The Ceremony of the Sanguines (Part 3) | 5 Minute Freewrite (Day1947) | Prompt: chronic

Ceremony of the Sanguines - Part 2

Author's note:
A haunting encounter in a thick forest for a first year archeology student, Lyndley Crenshaw, sets him on a path to uncover the meanings behind the gruesome discovery he made on an outing in the forest to capture native birds.

His city of Waycheshire was built atop hills with the area encompassing a wealth of resources and architectural designs that center around an inactive volcano. The quaint city with historical roots features caves and caverns surrounded by quarries housing limestone pits.

But what significance are these resources in helping Lyndley, with assistance from his fellow archeology friend and classmate, Mark Hansling, solve the mystery of his "Ceremony of the Sanguines".

All Lyndley has to show so far is a broken camera with all evidence of his encounter in the cave erased. Who attacked his camera and why?

Now, Part 3

Three thousand six hundred and ninety-nine days had passed. The wall clock overlooking the entrance to the library signaled another eight hours had just joined them. Mrs. Ethyl Friedland double checked her pad. She sighed, then inserted her usual notation. With a weary heart, she crossed out the date. Closing time for Waycheshire's Knowledge Keeper.

Ethyl Friedland. A loner, she has worked at the Knowledge Keeper for over fifty years. A true guardian of the establishment, she dared anyone deface a book or even attempt to damage property while visiting.

With a taller-than-average woman's height, her thin legs attempted to support a not-so-thin frame. Her long, silver hair revealed a once brunette shade underneath. No longer allowing the strains to hang loose, she twisted them tightly until a bun developed which tapered down to and sat at the nape of her neck.

If you ask any patron of the establishment, they'd say she was once a good-looking woman. Well put together if you liked that type. It was rumored that Ethyl Friedland had two romantic affairs in her youth, but no marriage proposals.

Speckled glasses covered her lean, oval face. If you catch her at the right moment when tilting her head as she'd often do when children were annoying, you can see a small scar over her right eye. As the gray pupils glaze, they give the impression they've seen all, but ultimately reveal nothing. There were secrets hidden behind that scar, if you ask certain people.

No one, except her immediately family, really knew her indepth. Perhaps there was something inexplicable about her; perhaps it was her standoffish attitude; or perhaps because she rarely spoke, not out of awkwardness, but out of caution. They speculated she possessed knowledge the average citizen never contemplated. When she did speak, people were certain a parable or enigma conundrum would follow imploring them to dwell heavily upon.

In other words, Ethyl Friedman possessed an amazing memory to accompany her intriguing foresight.

So she devoted herself to increasing the knowledge of other people's children, hoping they'd possess extra wisdom their parents lacked or refused to acknowledge.

She attempted to rise quickly, but fell back. She tried again.

The black, high back chair held its own. Transitioning to the cane, she walked gingerly toward her first love.

The isles begged for attention. She righted the wrongs left behind. Nothing unusual here. Leaving the shelves in disarray was the norm. "If only some parents would teach their children the virtues of neatness," she murmured.

Thirty minutes elapsed past closing.

Finished, a deep frown accumulated near the top of her glasses. Grasping her wrist, the nearby desk offered support to break her fall. She steadied herself.

Isle 10 - Local history Section. As she approached, tingling; numbness; quickening spirit; uneasiness; and shortness of breath rushed forth as they had the past several years.

The right shelf, second row from the top, and tenth book from the left carved her path.

Her hand effortlessly settled on the soft binder. The torn edges; the delicate script down the binder's back.

She paused. She knew what came next.

Nothing. No author or publishing date on the bind. So familiar; yet so far removed. The anniversary was drawing near.

Memories of last night flooded back. Thoughts of her maternal great grandfather evoked tears as his disfigured face stared at her. Silence. She expected words of disappointment.

A loud voice penetrated the silence, interrupting her thoughts. "Hello, Is anyone still here?"

^{Image created by me}

Startled, Ethyl Friedland pushed the book back deep into its slot. Attempting to hold onto the shelf, she stumbled.

A low curse escaped, more from annoyance at locking the door, but forgetting to turn the CLOSED sign facing outward in the window.

Rarely did she receive local patrons after closing. They knew better.

Rounding the isle moving slowly, Ethyl Friedland headed back to the front desk. Her chronic knee arthritis stiffened her joints and back pain struck at the most inopportune moment.

It took while, but she grabbed the key from her drawer and lumbered toward the wall next to the front entrance.

Rolling up the shade, she peeked through the stained glass door.

She quickly flipped the CLOSED sign over. Frowning, she looked at the young man for a few moments and pointed to it in an effort to direct his attention to the hours of operation.

Lyndley's eyes followed, then smiled wryly, hoping to soften her countenance. He knew it was past closing, but that was his intent. Mark informed him Mrs. Friedland often worked late.

The information he sought wasn't for the ears of children.

Speaking slowly and loudly, "may I bother you for a moment of your time? It's extremely important and urgent." He was hoping he'd find the librarian in a pleasant enough mood, as Mark warned him of her temperament.

Ethyl Friedland gave Lyndley the once over look before unlocking the door.

A tall, slim young man walked over and stood near the front desk. The voice was unfamiliar. The dress, even stranger. Her quick assessment from head to toe concluded he possessed a secondary education.

"I'd like to check out your a specific area of your local history section." Lyndley paused.

Three thousand six hundred, ninety-nine days, and eight hours had passed since anyone inquired about this small area of the library.

Those words slowly penetrated and gave credence to the fact that a person standing before her was real.

This was the moment Ethyl Friedland had been waiting for.

However, instead of embracing Lyndley, her eyes widened far above her cat glasses. Her hands flailed in the air, knocking her eyeglasses from her face. And, her cane became dislodged.

She fell forward into the arms of the stranger.

Pulling out a handkerchief, Lyndley wiped her forehead, then reached into his backpack and brought out a flask. It wasn't a remedy for a senior citizen, but it was the only liquid available.

The flask's liquid slowly aroused Ethyl Friedland from her fainting.

"Who are you and what do you want here?" Lyndley pulled out the paper.

"Mrs. Friedland, my name is Lyndley Crenshaw. I need some specific history about the town." He stammered.."I mean...Waycheshire."

She pushed his arms away. Shaking her head, she mumbled, "what exactly do you want to know?"

"I need to see your history section for any reports of strange occurrences in the last one hundreds years or more." Thinking her about to faint again, Lyndley decided to tread carefully, watching her reaction.

"Strange occurrences such as what kind? Ethyl Friedland inhaled and exhaled slowly, allowing her time to think.

"In the forest behind the mountains on the edge of town. Your relative, Mark Hansling, sent me promising you could help. I witnessed a horrific event in the cave.."

Lyndley noticed that Mrs. Friedland stiffen.

"Help me up young man. You've pulled the rug from under me, so to speak. and just because Mark sent you doesn't mean you can be trusted. A trap! A trap! I'll not end my life over this. They sent you, didn't they!"

"They. No, Mark Hansling sent me. A trap. What do you mean?" Lyndley was now more confused as ever.

"Spies everywhere just waiting!..."

"Mrs. Friedland, get a hold of yourself!" Not knowing what else to do, Lyndley shook the woman vigorously. He'd no idea why Mark would send him to this crazy woman. Of that, he was sure.

She gasped for air as a spasm of fear crossed her face. Too overwhelmed with apprehension to move, thoughts of wire clasps twisting her mouth shut shook her to the core. Staring mindlessly, she was paralyzed with fear of discovery.

She took in a deep breath, held it, then exhaled, reciting, in a hushed voice,

"Enduring sticks made of glass
created from ash
stand behind hidden smiles
paintings made, backed by evil deeds
as wings flap on the hungry piles
cleansing the past
collapsing slowly over time
as claws stroke the weeping cheek
in accusing nightmares."

As Lyndley's listened to the bizarre words, his first thought was that Mrs. Friedland shouldn't be working in a library, but admitted to a mental facility, until he grasped the context of the last sentence of her rambling.

"As claws stroke the weeping cheek".

Oh, my God, he thought as a prickling sensation shot up his spine remembering his dream.

How would she know about that!

Lyndley calmed himself so that he could calm her down. He knew now why Mark sent him to her. He had a lead. If only he could work with her to bring her back to a reasonable sanity level. Maybe he could convince her he wasn't a spy, but her ally, and extract additional information.

But in order to gain her confidence, he would have to divulge his horrific tale of the Ceremony of the Sanguines.

Would Mrs. Friedland think him as crazy as he just thought of her?

He had to take that chance.