Wilbur Whateley Goes Book Shopping
Second Fic of the night! Sleep is for weakings!
Everyone’s favorite terrible goat tries to buy a very important book.
Wilbur Whateley was hunched in the corner of the a shop that even to a man of normal stature was cramped and claustrophobic. He balanced precariously on a stool that threatened to give out under him at any moment (not that he was as heavy as he looked.)
But for once in his life he could ignore the complaints his size brought with them. His focus was else where, on the frail book that rested in his lap. The Unabridged Latin Necronomicon.
He'd raced to page 751 of course. Only to be incredibly disapointed that the long incantation not only wasn't there. But neither was any mention of his father. Instead it was the middle of a lengthy passage singing the praises of the unnnamable one. (Unnamable his ass. Hastur wasn’t even hard to pronounce.)
He would be here all day, reading cover to cover. Desperately hoping it didn't disintegrate as he leafed through it, as delicate as his large fingers could manage. At least he could take some comfort that Ackerman couldn't judge his Dee copy. It may share the teeth marks scribbles and loose pages, but the Dee copy didn't have jam stains on the cover, nor did it have a grocery list from fifty years ago scribbled over a priceless diagram of the interior of a Shining Trapezohedron and explanation of how the angles worked.
Finding this latest insult to him and his kin Wilbur glared at the little man who still sat his desk, abnormally large eyes staring placidly at Wilbur as he read.
"More tea son?" Wilbur grunted something vague and turned his attention away from Elias Ackerman.
There were other notes too. Notes that couldn't be from the smiling old man in the hideous paisley smoking jacket. They made sense. If Wilbur had more time to care he might have copied them down.
There was a small tap on his shoulder. And he looked up, eye level with Ackerman, who presented the same tarnished pot which was accompanied by a porcelain cup and saucer which Wilbur knew would look comical in hands.
Ackerman placed the tea things on a stack of books which swayed dangerously, Wilbur instinctively curled around the Necronomicon, ready to defend it from the inevitable clatter and splash.
It didn't come.
just like the stairs hadn't collapsed when he walked up them. But the whole place, every aspect of it including the wide eyed shop keeper seemed held together only by sheer luck, and any moment some tiny thing would slip out of place taking the whole building cascading out of it.
He prayed to his father he'd be well out of here by then.
"They don't like the taste of it." Ackerman said, gesturing casually at The Necronomicon.
"Dun like the whut?" Wilbur asked. Why were all wizards half daft? "The rats," Ackerman continued conspiratorially, leaning in so he was now uncomfortably close to Wilbur's face. "They don't like what it teaches."
There was a chittering in walls, or the corners, or the roof. It echoed this sentiment. "The rats, dun lak-Whut?" Ackerman straightened up. "You asked why it was so cheap. Remember?" "I asked that two pots 've two hours ago." "Really. My time has flown." Ackerman wandered away, and straightened some shelves of books to absolutely no noticable effect.
By the fifth pot of tea Wilbur's foot was tapping out a consistant and irritated rythem. He kept having to clench and un clench his fists. "Where 's et gone." Careful flip of pages. "Shuld be heer." He'd found it, the right spot. And The Long Incantation, the pages he'd crossed an ocean for. "Why ain't et." He was seething, fighting to be calm and quiet, to not hurl this priceless book at this old mans head. The pages had to be stuck together, there was enough damn jam that it could happen. And then he noticed it. Chewed almost to the bindings, a few pages worth of scraps.
The rats. The rats didn't like the taste of it. It started as a strangled hissing sound, a pain in his chest as Wilbur fought to contain his rage, the lumps under his trench coat writhed. THE RATS HAD EATEN THE LONG INCANTATION OF YOG SOTHOTH.
He hurled the book at the space where the rats had been, the noise he'd been making erupting into a wordless bellow, unearthly in it's timbre and echo, loud enough the walls shook as he bolted up right- And collided with a sagging roof beam. Hard enough that he crumpled to the floor. A miserable heap.
Wilbur wasn't a crier. It was beneath his dignity. But his eyes had been watering in frustration and the blistering pain in his head was enough to unleash the water works.
"Ain't fair," he sniffled, an ugly noise that quickly turned into uglier sobs mixed with curses in Aklo and English so heavily accented it may as well have been an alien language.
An astute listener might pick up on more specific complaints, about trans Atlantic travel, about being kicked out of two hotels, having to navigate a city with too many people, about leaving twin alone, about missing his mom. Eventually he collected himself enough to stop the blubbering, wiping his face with a sleeve that was filthy enough to do more damage then good.
There was a tentative tap on his shoulder. Almost apologetic in it's lightness.
Wilbur jumped, bristled visibly, looking up to snarl at Ackerman. "Whut the fuck do ye-" The old man was holding out a hanker-chief that was easily the cleanest thing in the whole building. "You seemed upset. Would you like a hug?" "A...hug?" Wilbur pronounced the word like he'd never heard it before. Like a food you haven't tried but are sure you're going to hate. "I dun't need no hugs!" He scrambled to his feet indignant, towering over the shop keeper. "More tea then? Tea usually helps with disappointment." Ackerman was both painfully sincere and painfully blithe. Wilbur could strangle him. He could tear this whole place apart. One or two of the right words and he'd have it up in a satisfying blaze. "M-mor- DO YEW KNOW WHUT- YEW SET ME UP YEW SCRAWNY ADDLEBRAINED IDJIT! SUM FUCKIN- YEW SAID YEW HAD THE BOOK!" Wilbur began to advance on Ackerman who scooted backwards with alarming ease for someone so frail looking. Wilbur wasn't so lucky, maybe it was just a misstep, a puddle, loose board, book. But he'd swear something kicked his legs out from under him. And then Wilbur was flat on his back, staring up at a mildewing ceiling. Feeling the bubble of rage burst and deflate. "This place 's a death trap." He grumbled. "Only when you carry on like that." Ackerman put in unhelpfully. "And I did warn you it was in poor condition." He offered a hand up and Wilbur ignored it. "It's still yours if you would like it. Please. They're so insistent." There was something desperate in the little man's bright blue eyes. "Guess I'll find sum use fer it." He still wanted to strangle Ackerman. Or at least sock him in the jaw. Not that Wilbur could throw a punch.
"Thank you Mr. Whateley!" Ackermann chirped and went to pick up the fallen book. Blowing some dust off the cover, and muttering something to a spot on the floor. Before presenting it to Wilbur. "Would you like me to wrap it?" Wilbur looked around the cramped store, and thought of the shoddy news paper he'd brought from home to protect it then decided that was probably the better option.
"No, I've got sumthin' in my valise fer that." Wilbur snatched the Necronomicon and hastily stashed it away, turning to leave before his day could get worse.
"You don't want to stay and browse?" "No." Ackerman clearly had no idea how close he'd come to getting murdered, because he looked positively crest fallen. "Alright, well... write when you get back to Dunwich. Good luck with your research!" "I will. Thanks." Wilbur didn't know what else to say. He probably wouldn't. As he descended the creaky steps, even more carefully, clinging to the railing for dear life, head still throbbing Wilbur paused. Feeling at least a little bad for the scene he'd made. Not bad enough to apologize, just enough to feel like he should say something...nice. "Uh, Ackerman?" The pale head popped around the door frame atop the stair case. "Yes." "Happy Solstice." "Yes, Happy Solstice to you too!"