A Book Dragon

by Donn Kushner

  The boy left with a large pile of books clutched between his arms and his chin. The woman held the door open for him, but he stumbled at the threshold; books tumbled around his feet.

  ‘ ‘Careful, Samson,” the woman said. She helped him pile up the books again and steered him carefully out the door.

  “He seems to devour them,” the older man remarked. “I’m afraid he’ll run out of food soon.”

  “He read all our comic books,” the woman explained to the young man, “including the annotated Krazy Kat. Now he’s going through all the science-fiction we have. I wonder what he’ll try next.”

  “He’ll find something,” the older man said. “But we’d better close up temporarily.” He locked the door.

  Nonesuch watched these new humans with deep attention

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  from the depths of his bookcase. The older man was tall, and partly bald, with a neat fringe of white hair and gold spectacles. The woman had thick grey-blonde hair, tied back in a bun. The young man was dark-haired, and unlike either of them. He had a busy look about him and soon left, saying he had to prepare his lecture.

  The woman locked the door behind him. He climbed into a green closed wagon that could be seen through the wide windows of the room. Nonesuch was astonished to hear it start to roar and then to see it roll away by itself. The white-haired man did not turn his head at the departure of the Volkswagen Beetle. He continued to turn over the pages of Nonesuch’s book, so carefully, and with a look of such respect and concentration, that the dragon had an unexplainable urge to fly out of the bookcase and perch on his shoulder.

  The woman had come to watch the book too. “He liked dragons,” she remarked.

  “Yes, didn’t he?”

  “They seem friendly. Or at least, diffident,” the woman said.

  “Most of them, yes. But look at this one. See how he’s watching the man in the trees. Measuring him for his coffin, I’d say.”

  “Or for his own lunch,” the woman remarked. Both laughed and continued to study Nonesuch’s book.

  While they are doing so, and while Nonesuch is watching them, it is appropriate to tell the reader more about these people. You will have understood, of course, that we are now in the present day, quite late in the twentieth century. We are somewhere on the northeast coast of North America, in a city whose population is between 50,000 and 200,000. But I will not give the name of the city, or even of the bookshop, though

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  DISTANT VOYAGES, as it will be called from now on, is a close approximation. If people knew where the bookshop is to be found, too many of them might want to visit it; and this, as will become clear later, would not be at all desirable. So, let us just say that in a certain city was a certain bookstore. The owner, Mr. Samuel Gotdieb, had lived there, in an apartment above the bookshop, for some years with his wife, Ingrid, and their daughter, Rachel.

  The building that now housed the bookshop had originally been a chandler’s shop, for outfitting sailing ships in the harbor, which lay at the foot of a steep slope one hundred feet below. The road from the harbor zigzagged up this hill around small blue-and-white houses that perched bravely on the slope. In time, the lower part of the hill had been excavated and a new line of shops built, closer to the water. Among them was another chandler’s shop that had taken over all the business. Thus, Mr. Gottlieb had been able to buy this one, together with the apartment above it. He kept a few of the ropes, fishnets, belaying pins, and grappling hooks for ornaments and filled the rest of the shop with books.

  From its door, he had a fine view over the harbor, the wooded hills of the shoreline, and three small, rocky islands. Customers browsing among the books could look at the ships - mostly freighters now, but a few sailing vessels as well, and any number of small motor boats — and think of distant lands. There was always some unexpected book to be found on the shelves. Casual visitors to the shop tended to stay a long time and usually took a few books away with them.

  When Rachel completed her studies at the university in the city behind the harbor, she decided to stay with her parents and work in the bookshop. She sent out detailed lists of their old travel books and built up a substantial mail-order

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  business. Several customers came to the city to examine books from the list at first hand.

  A frequent customer was Peter Levy, a young assistant professor of chemistry at the university. He came there first in search of books on the history of science, a subject that he had begun to study in depth. After he had seen all the books, he still came to see the bookseller’s daughter. They had been married three months before, in March, when Peter Levy could not get away for a long honeymoon. When the term ended, Rachel’s parents had treated the young couple to a trip to England.

  Mr. Gottlieb had gone over too, separately of course, to investigate the books in a couple of estates that were for sale. He had always loved England, from the year he had spent there on his way west from Germany in 1939. Peter Levy had become deeply interested in the history of chemistry — a subject on which, later, he built his academic career - and was especially fascinated by old equipment. When, in Edinburgh, he had heard of the sale, by auction, of the contents of an old laboratory, including the books, he called his father-in-law in London.

  Nonesuch learned all this in the next few weeks from hearing his humans talk as he made himself at home in the bookshop. After the discovery of Brother Theophilus’s book, Mr. Gottlieb could hardly be bothered with anything else. He kept the book in his office, to which he had added a new lock. He would sit over it for hours. Peter Levy came often too and examined the book with great interest. Once he approached the pages with a small scalpel. Mr. Gottlieb look worried. Nonesuch, who had found a good hiding-place within the crammed pigeon-holes of an old desk, bristled. But Peter only

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  removed a tiny scrap of paint from a vine, where it did not show, and took it away in a test-tube.

  He reported next day, “The gas-liquid chromatograph showed it couldn’t have been made after 1500.”

  “I knew that,” Mr. Gottlieb said.

  ‘ ‘The pattern oflipids was very definite,” Peter added. “If you could spare a bit of one page, I could do some carbon dating.”

  “Never mind,” said Mr. Gottlieb. “But I’m glad your measurements confirm my judgment.” When he left the office, he locked the book in an old maple cabinet.

  It disturbed Nonesuch to see his book shut away so, but he soon found that there were enough cracks in the back of the cabinet for him to slip through and lie down among the book’s pages.

  Now his periods of sleep were very short. Mr. Gottlieb might disturb him at any hour of the day or night. Often he padded downstairs from the apartment in his dressing-gown and slippers, a large cup of tea in his hand. He would take the book from its cupboard, spread it out on his desk under a bright light, and study the pages, writing detailed comments in a red notebook.

  One day, Peter Levy came with a camera and tripod and a set of bright lights. He photographed all the pages of the book. Later, he proudly showed the color prints to his father-in-law. “Very impressive,” Mr. Gottlieb said politely. “Now you can study it too.” Nonesuch could tell from his voice that the photographs interested him much less than the original. This pleased the little dragon, who had been curious about the copies, and had seen in them yet another example of the new, shiny things of the world to which he had now come. But he

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  had realized immediately that such images could never replace the real book.

  “But keep these to yourself and Rachel, if you please,” Mr. Gottlieb told his son-in-law.’ Tor the time being, the book will be a family secret.” Nonesuch, crouched in his bookcase, well hidden in the shadows, nodded in approval of the bookseller’s wisdom.

  CHAPTER XII

  VIEW OF THE HARBOR

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  T FIRST, NONESUCH PLANNED 1 ALWAYS TO STAY NEAR HIS

  book, but he
soon realized that this was not necessary. He kept a close eye on Mr. Gotdieb and quickly became convinced that the bookseller was guarding his book almost as jealously as he. Then the dragon began to study die ways of the shop and of the wodd outside it. He soon learned to watch for the movement of the hands of the old wan clock: at ten every morning Mr. or Mrs. Gotdieb opened the bookshop doors.

  Usually the first customer was Samson, the boy Nonesuch had seen on his first day. His school was only two blocks away, at the top of the hill, and he often visited the bookshop at recess. As Mr. Gotdieb had said, Samson was at present eating his way through science-fiction books, up to three an evening. He had read almost all the shop’s small stock of these books. By special arrangement, he was permitted to bring back within a week any books he didn’t want to keep. Even so, up to the present he had kept enough to use up all his allow-ance. He paid for the others by running errands, especially taking books to be mailed to the post office on the other side of his

  school. This was very helpful, since Mr. Gottlieb’s leg had been troubling him and he didn’t like to take his car for such a short distance. It was Mrs. GottBeb who had suggested putting the boy on a small salary.

  In the morning there also came mothers on the way home from the supermarket on top of the hill. They pushed shopping carts or baby buggies, which they left outside the door while they selected books on child care or gardening or vegetarian cookery or political science. At noon someone was sure to come in to buy a book to read whfle eating lunch at the restaurant next door. Now that the weather was fine, you could see them reading at the tables set out on the sidewalk, or across the road on the parapet overlooking the harbor.

  Nonesuch soon learned to recognize other regular customers. There was a short, gray woman who lived in a small apartment in the city and bought books on formal gardening. A lecturer at the university often came to look for works of British explorers of Africa; a garage mechanic was building up his collection of books on old cars. Then there was Professor Ash.

  Nonesuch had, of course, taken care that no one saw him. He understood very wefl that the sight of him would cause much more commotion than in the days when he had first entered his book. Fortunately there were many good hiding-places. In most of the shelves, there were gaps where books had been removed, and he could stay well back in the shadows. He found hidden roads between rows of books. Many shelves were built against the walls, but not too snugly: it was easy to pass from one level to another. Some free-standing

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  shelves with double rows of books, however, were open on both sides. In these, he had to be especially careful to move only when no humans were near by.

  He thought he was doing this. But late one morning when the shop was quiet, Mr. Gottlieb was in his office, and Mrs. Gottlieb was cutting the leather in her back room to cover a tattered nineteenth-century diary from Newfoundland, Nonesuch worked his way across from one side of a double shelf to the other; then, thinking himself quite alone, he flew across to the next standing shelf. There was a flash of eyes beneath him. He crouched, turned, and looked quickly down the wedge-shaped gap between two books.

  A large, bearded man, his vest covered with ashes, was sitting on the floor between the shelves, an open book in his hand. The man kept staring up, so that daylight was reflected in his eyes; then he closed them and said, “Now I’m seeing dragons!” He reached into a baggy side pocket of his old tweed jacket and pulled out a flat bottle, one-third full. He shook it, looked at it sadly, and thrust it back again. Then he rose, grunting, and shuffled out of the shop.

  Nonesuch learned to watch out for this man who could sii. so quietly in one place. He kept completely out of sight when he smelt his odor of old tobacco smoke and whisky; but he watched him with great interest. He heard the Gottliebs talking about the bearded man, whom they called “Professor Ash”. He had been a distinguished scholar, Mr. Gottlieb told his son-in-law. He still was: his knowledge of myths and legends was profound. But he had published little; he could never write down what he knew in a way that satisfied him. He had taken to drink years ago, lost his university position, and retired on a very small pension. Now he spent his time acquir-ing more knowledge in the city library or at this bookshop. He

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  would sit in an old chair in the comer or, as now, on the floor for hours.

  When he had had a drink or two from his pocket flask, professor Ash had enough sense to close his eyes and pretend to be sleeping. At such times, Mr. Gottlieb would not disturb him. Indeed, he said he often thought of hanging a “Do not disturb” sign on the old man’s broad shoulders. And sometimes Professor Ash really did sleep, and he dreamed about books.

  Occasionally Mrs. Gottlieb looked at him critically, for he never bought any books, though he sometimes sold them some. Mr. Gottlieb would say mildly, “Leave him alone; he knows where all our books are. He can even give me the prices, as if he had a catalogue in his head.” His wife could only nod in agreement.

  Nonesuch learned how much confidence Mr. Gottlieb had in Professor Ash when he called the old man into his office at the end of a day and showed him Nonesuch’s book. “Oh yes,” Professor Ash said, running his fingertips over the pages. “A treasure indeed.”

  Mr. Gottlieb turned over another page. “Here are more dragons,” he said. “I wonder why he painted so many dragons.”

  “Perhaps he saw them,” Professor Ash replied. He looked closely at the page. “What’s this in the vines, his signature? I can’t make out the words.”

  “Let me see.” Mr. Gottlieb pushed his glasses up to his forehead and bent over the page. “Itsays, “Theophilus fedt.’ “

  “Theophilus made the book, eh?” Professor Ash commented. “Theophilus means ‘Lover of God,’ almost the same as your name.”

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Gottlieb, very pleased.

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  No one besides the old professor had seen Nonesuch, and he was all the more careful to keep himself hidden. He stuck to the dark, shadowy places where he - no bigger than a large cockroach, now that he had eaten a few such insects - could conceal himself.

  But hiding was easy really: his humans had their thoughts on other things. Mr. Gottlieb would know, without counting, if one of a twenty-volume set of the short stories of Anton Chekhov was missing, but he would not really notice if his socks did not match. He could not count on Mrs. Gottlieb to remind him, either, since she was often immersed in books about calligraphy or techniques of bookbinding. She had a small bookbinding press in the tiny room behind the shop where books were unpacked, and spent much of her time there. She was the most likely one to see Nonesuch, since she had taken on the responsibility of dealing with any insects in the shop, though not on an individual basis. She had been attacking these hated destroyers with roach powder, but shortly after Nonesuch’s arrival, there were no roaches to eat the powder.’ ‘Where did all my clients go?” she would ask, puzzled.

  If he was discreet, he would be safe enough inside the shop, Nonesuch thought. He could start to examine his surroundings. Naturally, he had looked into some of the books, but this was not easy. Most were so tight in their shelves that it was impossible to crawl between their pages. Those that were loose enough for him to force his way in included a Mexican cookbook, which he did not understand, and a good edition of Treasure Island, which was much more interesting. However, he could only read as quickly as he could move, and he found it very frustrating to follow the story so slowly.

  When he was sure that all was in order in the bookshop, Nonesuch decided to explore the outside world. At first, leaving the building presented some problems. The door was locked at

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  night, and he did not dare fly through it in daylight. He carefully examined the inside walls and at last found a promising crack, above a row of dusty early-twentieth-century romantic novels at the top of the tallest bookcase. Through this crack, Nonesuch could squeeze to the open air, just above the bookshop’s sign.

 
; Directly below him was the road, then a flagstone terrace that ended in a low stone wall. The ground dropped so steeply beyond the wall that a flat green rooftop with a flapping clothesline seemed to be directly below. Beneath the clothesline, two girls in bikinis were sunning themselves on a blanket. Other rooftops appeared at different levels on the hill, some flat, most peaked, with worn, glowing brick chimneys.

  To the left, past a row of tables with red-checked cloths that were set out on the terrace, the hill withdrew from the shore. Nonesuch looked down on a small business district with a park and a shopping mall.

  But the more distant scene soon commanded his attention. As Nonesuch looked at the harbor spread out before him, he stayed for a long time crouched on the sign, moving nothing but his head to take it all in. He saw two freighters riding at anchor and another one docked beneath a huge crane on rails that was piling on containers as if they had been blocks of wood. A few motor boats moved about like water-bugs on a pond. Further out, two sailboats, one with red and one with blue sails, were chasing each other around a small island.

  Evening was falling; a flight of swallows dotted the windy air. At last Nonesuch spread his wings and joined them. The swallows, rising on a draft from the harbor, looked at him curiously but continued swooping and snapping up insects. One swallow turned to snap at him too, then flew quickly away, leaving two of its tail feathers floating. Nonesuch glided far out until he was past the hill and over the water. Now he

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  saw that the bookshop was the middle one of three plain two-storey buildings. To the right of the bookshop, as he faced it, was a small restaurant with a wide new picture window and a sign, THE BALCONY (formerly THE SAILOR’S REST) . On the other side of the bookshop was a shop with a door in the center, and a window on one side full of shoes and on the other side, of locks and bolts. A sign above the door read, B SACCO. THE GOOD