Regarding the Disappearance of Martha Walsh

Martha Walsh sneezed.

Dust scattered from the row of books in front of her, floating and dancing in the air like clumpy, gray snowflakes. 

“Shit.” She said, adjusting her glasses and wiping her runny nose with her handkerchief.

The 17th-century occult manuscript she had been studying was now covered in dust bunnies and mucus. Sighing, she cleaned and placed the manuscript back in its protective plastic sleeve and returned it to its numbered placeholder on the bookshelf.

The forgotten section of the Turner Library of Pagan and Mythological History was dreary and bleak on this rainiest of Tuesday afternoons. If gray could be used to describe anything but stormy weather, these endless shelves of dusty grimoires, records, fairy tales and fables were at the top of the list. Though she adored the occult and its seductive allure, Martha’s research was moving at a snail’s pace and her deadline was fast approaching. If she wanted to receive her doctorate on the scientific explanation of magic and its historical origins this year, she’d have to spend all weekend in this god-forsaken, dusty-ass library.

Thunder boomed somewhere in the distant pastures on the outskirts of London. The sound reverberated against the old window panes of the Library, shaking the building to its foundation. From the upper support beams, centuries of collected dust drifted down into the stacks like thick ink in a glass of water. Martha looked up just in time for it to pillow her face.

She spat and gagged.

“That’s it! I absolutely despise this wretched place.” Martha wiped her face yet again with her handkerchief and stuffed it angrily into the pocket of her yellow cardigan. 

With a swift hand, she shook the layer of dust off the top of her head and pulled her messy brown hair back into a neatly-fashioned ponytail.

Of all the libraries in Europe with manuscripts on the subject of magic and the occult, Turner was by far the largest. Sure, there were other options for study – other libraries with updated facilities and lovely reading lamps with the fancy reading desks. But the depth of Turner’s collection outweighed them all like a gold brick against a penny. Such a shame that the Turner building itself was as old and out-of-date as the books and pages it kept. Though, it seemed oddly fitting. Like a black cat with one green eye and one blue. Turner was as unique and antique as the fabled Library of Alexandria, as displeasing to the eye (and those obsessed with personal hygiene) as it was. Martha sighed in defeat. She would have to swallow her pride and her cleanliness OCD to finish her research. 

Grabbing the next manuscripts on her list, Martha sat down to read. A Historical Account of the Pendle Hill Witch Trials (1612), an original print of the Malleus Maleficarum dating back to 1503, (surprisingly, still in readable condition), and, finally, a 6th-century (Christ have mercy) treatise on the fables of Merlin and Arthurian legend, titled Òran rìgh nan sìthichean (translated as “Song of the Fairy King”). How in the hell a library such as this had such ancient, prestigious documents readily available for public consumption...Martha shook her head in disbelief. 

It was her usual habit to start with the most recent documents first, but something about the stretched, brown leather of the Òran rìgh nan sìthichean called to her. Etched in the center of the cover was a Gaelic illustration, a depiction of the Tree of Life. Its thousand branches and roots swirling around an inverse to form a complete circle, resembling a vaguely Euro-pagan representation of the Chinese philosophy of Yin and Yang. Light and dark. Life and death.

Even the illustration showed the faintest signs of shading, indicating that there was a light and dark side to the tree branches and roots.

Like a distant, forgotten dream she couldn’t seem to place, Martha reached out and removed the tattered collection of pages from its protective sleeve. She ran a gentle hand over the manuscript’s fragile cover and breathed in its musty stench, taking in its history. How fascinating it felt, she thought, to hold a genuine, leather-bound manuscript from the age of knights and kings. 

Gingerly opening the cover and turning the first page, Martha stopped. On the inside of the cover was another illustration with strange words written in a circle surrounding a symbol. She'd studied enough magic languages to know this was presumably a magic rune, but its language was unlike any she had ever encountered. That, and it was very old. Too old.

“Fuck.” She groaned, drooping her head in defeat.

Martha could tell right away that the engraved language wasn’t satanic or druidic in nature and retained none of the patterns or consistencies her research depended on to support her thesis. This was something entirely new and foreign to a well-versed scholar of magic history like herself. Even worse, assuming the language and magic runes predated the manuscript itself, this single illustration could disprove her entire doctoral argument. In other words, her thesis was (how the Americans say it) boned.

Perfect. Just what I needed today. She thought to herself, burying her face in her hands.

Martha examined the magic circle more closely. The dried ink was browning, meaning the ink’s original color had probably been a deep crimson or red. Maybe it was written in blood, she thought to herself jokingly. As that eerie thought sat in her mind and mulled for a moment, she shuddered in disgust.

Out of the corner of her eye, Martha could’ve sworn she noticed the slightest shimmer on the page around the magic circle. 

She furrowed her brow. That’s odd, she thought to herself, Did they laminate it? 

She gently lifted the page, but it didn’t feel encased in any protective material. She flipped the page back and forth to try and mimic the effect, but saw no shimmer. Martha frowned in disappointment.

Looking over her shoulder, she checked to see if the library attendant was still asleep at his desk. Sure enough, he was quietly snoring in his chair behind stacks of returned books from the “light reading” section. Martha quickly captured a flashless photo of the strange magic circle with her phone for future study. With a soft "click," the camera captured the image and the magic circle began to glow a faint blue. The runic inscription began to shift and change, becoming legible in English.

Martha’s eyes grew wide. She blinked and rubbed them, trying to dispel the illusion. When she opened them again, the glow was brighter than before.

“Jesus Christ almighty” She quietly exclaimed, making the sign of the cross. As the inscription translated itself, Martha read along in a quiet whisper:

“A flower, a king, an immortal wing. 

Bring forth he, my eternal solemn sing.

My heart, your forest, every night and dawn.

My one true love, my beloved Oberon.”

With the annunciation of the final word, the strange circle had vanished from the page. Then, the page itself disintegrated, fading into the air as if it never existed.

“What the hell?” Martha said in disbelief. She waved a hand in the space where the page one sat and flipped through the following pages of the manuscript.

She looked up and noticed the library attendant’s chair was now vacant. 

“Hello?” Martha called out. “Mr. McDermot, are you there?”

No answer. That was her cue. She quickly put away her phone, shut the manuscript, and returned it to its plastic sleeve.

In a sort of panic, Martha gathered her research books and quickly returned them to their shelves. Her reluctant hand hesitated before placing the Òran rìgh nan sìthichean back in its numbered spot. What had she just witnessed?! She double-checked her phone and the footage was all there. The glowing. The magic circle. The disappearing page. Everything! 

Magic. Real, actual, unequivocal magic. Here in London! 

Martha thought the notion would excite and motivate her to finish her research, but, in its place, all she felt was a hollow fear. Who wrote that spell in the manuscript? What was it for and what did it do? A dark pang of dread flopped in her stomach. What...what if she unleashed something onto the world, like in all those horror movies about the occult and the devil? Assuming her hunch was correct and she had in fact unlocked a door, all she could think about was one single question. Who, or what, was on the other side of the door?

That was when Martha heard it. The unnerving sound of something leathery scraping and stretching out over a smooth surface. A bead of sweat ran down her cheek and dripped to the dusty library floor. Her eyes grew wide with fear as she tried to swallow the knot in her throat. The sound was coming from two stacks to her left. What an unnatural sound it was.

Unhinged and trembling as she walked, Martha made her way to just before the stack where the sound was loudest. Over the top of some books in the stack, she could see a mound of some kind, shifting and writhing. With a shaking hand on the stack’s edge, she slowly turned the corner to get a better view.

What she saw next made her want to scream, but all that escaped her horrified lips was muted silence. 

Shifting and writhing on the ground was the library attendant, Mr. McDermot, or at least what was left of him. His arms and legs had transformed into large roots that were furiously burrowing into the ground. Several saplings with bright green leaves were sprouting out of his torso and head. Their roots dug deep into his flesh, throbbing along with his heartbeat, absorbing his bodily fluids as nutrients.

Martha’s eyes grew so wide they might pop out of her head. A strong, slender hand grabbed her from behind and lifted her into the air with ease. She turned and gasped, still unable to release any semblance of a terrified scream. Staring back into Martha’s eyes was the face of a beautiful, slender man with golden-blonde hair. He had long, pointed ears and wore a gilded blue tunic.

What caught her eye next was the massive set of elegant blue wings attached to the man’s back. Like a butterfly with the body of a man, his wings vibrated ever so slightly give his body a gentle hover above the dusty library floor. The hum of the vibrations danced in the air around them, as if his mere presence was a song in itself. What a gorgeous melody the siren song was. Even with his cold, murderous expression, Martha was absolutely hypnotized by this beautiful butterfly man. She stopped struggling against his grip and let her arms and legs hang limp.

The winged man poked a finger at Martha’s chest. A brief moment of pain brought her back to her senses. She looked down and noticed a small black stinger retract back into the man’s finger from a tiny, bloody wound in her chest where it stung her.

Martha’s legs began to grow like roots, splitting and stretching into the ground. Her limbs and extremities slowly changing into tree bark, growing leaves and fruit in a rapid transformation. Seedlings began to sprout from her stomach, but, strangely enough, there was no pain. With the last bit of her strength, she looked into the eyes of her assailant. In them, Martha saw a raging winter storm swirling around a dark abyss. An odd sense of calm washed over her as she looked into that storm. 

What beautiful eyes... She thought, as all of her senses faded to black.

Copyright © James Schleisman 2019 All Rights Reserved.