Nothing momentous happened for the remainder of the week. Sherlock was weird; Madame ‘H’ was cryptic, and I was resigned. When I told mom of my academic fate she actually got out of bed and smiled. How could I disappoint that?

I did meet the rest of the staff. A lot of them had their origins from all over the world, which I found interesting. There was a woman, who caught my attention immediately. She wore a head scarf, what did dad call them, right, a Hijab. I even knew how to tie one…the curse of my memory. I found out from James, the only other male on staff (Sherlock didn’t count) that she had emigrated from Afghanistan. She had the most startling, clear blue eyes. There was a story about Alexander The Great visiting Afghanistan…

I know, I know, I have a thing for eyes. I really don’t know why. I understand eyes are supposed to be the windows to the soul, and that eyes can reveal lies or truth. The earliest recollection I have of eyes were those of my mother’s. She would come home at night, lean down over me and tuck me in. Then she would sing something to me. Usually in Gaelic; mom was Irish. I refused to go to sleep until she did that. I have never seen eyes as beautiful as hers.

So, an uneventful week: some mystical book filing, even some discards, which I looked forward to. I managed to get the hang of it. Instead of letting the book drag me through the library, I did as Sherlock suggested, and ‘just went with it, man.’

As I felt that characteristic tingle on my hand, when it was on the other side of the vault slot, I just let the book drop. I marveled at the iridescent blue slime residue on my hand, but it quickly evaporated like rubbing alcohol leaving a cool feeling to my fingers.

“There are only a few people who can do that,” said Madame ‘H’ after a deposit.

“Get slime on their hand?”

“No, deposit in the Vault, before you only the Head Librarian and myself.”

“What about the others…”

“James and Sasarana, no.”

“I haven’t seen you do it,” I said to her.

“I don’t like getting slime on my hand,” and she had turned away.

I do believe she was beginning to like me.

After my failure at Story Time, Madame ‘H’ had taken me up to Sherlock’s office where I had been forced to explained things. He just advised me against accepting books from the vault and that was it. I could tell Madame ‘H’ wanted to say more, but she didn’t.

I looked at my watch. It was time to go, but I didn’t want to. It was a strange feeling. Leaving the library you had to pass the Head Librarian’s office. I hesitated outside Sherlock’s office door. It was shut, which was strange. I knocked.

“Come,” said a muffled, distracted voice through the thick wood.

I went in. Sherlock was standing behind a big lectern that was carved in the shape of an owl. Resting on its wings was an enormously large book. He was stooped over it, his half-moon spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He was dressed in a pin striped suit, nothing out of the usual except those stripes were alternating pink and black.

“Oh, master Suntag, so glad you came. I was wondering when you would knock.”

I was being expected? “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, yes, H says you are working out fine, fine.”

“She did?” I must have sounded surprised.

“Yes, she did. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Ah, well, do you think I can stay later today. I really don’t have anything urgent at home. It’s all right with my mom…trust me.”

He closed the book. I was suddenly possessed with the desire of taking a peak at what he was looking at.

“Trust isn’t the issue…”

Then what is? I thought.

He ran a long hand in front of his pink and black suit. “As you can see, I am going out: official business with the board; would you like to accompany me?”

I hesitated.

I had been in involved with Councillors and administrators for my entire High School life. All of them, poor souls, had been trying to help me ameliorate my problems. Invariably it had always descended into a fencing match, until I got bored and shut down. However, with Sherlock involved I couldn’t imagine anything being boring.

“I’ll take the hesitation as a yes. William, toss me my hat.”

He used my first name. Usually I resented someone, who wasn’t my friend, using my first name, but strangely I was pleased. Behind me on a rack was a black fedora with a pink band. I grabbed it and tossed it to him. He deftly caught it on the tip of his walking stick and flipped it onto his head.

“Why are you dressed like that?”

He was pulling on an overcoat. “Dressed like what?”

“I haven’t seen many people wearing pink and black pinstriped double breasted suits.”

He winked at me. “Exactly, shall we go?”

I found out that this meeting we were going too had been arranged by the Library Board’s President. Sherlock, for some reason wouldn’t divulge the name. Although it was supposed to be in secret, Sherlock had made sure the media had been notified. When I pointed out that this would probably tick off the board, he just smiled.

“It is my intention to, as you have appropriately said, ‘to tick them off.’ Besides all is not as it seems.”

I was about to ask him what he was talking about when I noticed where we were. There isn’t much to my Town. One main street with a series of decaying buildings, pawn shops, banks and bars and restaurants. The big retailers had moved to the outskirts where taxes were cheaper. I noticed we had stopped at the worst bar in town. Everyone knew that a biker gang hung out here. We were meeting at a biker bar?

Outside the seedy building was a rather nervous looking reporter, camera hanging around his neck. He was puffing desperately on a cigarette. Clark Kent he definitely was not.

“So glad you could make it, Tom. Nobody else come?”

“You’re kidding, right. No one is going up against Cliodhna.”

Cliodhna? Cliodhna Construction. She owned half the town. She was the President of the Library board? Why?

“Yet, pardon my observation, but, you’re here.”

Tom threw the cigarette he had been puffing on down onto the sidewalk and ground it into the cement. “I’m desperate. This better be good.”

“William, this is Tom McCreedy, the owner of the Belligerent Chronicle.”

The Belligerent Chronicle was a weekly newspaper that specialized in anything nobody else would print. It would publish whatever it could get its hands on.

The reporter begrudgingly pressed his lips tightly together and gave a terse nod. “Let’s get this over with.”

Sherlock stepped up to the scarred and pitted door and rapped sharply on it with the end of his stick. A little slot, eye level, slid open, revealing a bloodshot eye that blinked repeatedly. There was a satisfied grunt on the other side of the door, and then the sound of several dead bolts being slid and unlatched. Sherlock led the way into the dark abyss and... I hesitated.

“Are you coming, William?”

“Ah, well, are you sure I’m old enough to go in there?”

“You are able to Discard books at the library, I think that qualifies you, don’t you think?”

That was the problem, I was thinking a lot about things, and still wasn’t able to tie things together with any common sense. “Why would any Board want to meet here?”

“Cliodhna owns the building. It was her ‘request.’”

The interior was even worse than the pitted door. The floor was filthy, the chairs and tables were broken and gouged as though a hundred knives had been at them. In the centre of the floor was an enormous man with a great, black beard. He crossed his massive arms and glowered at us. I noticed he only had one eye. Violence seemed to radiate from him.

“You’re late,” snarled the man.

I stared at him.

Tom was looking at the filthy floor. “Don’t look at him,” he said tensely between his teeth, “ stop looking at him.”

“You’re looking at me,” snarled the biker.

“I am.” Some people say I have a death wish, but I don’t think it’s true. I’m just curious by nature.

“What are you staring at?” he demanded.

“The tattoo, on your arm.”

“Which one,” growled the biker, clenching his fists. Both of his bare, muscular arms were covered with tattoos.

“The one that says MOM.”

“Cliodhna is waiting in the back room,” snapped the biker.”

Tom leaned in, after we had passed the giant. “Nobody, nobody talks to Kelly about his MOM tattoo. The last time somebody laughed at that tattoo he sent seven men to the hospital.”

“I hope they had insurance.”

Despondently, Tom just shook his head.

We had stepped into an elevator, which surprised me, because the bar was only two stories, at the most. What was also surprising was that there were a lot of numbers on the floor panel. Sherlock pressed the bottom one.

“We’re going down,” I observed.

No answer.

After the doors finally opened, Sherlock, taking a deep breath strode out. Tom was now sweating profusely, mopping his forehead with a hanky.

“Nervous?” I said jokingly to him.

He stuffed his hanky into his pocket and glared at me. “Cliodhna…seriously?”

“Don’t really know her.”

“Trust me kid, don’t get to know her.”

When I saw Cliodhna sitting at the end of the long table I tried not to stare. If Sherlock had been cloned, and his sex changed, and was a hundred years younger, you would have Cliodhna. I’ve seen couples that have been together for a long time, so long that they begin to resemble each other. It looked like Sherlock and Cliodhna had been married for a very, very, long time…She stood up and glided over to Sherlock. She kissed him twice, once on each cheek.

“You have kept yourself too long from us Ciabhan…too long.”

If they weren’t married, they had been or were lovers.

Why was Tom shivering in fear?

Then I saw what Tom was staring at. Off in the far end of the room were two large men dressed in suits. One was black and the other white, not brown and pink, but really black and really white. Both of them had sunglasses on which was strange because the lighting wasn't very bright.. They seemed to be exuding a strange scent almost like rotten eggs, which made me wonder about their hygiene.

“I hope you don’t mind,” said Cliodhna, “but the other members were pre-occupied.”

“I expected as much. It’s why I invited my friends here,” said Sherlock blithely. We were still standing. I had the feeling we weren’t going to be invited to sit.

Cliodhna laughed. It was a high, melodic sound, but there was a rough edge to it, the feel that it could become as sharp as a knife. I joined the laugh, which was a mistake.

“What are you laughing at, boy?” snapped Cliodhna. The laugh had only been for her and Sherlock. Was I seeing things, or had there been a flash of red in her eyes?

“I don’t really know…It just seemed the thing to do.” I responded naturally. I was going to say something smart but it died on my tongue.

Sherlock drew me close and whispered into my ear. “A word of caution: let me do the talking. You really don’t want her to like you. You see those two overly large gentlemen at the end of the room. They really Pookas. One wrong move and they will kill us.”

I had no idea what a Pooka was so I just smiled. When Sherlock didn’t reciprocate, my smile died.

“I apologize for my young protégé. He will not interrupt again. I’ll answer for it.”

Cliodhna gave a grudging nod and a manipulated softness returned the corners of her mouth.

Tom, like a good reporter, had his pencil and pad out. A bead of sweat fell from his nose staining the pad. He nervously flipped the page.

“This is off the record,” said Cliodhna coldly.

The pencil started to smoke and Tom dropped it. It fell to the floor smoldering.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” said Sherlock. “We have the Vault, you want it, and we’re not going to give it up.”

“Always to the point, that’s what I like about you Ciabhan. Well, let me match your point with counter point. Cliodhna snapped his fingers. The big white fellow ambled over and handed Sherlock a document. He took it, turning it gingerly in his fingers. He took his glasses out and placed them on his nose.

“I can take care of that, you know,” purred Cliodhna. “All you have to say is, I do and you can be young again.”

Sherlock ignored her and tentatively bent the paper with his finger to make sure it wasn’t alive. He examined it. “You’re moving the library over to the derelict school?”

Cliodhna smiled. “You will have so much more room there.”

“This is preposterous…You can’t do this.” Sherlock wasn’t sounding so sure of himself anymore.

“I have already done it. The library, all the books, you and your staff will be moving at the end of the month, unfortunately, for you, the Vault will have to remain.”

Sherlock gave a great defeated sigh. “If it is to be done, then tis well it were done quickly. Why did you call this meeting? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I wanted to see your sweet face again and see if you had forgiven me.”

Sherlock looked grim. “I have not.”

“A pity, well, soon things will be different. Then I’ll make the changes whether you want them or not.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Cliodhna, you have always gotten your way. Does your husband know what you are up to?”

With that we left the room, entered the elevator and pressed the ground floor button. Of course we followed. All the while Cliodhna screamed at us with such foul language that it made me blush. Rather speechless, under the glaring hatred of Kelly’s gaze, I followed Sherlock and Tom out of the bar.

Once outside, Tom gasped for air as though he had been holding his breath. He began to feel his arms. “We’re alive. We are alive.” Then he fumbled for a cigarette and lit it up.

“You have your story, Tom?” asked Sherlock.

“More than enough, probably enough to get me killed. This is great,” said Tom.

“Good, good,” said Sherlock, but I could tell everything was not good. “William, given our predicament do you mind if I walk alone. I have to do some thinking.”

Sherlock strolled off down the street.

“What’s the deal, between him and Cliodhna? They’re an item, right?”

Tom stared up at the sky, but when help didn’t come he just grunted. “Come with me, kid, do I have a story for you.”

I just finished reading an amazing book, "Irish Fairy Tales," by James Stephens. I'm trying to incorporate some of his ideas into my story. It is an amazing work. I down loaded it free on Kobo. It's an open source book.