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By Root 702 0

in shock. An ugly black burn mark spread across the entire back cover. She touched a rough brittle spot along the rim at the corner. Then, concealed in the thickness of the book, she saw a small section of charred brown edges. She brought the book to her nose. The acrid smell of burning was long gone but the cruel evidence remained. Carefully she opened the book at the damaged section. A black jagged edge halfway down the pages marked where the creeping glow had run its course and been extinguished. She touched the scorched words with the pad of her finger as if, by some miracle, she could undo the harm. She was upset by her discovery. Why, she wasn’t quite sure. She closed the book and turned it over, examined the cover closely, opened it again, searching for possible explanations. The end papers were the colour of thick cream and were finely marbled in green and gold. She turned the leaf. On the plain dedication page, neatly written in a fine hand, she read:

Matthew Molloy

From William Sommerton

With Congratulations

MDCCCXCVII

The ink had faded to a watery brown but the words were still quite legible. One thousand, eight, she began to decipher the roman numerals, pointing with her finger: one, eight, nine, seven. 1897. She checked again. Yes, she was right. She began to subtract…Seventy-three years ago, this book had been given to him by someone called William Sommerton. She repeated the name under her breath; not a common name in the west of Ireland. She looked again, closer: William Sommerton. She spoke the name again and again, hoping for some explanation to leap off the page.

A sharp meow by her feet made her jump. The cat stood there, its frank, inquisitive eyes fixed on her. She snapped the book shut and immediately returned it to its place on the shelf. The cat continued to stare. “Out,” she whispered angrily, pointing in the direction of the door. “It is my business.” Then, walking purposefully to the door, she held it wide open. Slowly the cat turned and with a self-satisfied swagger, made its exit. Nora closed the door tightly, making sure this time that the catch held. She had been invited to explore, she reassured herself, as she returned to the books, but put the Shakespeare back in its place.

On the lower shelf a small collection of Irish writers caught her attention. Yeats; Sean O’Casey: Early Poems, Plays, Essays; The Playboy of the Western World: Poems and Translations by J.M. Synge. The publisher was Cuala Press. These were treasured old copies. She drew Poems and Translations from the shelf. As she suspected it was a first edition. Given the time in which he lived and the look of the books, she surmised that there were likely many such books amongst the collection. Excited, she decided to pick out a random selection and take a closer look.

She settled herself on the bed in the corner of the room and spread the books on the coloured blanket. First she chose a small pocket-sized book. Tipping it towards the light she tried to read the title. Only the indentations remained on the blue baize cover, the colour on the lettering was all but gone. De Profundis. She picked out the letters and underneath, Oscar Wilde. Her hands dropped to her lap. To Nora, De Profundis meant All Souls Night, November 1, “Out of the depths…” dark frosty evenings in a tiny churchyard, the hymn of supplication for the souls in purgatory, sad and plaintive yearnings directed to God. In the front door of the church, icy holy water from the stone font hastily sprinkled before entering the dim interior. Inside, the heavy smell of incense, the flicker of lighted candles, covered heads bowed in prayer, secrets being shared with the Almighty. “Out of the depths to thee O Lord I cry,” the choir would intone from the loft: “And let thy light shine on them saviour blest, / Grant to the poor souls everlasting rest.” Out the back door into the cold night and the ritual began all over again.

The hymn ran relentlessly through her head as she sat cross-legged on the bed. In those days she knew little of death and dying, the one