Page 40 of A Dead Man's B-Side
I began to chuckle at the simplicity of it, yet also at the trickery. I decided I liked whoever was behind this. They were clever. Cunning. If this was going to come back to bite me, I’d already taken the first few steps. What’s a few more?
“A–Thesecret,” August said.
“So… ultimately,” I replied, holding up the paper with a raise of my brow, “thisis the secret. If this is the secret–”
August finished for me, “Ripping it, not accepting the invitation would be betrayal.”
“And accepting it would mean to light a fire.”
Wolf looked more and more intrigued as he gestured to me. “Well… pull out that fire of yours.”
For once, there was no insult waiting at the tip of my tongue or a scowl beginning to form. The excitement at solving something,though I didn’t dare show it, kept me distracted. Shoving my hand into my trouser pocket, I retrieved my lighter and lit it. Holding the paper over it as the words began to form.
“Holy… Are you still sure this isn’t a prank? I don’t think someone like Callum could think that up.” August let out a surprised laugh.
None of us replied to him, too enraptured by what was being revealed. My eyes narrowed as the words fully formed.
Soren Kierkegaard.
The words were written in the corner in print. It was why there were no indents from the press of a pen.
I heard a heaved sigh release from my side.
“Well, this is even worse.” August slumped. “Do you know how many books there are in here with Kierkegaard’s name in them?”
I lifted my head and put away my lighter. “I haven’t been here long enough to know this place inside out.”
We both turned to Wolf for any answers he might offer, and from his grin, we knew he had them. “There is a portrait of Kierkegaard on the second floor.”
August was the first to dart away, and we, close in tow behind him, too eager to slow in our pace. He moved through rows and aisles, going deeper into the depths of this apparent maze. And for a moment, I’d thought I’d lost him as he sped away and disappeared around a corner. Except, there it was, the staircase leading up, and his resonating footsteps echoing like a beacon.
Wolf pushed past me and followed him up.
It didn’t take long before I caught up to both of them.
The portrait was large and looming over a crackling fireplace made of stone. A contrast to the wood surrounding us. Wooden walls, wooden floors, wooden shelves. The gold framing glinted under the oil lamp next to it.
Something was out of place. I felt it, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Wolf inspected the small plaque under the art piece before pulling back, making sure to keep his coat away from the fire.
“This proved to be unfruitful.”
I leaned back against the shelves behind us. “Soren was a philosopher,” I began to think aloud, spouting anything until I found a link. “He is considered the father of existentialism. Existentialism is the idea that we must… find our own purpose and meaning in life.”
Wolf tilted his head and placed his hands on his hips, something sardonic passing over his eyes. “I didn’t know public schools taught such things.”
I ignored his comment because he’d be wrong in his assumption anyway.
Growing up, the only place warm or cool enough and with little to no law enforcement supervision had always been the library. Naturally, that was where I’d linger.
August shifted to the shelf on the side of the art piece and spoke lowly, “But there are too many books of his, it’d be hard to narrow it down. Besides, he wasn’t only known for existentialism.”
Maybe, but if you wanted to talk about fascism, you’d bringup the most glaringly obvious answer. Though in regard to narrowing it down, something told me we wouldn’t have to. That the answer was right in front of us–
I turned my head to the side, finding, down the corridor and nestled between a corner of shelves, a chair with a single book on top.
I mumbled to the two still lost in thought, “Who lights a fireplace for an empty library?”
“Maybe someone forgot to put it out.”
