by Alexie Aaron
Elma didn’t notice the change in genre. She had moved out of romantic fiction to historical fiction to history, and as she entered the center of the maze, had she looked, she would have seen that she was surrounded by mythologies.
Books toppled from the shelves, landing in two piles. The piles joined, and a creature cut from the pages of Greek mythology was formed.
Elma wasn’t certain what she was seeing until the creature turned around and snorted. A minotaur stood there: Asterion, the fabled son of Queen Pasiphae, conceived because of her unnatural desire for a bull, brought forth as a punishment for Minos for not sacrificing the mighty bull as he promised to Poseidon, Asterion who ate beautiful young men and virgin women.
The books sensed that Elma still thought of herself as a beautiful young virgin. They knew she would see the constructed minotaur as a danger.
Elma stood there stunned.
“Put down your weapons,” Brenda commanded as she entered the center of the maze.
“And be eaten?” Elma questioned, raising her gun, aiming it at something Brenda could not yet see.
Elma emptied the rest of Officer Blunt’s pistol into the minotaur, but before she could pull out Molina’s pistol, Detective Jones tackled her.
Elma assumed incorrectly that she was being devoured by Asterion. She fought Jones with everything she had. He managed to get her on her stomach and cuff her, with only minor cuts to his face and arms from the fingernails of the spinster.
Brenda disarmed her and hauled her to her feet. “Elma Kis, I’m arresting you on the charges of kidnapping, endangering two officers of the law, auto theft, impersonating an officer of the law, destruction of property, and the attempted murders of Wendell Baumbach and Clara Tyler…” Brenda looked at Jones. “Is there anything else?”
“Not at this time,” he answered and listened to his officer complete the process of giving Elma her rights.
The bin shook violently. Kabir looked at Molina and raised his hands, more to hold the book out of the officer’s reach than to surrender. She was still too fixated on the disturbance behind Nash and Clara to follow through with her arrest.
The books exploded upwards.
Nash picked up Clara, using his back to deflect any of the paperbacks headed their way. He stopped when he saw her eyes widen to the point of looking less human and more anime. He turned around, still holding her.
“It’s impossible,” he said.
“It’s amazing,” Clara said.
“It’s… a… penguin,” Wendell stammered.
Emerging out of the wreckage of the Penguin Classics bin was what looked to be a penguin standing twelve feet tall, made entirely up out of the old paperback books. The black eye Nash spotted before had a twin, and both eyes stared down the police officers, daring them to come any closer.
Officer Molina’s mouth hung open. Words would not come. She kept blinking, hoping, one of the times, she would open her eyes and the monstrous creature would be gone.
The penguin waddled towards Kabir. He saw something in the eyes that reminded him of something… no, someone. “Marc? Marianne?”
The penguin squawked and whistled. It lowered its head and opened its beak. Kabir placed the black book in the beak. “You have to get this to the water. But you may perish in the deed. Do you understand?”
The penguin squawked and nodded its head.
Kabir asked the room, “What’s the quickest way to the beach?” as he took off his suit coat. He stripped his body of his expensive watch, cufflinks, and the family ring he wore. He handed them to Wendell. “Make sure these get to my family.”
“The quickest way to the beach from here is Clark to East Oak. You should be able to connect with the trail. Take that under North Lakeshore Drive, and the Oak Street Beach is right after you emerge from under the highway,” Brenda said from the stairs.
“Molina, get on the radio and block off traffic to these areas. Tell them we have a VIP heading for the beach,” Detective Jones ordered.
Molina snapped out of what she thought was a hallucination caused by something she took in her reckless teenage years.
“Think of the penguin as being mechanical,” Nash advised.
Molina nodded slowly but motioned her officers outside. She stopped. “What about Kabir Patel?” she asked at the door.
“He’s not going anywhere. Kabir, be so kind to stop in at the precinct tomorrow morning,” Jones ordered.
“I will be there,” Kabir promised. “Right now, I have a penguin to get to the lake.”
“Nash, Clara, go with him,” Kalaraja said from the top of the stairs. “Wendell and I will guard the bookshop.”
The book started flapping in the penguin’s mouth. It resembled a fish fighting to get loose from a hook.
“We have to go now before Horace absorbs any more power from the store,” Kabir said. “Clear the door.”
“How is it that Kabir’s not compromised?” Clara asked Natalie as they followed the waddling book bird.
“He rid the book of his pages and has already acted out his darkest desires.”
“Brave man,” Clara said.
“I think so. Clara, you may have to complete the journey of the book penguin. Paper will only last so long in water.”
“So it wasn’t just happenstance that I’m a long distance swimmer?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. I don’t have a definitive answer for you. It’s outside of my area of expertise.” Nash put an arm around Clara as they watched the big bird bend and twist until it cleared the door. “You don’t have to do anything you feel will put yourself at risk.”
“Dodging bullets was an eye-opener, and it may have put a dent in my future as an adrenaline junkie,” Clara said.
“I’m not sorry to hear that. I was a bit jealous being downstairs babysitting the book when you and Wendell were up there together.”
“I’m not going to lie and tell you that I didn’t enjoy myself, but dodging bullets aside, he’s a confirmed mother’s boy, and I’m in love with the Knight of Pages.”
Nash pulled her closer. They walked out the door and followed the parade down the street.
Wendell looked over at the woman conversing with Kalaraja. He walked over, extending his hand, and introduced himself. “Wendell Baumbach.”
“Natalie Boccasavia.”
“Wendell, she’s the Queen of Books,” Kalaraja informed him.
“What happened to the King of Scrolls?” Wendell asked.
“My colleague died of prostate cancer. He lived a good life until the C word happened. The teenager whose heart resides inside of Nash was supposed to take over after college, but alas, the book got him first. I was asked to leave my home and step into very large shoes.”
“How much of my father’s history do you know?” Wendell asked.
“I know what was written. I wasn’t here when it happened.”
“Wendell, it broke your mother’s heart. She’ll never tell you all of it, but it was pretty bad towards the end of his freedom,” Kalaraja said.
“I wonder how he is now that his book is in jeopardy?”
“I expect he’s fighting with every ounce of his being,” Natalie said. “If he abandons his book, he may be able to save himself. If he stays connected because his narcissism won’t entertain that he can fail, then I don’t see him surviving.”
“What if they fail to destroy the book?”
“Then I don’t see the Order surviving. Time will tell, Wendell, time will tell.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Horace’s shoulder healed, and Father Saul surmised that the book was healed too. Horace turned blue as he pulled the energy from the air of the chamber. Frost licked at the edges of the observation window, and soon, it all but eliminated the monks’ view of the alchemist.
Father David opened a panel, and the sound of haggard breathing filled the room.
“We may not be able to see him clearly, b
ut we can hear him.”
Horace drew as much power as he dared and sent it all to the book. He watched as his creation fought whatever was holding him. When he asked the book, what was its peril, the word penguin kept appearing. Surely, it couldn’t be a penguin? Although, birds could be fierce once they got ahold of something, but where, aside from a zoo, would a penguin come from?
Where was his female? She was supposed to be getting the book into Nash Greene’s hands. Only then could the book draw the energy stored in Ron Santiago’s heart, infusing the book with power, killing the bookseller at the same time. The book told him that the bookseller was being protected by Horace’s very own blood. He knew he should have bashed in the skull of the baby Catherine called Wendell when he had the chance. But no, he chose to wait, thinking the sacrifice would be considered greater the longer the alchemist bonded with the child. How Catherine found out about his plan was still a mystery.
~
Jones put Elma Kis in the squad car. She seemed to be drifting in and out of reality. One minute she was screaming about a minotaur, and the next she was cursing Secondhand Susies.
“I think she’s flipped,” Brenda said.
“Make sure a doctor looks her over before we put her in a cell.”
“Shouldn’t you have someone else do this? I’ve had Elma Kis up to here,” Brenda said, tapping her chin. “I may forget myself.”
“I’ll call in and have Sergeant Dahlberg meet you in processing.”
“Thank you, sir. I take it you’re going to see what that penguin is going to do with that bad book?”
“Yes. I can’t leave it up to Molina to find an acceptable description for what is going on when reports need to be written.”
“What is going on, sir?”
“Every now and then, we get the opportunity to witness how the hidden denizens of this city take care of evil. They don’t have badges and don’t have to answer to lawyers and prosecutors. Already, I’m trying to decide how to explain this all to the DA. Anyway, I want to see this through. I owe it to Trisha Prue and Marc Davis.”
“What about Monica Voorhees?”
“Her too.”
Brenda nodded. “See you back at the station.”
The penguin followed Kabir, its head snapping this way and that as the book fluttered, trying to escape the beak made up of the orange covers. The feet of the bird were also made of the sturdy orange cardstock. The rest of the body was a combination of pages of text, giving the creature a light gray cast. The black of the eyes shone like bottles of calligraphy ink. The paper was so tightly condensed making up the back and flippers that it did appear black until you got up close where you could make out individual words. Had it been just a sculpture, it may have been a commentary on the pulp paperbacks that flooded the market, making the publisher fat with profits. Most of the books were classics, where the books were in public domain, with the authors long dead and no one to protect the use of the content. Still, they put literature into the hands and back pockets of students and others who didn’t have the budget to spend on books. For that, Penguin Books would have to be applauded.
Kabir remembered the debate he had with Elma Kis over the availability of books for everyone. Seeing her in handcuffs playing the villain role and the pulp paperbacks as the heroes seemed appropriate somehow.
Molina and her crew organized a stoppage of traffic of cars and foot. The pedestrians thought they were going to be in a film and anxiously waited to sign a waiver or negotiate an extra fee,but they left only with a tale to tell their friends and a few pages of text that disengaged from the penguin as it traveled to Lake Michigan.
“We’re getting close to the trail,” Clara said, recognizing the route from her early morning swims. “I’m going to run ahead and clear the way. I hope Molina thought ahead and contacted the coast guard.”
“Why?” Nash asked.
“The book needs to be taken to deep water. How far do you think a penguin made of paper and cardstock is going to get? The upstairs books were all for burning the bad book.”
“I see you’ve met Fahrenheit 451. But have you read it?”
“Give me some credit, Nash,” Clara said before she took off running.
Nash felt bad. He didn’t like the idea of burning or destroying any book. If there was a safe way to save the bad book, he would have done so. He spent countless hours cleverly repairing the books so they could be read again and again.
Nash had participated in rescuing books since he was eight years old when he found a dumpster full of mass market paperbacks with their covers torn off. It had taken him eight trips with his wagon and three lectures from his grandparents about the perils of dumpster diving to achieve his goal. To punctuate his grandparents’ point, they took him to the health center and got him a tetanus shot.
He had worked for months fitting the books with new covers before he walked the streets of his city and handed them to anyone who would appreciate the books. When the police picked him up, he was fortunate to have just given a book to a lawyer who pointed out that Nash wasn’t selling them; the books were trashed by the bookstore; he was a juvenile; and really, what law was he breaking?
~
“Marianne, we need to keep the head of the penguin above water as long as we can. The book must not be touched by human hands,” Marc stressed.
“Picking a penguin was genius,” Marianne told him. “I figure, six or seven strokes of the flippers will get us deep enough for Kabir to submerge the book and bury it deep into the lakebed.”
Kabir heard their conversation in his head. The enchantment of the bookshop plus the residual energy of their extracted pages was keeping them of one mind. Kabir didn’t expect to live through the experience. He wasn’t sure if Marc or Marianne would, but he did know they would never be the same.
Clara rallied the late-night beach strollers to form a wide corridor, promising them they would see something they never saw before. “Cheer as it goes by. And if anyone can round up a boat, I’d appreciate it.”
Three youths ran over to a locked facility, and Clara looked the other way as they opened it. Clara nodded as they dragged a sizable rowboat with oars out and stood by for instructions. Clara tossed them her phone. “Google how long it takes for paper to start to dissolve in water.” She took off her shoes.
“Twenty minutes,” one of the young men called out. He handed Clara her phone. She pulled the sim card and handed it back to the guy. “Keep it.”
“But…”
“You could have run off with it, but you didn’t. I think your actions deserve a reward, and I have no cash on me,” Clara said, pulling off her jeans.
The youth started to insist, but Clara said, “I’m going to destroy it by the time I finish my mission. If you really don’t want it, drop it off at the Biscuit, Bagel and Buzz and I will treat you and all your friends to breakfast Saturday morning.”
“You’re one crazy broad,” the kid said, watching Clara take off her T-shirt.
“If a tall man inquires where a Clara went, tell him I’m getting a head start,” Clara said and took off running. She dove into the water, emerging eight yards from shore. She started to swim, doing the Australian crawl to take her into deep water.
The flashing of lights and a whoop of a police car preceded the penguin. The crowd cheered, as instructed, as Kabir climbed on the back of the creature before it waddled, gaining velocity the closer it got to the water. It dove, skimming the top of the water.
Kabir held on as the mighty paperback bird and used its flippers to propel them far from shore into the lake.
“Swim until the paper starts to bring you down then disengage your head,” Kabir told Marc and Marianne. “I’ll swim as far as I can with the head. I think Nash’s girlfriend is waiting to help me bring it to deeper water.”
The penguin started to puff out like a paperback does when it encounters moisture. Kabir swallowed a little lake water when they cleared
the sandy shelf. The waves worked against them, peeling page after page away.
Kabir saw them pass Clara. She acknowledged them briefly before she put her head down and increased her speed.
Nash found Clara’s clothes next to a boat. He looked around. Someone in the crowd shouted, “She’s out there waiting for the penguin!” Nash started to push the boat out when two officers assigned by Molina took control of the boat. He managed to hop in and appreciated when no one would let him row.
“Molina says you have a dodgy ticker,” Officer Needler reported. “You be our eyes; we’ll be your muscle.”
The penguin started to lose form. Kabir ripped the head upwards. He needed to keep the beak dry as long as possible. It was important that the beak did not lose hold of the book. He knew eventually he would have to touch the dreaded book again, but the longer he was free from its hold, the better their chances were to destroy it. He treaded water momentarily, lost as to what direction to go. He could see the lights of the beach behind him.
“Here, give it to me,” Clara said, swimming up. “I take it you’re not a strong swimmer.”
“I can stay afloat,” Kabir said.
“I’ll swim on my back holding this up as long as I can. Sidestroke beside me.”
The two swam deeper into the water. Lake Michigan was the warmer of the Great Lakes in the summer, but the deeper they went, the colder it got. Finally, the head which had started to soak up water as Clara and Kabir swam, was too heavy for Clara. “I think I’m toast. I need to rest.”