Feynard Read Free Page B

his world, and the Library was his solace and his curse. “A solace,” he said in his characteristic whisper, letting the words expire amongst the towering racks of musty old books, “For Kevin Albert Jenkins, named after his paternal grandfather Albert, has nothing of what it takes to be a true Jenkins.” His bony fingers smoothed the blanket upon his lap. The words were a thin parody of Father’s, an oft-repeated litany of self-debasement and mockery. “A solace to the poor invalid Kevin, for what use are you to anyone? Why, I had to provide you with private tutors because you could not attend a proper school. Twenty-four hour nursing! Do you have any idea what it cost me, boy?” ‘Nothing at all,’ Kevin shot back in his mind, ‘for you worked for not a penny of what you have today, Father!’ “What do you do all day, but sit there in that blasted library and read? ”
    “A curse,” he continued solemnly, “for your only friends are books, Kevin, and though you can see the world beyond, you can never go out into it. You’re a bundle of allergies; an immune-deficient anomaly. Look out there, to the snowy fields and forests and hills of merry old Scotland, and rue the day you were born. Oh,” he turned to parody again, “you were a weak and sickly child, Kevin Jenkins. It’s a miracle you are alive today! What more could a dear father do than provide the very best care for his beloved son?”
    “You could start ,” he added after a pause steeped in bitterness, “by not abusing me.”
    He flipped the page.
    *  *  *  *
    The Library was a massive, rambling affair, spanning three levels and multiple rooms and chambers in the Pitterdown Manor’s West Wing. Where Kevin habitually sat in the massive, vaulting main chamber, a sturdy fireplace stood to his right hand and a huge bay window to his left, affording him both warmth and a fine view over the pond to the croquet lawn, the stables, and the heathery hills beyond. A cold snap in late April had dumped several inches of snow over fresh-budding blossoms.
    To all sides and even above the fireplace, historic leather-bound tomes marched in orderly ranks upon oaken shelves and bookcases , right up to the ceiling. The stuffy aisles were so narrow, one could barely squeeze between them, giving rise to the niggling intuition that the bookshelves were leaning across to engage their neighbours in fusty, obscure conversation. The combination of the threadbare green carpet, heavy drapes, and Kevin’s favourite, overstuffed armchair made the chamber look and smell hundreds of years old. The air inside never moved.
    Huddled u pon this broad armchair, so bundled up beneath a tartan throw that a casual glance might have passed right over him, was a spindly figure of carroty hair and cadaverous complexion–Kevin. Standing a mere five feet and four inches in his socks, he was more easily mistaken for fourteen than his twenty-seven years, and possessed a lamentable tendency towards spots. According to his old nurse Constance, who had died last year, he had inherited the stub nose and flame-red hair of his late Great-Grandmother. Frail limbs and a thin chest exaggerated an ill-favoured appearance. Buried like a mole beneath the thick blankets and an old-fashioned robe, he seemed diminished, almost pathetic–almost, but for the eyes. Of all his physical attributes, his eyes were remarkable. Kevin’s irises were the colour of ripe green apples. Golden streaks radiated like inner fire from around the pupils, lending his gaze the arresting power of a master conjurer or a television evangelist. Their intensity betrayed a rare intelligence, but were most often inclined to misery, loneliness, and inanition.
    His eyes were the only part of him that seemed alive, hopping across the pages like sparrows’ feet.
    Kevin sighed now and flipped the cover shut against the final page. “A fine tale,” he whispered to himself. “What shall I read next?”
    This consideration was spun