Bookworms

I picked up a book recently. What sounds like a non-event was in fact, a big deal for me after months - maybe even a year or two - of exclusively reading on my Kindle or consuming  audiobooks. I had almost forgotten how it feels to hold a book in my hand. I brushed my thumb on the enjoyably rough texture of the page. I nearly held it up to my nose to sniff in the half-remembered scent of old paper but stopped as it was an old stained book picked up at a flea market, and the smell of paper, if discernible at all, would probably be accompanied by other odours I wouldn't be inclined to smell. 

Leaning back in a comfortable chair, tucking my legs under a fluffy woollen throw, I eagerly dug into the Inspector Wexford mystery. Little did I know the book came with a little puzzle of it's own, a mystery within a mystery. It was a teeny-tiny hole.

I first noticed on page 11 an almost perfectly circular hole, the size of a pinhead. No, that was not the mystery, it was of course the path made by a bookworm burrowing through the pages. I turned the pages onward, careful not to unwittingly read some spoiler, and the hole kept going on and on. I was rather impressed by the worm's tenacity, and wondered what I'd encounter where the hole ended. A dead worm? A shell left behind, pressed into parchment, or maybe just a splotchy stained outline.

What I had not expected however, was that at page 107, the perfectly round worm-sized hole was joined by another hole of an irregular shape and size. Not for this worm putting it's head down and tunneling straight through the pages as the first one had done. No, this was a free spirit, stopping to explore it's surroundings a bit before moving on to the next chapter. 

Amused, I flipped the pages back. Sure enough, worm 1 had chomped it's way in right from the cover, no surprises there. But there didn't seem to be any evidence of worm 2's entry, the signs of it's first meal just appeared out of thin, well, page. Chalking it up as immaculate conception, I shrugged and continued following their journeys.

The holes went on and on until abruptly both burrows converged on page 113 into a coin sized hole, about five pages deep, with jagged chewed edges on all sides. And therein lies the aforementioned mystery - what in the book happened here? 

I pictured worm 2 either gnashing angrily in all directions in a fit of emotion, or trying to create a masterpiece seized by an artistic whim. It couldn't be worm 1 - oh no - not that paragon of economical efficiency.

Or did the twain meet and engage in a battle? Or a competition to prove who could outchomp the other? Nah, I like to imagine bookworms as peaceful creatures, snacking their way through literature, chilling and chewing the paper cud, so I can't quite imagine them fighting unto death. 

Did they maybe meet, connect instantaneously and have a passionate thrashabout? Or maybe they didn't meet at all. Maybe the mysterious worm 2 had been suffering from an equally mysterious illness and what I had in front of me were it's dying throes. If so, did worm 1 pass through later, perhaps even years later, taking in the ruins wide eyed (do bookworms even have eyes?) as a tourist would the crumbling remains of the Coliseum.

Whatever happened, only the first worm continued through. I expected nothing less from a gentleworm of his strong determination. But the hole, while strong and well defined earlier, started growing smaller and smaller now, until it stopped 12 pages later. The pages after that were smooth and whole, unmarred by little bookworm fangs. (Note to self - really need to look up bookworm anatomy). Whatever happened, changed him. It looked like he lost the will to continue his mission. Whether it was battle wounds, a lost love, artistic awe or something else altogether is now lost to the unknown.

Worm 1 for all his perseverance and his long weary journey, couldn't finish the book, but I like to think he died satisfied with his efforts, or perhaps realised that it wasn't what his heart really wanted. Worm 2, unencumbered by societal expectations, lived life large in the short while he was there. Both left behind something to be remembered by. That is life I suppose.