An Interview Gone Wrong

It was a hot, sticky sort of day - a day where the sun shone brightly, beating down on us without a hint of a breeze. Which wasn't bad. There was something refreshing about the energetic heat of the sun and the good, honest sweat of hard workers.
In short, this was not a day for old men and stuffy interviews.
"So, Mr. Marionbrook," I said, grimacing at the words. The sooner I got over with this stupid school project, the better. "You've ran Marionbrook Books for over fifty years now. Is that correct?"
"It is," he said with a smile. He glanced out the window and frowned momentarily, then turned back to me.
"Can you tell me more about the store?" I prompted, itching to write something - anything - down. I was determined to get a good grade on this. And I was determined to put my knowledge of traditional runic shorthand to good use. So I wasn't going to sit here staring at the man. I prompted further, "Perhaps details about the founding, maybe your role in running it?"
"It was founded by my grandfather," he said, the words seeming to roll of his tongue without thought or emotion. "My family has always been rather wealthy. He had amassed quite the collection - and knowledge - of books, and saw an opportunity to profit off that. There was no noble cause in it, I'll admit, but he passed it onto me when I was thirty years old. Since then, I've made it my priority to make this place somewhere anyone can come to find the book that they need - and we've amassed quite the collection of rare works that I am happy to say are significantly less rare, thanks to our printing presses."
I nodded, scribbling down everything I could - which was both a lot and nothing at the same time. I needed to get as much information as I could, but this guy was as dry as the pages he sold. No tragic-turned-inspirational backstory, no inheritance intrigue, no data of sales or purchases or service. But now the old man was looking at me, and his eyes were beginning to twinkle knowingly (which is a sign that I was about to get some serious exposition), so I smiled, scrambling to come up with another question. Where had that sheet with all the prompts gone?
"Um - er...shall we go visit these printers? And the, um, bookbinders?" I stammered out, instantly regretting the words. Why hadn't I asked about their book collection, the history of the store's architecture, his favorite author and works, events they had held, maybe visited the employees - anything! But the words had slipped out of my mouth before I even registered them.
A little taken aback, Mr. Marionbrook - ugh, I was so glad I didn't have a last name like that - nodded, and led me through a door, down a flight of stairs, and through a long hall (where I could hear the sound of people chatting amiably, as well as small thuds and the occasional shiiiiick of a paper shearer). It was surprisingly well lit, considering the fact that it was undercloud. Stars above, how old was this building?
Suddenly Mr. Marionbrook stopped in his tracks, standing outside a door in the wall. There was nothing but silence behind this one. Except...not. I thought I could hear the faint sound of rushing water - but that was impossible.
Marionbrook straightened, opened the door. Inside, a man was carefully rearranging the letters of a printing press. He straightened as we walked in, smiling jovially. He wasn't tall, but he wasn't short, and he had thin shoulders and a wiry frame.
"Marcellus, this here is a young interviewer who wants to write an article about the store," Marionbrook said, gesturing to me offhandedly. He sounded...distracted. But it wasn't a tired distracted. It was...something else.
"Does he now?" Marcellus asked, giving no indication of noticing how odd Marionbrook was acting; instead raising an eyebrow in my direction. Perhaps the old man was just always odd. "Well, then, it's wonderful to meet you. " He extended a warm brown hand, and I shook it. His fingers were strong, and his skin was leathery. "I'm Marcellus - Maxwell's nephew." Wait, did they all have names that started with M?
"Nice to meet - woah!" And he pulled me to the printing machine.
"Now, here is our printing press," he said, practically beaming with pride. "It is the latest model, and the most efficient. We use it, of course, to print books." And he proceeded to give me such a detailed tour of the room, and then the bookstore, that I was certain that my hand would fall off if I wrote any more. We finished just in time for lunch, and I thanked him honestly and profusely - he had saved me countless hours of piecing together dry, half-baked information.
I shook his hand once more, much more wearily, my other hand grasping my now-thick packet of notes. I even agreed to help him move a printing press into his workshop - apparently they were short on workers. I was in a pretty good mood and lent him the extra hand, and we had just finished setting it down when I heard the sound of rushing water once more.
"Is there a water fountain nearby?" I asked. Marcellus looked at me with wide eyes.
"You can hear it?" he asked, sounding utterly shocked. Unsure of what to do, I nodded.
Because that was a good idea.
"Are you a Crysphic?" he asked completely out of the blue, glancing at my hair.
"No!" I said defensively. "At least, I don't think so..."
"Your family - are they scholars?"
I swallowed. Well, duh! How else would I learn traditional runic shorthand? Mother had taught me.
Mother, who dyed her hair...
"Come with me," he said, opening a door in the back of the room. The sound of running water was even louder now.
"I must get Uncle Maxwell," he said, hurrying off. I stared at the passage behind the door. It was darkly lit, and I probably should have backed away, run out of the store, complete my report and have called it a day.
In case it wasn't previously established, I am an idiot. So that little curious urge inside had me walking down the hall, which was stone - solid stone! I followed it into a small cavern with a pool of water at the bottom and a ledge leading behind a slowly dripping waterfall and all the way around the room. What was this place?
"And you let him down here?" voices behind me suddenly echoed.
"The tips of his hair are blond, Uncle. It's faint, but you can see it. He might have Crysphic family. And he knows the traditional runic shorthand - I saw it on his papers. And his family are scholars, and he can hear the water!"
The Marionbrooks stepped around a corner. Mr. Marionbrook no longer looked like a feeble old man - his shoulders were set with determination; his eyes were bright and keen.
Those keen eyes settled on me, and we stared at each other for a moment before my gaze shifted to the ground.
"I am a man in great need," Old Man Marionbrook (that was what I had decided to call him for now) said. "And thus, I am willing to take a risk. I need help - the help of a Crysphic. And you could be the one to help me. Do you want to know what is going on here?"
I started to shake my head, but that same curiosity swelled up inside me, grabbing my heart and forcing me to nod.
"Good. Then swear by your mother's gray hairs that you will tell only your parents what I am about to tell you."
"What does -"
"Swear it!" he barked, looking twenty years younger with the authoritative words.
"I swear...on my mother's gray hairs."
"Good. Then listen carefully. My grandfather...was not the best man. He was greedy. He wanted something." And suddenly Old Man Marionbrook was carrying a thick book in his hands. "He wanted this book. Whatever lies inside was so valuable to him that he was willing to trade a family member for it. But we'll come to that later. For now, let us say that he has committed a terrible deed, and he has this book. But he can't read it."
Marionbrook opened the book, revealing ancient-looking runic symbols scrawled across the page. "It's written in Ancient Draconic - the only people who could possibly read it are the royal dragons and the Crysphics, if they had the right resources. Only he can't find a Crysphic - or even the resources. So he dies, alone, passing the store to me and the book to my father. My father, too, cannot find a way to translate the book, no matter how hard he works. Which brings us to about twenty years ago, after my father's death left me with this book in my possession."
Old man Marionbrook snapped the book closed with a plume of dust. "And despite my best efforts, I have come across the same dilemma. I have studied my grandfather's journals along with as many ancient texts as I can find. Of course, I've also been busy fixing up the bookstore - both my father and grandfather were so devoted to this book that they completely neglected their duties."
"What's in the book?" I asked, staring at the emerald green cover.
"I was never told," Marionbrook sniffed. "Only that the information inside was highly coveted."
I suddenly felt a spike of fear. Was Marionbrook as greedy as his ancestors? Would he try to violently force my family to translate the book? What if we couldn't do it?
"Don't worry," Marionbrook assured, tucking the book safely into his suit. Despite its size, it seemed to vanish into the clothing. "I'll admit - I'm curious as to what's inside. I also fear that it is something dreadful - and that is why I have not taken it to royal scholars. But my grandfather wanted it - so much that he was willing to sacrifice something very dear to him in order to get it."
What was it? I wanted to ask, but I was too afraid. I'm sure my eyes said it all, for the old man gave a wry smile, though tears welled in his eyes.
"When I was seventeen and my older brother twenty-four, my grandfather sent us to the Pool of Marigolds to pick some flowers to lay on our grandmother's grave. The pool in question lies about twenty feet down, in a sunken pit in a cloud. I knew that I had to be careful not to fall, and that I should always be able to get back up after climbing down. What I didn't know was that, at the time, the pool was populated by water sprites."
"Water...sprites?" I asked.
"Devilish little creatures much like the water nymphs in mythology down on land - except much, much rarer. And they had the book. My grandfather made a deal with with them - he would give the sprites a soul in return for the book."
I felt a chill creep up my spine, and I unconsciously took a step away from the pool. Marionbrook joined me at the water's edge, staring sadly at the ripples. "They took my brother," he said, his voice cracking. "No. They tried to take me. My brother saved me. I fled. He...drowned, leaving behind a young wife and a year old son."
I glanced over at Marcellus, who nodded sadly. "They took my father," he said, speaking for the first time in a good long while. "But they'll give him back - if we can figure out the riddle that they planted in the book."
I looked sharply at the two of them. "They're playing you. They want to see you suffer. It's not -" my voice faltered. I wasn't sure where the words had come from, or where they had gone.
The sound of water suddenly grew louder, and I whirled around to see that the pool was coalescing to form a single, humanoid shape made entirely out of water. It was a man, who paced back and forth, staring up at the ledge that I and the two Marionbrooks stood on.
"His soul is trapped," the old man whispered. "He can't be free to move on unless we free him from the grasps of the sprites."
"And we can only do that with the book," Marcellus said, much louder and somehow even sadder, as the watery figure melted back into the pool. He turned to me. "That is why we need your help." I stared into the man's helpless, pleading eyes, and knew that I almost didn't have a choice. Not that I doubted they would let me go - I had given them my word not to tell anyone, sworn on...my mother's gray hairs, or whatever that meant. But I couldn't just leave them like this, no matter how...icky...the whole situation felt.
"I'll talk to my parents tonight," I sighed.
And boy, were they really going to be unhappy with me.

Type

Journal, Personal