“The Presence Between the Pages” by Madison Scott-Clary

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You’re listening to The Ghost of Dog on The Voice of Dog.

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This is Rob MacWolf,

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your fellow traveler,

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and Tonight’s story is

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“The Presence Between the Pages”

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by Madison Scott-Clary,

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whose graphomania occasionally gets the best of her.

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Her writing is available

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at makyo.ink,

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where you can find stories,

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poems, and books to purchase or read for free

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online. If anyone take away this

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book, let him die the death: an excerpt from a protective malediction against potential thieves,

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written into a precious book by an unknown monk. A grim fate, no doubt, but judge for yourself, listener,

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if there are after all things worse than death

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among the pieces on the board

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The Thief, The Monk, The Library, and of course:

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“The Presence Between the Pages”

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by Madison Scott-Clary

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“Every five years we must take down every scroll,

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stack by stack, and clean the rugs beneath them, replacing those which are too worn to use. We must also unroll the scroll and make note of its condition,”

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the old monk rasped.

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“The latter will not be your responsibility, young one,

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but we are happy to provide you with a cot in the dormitory,

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and you will be welcome at the refectory during your stay here.

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Can you eat our food?”

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Belek bowed politely to the monk.

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“I will eat what I am able, grandfather,

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and I will work.” The monk smiled faintly at the honorific

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and gave a subtle nod in return.

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“We do not interact much with the cat folk.

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Too stationary for your kind, perhaps. The khiidiin nomyn san does not move, after all.

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We will do what we can to provide for you in exchange for your labor

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within the limits of our strictures.

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On completion of the task, we will be able to pay you for your time here,

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though you must understand that the monastery is not wealthy.”

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Within the limits of our strictures proved to be plenty within Belek’s.

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While they could not eat the monks’ tsampa during lunch,

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they would take butter in their tea,

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and then they would fill up with steamed balls of the filling the monks had

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within their momo at dinner.

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They kept to themself,

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bowed to anyone in a robe,

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and worked quietly.

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In the morning, they would let the younger monks lade a frame pack with scrolls and books and move them to the hall

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where the older monks toiled,

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checking for silverfish and signs of rot.

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In the afternoon, they would roll up the rugs and take them to a patio

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where they would be inspected,

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cleaned, and repaired if possible,

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or set out for the beggars if they were too worn.

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And at night, they would run through the list of items they had carried throughout the day

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and consider which would be a more appropriate payment

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than simple coin.

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When Belek worked — and work they did! —

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they would search for jobs offered by those with big hearts.

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Their family moved often enough with the others of their tribe

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when they were young,

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so they were used to finding work where they could and drifting from town to town, job to job,

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never staying anywhere long enough to raise suspicions.

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The Empire was not fond of cat folk.

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As it was, they were unfailingly polite and

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always appeared to work within law and custom.

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They had walked the streets of the city with a family as a porter

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and made a pittance for their labor —

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and a far larger sum by pickpocketing the crowds around them,

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as well as the father.

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They had worked during shearing season with a small family

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for a spot on the floor and food for two weeks,

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and had come away with a small payment of a few coins —

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and a larger,

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unofficial payment of an entire sheep,

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slain in the quiet of the night and expertly skinned,

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the dried meat and hide folded away into a pack they had hidden in the rocks,

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collected on the way to the next job.

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They had worked as a midwife,

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helping to brew the groaning beer and ferry hot water

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before purring gentle reassurances

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into the lady’s ear as she screamed and cried.

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They had curtsied to the men and averted their eyes,

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brushed the lady’s hair,

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and come away with a handsome sum in coins and a glowing recommendation —

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and two small jade statues.

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They were always careful.

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They were never caught.

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They were always Belek,

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or mister or miss Oorzhak,

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the polite young cat with no family or friends,

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the one who was slight and feminine enough to be a midwife, and boyish enough, deceptively strong beneath that gray fur,

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to be of help with the men.

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They were hard working, and quiet on the job,

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but friendly to their employers during downtime,

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often opening up and telling stories of their adventures;

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never wholly true,

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but never, ever false.

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Somehow, one of two things would happen before they left:

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either something terrible would happen —

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a poor father pickpocketed while in the market,

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the porter hunched under his load;

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a sheep missing, howls in the night and blood on the grass —

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or the employer would find themselves entranced by this worldly feline —

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here, take these figures with our blessings,

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may they bring you good fortune, my dear Oorzhak.

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The size of their employers’ hearts

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would cover any payment beyond mere coin.

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And then they were off to the next town,

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with a kind wave or a sad bow,

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to sell their real gains at market

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and look for the next big-hearted rube.

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“Grandfather, I thank you for your kindness,”

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Belek said. They had introduced themself as male for the monastery job by necessity,

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but found that some aspect of feminine grace and vocal mannerisms

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went quite a ways with the old monk.

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“May I eat with you?”

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The skin around the old monk’s eyes crinkled in a smile and he patted the mat next to him.

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“Please, young one,

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sit.” They did so, settling down cross-legged with their bowl of steamed dumpling-filling and buttered tea.

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They smoothed out their deel, removed their cap, and let their tail lay behind them.

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They popped a meatball into their mouth,

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chewing thoughtfully

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and waiting for the monk to begin talking as he always did.

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“Tell me, Belek, where will you travel next?”

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They swallowed their mouthful before giving a noncommittal shrug.

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“Perhaps I will head North.

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I once worked for an Empire wheelwright for a month.

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They are very skilled,

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and usually one must apprentice for years before working as one, but this man’s apprentice was a–

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well,” the cat leaned in conspiratorially.

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“He is no longer human.

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He is probably no longer among the living.”

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The monk hesitated,

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old hand trembling,

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then nodded solemnly.

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“I know of these shifters-of-shape only through tales.

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It is a curse, I have read in our books.

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A curse, or a demon bound to small statues or fetishes.

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Was he as dreadful as they say, young Oorzhak?” Belek’s tail tick-tocked behind them in amusement

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before they remembered to add the more human smile.

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“Very few of them are terrible, grandfather, but sometimes

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they do not shift well

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and wind up mad with rage or stuck in agony.

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This young apprentice wound up in the latter,

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so he begged a sword from a friend and fell upon it.”

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The monk covered his mouth, aghast.

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“His soul! His soul will wander forever!”

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Nodding sadly, the cat finished another few meatballs before continuing.

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“This wheelwright, he was crushed, both emotionally and with his labor.

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While I could do nothing to help him of his loss of a friend,

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I was at least able to run the treadle of his lathe and carry wood for him.

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The Empire does not particularly like my kind,

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and many find us untrustworthy —

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I think because we do not have the same faces and expressions as them —

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but some in the North have kind souls,

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as you do here at the monastery.”

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The monk paused while rolling a ball of tsampa

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to smile at Belek.

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“He could not pay me much, but he gifted me a fine awl.

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It was well worn, of course, and he had taken delivery of a much finer replacement during my stay, but he was a generous man.

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Perhaps I shall find such generosity up there again.”

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There. The seed was planted,

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the beginnings of an idea for the monk to ponder.

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Perhaps a gift for this kind young cat…

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Before he could respond, however, Belek pulled the conversation suddenly in another direction,

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saying, “You said ‘his soul will wander,’ grandfather.

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What did you mean?”

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The monk chewed thoughtfully,

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then washed the tsampa down with water.

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“Some walk in dream even while awake.

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When they die, we say their soul will walk still in dreams.

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Some, however, walk in unceasing nightmare.

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Perhaps, when they die, that is when they truly wake up.”

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He bowed his head,

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looking down at his still-trembling hands.

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“But should they take their own lives, their soul cannot awake,

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and will continue to wander forever,

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living in a nightmare.

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They become demons or wicked spirits.

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Perhaps even those same demons of which our books speak.”

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After a week of work, the direction of scrolls,

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books, and manuscripts

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began to reverse.

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The cataloging had been completed

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and Belek began hauling loads of materials back into the library,

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helping the younger monks to place them back on their shelves according to some system

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the old monk — they supposed he must be the librarian — held within his head.

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There was a small celebration

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when the last of the shelves was emptied,

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and the monks pulled out thin beer,

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sparing a small lump of sugar

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for Belek to add to their tea in lieu.

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From then on, it was a task of re-loading the library

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and finishing the last mending of mats.

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Three days later, the work was finished.

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“Grandfather, I thank you again for the kindness you have showed,

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and for the chance to work here,”

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Belek said while fingering the spines of a few books.

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“I have never been surrounded by such knowledge in my life”

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The old monk nodded absently as he worked on filling in some final notes on a scrap of parchment.

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“Thank you, young Oorzhak.

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You have shortened our labor by days.”

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Still running their fingerpad along the spines of books,

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Belek paused, feeling a sudden chill against their coarse skin.

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They hesitated, traced their way back across the books,

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then carefully drew the leather-bound volume from the shelf.

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It was not just cool,

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but cold. Actively cold,

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as though it strived to be so.

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They could read the language of the Empire — slowly, to be sure —

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but the writing on the cover of the book was of some other tongue.

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They felt their tail bristle,

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their hackles raise.

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That chill, those letters, both felt

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intent in some way they could not place.

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Intent and striving.

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It needed something,

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and within their breast, a need of their own sparked to life.

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“Belek.” They jolted and whirled around.

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The voice had seemed to come from the book itself,

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an echo or a whisper or perhaps only the suggestion of a voice,

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but there was the old monk staring at them,

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a strange gleam in his eye.

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“My apologies, grandfather,

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I–“ “You have done such wonderful work for us, young one,

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would you accept this book

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in exchange for your labor?

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In addition to your wages, of course.”

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The cat blinked. There were other books they had their eye on.

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Gilt, illuminated,

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fancy ones. Small enough to smuggle, pretty enough to sell.

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Still, now that they held this one in their hands

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and they were growing used to the cold weight of it,

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there was suddenly nothing more precious.

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“Surely this book is too much,”

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they stammered. “You have provided us with a service,”

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the monk said. His voice was eager now.

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Excited. His brown skin stretched perhaps a little too tight

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across his brow in some hidden exertion.

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“Please, I would be honored if you would accept this small tome of knowledge

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in exchange.” Belek bowed low,

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finding themself unable to say anything other than,

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“I accept freely.” How did they know what to say?

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The words were stilted,

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unnatural. They felt oily in their mouth,

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leaving behind a thin sheen of premonition.

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They hung in the air, vibrating with anticipation.

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Where had they come from?

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How did they bear such weight?

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The old monk gripped the edge of a lectern by which he had been standing.

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His expression was beyond tense.

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His skin was taut,

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his eyes overwide,

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his gaze wandering beyond sanity. “I, Otgonbayar, forty-fifth librarian

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of the khiimiin nomyn san,

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give this book to you, Belek Oorzhak, in free exchange.

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It is now yours.” The monk’s equally stilted words clashed with Belek’s in the air.

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They rang together like bells, tolled some untold hour,

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twined around each other, then around Belek,

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and suddenly, the book began to warm

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in the cat’s paws.

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There was a scent of ritual,

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a tang of omen, an acrid whiff of power of choice and bargain and deals accepted.

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Deals beyond just a gift to go with one’s wages.

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And then the moment passed.

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“I must…I must rest, young one.

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I thank you once more for your labor.

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Your wages…your wages will be in the refectory… Ah,

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preserve my soul.”

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If the monk had looked crazed before, now he looked truly on the verge of madness.

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His eyes no longer tracked Belek,

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but seemed to be reading something written on the ceiling,

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juddering boustrophedon.

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His muscles were rigid.

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Sweat stood on his brow

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and spittle clung to his chin.

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“I…yes, grandfather,”

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Belek mumbled. “You look unwell.

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Please rest, and perhaps I shall see you again soon.

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The monk only moaned in response.

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That tension in his face finally broke free

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and he let out a strangled cry of pain,

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his form shifting beneath coarse robes,

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skin rippling into some thicker hide,

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horns cresting from his brow.

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Then, after a moment’s

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agonized silence,

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he toppled to the floor,

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falling as would a tree,

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stiff and straight,

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rather than crumpling. Belek yelped, then skittered from the library and down the long hall towards the scriptorium where the other monks were packing up their pens and scrolls.

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“The old monk!” they shouted.

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“He has fallen in the library!”

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The other monks dropped their materials and leapt to their feet,

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hollering. One of them dashed up to them and opened his mouth

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to speak before noticing the book clutched in their paws.

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His look of worry

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turned into one of dawning horror.

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“I see you two reached a deal.”

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Dumbstruck, Belek looked down at the book,

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then back up to the scribe, holding out the book.

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“He offered me this in exchange for my efforts.

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If he was mistaken–“

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The monk quickly shook his head and pressed the book forcefully back into their paws.

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“The deal has been made.

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Your wages are in the refectory,

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please take them and your belongings and leave.”

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“Leave? But I–“ “Leave.

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The monastery thanks you for your work

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but you must leave at once.

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You must be away by nightfall.

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Perhaps then the librarian shall recover, but…”

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And with that, the monk rushed off.

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Belek stumbled numbly to the refectory

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and picked up the small bag of coins

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left atop their cap and cloak.

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The whole monastery seemed to be rushing to the library,

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and suddenly the advice to leave seemed extraordinarily prudent.

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They continued on to the dormitory where the rest of their belongings lay,

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shouldered their pack,

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and were on the road north before the sun began its long, slow descent toward evening.

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They bivouacked in the lee of a patch of scrub

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and it was by the rude light of a small, dry fire

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that they read the book that was their gift.

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They did not rightly know why they decided to remove the book from their pack

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and open the cover.

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Perhaps it was another whispered Belek,

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and perhaps it was something more akin to a compulsion.

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More, they did not know how they were able to read the book.

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The language, when they focused their eyes, was not one that they knew,

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but were they to let their eyes drift just out of focus,

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the meaning came to them.

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It came in waves, in gusts,

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in inexorable torrents.

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It washed over Belek and left their stomach rolling

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and their eyes watering.

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At the turning of the final page,

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there sounded a distant blast of horns;

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a low, sustained note from the direction they had come.

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“Belek,” came the voice once again, now more than simply echo.

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“Do you hear that, Belek?

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Horns to announce the death of a monk.

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He has shifted for the last time, and now…well,

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what better way to forget than through death?” “F

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-forget?” “Belek, you read my words.

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You remember. I am with you now.

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You are mine now.

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So long as you remember me, I will live within you.”

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The whisper of words slipped into a silky purr.

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“And you will never forget me.”

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They could manage no more than a groan.

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The truth wrapped itself around them,

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tightened, squeezed.

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The meaning of the text was clear.

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They could not force themself to unbelieve the book’s words.

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They would never forget.

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They would remember every time they shifted —

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for now, more than ever,

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they were a shifter-of-shapes.

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“Belek, Belek, Belek.”

tonight: 00:19:24

The words came as a contented sigh.

tonight: 00:19:28

“The deal has been made.”

tonight: 00:19:32

“I…I am a drifter,” they gasped.

tonight: 00:19:34

“I walk the steppes for work.

tonight: 00:19:37

What could I possibly hope to offer, lord?”

tonight: 00:19:40

“The deal has been made,”

tonight: 00:19:44

the presence between the pages repeated,

tonight: 00:19:46

comforting in the most unnerving of ways.

tonight: 00:19:50

“And now you will go north.”

tonight: 00:19:58

This was “The Presence Between the Pages” by Madison Scott-Clary,

tonight: 00:20:03

read for you by Rob MacWolf,

tonight: 00:20:05

Werewolf Hitchhiker.

tonight: 00:20:07

You can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog,

tonight: 00:20:10

or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.

tonight: 00:20:14

Thank you for listening

tonight: 00:20:16

to The Ghost of Dog.

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