The rain pelts the windows with ferocity, yet it only adds to the serene atmosphere of the hushed library in those quiet moments. The rhythmic patter of raindrops blends with the gentle hum of fluorescent lights, enveloping me in a cocoon of tranquility. There is a lot I hate about this job, but on days like this, it almost feels worth it.
A week had flashed since Doug caught me on my way out, his ham of a hand clapping onto my shoulder.
“In my office, Al,” the jovial, red-faced bossman rumbled.
My stomach hit the floor, dreading the worst. Well, maybe not the worst, I thought. It might force me to seek out a different, better job. Don't get me wrong, I love the library, but it didn’t pay well. Just enough to stay afloat in a one-bedroom. The only reason the boss paid this much because he couldn't find anyone else to stay long enough. Old Gertrude before me ended her watch over in the Non-fiction section; Doug found her in the stacks, facedown and cold.
After the college opened, Doug went to work updating the library, offering more services and, of course, more ways to milk money from the naïve college goers. This led to the expansion of my responsibilities, and the workload spiked.
Would old Doug find me similarly sprawled face-down on the pristine carpet around the corner of the stacks? I pondered, stepping into the cramped office and closing the door behind me.
In his late 50s, Doug sported a bushy mustache that danced with each word, making it difficult to concentrate on what he was actually saying. Leaning back in his chair, which cried out with a creak, he reached for his tea to take a sip. I waited, trying to hide my exasperation as he drew out the sip long and loud and slow, even made himself cough to add a few extra seconds.
Spit it out already, damn it.
“As wonderful a job as you do here, Al,” he began, “I can’t help but notice you’re kind of struggling to keep up.”
I opened my mouth to protest, to argue for my job, but Doug waved a hand to dismiss whatever I was going to say.
“Laurelvale Community Library is growing and changing.”
Another sip taken ever, ever so slowly, replacing the mug on the desk before he continued, “And I think if we want to keep up, we’re going to need a bit of help.”
“Sure, I could definitely use it." Get to the point, already.
“I think it’s high time we hire someone to give you a hand. Hell, I think it’s high time you took on some more responsibility.”
An abrupt "Yes!" burst out of my mouth too enthusiastically, and gathering myself, managed a cool, relaxed tone. “I mean, I thought the budget was too tight for that.” I’ve been asking for the last month, you fuck.
Doug almost harrumphed in response, “The budget is expanding, but you’re right, we can’t afford anything crazy yet.”
The glint of stinginess in his eye and the smirk stretching across his jowls like a tomcat who cornered his prey always gave me the heebie-jeebies. The pause lingered painfully, of course.
“One of my old drinking buddies gave me a tip," a finger tapping the side of his knobby nose before continuing, "He told me about a program out at the old Harvey Fjord Reformatory, where you can acquire help for a very affordable price.”
Harvey Fjord Reformatory was a hellhole of a jail just on the edge of town. It's been said if you were just a little too hairy in the wrong part of town, you’d find yourself behind its gates for God knows how long. That’s a much-too-nice way to say the Reformatory was a jail almost entirely filled with anthros, built separate and apart from the jail that housed human criminals. Beyond their differences in species, what distinguished these jails was the Reformatory's facade of "aiding troubled souls" of the furry persuasion. It masqueraded as an orphanage, mental asylum, and prison, admitting a wide range of individuals and effectively creating a ghetto within the ghetto. The program Doug referred to was just slavery under a nicer name, but easier for many to swallow because they weren't human.
Too dumbfounded to speak, I just stared until Doug continued.
“I’ve already placed the order.”
“That fast?” The ethical issues with the whole renting out a person aside, it meant another job of Doug's was going to fall onto me: training someone new. Besides, there were some actual issues in such a diverse workplace. To be frank, there were biological hurtles. My mind flashed to the thought of a skunk worker. Oh God, the smell, the poor books… Something must’ve shown on my face because Doug slapped his thigh with a clap and began a chuckle deep in his belly.
“You won’t believe how perfect this is. They had a librarian already! No training, no adjustment. Hell, these yuppie fucks at the college,” he jerked a fat thumb in its general direction, “they’ll see it as a big win for diversity.” Then, in a mocking sing-song, “We’ll be helping the community, employing a poor, downtrodden animalfolk.”
Not sure how else to say it, the question came tumbling out, “Wha – what are they? Please, please, not a skunk.”
That got a laugh out of him, too. “Hell no, I’m not trying to run people out of here. It’s a bird, something black, a crow, something like that.” Dismissive, an uncaring wave of his hand.
“It?”
He shuffled through some paper, sausage fingers searching as he mumbled, “Here it is. The name is Lenore Annabelle Ravenbrook. A raven, looks like. Hope you like birds, better hide anything shiny.”
“A bit on the nose, isn’t it?" I thought aloud. Her parents must've been a fan of Poe, had to be. Also, a bit of a morbid outlook for your child, if you believed names meant anything to one's fate.
“Well, I didn’t name the bird, did I?” Doug’s laughter at his own lame joke filled the small office.
A week passed in no time. Doug, as per usual, did his disappearing act for the week. He’d show back up, complain, take care of the managerial business (napping in the office, most likely), and then disappear for another week leaving me alone to take care of most everything else.
That was all going to change, and though I couldn't separate the thought of extra help from the obvious ethical quandaries, I can't deny it came with a bit of elation. I'd click my heels at the thought of extra pair of hands to help, but I'd rather not bust my ass.
Briskly wheeling a squeaky cart piled with books through the freshly carpeted library stacks, I went about my usual work day, stopping occasionally to replace a book on the shelf. Only made it halfway down the row before a tall young man stopped me to ask for help. The emblem on his blazer featuring a torch shining over laurels marked him as a student of the recently opened college nearby, Laurelvale College. Leading the student to the section he needed, I'd trudge back to the cart, only to be intercepted by another before getting to return to reshelving. So it went hour upon hour.
The friendly, musical note that announced the entry of a patron broke the near-silence of the library, followed by the crisp ringing of the bell at the front desk.
Cart left abandoned, I strolled toward the front, emerging from the stacks to find a peculiar pair. One a stalwart-looking officer in a crisp, deep navy uniform below a rain jacket, his face all sharp lines. The officer’s right hand rested on his service weapon and the other on the shoulder of the second figure, who was shivering and only escaped being entirely drenched by the aid of the now-soggy newspaper held in her feathered hands. She was short, barely reaching 5'2", if one was generous, and the threadbare overalls and hand-stitched sweater struggled to stay on her, rail-thin as she was.
She wore her long black hair so that the bangs were pulled back and tucked behind oil-slick-sheen cheek feathers to keep it out of her face, but what remained fell to frame her angular avian face. The downy-looking feathers formed a fur of sorts, especially around her short, sharp beak. Her eyes held mine for a moment, and I was lost in their intensity. It was like staring into molten gold. Heart pounding in my ears, the moment stretched into eternity. When I shook off that, in truth, brief moment, I searched her face. Lenore's expression was difficult to read, and she looked away quickly, corners of her beak turning downward. Then, my eyes fell on the silver necklace she wore, standing out against her dark feathers. On it was engraved a number, 562149. It wasn't a necklace. That was a collar.
“You’ve got to sign some paperwork,” the officer said, but in my distracted state, I didn’t quite catch it. He sounded like the Charlie Brown adults.
“Sorry?”
Slapping a packet of documents onto the counter, the sharp-faced officer tapped them with a thick-knuckled finger.
“Gotta sign for her," he said, deadpan.
“Sure thing." Giving the officer my best customer support smile, I started the gauntlet of signatures where the officer pointed his finger. “Sleepy weather out there, isn’t it?”
“Raining cats and dogs. No offense,” he said to the girl, who didn’t respond.
After some time of signing, the officer tucked away the papers and, on his way to turn and leave, tapped the silver collar around her throat, which caused her to recoil. “This stays on.” For a moment, he fixed her with his sharp stare, “Behave, now.”
Then, they were alone.