Under the Pendulum Sun

by Jeannette Ng

I plucked a book at random from the shelves. It fell open at an empty page. There was not even the shadow of the words that used to mar the pages. These books had been picked clean. A shadow flickered over the thin rays of light. I turned but I couldn’t see what it was. My heart was racing. There were whispers at the edge of my hearing. A thousand voices murmuring, mumbling, muttering. Indistinct. I put aside the volume and chose another, attracted to its heavy gilt spine. I opened the book, revealing a white moth between its cover. It flew at me, brushing past my cheek. I felt the dusty brush of its wings against my ear. Startled, I dropped the crumbling book. It thudded to floor, the heavy spine loud against the flagstones, sending its fragments up in a cloud. The sound echoed. And then, there was a rustling as a thousand, thousand moths were roused. They must have been resting on every shadowed surface, hiding in every gap between leaning books, perched on every inch of the ceiling. The air was thick with the dust from their mottled wings. I could taste it as I breathed in. It was old books and biting, acidic ink. It was that dust of ancient libraries and fresh, shiny leather covers. It was new paper and the sweet glue of the spines. The moths swarmed me. They filled my sight with their white wings and my ears with their rustling. And then all at once, whispered into my ears were things I never thought I could know.