Paper Walker

Chapter 2

He gets up, holds out his hand and when I carefully shake it, he says: "My name is Sorley."

"Zara", I manage to squeak. I recognize his name, because I've read it, although the pronunciation is a bit different than I thought, sor-lee, instead of sor-lay. He speaks English, but I understand it better than I expected. That probably has something to do with the book.

"You're a paper walker, like me."

He's not asking a question, still I nod and finally pull back my hand. It's all clammy, so embarrassing.

"How eh... how did you find out?"

In stead of answering, I ask, with a bit of a stammer: This- this isn't normal, right? I mean, before, they did, in the book they did- acted like I belonged there. At least, nobody looked at me funny. You, you know I don't belong here, that ... right? That's not possible, is it?"

Sorley places a thumb under his chin and stares over my head. He looks pensive, I leave him to think about it. It gives me time to examine the room and get my heart rate under control.

I'm not much of an antique lover. Vintage, brocante, not for me. I like white and straight and shiny. Ikea or something of the sort. Still, the room is not at all ugly. A bit dim, perhaps. Every piece of furniture is made of dark brown wood. Don't ask me from which tree. His desk is filled with little drawers and sliders and unlike me, he apparently doesn't dislike paper. There are shelves with mountains of books. How many stories would he have tried?

He scares the crap out of me when he suddenly begins to talk.

"I think it's because we are the same."

He corrects himself immediately and his ears turn bright red when he stammers: "Can. We can do the same. Of course we are not the same. Me being a guy and you a ... a ..." His hands gestures up and down.

"Girl?" I help out, reigning in my laughter.

"Yeah", he breathes.

I am kind of curious about where we are. The book didn't say much about the outside world. Because of the English sounding publisher I assumed the story took place in the UK. Yet, according to my limited linguistic skills, his accent is a little too unclear to me. Of course it might have something to do with the time, or the county. Maybe I should just ask.

"Where are we?"

"Ireland."

"Ah." Now I'm really interested. I bounce on my feet and peer out of the small smudgy window.

"You're not from here?"

The view is nothing like any place I've ever been before and causes a delay in my brains. "Hmm? This is gorgeous, not a utility pole in sight. What did you say? Oh, no, I'm from the Netherlands."

"And they eh... they were trousers there? The a, ladies, I mean?"

His question makes me turn around and then I burst out laughing. He looks so uncomfortable.

"Yes, but then again, I am from the future. How cool is that. I'm a time traveller. Did you ever get questions about your clothes? How many books have you read? Visited, I mean." Wow, since when am I so fluent in English?

Too many questions perhaps. He responds – very smart – only to the last one.

"A few, but those, eh, are all from around this era." He diverts his eyes and when I follow his glance, I see more rows of old books on dark shelves. At least, over here they're probably not so old yet, they just look dated. All of them with linen covers, just like the booklet that is laying on my bed, waiting till I'm finished with this story.