Dreams and Shadows - By C. Robert Cargill Page 0,74
well known outside certain circles, but excellent nonetheless. Here, open it.”
The customer took the book, handling it as if he’d just been handed the Shroud of Turin, examining every scratch and spot of wear as if they contained clues to the book’s origin. Opening the cover, he paged through it as Colby leaned over pointing gently at the margins.
“See those notes?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Recognize that handwriting?”
“No, not right offhand. Should I?”
Colby was whispering very quietly now. “Now, Harry would kill me if I told you this, but I believe it’s none other than Crowley.”
“Alistair Crowley?” he asked, slightly louder than Colby.
“Sshh. Yes. There’s another sample later in the book that I believe belongs to Arthur Waite, but Harry hasn’t been able to get anyone to authenticate it. Now this text predates the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, so . . .”
“You think this is what inspired Crowley?”
“Might be. I promise nothing, except that the book is dead on. Its theories on celestial body alignment and its use in astral travel are the best found anywhere.”
“I’ll take it,” said the customer without hesitation.
“You also might want to check out Donaldson’s other works. We’ve got a few more behind the counter that we secured at a recent estate sale. Ask Harry, up front.”
“Thank you,” said the customer excitedly. “Thank you very much, sir.”
“Don’t mention it.” Colby winked. “Just be careful with that stuff. There are things over there that don’t like visitors.” The man smiled in return and made his way back up front.
Harold waited at the front counter, a proud smile on his face. He looked down at the book. “Donaldson, huh?”
“Yes. Your clerk said you might have some more up here?” The man peered eagerly around Harold, hoping to catch a glimpse of another volume.
“Donaldson’s a little pricey,” said Harold, slowly moving out of the way to allow the man to eye the stacks for himself. “But a few just came in this weekend. I can never keep this guy on the shelf for very long.”
“He sounds like he’s worth splurging on.”
“So I’m told.”
Though the man’s eyes bulged a bit when Harold handed him the total, he smiled as he wrote the check. He was no longer nervous, but elated. As he handed the check over to Harold and took his books, he glanced around and smiled. “I’ll be back.”
“We look forward to it,” said Harold.
The bell chimed on his way out, leaving Harold and Colby alone in an empty store. Harold smirked. “You know damn well that wasn’t Crowley’s handwriting.”
Colby poked his head from around a bookshelf. “Of course. It was McGreggor’s. But nobody knows who the hell that is—though they should.”
“Aren’t you the one who thinks Crowley was a cretin?”
“I . . . think those were my words, yes,” said Colby, playfully pretending he needed to remember.
“I’d hardly call the man a cretin.”
“The man sure knew how to write,” said Colby. “That’s why he’s famous. But he didn’t know dick about the other side.”
“Well, you just sold the guy a week’s sales’ worth of books with his name.”
Colby nodded, doing the mental math. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
“Speaking of names,” said Harold, pointing a finger into the air like an exclamation point. “I’ve got something for you.” He fumbled beneath the battered wooden counter, rooting around and running his fingers up and down the broken spines of books until he managed to come upon just the tome he’d been looking for. Pulling it out, he spun it around, presenting it to Colby faceup. “I found a Ray at an estate auction this weekend, and I know of your fondness for his work.”
The book was very simple: a vanity-press printing with no art on the cover and the words The Everything You Cannot See by Dr. Thaddeus Ray in a nondescript, no-frills font. It had neither a dust jacket, nor any copy on the back cover. It was the literary equivalent of a brown paper bag. Colby politely took the book from Harold’s hands and nodded a thank-you. “I don’t know if fondness is the right word.”
“Well, every time a Ray comes up for auction, I spy you lingering over it for a few moments longer than the others. And since they’re so rare, and this woman clearly had no idea what her husband was dabbling in, I thought I’d get you one. This is his first, I believe.”
“Yes. First of four. Only twelve hundred and fifty copies were printed, if I’m not mistaken.”