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The Collector’s Mark

by

Rachel Green

Rachel is the grand prize winner of BiblioBuffet’s bookmark contest which asked for entries of 300-500 words in a fictional or non-fictional piece built around bookmarks. Rachel came up with a wonderful and weirdly compelling short story utilizing a unique “bookmark.” Our congratulations to Rachel, and our thanks to all the entrants who took time to explore the meaning of bookmarks in various ways.
 

Jasfoup the demon paused in his reading and fished the bookmark from where he’d placed it an hour before—between the cover and first age-stained leaf. Page 137 of the heavy vellum, where he now placed it, smoothing the ancient strip of leather with his thumb until it softened once more from the oils and slight alkaline twist of his sweat, was a particular favourite. His hardened thumbnail traced the words as he read them aloud: “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

Jasfoup smiled. Exodus 22:18 had provoked so much suffering for humanity it was hard not to think of the editor as a saint. He already was, from the point of view of the church and state, having changed the word ‘poisoner’ to ‘witch’ under the orders of both; thus enabling the church to prosper from the persecution of harmless old women and gather such riches and tracts of land as the Witchfinders deemed favorable. The accusation of witch was one that could not be ignored and invariably left the recipient dead whether they were guilty or not.
 
The leather was semi-translucent and Jasfoup could see indications of the words beneath. The light blue stain that discoloured the top third of the bookmark had been there for four centuries, the once-black ink having bled and softened during tanning but never quite bleaching. At the bottom of it, reading from left to right in the tongue of the Abyss, was the name, date of death and current location of the soul of Johann Striebeck, translator, copyist and editor of the word of God. He’d never noticed the skin being stripped from his index finger; he’d been too busy being burned as a witch to cover his part in the Church’s editorial mandate.
 
Jasfoup smiled again and reached for his skinny latte. He’d found the bookmark in the collection  of Reverend Josia Perks, vicar of the parish of Laverstone in 1836. If Reverend Perks had known of the origin of the sliver of flesh he’d never let on, slipping to his eternal punishment without a whimper of protest. The bible in which it marked a page was the same copy as the one that the demon now perused: seventeen hundred handwritten pages in Striebeck’s crabbed handwriting.
 
He reached for the cardboard box and wrapping paper. It would make a fine gift for his bibliophile friend.

 
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