The Bookshop Chronicles Part Ayght: Black Magic, the Golden Goose and the Book Buddha

“These days, we've got booksellers in cities, in deserts, and in the middle of a rain forest; we've got travelling bookshops, and bookshops underground. We've got bookshops in barns, in caravans and in converted Victorian railway stations. We've even got booksellers selling books in the middle of a war. Are bookshops still relevant? They certainly are. All bookshops are full of stories, and stories want to be heard.” – Jen Campbell 

I find myself leaving the bookshop less and less. Socialising has ended. Holidays are an encumbrance. My body has learned to resist hunger and the need for a bathroom for longer and longer periods.

There’s something very reassuring about being literally surrounded by books. All around me, above me, in front and behind. Cocooned in a nest of literature. Hibernating in a cave of the thoughts, aspirations, phobias and vivid accounts of a hundred thousand scripts. A book womb that sometimes I think perfectly reflects the inside of my head.

But sometimes you have to go outside.

“Can we stop at McDonald’s?” Stout Trout asks again.

“No, we're not stopping again and we're certainly not stopping at Mc-fecking-donalds,” the Book Buddha snaps. “McDonald’s ya know! That place will give you cancer. No wonder you’re so fat Trout.”

“I have a thyroid issue actually,” he sulks. “Look, I need to use the bathroom.”

“Again? Christ man, did you not go before we left? We’re only in the car fifteen minutes.” The Book Buddha’s face has gone red and, though he’s still grinning, I know he’s getting angry.

“I have a very weak bladder.”

“From all the fecking McDonald’s!”

We’re driving up Mount Leinster in search of a cache of books. The Book Buddha, a learned scholar of Irish History and rare literature, has heard an old woman is selling off her dead husbands collection. A collection that the Book Buddha believes may contain the Golden Goose.

“Is this area fairly remote?” Stout Trout asks, looking out the back window and obviously noticing a lack of houses and signage.

“There’s no fecking McDonalds up here anyway Trout,” the Book Buddha grins. “You may go hungry for awhile. Do ya good anyway.”

“I don’t like this Bookman,” Trout says. “Did you ever see that film Deliverance? With the hillbillies and squeal like a pig?”

“We're a couple of miles from Enniscorthy Trout! It’s not the bloody outback or anything.”

“Feels like it. Anyway, do you not have enough books? Why don’t you sell the ones you have before you buy more?”

I’m always amazed by why people who don’t have an interest in books can’t understand a book dealers over-riding compulsion to keep purchasing new stock, even when he's overflowing with books. The simple fact is that customers expect to see new titles and, if they don’t, they’ll move onto another bookshop. Our survival as book sellers is hinged on the anti Maria Kondo philosophy of horde and buy and gather. Kinda like squirrels with ADHD.

We eventually pull into a stone paved yard where an old farm house leans perilously over the edge of the mountain. A frail old hag wrapped all in black is watching us as we try to pry Stout Trout out of the back seat of the Passat.

“It’s my back,” he moans. “And your seats are too low.”

“You’re too fat,” the Book Buddha cries.

“I have a medical condition damn it!”

The old woman in black introduces herself as Mrs Mahon and leads us into the dark depths of her mildew encrusted home. Stout Trout complains quietly as we progress deeper into thick stale air.

“Excuse me ma’am, has this place got public liability insurance? If I fall, I could break my leg. I have brittle bones.”

“You’re too fat,” the Book Buddha sneers.

Mrs Mahon leads us into a room completely enclosed with bookshelves and lit by two old gas lamps. It’s hard to see the book titles and the lamps project grotesque shadows across the room. Stout Trout looks physically Ill as he gazes around.

I look to the Book Buddha and he shrugs. We both know instantly that the Golden Goose isn’t here. The Golden Goose is our Ark of the Covenant. Our Excalibur. A near mythical book find that will make us both instantly rich so that we never have to worry about bills, or the leaking roof in the bookshop, or the Passats NCT or Stout Trouts passive aggressive sexual harassment again.

“They’re all old books anyway,” the Book Buddha murmurs. Old books but not the Golden Goose.

“The Satanic Mass, Black Pullet, the Book of Witchcraft,” I read out from the titles in front of me. “These are all books about….”

“Black magic,” Mrs Mahon says.

“Black magic?” Trout squeals. “as in the chocolates or the occult?”

“As in the use of supernatural forces for ones own selfish desires,” Mrs Mahon sighs. “My late husband and I established a coven up here. We pledged our souls to the dark one in exchange for earthly pleasures and riches while we lived. Now he’s dead and I don’t have much life to live.”

“So how much do ya want for the lot?” the Book Buddha asks suddenly, breaking the silence with no regard for the poor woman’s tragic story. “They’re not worth a whole lot now mind so don’t be asking big money.”

“Do you think you’re husband is down there now?” Trout whispers, theatrically pointing down into the ground.

Mrs Mahon seems to think about this for a moment and then smiles. “No, he’s out back in the garden where I buried him. He was dead you see.”

“Maybe we should go?” I whisper to the Book Buddha.

“Not without doing the deal,” he hisses. “Hey Missus, would you take fifty for the lot?”

“These books contain the collective dark knowledge of a most forbidden art!”

“Sure lads are looking that up online nowadays,” the Book Buddha says. “We're doing you a favour by taking them I reckon.”

“I’m sorry for your troubles ma'am,” Stout Trout says taking the old woman’s hand in his own and kissing it gently. “But you're still a young woman with everything to live for. And a very beautiful woman if I may say so.”

Mrs Mahon smiles and nods gently.

The Book Buddha immediately starts clearing books off the shelves and into cardboard boxes. “I knew we brought that gobshite for a reason.”

It takes nearly two hours to clear the house and load the Passat to the hilt. There’s no golden goose here in the lot but maybe that’s for the best. The real thrill is in the hunt. If we ever found the golden goose, it would probably only kill our love for this life.

Trout emerges from the house covered in lipstick stains, his shirt hanging open. Mrs Mahon waves out the window after him and he blows her a kiss. “Remember,” he says, “You’re still a beautiful woman and a sensual lover.”

“Get in the fecking car,” the Book Buddha roars.