Inspired

Zane Joly

          A figure stood with their arms crossed in front of the automatic doors at the bookstore’s entrance. The doors were closed when they should have opened as soon as the person walked near. The odd thing, thought Wren, was that the figure didn’t seem at all surprised by this. They looked more like they had run into a common irritation.

Wren was heading towards the doors to try to open them, but before he could, the customer made a motion of pushing their hands apart from each other and the doors opened, more roughly than usual, as if they were being pushed apart. The stranger stepped through and the doors closed behind them.

“Sorry about that,” said Wren, going up to the customer, “They don’t usually do that.” Ordinarily, Wren would have addressed a customer as sir or ma’am, but he could not tell for the life of him which this person fell under. The figure had long black hair reaching down to their waist, and bronze skin. The oddest thing about them was their clothes. Wren wasn’t sure if it qualified as a robe or a dress, but it looked like it should be worn by an elf queen in a fantasy movie, not a person coming in from the street. Wren certainly wasn’t going to comment on it.

The customer walked past Wren without even looking at him. Wren shrugged and went back to work.

Forty minutes later, as Wren was walking along between the shelves, he saw the robed customer again. They seemed quite frustrated. They looked up, saw Wren, and said, “You work here, yes?”
“I do,” answered Wren, approaching, “Is there anything that I can help you with?”

“I’m looking for a story,” they said.

“A specific story?” Wren asked.

“No,” sighed the customer, “Just a good one.”

Wren furrowed his brows and thought for a moment. “Are there any genres you’re interested in?” he tried, “Like a fantasy story, or a memoir?”

“Oh, that’s irrelevant,” said the robed figure, “I’ve looked all through the store and I can’t find any stories that… sound right.”

“I’m not quite sure what you mean,” said Wren, running out of ideas.

“There’s a voice to the stories I like,” said the customer, “I need to find more stories with voices that sound like her.”

“Oh,” said Wren, “Are you searching for a particular author then?”

“No no, I’ve read everything she’s written, that’s why I’m here,” said the customer impatiently.

“Well, what’s the author’s name?” asked Wren, “I might know authors with similar writing styles that I could recommend you.”

“Catherine Ester,” answered the customer.

Wren was pretty well read and remembered author names well, but Catherine Ester didn’t ring a bell. “Maybe I could look in the store records for her,” he said.

“Your store doesn’t have any of her stories,” said the customer, in a tone clearly showing their disapproval at this, “None of them were ever published.”

“...right,” said Wren slowly, “Well then I’m sorry, but I’m not sure how I can help you.”

“I need a story like this!” exclaimed the person in robes, shoving forward several pieces of paper stapled together. They hadn’t been holding that in their hands a moment before and Wren had no idea where the papers had come from, but he took them. On the papers was a short story, typed out. Wren skimmed it. It was an urban fantasy story about a werewolf. It wasn’t bad, but it didn’t particularly stand out to Wren. He noted it was written by Catherine Ester, the author the customer had mentioned before.

“Do you want me to refer you to other werewolf urban fantasy stories?” asked Wren, “Or any short story collections?”

“No, that’s not the part that matters,,” said the customer, clearly exasperated, “I’m looking for something with the same voice. Or one just as good.”

Wren pursed his lips and thought. “Well,” he said eventually, “Every author has their own distinct style of writing, their own voice. Some are similar, but each is in their own way theirs. You seem to really like this author in particular, and if you’ve already looked around quite a bit I’m not sure I can help you.”

The customer narrowed their eyes. Wren was worried he was about to get yelled at, but the robed figure didn’t seem angry, only speculative. “You know of stories,” they said, “Books, authors, anthologies, all that business. Perhaps there is a different, more direct way you can help me with my problem.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” said Wren carefully.

The customer blinked, and it occurred to Wren that he had not seen them do so for the entirety of the conversation they’d had, or when they had first entered the store. Everything around the two of them shifted. The bookshelves melted away, and suddenly there was darkness and bursts of brilliant red light and freezing heat and scalding cold and then Wren and the customer were standing somewhere else.

The two were in what seemed to be a slightly larger than average study. There were windows on one wall that showed that same void with bursts of scarlet radiance. Sitting at a desk was a woman, leaning back in her chair, glaring at a computer screen. She turned when the two arrived. She jumped a little bit when she saw Wren.

“Who… who is this?” she asked the robed figure.

“A book merchant,” they answered, “They seemed knowledgeable of the ways of stories, so I thought they could help your problem.”

“What. Is. Happening?” asked Wren, only able to manage the words if he spoke them one at a time.

“Umm, sorry,” said the woman, sounding a little alarmed, “Patron is, umm, well, not the best with people. I’m probably not either. A little out of practice. These days, I mostly deal with people that aren’t real or Patron, who I’m honestly not totally sure is real, and might not qualify as a people. I mean, person. I’m rambling.”

“What?” repeated Wren.

“Introductions,” muttered the woman to herself. Then she stepped forward and stuck out her hand. “Hello, my name is Catherine Ester. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Wren Di,” said Wren, more than a little disoriented. It took them a few seconds to realize that Catherine Ester had been the author the strange customer had been obsessed with.

Catherine gestured to that same person, “And this is…” she trailed off before beginning again, “Well they don’t really have a name as we would think of one. I call them Patron and they don’t seem to mind, so you can too.”

“Okay,” said Wren, “Okay. And where are we?”

“My room,” said Catherine, “But if you mean in a larger, more geographic sense, I’ve never quite known. Patron made this place for me.”

“Yes,” said Patron to Wren, “I gave Catherine a space to write away from the distractions of the world. But now she finds herself unable to write. If you could not find me a replacement for her stories, perhaps you can help her write again.”

“Wait,” said Wren, “Please just explain everything to me. From the start. Then I guess I can help you, though I don’t understand what your problem is or what you are. Are you… God? A god? Satan?”

Patron snorted in contempt. “No,” they said, “All you need to know is that I am powerful, and I am old. Your kind have offered me all sorts of tribute throughout the years. Parts of your harvest, burned pieces of food, these things that you call ‘souls’. Oh, and blood. Lots and lots of blood. You just wouldn’t stop with the stuff. I accepted all these trinkets out of boredom, but I recently discovered a tribute far above all others. Stories. Catherine was nearing the end of her life when she prayed that her stories would live on, and I happened to be listening.”

“Wait, end of her life?” Wren asked. He looked at Catherine who seemed to be in her twenties. “Do, or did, you have cancer or something?”

“No,” said the woman, “I’m ninety eight years old. I’ll explain. Patron heard my prayer and came. I thought they were an angel or maybe just a hallucination, but I offered them my stories. They read them, and loved them. Patron wanted me to write more so they made this place for me. I told them that I wasn’t going to live much longer and that my arthritis meant I couldn’t do much typing anyways, and Patron made me young again. I don’t age, don’t sleep, don’t need to eat or drink. I’ve been like this for five years, writing stories. When I was out there in the real world, no one much appreciated my writing. I tried as hard as I could to get published, but with no luck. I’d always had more skill making lots of writing than good writing. But Patron, for whatever reason, loves my work.”

“And you’re now having trouble writing?” asked Wren, now starting to have a grasp of the situation.

“Yes,” said Catherine, “My work has always had flaws, but I’m prolific if nothing else. Throughout my life, I wrote dozens of novels and countless short stories. I’ve written more since Patron gave me this space. I’ve had writer’s block, but I’ve learned how to get around it. But now the ideas just… aren’t coming to me. I’ve exhausted every genre. Fantasy, realistic fiction, memoir, science fiction. I have nothing left.”

“And unfortunately, no one else in your disgusting world seems to be capable of making stories to my taste,” said Patron, “So do you know a way to help her, book merchant?”

Wren took a few deep breaths in and out. So, a demon or old god or something had kidnapped him to help their author friend get over writer’s block. Okay.

“If I answer honestly, will you kill me?” asked Wren.

“Not unless Catherine asks me to,” said Patron, “Your opinion is absolutely meaningless to me, but may impact her either positively or negatively.”

“I won’t ask them to,” promised the author.

“Alright,” said Wren, “Both of you seem a little… ungrounded. And I mean, that makes sense. You,” he gestured to Patron, “Aren’t human and probably haven’t really talked to people much in however long you’ve been around. And you,” he changed his focus to Catherine, “Have spent the last five years without talking to actual people or interacting with the world. I am frankly amazed that you’ve managed to be a productive writer all this time.”

“What do you mean?” asked Catherine.

“I’m not an author,” said Wren, “But I know a few writers. And I know that writing is inspired from life. If you don’t live, you’re going to run out of ideas.”

“I have taken great care to keep Catherine living,” objected Patron.

“Not what I mean,” said Wren, “She needs to go back out into the real world. Have conversations with people, see things happen, hear songs, read or watch the stories others have made. Those are what help make ideas.”

“I do think I suggested that idea,” pointed out Catherine.

“But then you’re not offering me tribute,” said Patron, “That was the deal. You write for me, I give you eternal life.” Though Patron terrified Wren a little bit, they didn’t sound menacing, they sounded almost pouty.

“Well,” said Wren, “You have three options. You can get no more stories as she stays in her block, you can let her go out and wait for her to be inspired, or you can find a new author.”

“There are no other authors,” said Patron bitterly, “None of them sound right. They lack your voice, Catherine.”

“Umm,” said Wren, “If I may point something else out: there are other ways to hear her voice besides her writing. You could, you know, go back into the world with her. Talk to her. You might find her company to be a tribute in its own way.”

Patron pursed their lips and looked up. It was an oddly human looking gesture. “I think the idea’s worth a shot, Patron,” said Catherine.

“Fine,” said Patron, “Fine, if you think that it is the best way. I am displeased when you suffer. Would you mind if I accompanied you in your return to the world?”

“Of course not,” said Catherine, “You’re wonderful company.”

Wren wasn’t quite sure how that was true, but whatever relationship these two had was not his business. “So may I go?” he asked. He looked around, but didn’t see any doors in the room.

“You have done me a service, book-merchant,” said Patron, “For that, I owe you a favor.”

Wren suddenly felt that same strange sensation of everything around him melting as he was transported somewhere else. Then, he was standing in the middle of the bookstore, though Patron wasn’t next to him. There was a weight in his right hand. He looked down to see a round flat stone about three inches in diameter in his hand with a complex abstract symbol painted on it in red. For some reason, he knew that this represented the favor Patron owed him. He didn’t know what kind of favors that thing was capable of granting, but he didn’t want to find out just yet.

Wren shook his head, put the stone in his pocket, and got back to work.

For the rest of the day, Wren thought. Patron had spent who knew how many years being offered everything possible by humans, but what had drawn their attention was the writings of a random woman.

For a while, Wren had had an idea for a story that he hadn’t dared try to write down. Maybe when he got home he should try it. Huh, he thought, Of all the things to get inspired by.