He returns to the bookstore.
Walks along the seawall that keeps back the tide.
Spring, rain falling, to the west the sun sets, crepuscular rays through cumulus clouds.
Over cobbles and past warmly lit shops and cafe's to a side flight of stairs that leads to the landing.
A wrought iron sign advertising "Prometheus Books", Prometheus, holding proudly aloft that fire he's stolen, the windows exude an warm amber light, enter, welcome.
This folio, swapped with the owner, the devil's deeds +1, credit on their next purchase.
But what should this be?
He has been charged with finding the next book. She trusts him. And so now, with credit in hand he browses again.
The books, the displays, they have turned, this store is a river, never the same twice, books, in and out, the displays upon the shelves have changed and are changing and are ready again to be admired.
Here, demanding your attention, a to-scale waxwork anatomical model, Man disrobing of his flesh, and, in a curious touch, from those folds of skin and flesh at his feet are growing waxwork flowers.
Instructional on a variety of levels.
"The Soul Atlas", by famous Cartographer Immanual Kant, never completed but illustrated by Homann, this the only edition. Or "The Anatomy of Souls", attributed to Herophilos but illustrated by Vesalius.
The first, the world inside made external and drawn to the scale of the world, and the last, the world drawn within man.
She would like, no, she would love either of these, but looking at them he can't choose. Whatever he chooses would be right, and wrong, for there always would be the one left behind.
Continue, past the rest of the Anatomical texts, the atlases and maps, at the other end of this shelf there's a large globe within a filigreed cage. The filigree, upon examination, is filled with constellations and embellished with jewels of topaz, sapphire, garnets and rock-crystal. The Globe, inlaid with precious minerals, gems, lapis and malachite, turquoise and azurite, comprises an earth-centric orrery used by astrologers to adjust the houses of the Zodiac, interlocking cogs, not merely a globe, upon winding hidden gears the planets will rotate about the sphere, each made out of their corresponding elements, alchemical symbols inlaid with the element denoting the planets: gold, mercury, copper, iron, tin, lead; in size and position suitable for both understanding and drawing the finest of horoscopes.
This, to be admired and marveled over, it's purchase out of reach.
More shelves, now a wall, towers of books, religion, an ornate glass reliquary, set in gilded brass, enclosing a tiny, withered, blackened twig, with plaque labeled "Sānctum Praepūtium".
The owner is here, looking through the selection and replenishing both randomly and with deliberation from the tottering towers in front.
He looks at him, eyebrow raised: "The Holy Prepuce?"
The owner replies without batting an eye: "One of hundreds.".
He's genial, so matter of fact that further conversation would be fruitless. They are of the same mind, he decides.
Faith, religion, these are not to be addressed yet, although these shelves are filled with Bibles, Korans, The Upanishads, Sutras and Bhagvad Ghita's, and beneath them volumes upon teetering volumes of informed and enlightening commentary. They have not yet discussed this.
Move on.
And by turns, in the bookstore that is perpetually inventing itself, reordering it's shelves, a labyrinth encompassing the sum total of human experience, to the occult.
The bank of shelves adjacent, 90%, from the walls of religion.
Now, here - better than religion, which she regards as too formal, stuffy, completely true, it's been poorly explained since day one.
But here, perhaps, something for her. There are all manner of fetishes, charms, and grimoires.
A Voo-doo doll from Haiti, but lightly pricked. Tarot Cards, by Crowley, Rider-Waite, or the original Marseilles deck. The I-Ching. Giant Quartz crystals from Minas Gerais in Brazil. Crystal, glass, stone spheres for scrying. A silver pendant, hand with a glass eye in the middle.
A bullet, large caliber, brass case engraved, cut with small crosses and a pointed multifoil arch, hold the primer, turn the casing and find within a finely detailed ivory idol of the Virgin Mary.
She would love this. She eschews Christianity, but instead relies on a myriad of protecting saints: St. Anthony of Padua, to find lost objects, St. Christopher for her travels, St. Francis of Assisi for her dog, St. Jude for the party out of power, every Saint she adds to her canon, is in her world, another angel enslaved, she needs only it's image, it's picture, it's statue. She, who reads the future by opening the Bible, cutting it's leaves with her eyes shut to place a finger upon verse or psalm and receive her fortune, the new-aged adventurer never so committed to any one theosophy that she could understand it, merely attempting to entice and tame their lesser angels and demons.
Superstition. It's all superstition. The first 2 commandments the first 2 to be broken, by every follower of Christianity.
This aisle is a dead end.
A Fiji mermaid, her long, needle-like teeth bared, frightening and - despite the glass case, filthy coated in dust. These, from the museum, they have more than they know what to do with. Every sailor turned naturalist returned from the equator with at least one. Folded and withered manta rays, chimpanzees crudely stitched onto shriveled fish, creative taxidermy.
A Jackalope. A piece of reddish fur attached to a piece of bone that argues it's a yeti scalp, from a monestary high in Tibet. Grotesque chimeras from the ends of the world.
There is nothing for him - or her - here today.
Continue.
Shelves after shelves, curios mark the path, ladders climb to the highest reaches.
Art, books about Klee, Mondrian, Modigliani, Michelangelo, Da Vinci, Dali, Escher....
The list is endless. These shelves, 12 feet high, banked 2, 3 feet deep, 20 feet wide, and they will be emptied within the week, filled again.
What to get. To get them. To get her.
Now...perhaps he has found it. A large tome, heavy, oversized, upon a corner shelf between psychology and medicine. Shulgin's Pharmacopeia.
It's wrapped in brown paper, sealed with wax, there is no perusing it.
This. This is the book. He knows Shulgin, his work, and this - for him? for her? "For Us" he decides. He can't leave it behind. Not today.
To the counter, beneath it fine leather journals, unruly, ruled, with slim lines, lightly printed crosses or dots. Ink and inkwells and all manners of fountain pens made of swirled celluloids, like Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Neptune and Uranus all stretched and racing past...the cabinet, lit from within, millefiori paperweights, blobs of glass hold pulsing jellyfish blown from uranium, radium, neodymium, cadmium, manganese, unobtanium, swim above bright undersea corals.
The owner, after a time, finds his way to the counter. Smiles when he sees the selection.
"I was wondering when this would sell....".
"The paperweights...the jellyfish?" he enquires, and the owner explains. Rotating UV lights, hidden under the counter, different frequencies light them in different ways, thus, the illusion of movement. They are not cheap, but he takes one and places it on the counter. The jellyfish stops swimming, it still glows, but you can examine the details, the bell, the tentacles, the coral...exquisite detail. He admires this. It is a beautiful thing.
The owner places it back beneath counter and the jellyfish begins again to swim in it's tiny aquarium.
This book, Shulgin's Pharmacopeia, It's expensive, all of the credit and then some. The owner explains that this is not a book that can be returned. It is to be consumed. Digested. It must be slowly enjoyed. It is a book to be read once, and savored, over the entirety of your life. Do not rush it - for the ending - the ending, well...
Is he describing a novel?
Nevermind.
The trade is complete, the credit is used up. A "fair trade". He pays the difference, steps out of the shop, into the night air, brisk, a slight rain, sea spray, down the steps and left towards home.