Scarlet winds breathed autumn through chilled night air, sipping on the lungs of children… A wafting scent of distant smoke and cedar filled the senses… And he blew in with the leaves on gossamer wings…
I remember the days of the book peddler… wandering… waltzing our streets… his books were paths to the China Sea or ancient Egypt… times of war… times of love… fears unspoken... places distant… dreamish… far off places I would never venture to see in my lifetime… I would never even venture to the ocean that I could hear if I stood still in the shadows at night.
Pennies a page to ride a magic carpet or fight in the Bolshevik Revolution… Oh… and she was there… threaded in the pages… like a sunrise, her hair glistened gold… Though her name changed in each book, I knew her voice… Jane Eyre, Anne Elliot, Tess Durbeyfield, or Cleopatra… I could recognize her anywhere from her shadowed grace… and my heart raced to be with her again…
I would be toiling… earth’s rich soil covering me like the finest robes… and I would hear his voice… the wind would echo it… “Come… Books for sale… Come explore the depths of the ocean in a submarine that flies under the waves! Or sail the sea with Captain Ahab! See a man become a monster before your eyes! Flee to hell or fly to heaven! Oh, come! Books for sale!”
At his call, the village would wander… those who could not read would cling to those who knew the trick… what an enchantment to linger over letters and see worlds come to life… what bliss to leave behind the toil for a moment and escape into the sky… Those words were my feast, and I gorged myself on them…
It has been years now since they buried my bones. You’ll only find a cracked, isolated stone, overgrown with vines and dust… barely legible writing… nothing of significance… And though I never travelled more than 5 miles from my grave, I circled the globe through the magic of the book peddler… Listen… oh, listen, my friend… and hear his voice still calling in the autumn winds… “Come”…