Free Mists of Everness (The War of the Dreaming) by John C. Wright Page B

torn, and stained. Because the table and chair were small, child-sized, he seemed huge.
    As she stepped into the room, she smelled a rank smell, as if the man had been sleeping among garbage. How could she have missed seeing him here before? She had checked this little room twice before locking the main front doors.
    She wondered if she should call the police.
    “Sir! Sir!” she said, in a stern voice.
    The shoulders jerked. The man snorted. Then he raised his shaggy head.
    It was not just the small size of the chairs that made him seem huge. The man was huge.
    His beard and hair were black. His face was pale and streaked with tears and dirt. He clearly had not eaten in days. And his eyes were the saddest eyes Miss MacCodam had ever seen in a human face.
    He spoke in a hopeless, lost, small voice. “You see me then, eh? You are mad then, or a poet. You are daydreaming.” He spoke in a thick, Russian accent.
    “It’s after closing time, sir.”
    The man nodded sadly. “There are no closing times for me. Turn your back. You will see me no more. I am ghost. But I cannot die, you see?”
    Miss MacCodam stepped backward.
    The man spoke in a sober, slow voice. “There is another world alongside the world you know. Men of shadow live there, wrapped in mist. They fade; they die. People cannot see them, cannot remember them. Invisible people, wrapped in mist. Wrapped in sorrow. Wrapped in loneliness. You see me; the mists have parted. Soon mists swirl shut again. You will forget. Go away.” And he put his head back down on his folded arms, which lay on the tabletop.
    He muttered, “Library is only place to go; can talk with the dead here. No one else can talk to me. Great minds. Fables …”
    She said softly, “Do you need something to eat? Do you need some money?”
    A laugh, or perhaps it was a sob, came from beneath the lowered head. “I need one hundred dollar bill of Ben Franklin.”
    She said, “There is a can of soup in the librarian’s lounge. I can microwave it for you …”
    The man slowly raised his head. “Why would you help me?”
    “Because, well …” She couldn’t tell him that his eyes reminded her of a picture she once liked when she was small. “Well, you’re not drunk or anything …”
    “Tell me. What do you see here?” And she saw he had taken several days’ worth of newspapers off the rack from the main room. “Look at this picture.”
    “It’s the flooding. Terrible, isn’t it? The government is going to ship them relief aid …”
    “Here.”
    “Fires in the Southwest. Terrible how many people died. They say it may have been arson …”
    “Here.”
    “This? Protestors in front of a hospital. They want more money to study the epidemic …”
    “Here.”
    “Hurricane Clement. The National Guard is giving tent space to people whose houses were blown down.”
    “Brain in your head, it is shrouded by mist. Look at where my finger is pointing. Right here. Look.”
    “It’s … I … I’m sorry, what was I saying? It’s after closing time, sir … .”
    “There is a giant wading down the river, stirring up floods. He made heavy snows in the mountains, you see? Is why coldest winter on record. Footprint of fire-giant there, in ashes investigator standing next to. Arson, yes! Can’t you see it? And storms! Man dancing in air above wreckage of flattened houses. Right there in picture. Look right here where my finger is touching. Man on rotting horse at door to hospital. The protestors are next to him, he kills them with his poison, he smiles, they cannot see him. Photograph does not lie.” The man had stood and now loomed over her, pointing down at the scattered newspapers.
    “Sir, the library is … what was I saying? What …”
    “Look. You see I have piece of paper here with a hole it?”
    “Sir …”
    “You see hole, no?”
    Miss MacCodam spoke in a small voice. “Yes, I see it.”
    “I put it atop the picture of the flood. I cover everything but the giant. Where