The Lake and the Library by S. M. Beiko Page A

touched his brooding brow to feel the smooth parchment paper against my finger. It was so new, I could feel the grooves of where the press had insinuated the image.
    That’s when I heard the flapping.
    It broke the silence so hard that I jumped, dropping the book. I stood still, thinking it was just another one of
his
tricks. “Li? Is that you?”
    I scooped the book back up, trying to find the source of the noise, or at the very least detect Li’s shadow nearby. But I was totally alone. I heard a rustling, and then again the flapping. It sounded like someone shuffling a newspaper restlessly, and it was getting closer.
    I looked up and something white flashed above me, diving for my head with its wings spread. I ducked as it swooped back up and flocked to the banister of a nearby landing. I raced out to meet it, stopping short a few feet to get a good look at it. It was big, about the size of a crow, with an unforgiving beak. In the light it looked creamy beige instead of white, and it was speckled with indiscernible black markings.
    â€œHow did you get in here?” I wondered aloud. There might have been a hole in an eave somewhere; the place was old enough. But as I got a closer look, I realized that it was definitely not a bird I had ever seen on the prairie before, and as it preened under a wing and I squinted at it, I felt no closer to knowing. When I took one step too close, its head swivelled my way and it opened its beak. Not a sound came out, and before I could move, it had taken a direct dive for me and stolen the book from my hands in its outstretched talons. It vanished into the dark corners of the library.
    â€œWell,” I said, keeping the dialogue-with-no-one going, “okay, then.”
    Further rustling. But this time it was the sound of a page turning, and as I whipped around, there he was, clearer than the daylight dancing through the rose window.
    â€œOh, hi!” I said, breathless with enthusiasm.
    He stood with his back to a bookshelf, the jacket I’d seen him wearing both times we’d crossed paths now slung over his shoulder, revealing a wrinkled — but pristinely white — button-up shirt that seemed like it belonged on Jay Gatsby and not this continuous trickster of mine. He was reading, and what I first took to be immersion in whatever the book was, turned out to be just another prank, as the book was upside down in his hands. He still didn’t look up, though; didn’t even seem to register that I was there.
    I waved my hand in front of him. “Hellooo?” But as soon as I started waving, his hand lifted up to copy me. I stopped and lowered mine. So did he. He suddenly looked up from the book and at his hand, bewildered that it was moving of its own accord. We were suddenly trapped in a grainy Chaplin film.
    I took a step back until the gulf of the aisle between the bookcase rows stood between us. He put the book down and backed up, too, never meeting my eyes. We judged each other, poker-faced and trying to predict the next move. I pinwheeled my arms gracefully in the air, one at a time before doing a slow twirl. He followed suit, trying to keep a very serious face as we performed these mock-ballet moves, shuffling our feet in complement. I lurched forwards suddenly and he caught on just in time. Danced to the left, now to the right. Twirling, arms up again, into the aisle, and out from the row. We mirror kids were nearly nose to nose, hands up. Who was the original image now? Who called the shots?
    We stood there in the silence for what seemed like a decade, daring each other to break the spell. Somewhere close by, I heard what had to be that bird flapping. I twisted away.
    â€œDid you hear that?”
    As usual, Li’s way of replying was as far from words as he could get. He jumped out of our mirror dance and grabbed my hands, spinning the both of us in dizzy circles and distracting me from any noise, had there been one. I stumbled but