The Spirit of Imagination

Chapter One: Finding Spirit



The job description, like most, used complicated words that made job-hopefuls hesitant to apply because it may be out of their range of capability. But Emily was unemployed, needed cash and wasn’t picky. So she had applied to it just like she had applied to all the other numerous jobs in her hunt for employment.

The job description stated: Seeking courier of any age for early morning/late afternoon exchanges and deliveries. Must currently possess a valid driver’s license. Emily read the description, laughed at the use of big words to make drive there, pick something up, deliver it here sound harder than it was and applied. She soon forgot about it once she had applied to twenty more jobs.

A week later Emily’s mother had popped her head in to Emily’s room and said that a man was on the other end of the phone asking after her.

“Emily Rainn speaking,” she said in to the mouthpiece with an air of optimism.

“Emily,” the voice of a cheerful old man had greeted her. “I’ve just been looking through my electronic,” he said it as if the concept were still a marvel to him, “mail and I see that you applied to be a courier. Is that correct?”

“I certainly did,” she said. In all actuality she’d applied for seven courier jobs and had no clue which one the old man was talking about. But he may’ve been about to offer her a job, so she picked her next words carefully and delivered them with high spirits. “How is it I may help you this morning, sir?”

“A well-mannered lass,” the man said with the same high spirits, as if Emily had spread them through the mouthpiece. “Not many of your kind left nowadays. I’m glad I picked you first to ring.”

Emily couldn’t get her facial muscles under control. An incredible, uncontrollable smile had been created by both the old man’s cheerful demeanour and the possibility of working for him. And, of course, the cash he had and which she desired.

“Just tell me what I need to do and I’m all yours.” She regretted her choice of words as soon as they’d left her mouth and thought that the man mightn’t appreciate them either.

However, the man interpreted it as some of her good cheer and chuckled. “Can you be at my home on Monday morning at nine o’clock for an interview? I’d get you to come earlier but I like to read the paper and water the plants every morning,” he said, as if he needed an excuse for the time he thought was late, when Emily wouldn’t even be out of bed on the days when she had nothing to do, which were most.

Emily agreed to the meeting time and took down the details.

Monday morning came and Emily dropped her mother at work before using the car to drive to the address the old man had given her. She hadn’t even thought about asking him for his name and he hadn’t mentioned it.

The GPS she’d entered the address in to led her to a wealthy part of town. When the old man had said ‘home’, Emily had imagined something cottage-like. However, the address was that of a large estate. A tall wrought-iron fence guarded a long driveway that bisected a front yard, which was the epitome of beautiful; all sorts of bright flowers and exotic plants adorned the front lawn. Past the award-winning gardens was an equally impressive house. Emily thought that perhaps palace was a better word.

She parked her mother’s car in front of the entrance gate and walked over to the intercom. Just as she reached for the alert button, the old man’s voice issued from the speaker, as cheerful as it had been on the phone the week before.

“Ms Rainn, come on in. Come on in.”

The gates jerked open mechanically and Emily jumped back in the car and drove on to the palace at the end of the drive. She saw the old man waiting on the steps leading up to the front doors and parked the car in the turn-around.

“Hullo, Ms Emily Rainn,” the man said cheerfully as he gingerly walked down the steps to greet her. He held out a shaky and worn hand and she met it with one of her young and inexperienced ones. “My name is John Crawford or JC for short. Take your pick.”

John used the same shaky hand to touched his neatly combed white hair to make sure no stubborn strands were standing out of line. His eyes were a marvellous blue and his bushy moustache was the same white as his hair.

“I assume that you currently possess a driver’s license?” he asked, pointing to the car that Emily had arrived in.

Emily nodded with a large smile, not too sure what to say in John’s presence.

“Well then, follow me, Ms Rainn.”

John hobbled up the front steps with the assistance of the handrail. Emily wanted to ask if he needed help, but he had an air of independence about him that she didn’t feel comfortable tarnishing. Once at the top, the old man led her through the tall double doors and in to a foyer that sparkled with elegance. She was like a small child as John led her through one of the wings of the house and to the library, fascinated by every extraordinary feature and alien object.

“You have a lovely home, Mr. Crawford,” she commented as he led her in to the house’s library and pointed her to an expensive leather armchair in the centre of the room. He sat down in an identical chair next to her. “I don’t think that even the local library has this many books,” she muttered, scanning the bookshelves bordering the cosy room.

“Funny you should say that, Ms Rainn,” he said, pouring her and himself a cup of light brown liquid from a square glass bottle. “Do you drink whisky?”

Emily nodded. She didn’t want to alienate herself from the very wealthy man that was about to offer her a job by declining the polite offer of a drink. He placed the glass cup in her hand, clinked his to hers and threw it back. Emily copied and she felt the warmth instantly hit her stomach and the trail it left down her throat.

“Very good,” John said, licking his bottom lip and the tip of his moustache to gather any droplets he may have missed. “Now that the hard part is over, which I’m very grateful of you for making happen without a hitch, we can discuss what exactly it is you’re here for.”

Emily could feel the whisky’s warmth rapidly spreading through her body, giving her energy she’d never experienced from any ordinary alcohol before.

“What do you feel?” John asked.

“I-I-I,” Emily wasn’t stuttering because she was frightened, but because the energy coursing through her was overwhelming. “I can see all sorts of things without closing my eyes.”

“Yes!” John exclaimed. “It’s your imagination, Ms Rainn.”

“My imagination? But I’ve never felt like this before.”

“Yes, Ms Rainn, because you’ve never imagined liked this before. Say, dear, do you know exactly who I am?”

She muttered the name John Crawford over and over again but the name didn’t sound familiar. “No, sir,” she answered.

“Ah,” John Crawford sighed, nodding his head like he’d suspected this answer. “I was a best-selling author, Ms Rainn, in the sixties, seventies, eighties and nineties. I even published three books after the turn of the millennium. Sadly, my last attempt at fiction wasn’t received well. I fear that I’m getting too old and that I’m losing touch with the world. But you, Ms Rainn,” he grabbed her arm and shook it slightly, “are not even yet in your prime.”

Emily nodded fast. She all of a sudden wanted to tell the old man what she was seeing in her head. It was near magical and she felt selfish keeping it to herself.

“I know that you want to tell me something, I can see it in your eyes, Ms Rainn. But first I need to ask you one more question. Your answer will shed light on the current situation.”

Emily clenched her teeth and nodded, not knowing how much longer she could keep her story in.

“When was the last time you visited a library, Ms Rainn? And I mean visited it for what it’s for and not to use the free Internet that it offers nowadays.” He went about the word Internet like he had electronic mail the week before, as if he didn’t like the taste.

“It must be years,” she replied, frowning, as if it couldn’t be true.

“And the last book you read and loved from the library?”

She had to think about it long and hard. Then her features lit up with joy as she said, “The Forest of Fallen Leaves. I absolutely adored that book as a child.”

“And you do not anymore?”

The gentle manner in which he had asked made Emily realise that she had never stopped adoring the book. The feeling towards it had just been filed away deep in her memory somewhere.

“But why do I feel so elated?” she asked, almost jumping out of her chair. Elated? When had she ever used that word before? Had she used it correctly? She found that whatever was forcing her imagination in to overdrive and creating the ‘elation’ inside of her also assured her that she had used the word correctly. “Why can I all of a sudden see these wonderful things without closing my eyes and why do I feel this great need to share them with you?”

“The Forest of Fallen Leaves,” he said, bringing her back to the book she had loved as a child. “You borrowed it from the library, did you not?”

She nodded, fighting to keep her mouth closed and the story in her mind contained.

“Were the pages a fine a sepia colour? A fine yellow?”

“I believe they were,” she recalled. “All paper goes that colour with age. It’s from the weather and people handling it.”

John Crawford shook his head. “That is what I, too, believed back in the early sixties. But I figured it out, Ms Rainn. It is neither poor handling nor the weather that turns the pages in a book such colour. It’s the reader’s imagination.”

“The reader’s imagination?”

“Yes!” he exclaimed, as if any other explanation was balderdash. “Everything leaves the body, Ms Rainn. Food is digested. Stress is radiated. Love is emitted. A book is like a sponge. The more hands that hold it, while their owners lose themselves in another world, the juicier the pages become. And when one touches juicy pages, the residue of all the previous readers’ imaginations bind together to enhance the experience of an already fantastical story. Isn’t it true that a well-read book seems more alive to you, Ms Rainn?”

Emily looked at the light brown liquid in the square glass bottle her drink had originated from. “And that…” she began in disbelief.

“Is the spirit of imagination,” John finished for her. “I thought that if a book is like a sponge that absorbs what the imagination puts out, there must be a way of wringing it. And I did, Ms Rainn! And over the last forty-five years I’ve written forty-seven books. Book sales have made me wealthy, but more importantly my work has made men and women all around the world feel wealthy, even if they are not of the sort. Because, Ms Rainn, sometimes one’s imagination can be more beautiful than the most picturesque beach.”

“But why share this with me?”

“I posted numerous ads advertising all kinds of jobs. They were simply fishnets. If I advertised the real job that I’m looking for someone to fill, no one would have applied. Well, seriously applied. I wasn’t looking for someone with amazing qualifications. I was looking for a name, Ms Rainn. And I believe that out of all the job candidates that responded to me, your name would look best on a book cover. Emily Rainn,” he said, making her name sound extraordinary. And the reason I chose to share this secret with anyone is because I am old. And as I said, I am losing touch with the world. But you are young and have stories to be told. And I believe one is begging to be told right now.” John picked up a recording device from beside his chair, pressed a button and held it close to Emily. “Go ahead, Ms Rainn. Share it with the world.”