The light-switch came on. The graveyard lit up in mellifluous union. Each grave projected a light; circular and erect. The ghosts began to e-light. Their history shooting up from the ground from the perspex fitting in which sat a book; glittering.
In near distance, the hooded old man in the pub read from a book. The book slam continued. The grounds were alight with a panoply of events arranged for the opening.
“Shush” the audience cried as the man continued,
“Once there was an old man who’s name was Nahokoboni. He was troubled in his mind because he had no daughter and who could look after him if he had no son in law? Being a witch doctor, he therefore carved himself a daughter out of a plum tree….”
What’s the name of the book the audience roared.
This was the book named “Beal Tuile”. It was raised from the ground and was returned to the ground after reading.
The book was placed in the ground as the crowd looked on. The cheered in empathy, Sorry to see it go.
Ita looked on with eye bright in spender’s splendour. The lid had opened. The perspex had cracked, and the lid opened but yet the party had begun. Pages descended from the outpouring of pressure from the socket. All around they heard the sound of running water. Nobody had called a plumber. Still she looked on.
Ita had collected these books of the dead. Each had been planted. Entombed except for the chink of light that would continue to outlive their pages. What an exhibition a librarian’s ingenuity.