Blind Justice

         A figure sat in a high backed armchair draped in shadow staring out the eight-foot windows to the path winding through the moonlit gardens. His raspy voice wispered, chanting, remembering. In one hand he held a cigar, periodically casting an orange glow onto an age contorted face, in the other a leather bound book, a mirror to his eyes. The shelves stood as a dusty guardian, the books their watchful eyes. The moon played hide and seek with as the earth the man continued to sink in shallow contemplation. A light appeared at the gate and slowly came down the path toward him. His litany ceased as it neared, he could see the lamp, it’s holder shouded in white.
         The holder abruptly reached the window and stood silently outside. After one last draw, the man reached over and dropped the cigar into an ashtray. Even though the other person was close, it might as well have been at infinity. They were still for a moment, the flame suspended in the lamp, the pale glow confined to the lamp itself. The holder knocked on the window three times. Each time the light seemed to reach out toward the man, but unable to penetrate the darkness, resigned to its glass prison. Seemingly uninhibited by the glass, the holder took a step forward into the library. The man kept his indifferent gaze and simply said, "you finally came."
         A sensual female voice wafted through the air toward him, "I have what you seek."
         "Then give it to me," the man said while leaning forward in the chair, producing a slow creek.
         The lady only produced a long-fingered hand, palm up, as if expecting something. "Book," she said, her voice lacking any emotion or quality. His fingers tightened their grip on the spine as he stared her down. Her pale skin ghostly under the light of the lamp, but her face still shrouded by the robes. "No," he said, "that is too valuable."
         The holder lifted her head slowly, as if she had been in mourning or prayer. In that same moment, the light from the lamp exploded outward, dispelling any trace of shadow. The book that lay in the man’s hands turned to ash, and his body to flame. But in his last moments he saw the lady’s face: A mouldy blindfold obscured her eyes, while a river of crusted blood ran from parted red lips. A curse, she spoke, a beautiful one, to mark his death and her new trophy. "Howl you demon of avarice. Go, make the heavens and hells tremble with thy fury! For all the anger you possess, it is nothing unto me. For the light is called truth and the lamp is silence, but the flames are called sacrifice and I am justice."