellow eyes and a gracefully curling tail. The superimposed image did not frighten her, though it perhaps took her somewhat by surprise, making her blink rapidly a few times before regaining her composure.  Arabella was quite used to dealing with otherworldly entities, so it wasn't too much of a shock that one would come through the front door of her establishment.  Still, though, she peered at him curiously, her smile still in place.  "Morning," she greeted.  "Something I can help you with?"