The Note in the Book

Thistlewood Journal Entry - 4

The Signpost

It stood just beyond the hedge. Weathered and leaning slightly to one side. Its lettering was almost impossible to read from this distance. I pressed closer to the glass.

Cloverfields.

The word sent a peculiar shiver through me. It sounded familiar. It was the name on the book of quotations resting beside me. The place Mossquill supposedly called home. And yet there it was, beyond the Blue Window. Real enough to cast a shadow.

For several moments I simply stared at it. Then I glanced back at the table.

The book remained where I had left it, open to Mossquill's observations. But something had changed. A loose slip of paper protruded from between the pages. I was certain it had not been there before.

Carefully, I drew it free.

The paper was old and slightly yellowed at the edges. Fold marks crossed its surface as though it had been carried in someone's pocket for many years. Only a single sentence appeared upon it.

"The shortest journey to Thistlewood is rarely found on a map."

There was no signature and no date. Nothing to indicate who had written it. I turned the paper over. It was blank.

When I looked up again, the signpost remained where it had been. Yet somehow it seemed closer than before. Not physically closer. Merely easier to reach. As though the distance between the library and the road beyond the Blue Window had quietly diminished while I was not paying attention.

I slipped the note into my pocket. It remains there still.

I looked at my surroundings.

The library seemed unchanged. The fire still crackled softly in the hearth.  The books still lay scattered where I had left them.

And yet , when I sat down to read, I found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on any single page. Every volume appeared connected to another. A quotation in one book led to a sketch in another. A sketch led to a map. A map referenced a journal. The journal mentioned a place I had seen marked on the signpost beyond the Blue Window.

Hours passed in this manner. Or perhaps minutes. I cannot say.

At some point I stopped feeling as though I was reading about Thistlewood. The distinction is difficult to explain. The roads described in the travel journals became familiar, the landmarks on the maps seemed recognizable. I found myself anticipating the next bend in a path before it appeared in the illustrations.

The names ceased to be names. They became places and people. And somewhere between one page and the next, I began to lose track of whether I was reading about Thistlewood or remembering it.