At the top of the flight of steps he found a door before him and, finding it locked, reached into the pocket of his coat and took out the ring of keys he had brought with him. He placed one of them in the lock, turned the key and entered the vestry, and walked across to the large oak table where the guardians of the cathedral had conducted their affairs for centuries, seeking the candlestick which he knew he would find on its centre. Not disappointed, he fixed the dripping candle into its stem and taking his handkerchief from his coat pocket removed the hot wax which had trickled down on to his thin fingers.
Before continuing he listened to see whether anyone had followed him, and hearing nothing save the sound of the ticking grandfather clock in the corner of the room, decided that it would be safe to proceed with the next part of his journey. He crossed over to the corner of the vestry to the old winding wooden staircase and began to climb the well worn steps towards the library — the same fifty-eight steps which he had climbed twice a day, every day of his working life, for the past forty-five years.
As he went, he recalled the first time he had climbed those same stairs. He had been apprenticed then to Ganderton, the librarian, who had showed him how to care for all the ancient books and manuscripts in his charge. The old man had taken a fancy to his young charge and had even taught him how to read some of the fine words. In those early days Nicholas had been so eager to begin his duties each morning, he would run across the cathedral lawns and bound up the steps two at a time, and had suffered the elder man’s reprimands for his youthful exuberance. Then as he had grown into middle age, his friend and mentor had died, and he had succeeded to the position of librarian. He began to extend his knowledge by reading those works that the older man had forbidden him to take down from the shelves lest his youthful clumsiness should damage their fragility, and in those many hours when there had been no visitors to the library he had sat at his desk turning the pages of the handwritten books, and running his fingers around the brightly coloured letters, as if seeking to encompass the past and to bridge the knowledge of centuries. To him, the books had gradually become his friends and he had been content that it had been so.
As his role had grown in importance, so his daily progress up the staircase had gradually become more sedate and dignified, — as befitted his austere position as the custodian of the cathedral’s legacy. But as the years passed and his thinning hair became greyer and his eyes dimmer, he began to find the climb almost an unwelcome start to the morning, and lately there had even been days when the prospect of turning yet another page in the ancient volumes had begun to lose its appeal. There had been whispers between the monks that he should take on another, or even retire from his position, but he had known no other world and was not yet willing to pass on the mantle to a younger man.
All these thoughts, these fragments of his past life, seemed to crowd in upon his mind as he made his way up the staircase, holding the candle before him and sheltering its meagre flame with his other hand, lest a sudden draught should plunge him into darkness.
He pushed open the door at the head of the stairs and entered the room. There were the three candles on the table before him, just as he had left them five hours previously, and he leaned forward and lit their wicks. Soon the room was bathed in a golden flickering light, which shone forth, illuminating the rows of ancient books and glass cases that were situated there.
He stood gazing around the room for a moment or two, then made his way across to his desk and seated himself. Reaching to replenish the empty glass that lay before him from the jug of water there, he was surprised to find that his hands were shaking so much that some of the liquid spilled over on to the woodwork. Quickly he applied a cloth to soak up the water, before bringing the quivering glass to his dry lips and letting the water ease his throat. Placing the glass back down upon the desk, he cast his eyes around the room at the rows of books, drew his coat closer and, as the tears began to flow he covered his face with his hands.
For some minutes he cried uncontrollably, occasionally banging the table with his fist in his frustration, and cursing his fate that his life had now come to this.
Eventually the tears subsided and after glancing across at the old clock in the corner, he quickly dried his eyes and blew his nose before replacing the handkerchief. The hands of the clock had pointed to 11.30, and he realized now that time was short, and that he must complete his mission before the cathedral became busier again at the midnight hour.
He crossed over to the glass case in the corner of the room. There was the book, lying in its usual place on the crimson cushion, its brightly illuminated pages shining forth as they had done for centuries. Briefly he allowed himself the indulgence of viewing the open pages for the final time, before taking his ring of keys from his coat pocket and slowly turning the lock of the cabinet. He reached out for the work. His hands began to shake violently as he closed the volume shut and lifted it from its place. Quickly he crossed over to his desk and wrapped the precious volume in the piece of cloth that lay waiting there, and thrust the package deep into the inside pocket of his coat before returning to lock the cabinet.
Taking hold of one of the candlesticks, he snuffed out the candle, and bringing the stick above his shoulder he thrust it down suddenly on to the front of the cabinet. Startled by the flying glass, he backed away quickly, alarmed by the damage he had just caused.
He had not thought it would be like this, and the sudden realization of what he had done seemed to sweep over him, and he grew afraid.
Then a new desire took hold in his mind — now that the deed had been done, all he wanted to do was to leave as quickly as possible, to escape from the room, to seek the midnight air, and to ask God’s forgiveness for the violation he had just committed.
Quickly he blew out the remaining candles, save one which he held before him to light his way. He closed the door of the library behind him, and made his way down the wooden steps towards the vestry, before beginning his descent towards the main body of the cathedral.
Suddenly his foot missed one of the steps and he felt himself falling. In blind panic he thrust out a hand and steadied himself against the side of the wall, dropping the candle as he did so. He almost cried out in the darkness and cursed his carelessness.
Nicholas felt the cold sweat on his forehead. He heard his breathing coming in short gasps, and it seemed as though the noise from his beating heart would split open his head at any moment.
Then he told himself he was nearly at the bottom of the staircase, and that if he kept his composure, he would be able to feel his way down the remaining steps.
After what seemed like an eternity, his hand felt the contours of the wooden door and he knew that he would be safe. Gently he pushed it open and stepped once more into the main building.
He stood still for a moment, listening and looking for any indication that others may have noticed his presence. Growing in confidence, he began to retrace his steps along the dark side of the building, passed the small chapel where old Jonus was still continuing with his prayers, until he reached the outer door and stepped out into the night air.
A welcoming cool breeze blew across his face, and he briefly removed his hat to wipe away the beads of perspiration which had collected upon his forehead. Now all he desired was to walk away from the building, and to complete his final task, so that he could begin to rid himself of the terrible act he had just perpetrated.