Look and See

[Grimm]

A person could mark the passing of time by the quality of light as it crept across Bad Omens Booksellers. One would observe the shadows stretching over the shelves, or the corners growing darker. One could do all that, but that was not exact enough for the likes of Horatio Mortimer.

Horatio looked down at his pocket watch then up at the clock over the register. He shook his head. Three minutes fast. He returned his watch to its place in his vest and turned his attention back to the History section laid out before him. Or mostly History. Horatio wasn't sure what these manifestos, grimoires, and almanacs had to do with the Lost Colony or the Battle of Tippecanoe. Or these moldering prayer books and hymnals, for that matter. But, then again, this was Hangtown, so who was he to say what was what. Horatio reached and laid a finger on a book that, yes, had the title "Bone Journal" hand-lettered on its spine, when something gave him pause.

It was a voice, and it wasn't so much a pause as it was a flinch. The Bone Journal slid back into place.

"Can I help you with something?"

Horatio turned to look up into the eyes of Phinehas Dillinger, proprietor. Now, much has been said about those eyes. How their peculiar shade of blue reminded some of the most ancient of ices locked deep within the north's oldest glaciers. Of a brutal landscape indifferent to the whims and pursuits of man. Horatio would agree with those sentiments. He shuddered.

"Oh, just browsing."

"Just browsing. At Bad Omens. In Hangtown."

Horatio adjusted his spectacles.

"Ah, well, yes. Just browsing these shelves, but I would like to speak with you, Phinehas. About things."

"What kinds of things?"

"Things that have transpired lately. How they may or may not affect the arrangements between the Chronological Order and the Black Hand. Things regarding our mutual acquaintance Dominic Atkinson. And Ruth."

Phinehas's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but Horatio perceived. And he diverted his own eyes.

"By they by, where is Ruth?"

Tick.

"Am I my sister's keeper?"

"Well, no, but..."

"She's not here."

Tock.

"I can see that, but what I mean..."

"She's elsewhere."

Phinehas kept his gaze leveled. Horatio's darted from the floor to the clock to the books and back.

"Fair enough."

From outside, leaves skittered across cobblestones. Or pages fluttered deep in the bookshop's stacks. They sounded so similar. Along with the creaking of an old building of wood and stone as it settled. The tick of the store's clock and the pocket watch were not in agreement, and Horatio nearly broke out in a cold sweat.

Someone please say something.

"So. Dominic."

Thank goodness. "Yes. As you are well aware, he's had a very trying go of it lately. His fiancée, God rest her sweet soul, passed under terrible circumstances. And then that scoundrel Arsen Goodstone somehow managed to defeat him for the Underground title. I still can’t figure out what went so wrong for that to have happened.”

“Time and chance happen to us all, Horatio. Nothing lasts forever. You of all people should know that.”

Horatio stuck his hand in his vest and rubbed his thumb over the engravings of the pocket watch. Satiated, his calmer demeanor returned.

“Well said, Phinehas. And time heals all wounds. This too shall pass. Et cetera, et cetera. I just wanted to assure you that despite our recent…unpleasantness, the Chronological Order is as devoted to its cause as ever. You can count on both Dominic and I to remain steadfast in our common goals.”

Horatio straightened and gave a sharp nod. Phinehas nodded in return.

“No doubt Dominic will let us all know where he stands soon enough.” Phinehas ran his hand through his beard. “But you’re not here just for gossip, are you?”

Horatio tugged on his suit jacket. “No. I understand you have a book…a most particular book, here at the shop.”

A pause. Something like a grin curled behind the beard. “I do.”

Phinehas turned. The hobnails of his shoes click-clacked across the wooden floor as he walked to the register, with Horatio following close behind. Phinehas stepped behind and pulled out a book. A most particular book, and he laid it on the counter. The cover was a patchwork of leather, cloth, and other bric-a-brac. Tattered edges of pages clung in various shades of brown and yellow. Horatio leaned over it and breathed deep of the smell of old book dust, of every decaying page, of age and rot and ruin.

“You know I can’t let you read it.”

Horatio coughed to clear his head and looked up. “But that’s the Book of the Black Hand. And seeing as how the Order is part of the Black Hand, aren’t I entitled to at least a peek?”

“You are not. In fact, the only reason you’re even here now is that I have allowed it. I roam the boundaries of this land, Horatio, and no one finds their way here without my consent.”

Mortimer looked back to the shelves and muttered something.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I said…” Horatio adjusted his tie and put his hands in his vest pockets. “I said this is not proper. I am here on behalf of the Chronological Order. You know our business. And if that book is even remotely like the tales, you know why I must be allowed access.”

“I know your business, Horatio, and the tales are most definitely true. But even with all your obsession, all your knowledge on time and its influence, you’re not privy to everything. There are other offices within the Black Hand that concern themselves with the multiverse, with other realms, with what-have-you, but the Book – this Book – takes all that, takes your timing into consideration and describes this reality.”

Mortimer blinked. Phineas tapped on the cover. Dust motes jumped off and rose, joining the rest orbiting the shop. Phinehas did not smile.

“It takes our choices, Horatio – yours, mine, Dominic, Ruth, everyone – both those made and unmade, into account. It considers all our paths – those taken, avoided, sidestepped, and unaware – and shows us the patterns that make up a life.”

“So what you’re saying…”

“The Book of the Black Hand tells of what has happened. What is happening. What will happen.”

Remember the discussion earlier about the movement of light as the day progressed? Well, it had reached the time when the sun had begun its descent behind the hills of Hangtown. Wide palettes of color in the sky and blazing through the trees notwithstanding, Phinehas struck a match and lit a candle on the counter. A flash, a whiff of sulfur and brimstone, and the two of them looked at one another behind a flickering of candlelight and gloom.

“Everything, huh?”

Tick.

“Everything of consequence.”

Tock.

“Even, say, the outcome of a certain upcoming professional wrestling match?”

“Yes, I suppose so, but that’s neither here nor there. Look at the names involved. Kyle Shane, Justin Michaels, and myself on one side. Seromine, Gabriel, and Tyler Scott on the other. The three of us would just as soon lace into one another, and there’s no secret there’s a bit of strife within the ranks of Seromine’s brood. Do you really think the Front Office, or anyone, for that matter, believes this match will end in a clean decision? Class, fair play, sportsmanship – not to mention common decency and regard for your fellow man – will have no place in that ring on this night.”

Horatio looked from the Book to Phinehas.

“It’s almost as if the sole purpose of this booking is to fan the flames. As if Deadly Intentions won’t be a Grand Conflagration enough on its own. Who knows whether this match will even make it to the opening bell.”

Horatio tapped his fingers on the counter, but kept a respectable distance.

“But the Book knows?”

Phinehas folded his arms. His beard burned in something of a purifying fire within the presence of the candle. “Oh, yes. It’s quite clear on the matter.”

“And you’re not the least bit curious?” said Horatio, raising an eyebrow behind his spectacles and cocking his head.

Phinehas shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do about it, whatever it says.”

“Beginnings and endings and things beyond. No chance of changing course? No sudden flashes of wisdom or madness or folly to alter an outcome?”

“The Book makes allowances for such things. We may not know until after…but it’s in there. Besides, sometimes it doesn’t matter what choices we make. The outcome will be the outcome regardless.”

“Mmm hmm. If you say so.” Mortimer withdrew the pocket watch yet again. He popped it open, looked from it to the shop’s clock, and huffed his disapproval. “Well, Phinehas, I have appointments to keep. Perhaps I’ll come back around again one day and we can discuss if any of this is, in fact, the case.”

“Perhaps."

Tick.

"If I let you.”

Tock.

With a tilt of the head and a hint of a bow, Mortimer said, “Even so.” He turned on his heels (heels on some well-polished dress shoes, noted Phinehas) and exited the shop. Down the stairs and out into the night, where the gas lamps guttered along the streets, lighting his way as he left. Phinehas trusted he could find his way home.

The Hangtown Horror grabbed the Book, but waited. He ran his fingers along the edges of the pages and watched scraps flake off. He lingered somewhere near the back. A thumb on the cover, bracing himself on the Book, he acted as if to open it. The spine cracked. Phinehas smiled, removed his fingers, and returned it to its place behind the counter. Then blew out the candle. He stood there in the dying of the light watching the smoke twirl up and dissipate into the ether. The wick glowed in a rage of orange, then faded, until, finally, the dark claimed it.