An Unexpected Visitor

She should have arrived with a crash or appeared in some garish, out of time, outfit with far too much silver fabric crunching as she moved and uncomfortably moist inside. Instead, she knocked on my door wearing a white spotted maxi dress holding an oversized handbag looking suitably attired for the mild weather.

“Oh good,” she said as I opened the door. She waved her hand across my face and I noticed the ring on her finger glow slightly until my eyes dimmed and my mind was full of a voice - her voice - speaking urgently.

You may call me Zara and I am a traveller through time. I have run out of fuel and I need your help to find more. A brief disclaimer, I will not tell you your future, the world’s future, play the lottery for you, or provide any major updates on upcoming sporting events. It is against the terms of my end user licence agreement.

I allowed four breaths in and out, counting slowly to five each time to process what was happening.

“You look so…normal.” I winced. I am not known for my ability to compliment women, although I did have a good excuse this time. It was true though. Zara looked aggressively normal. I waited for the adverse reaction to my backhanded insult. However, she beamed and I got a glimpse of rows of perfectly symmetrical teeth.

“Why thank you!” she said. “I did a lot of research although I don’t understand how anyone copes with so little arch support.” She flexed her foot to indicate her sandals.

“So I just need to help you find fuel?”

“Affir…correct.”

“And then what? Are you going to wipe my mind?” I looked suspiciously at the thin silver ring on her hand.

“I don’t need to wipe your mind. Would you believe you?” she asked, condescendingly.

She had me there.

“So what does fuel a time machine?” I asked.

“I need books,” she replied simply.

Books. I silently cursed Konmari and every novel I owned for failing to spark joy.

“Do you take Kindle?”

Zara looked confused for a second and whispered “Kindle” while waving her hand in front of her face and then confirmed. “No. That will not suffice. Will you take me to books?”

“Alright, yes. I accept. I just…” I indicated my tartan pyjama bottoms and slippers, conscious that it was just after midday on a Tuesday. “I’ll be five minutes.”

Ten minutes later we were walking into town and I hoped the bookshop where I donated my meagre pile of books was open. I continued to bombard Zara with questions which she answered patiently, although she spent more time taking in the surroundings than looking at me directly.

“So am I a distant relative, is that why you picked me?”

She sighed slightly. “I am going to have to update my introductory session to include questions about ancestry. No, I ended up in your street and yours was the only house with a vehicle in the driveway.”

I was left to silently contemplate my unimportance.

As we moved past the terraced houses and occasional blocks of flats into the town centre, I slowed the pace as Zara’s eyes darted back and forth, taking as much in as she could.

I breathed a sigh of relief. The bookshop had a suitably wonky ‘Open’ sign in the window. The bell tinkled as we entered and smacked against the wooden door frame.

Zara started to read the sign on the door explaining the process of donating and exchanging books. She mouthed the words as she went.

“Here we are,” I announced taking in the old book smell with background notes of coffee and cake, “The Book Exchange. They also have a really comfy coffee shop if you don’t want to take the books back…”

“Hold on,” she exclaimed, placing her hand flat around an inch from my mouth as I made an involuntary squeak. A small frown creased her forehead as she muttered “of course, no mute.” She lowered her hand and moved slowly towards the shelves.

She ran her hand reverently over the assorted rows of books, many had been well loved by previous owners, her fingers trembled. “These are all free?”

I nodded as her eyes bulged, adjusting to the concept.

“You have no idea. No idea. The treasure you hold here. The amount of energy in this one book.” Zara picked up one of the books at random and stroked its cover. I noticed that the treasure she was holding up was a mass produced biography of a recently retired footballer.

“This will do,” she said. “This will more than do.”

Her ring was glowing again and started to blur on her finger.

“Thank you,” she said. “And good luck with the war.”

I gasped but swallowed the horror when she snorted.

“Kidding. I’m still not allowed to tell you anything.”

The world dimmed again and then Zara was gone.

I stood dumbfounded in the bookshop, lingering in case she came back or some other strange adventure befell me. After a few more minutes, I decided that it was best return to my old life after this interlude with an unexpected visitor. I did pick up a book before I left, a familiar favourite from my childhood, for some energy for the next adventure.