There are rooms within Nocturna
That even Nocturna
Does not admit to having.
Rooms whose doors
Have never been recorded
In any architect’s plan,
Nor mentioned
In the club’s oldest ledgers.
One such room may be found
In the library.
Or rather,
Behind a bookcase
In the farthest corner
Where dust gathers
Upon forgotten volumes,
And the gaslight
Seems always
A little reluctant to reach.
Push the third shelf
Of the fourth bookcase
From the left,
And something clicks.
A panel moves.
A draught of cedar,
Old paper,
Polished mahogany
And distant tobacco
Escapes through the opening.
Beyond it is a room
That should not be there.
How many such rooms
Exist within Nocturna
Is unknown.
Perhaps there is another
Behind another bookcase.
Perhaps several.
Perhaps every shelf
Is a door
And every door
A room.
Nobody has been sufficiently foolish
To find out.
This particular room
Is exceptionally well kept.
Mahogany panels
Rise from floor to ceiling,
Interrupted only by
Tall shelves
Burdened with books.
Ancient books.
Leather-bound books.
Volumes whose pages
Have crossed oceans
And deserts
And jungles
Before arriving here.
Explorations
Of mountains that no longer exist.
Accounts of expeditions
That officially never occurred.
Journals describing
Impossible creatures.
Studies of
Forgotten customs.
Maps of countries
That appear upon no modern atlas.
Books about men
Who went looking for somewhere
And returned
With stories
Nobody believed.
And somewhere amongst them,
Perhaps,
A book about this very room.
The room is always warm.
Always lit.
No one quite knows why.
No lamps are ever found burning
When the room is entered,
Yet the shadows never deepen
And the corners never darken.
Above it all
Hangs an ornate crystal chandelier,
Its countless drops
Gathering the light
And scattering it
Across the polished shelves.
Beneath it,
Upon a richly patterned
Persian damask rug,
Stand four tall
Dark leather wingback chairs.
Four old thrones
For four private readers.
Each possesses
Its own side table.
Each side table
Its own ornate reading lamp.
And between them all
Sits a low, round
Mahogany parlour table,
Scarred gently
By years of glasses,
Pipes,
Books,
Maps
And the occasional
Unfortunate compass.
Upon the only wall
Not covered in books
Hangs a painting.
A tall ship
Cuts through a dark sea,
Her sails pale
Against a troubled sky.
Her name is written
Upon the stern:
The Silent Bride.
Nobody knows
Who painted her.
Nobody knows
Where she sailed.
Nobody knows
Why her crew
Were never painted upon the deck.
Beneath the painting
A single long shelf
Holds the souvenirs
Of former adventures.
Pieces of coral.
A brass sextant.
A tarnished compass.
A ship’s chronometer.
A curious ivory carving.
A fragment of something
That resembles bone
But has too many joints.
A bottle containing
Black sand.
A rusted key
With no known lock.
A little brass bell
That has never once rung.
And several other things
Which nobody in the room
Is presently willing
To explain.
Below the shelf
Is a handsome wooden bar.
Well appointed.
Well stocked.
Cognac.
Port.
Whiskey.
Crystal decanters
Catching chandelier light.
And, upon the corner,
A box of thick cigars.
Major Bramwell Thorne
Is standing there now.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Somewhere in his mid-sixties.
Perhaps closer to seventy.
A former military man
With the unmistakable bearing
Of someone who has spent
A considerable portion of his life
Being shot at.
He wears
A dark navy dinner suit,
A crisp white shirt
And a neatly knotted tie.
His grey hair
Is wavy and unruly.
Bushy grey muttonchops
Frame his face,
Meeting beneath
A magnificent moustache.
His expression suggests
That he has seen deserts,
Wars,
Storms
And several things
Which were probably best
Left unexplained.
Tonight,
He pours himself a glass of port.
He raises it.
Examines it.
Swirls it.
Then takes a thoughtful sip.
“Excellent.”
He looks toward the room.
“Anyone?”
Nobody answers.
Arthur Coldbottom
Has not heard him.
Arthur is buried
Behind an enormous volume
Regarding the floating islands
Of the Uru people of Peru.
The book is so large
That only his spectacles
And the occasional movement
Of a page can be seen.
Major Thorne smiles.
“Arthur.”
Nothing.
“Coldbottom.”
Nothing.
“Floating islands.”
A page turns.
Arthur speaks without looking up.
“Remarkable construction.”
The Major nods.
“I thought so.”
Arthur continues reading.
“Apparently they are made
From layers of reeds.”
“Indeed.”
“Entire communities
Live upon them.”
“Fascinating.”
“Some can be moved.”
The Major pauses.
“Moved?”
Arthur finally looks up.
“Across the lake.”
Major Thorne considers this.
Then raises his glass.
“Good God.”
From the opposite chair
Comes the sound
Of quiet laughter.
Milicent Bixby
Is engaged in serious conversation
With Felicity Thorne.
Milicent, once an anthropology teacher,
Has the habit
Of speaking about ancient cultures
As though she knew them personally.
Felicity, the Major’s wife,
Listens with fascination.
Her particular obsession
Is obscure architecture.
Not grand temples.
Not palaces.
But foundations.
Doorways.
Hidden chambers.
Buildings whose purpose
Has been forgotten.
She is also an avid photographer,
As is her daughter Adelaide,
And there are several photographs
Spread across the table.
Stone houses.
Buried staircases.
Strange foundations.
Ancient walls
Photographed in distant countries.
Felicity points to one.
“The doorway is wrong.”
Milicent leans closer.
“Wrong?”
“The proportions.”
She taps the photograph.
“It is too narrow
For ordinary domestic use.”
Milicent smiles.
“Perhaps it wasn’t ordinary.”
“Exactly.”
A voice from the fourth chair
Joins them.
Alistair Fisk
Has been listening quietly.
“The Mesopotamians,”
He says,
“had their own concerns
About doorways.”
Everyone turns.
Alistair adjusts himself
More comfortably in his chair.
“They feared demons.”
Milicent smiles.
“Many ancient peoples did.”
“Not quite like this.”
Alistair takes a sip
From his glass.
“They believed some demons
Possessed wings like birds.”
Felicity’s eyes brighten.
“Did they?”
“Apparently.”
He gestures toward
The photographs.
“And so certain foundations
Were consecrated.”
“With prayers?”
“Sometimes.”
“Offerings?”
“Sometimes.”
“What did they place beneath them?”
Alistair smiles.
“Objects.”
Milicent waits.
Felicity waits.
Arthur has lowered his book.
Even Major Thorne
Has stopped pouring his port.
“What sort of objects?”
Alistair shrugs.
“Obscure ones.”
There is a pause.
The kind of pause
Nocturna does especially well.
“Obscure,” repeats Felicity.
“Yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” says Alistair,
“that nobody knows.”
Major Thorne raises his glass.
“Excellent.”
Arthur closes his book.
“I have a book about that.”
“Of course you do,”
Says Milicent.
Arthur looks toward
The nearest shelf.
“It concerns foundation deposits.”
Felicity smiles.
“Which volume?”
Arthur stands.
He walks to the shelves.
Runs a finger
Along the spines.
Stops.
Then looks puzzled.
“It was here.”
Major Thorne looks up.
“Was?”
Arthur checks again.
“It appears to have moved.”
Nobody speaks.
The chandelier flickers.
Only once.
Everyone looks upward.
Then back toward the shelves.
The room is silent.
Major Thorne takes another drink.
“Probably the house.”
Felicity smiles.
“Buildings do have habits.”
Milicent laughs.
“Or perhaps the library
Has decided we should not read it.”
Alistair looks toward
The bookcase.
“Perhaps.”
Arthur returns to his chair.
He opens his book again.
The matter is apparently settled.
Outside the secret room,
Somewhere beyond the hidden panel,
Nocturna continues its evening.
Glasses are being filled.
Doors are being opened.
Footsteps pass
Through distant corridors.
A piano is perhaps playing.
Someone is almost certainly
Arguing about something
That does not matter.
But here,
Behind the bookcase,
The evening continues quietly.
A room of old journeys.
A room of lost civilizations.
A room of impossible animals,
Forgotten rituals,
Uncharted islands,
Ghostly ships
And discoveries still waiting
Between the pages.
Major Thorne sits back
In his leather chair.
Arthur disappears
Once more into Peru.
Milicent and Felicity
Return to their discussion
Of ancient foundations.
Alistair studies
The painting of The Silent Bride.
For just a moment,
He could swear
That one of the ship’s sails
Has changed.
He says nothing.
The port is poured.
The lamps glow.
The books remain silent.
And somewhere behind the walls,
A hidden mechanism
Clicks softly.
Perhaps another bookcase
Has just opened.
Perhaps another room
Has just revealed itself.
Perhaps there are ten.
Perhaps a hundred.
Perhaps Nocturna’s library
Is nothing more than a collection
Of doors,
Pretending to be books.
The thought is interrupted
By the opening of the secret panel.
Gideon Rook
Steps quietly into the room.
He surveys the company.
“Good evening, gentlemen.”
The Major raises his glass.
“Rook.”
“Madam.”
“Arthur.”
Arthur waves without looking up.
Gideon clears his throat.
“I regret to interrupt
Your scholarly pursuits.”
Nobody appears particularly regretful.
“But dinner awaits.”
Major Thorne sighs.
“Already?”
“Indeed, sir.”
He finishes his port.
Arthur reluctantly closes his book.
Milicent gathers the photographs.
Felicity gives one last glance
Toward the ancient foundations.
Alistair rises.
Together they leave
The warmth of the secret room.
Gideon follows.
The panel closes.
The bookcase settles
Into place.
And once again,
The corner of the Nocturna library
Contains nothing unusual.
Only books.
Only dust.
Only shadows.
And perhaps,
If one knows precisely
Which book to touch,
Another door.
