by Sam Subity
Soon after, the older gentleman with the walker was returned to his feet, and the game resumed. Grimsby’s bingo card still looked mostly empty. But Granny V was only one square away from bingo on several of her cards. I didn’t see any way we could win short of a miracle.
“B14!”
Granny V’s hands flashed over her cards, then paused, and her eyes flicked back and forth like she was confirming. “BINGO!” She leapt up from her seat and spiked an oven mitt on the floor like she’d just scored a touchdown.
My stomach instantly dropped into my shoes. We’d lost. Game over. Literally.
The caller motioned to someone, and a younger man walked over to check Granny V’s winning card. His eyes jumped back and forth from her card to a notepad in his hand as he reviewed the numbers she’d marked. I held my breath, hoping she’d made a mistake. Finally he raised his head and nodded to the caller. The win was confirmed. Our fate was sealed. Granny V’s smile lit up her whole face.
As the checker started to turn away, though, Grimsby said, “Huh, that’s weird …” a little too loudly. He was intently studying Granny V’s winning card.
“Sorry?” said the checker, pausing in midturn.
“I mean, something seems odd about”—he reached out and swiped his thumb across the 14 in the winning B14 square. The 4 smudged—“that 14.” Grimsby held up his thumb, now smeared with black ink, toward the checker.
The checker frowned down at the card. Where before there was a B14, there was now a B11. He turned a grim gaze on Granny V, then straightened and announced loudly to the room, “Clearly this player has doctored her card and therefore forfeits.” Staring directly at her again with disgust, he continued, “For all cards.” With a sweep of his arms, he gathered up all her bingo cards and stalked away.
“How did you … ?” I whispered to Grimsby, gesturing to where the cards were.
“Easy. I used to help with bingo setup as part of, well, after-school detention. One day I sort of broke the B14 ball. Long story. Anyway, I noticed the new ball we got to replace it seemed to pop up a lot in games. It must be slightly lighter than the other balls or something.”
Gwynn nodded, impressed. “So you doctored her card to look like it said B14 …”
“Exactly.” He shrugged. “I figured it was just a matter of time until—”
A muffled cry of rage came from the other side of the table, and we all turned. Granny V’s face contorted from confusion to disbelief. To burning rage. When she turned her gaze on us, I could have sworn there was a flicker of orange flame in her eyes.
“Okay, yeah, now I see the dark Valkyrie,” Grimsby said. I turned toward him as his hand went into his blazer pocket and the tip of a black pen disappeared out of sight.
“You … you …” sputtered Granny V.
“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘won,’ ” said Gwynn. “Well, not technically, but since you forfeited, that means they beat you. Now you have to keep up your side of the bargain. Tell us how to help Abby’s dad.”
Granny V stared icily at each of us, her gaze flicking from face to face. I tensed, thinking maybe she was going to stuff us all into snow globes anyway. “Fine,” she breathed at last through clenched teeth.
She plunged her hand into her magical beach bag and fished around in its voluminous depths. When it emerged, her fingers clutched a small rectangular object. She tossed it onto the table unceremoniously. It spun once and skidded to a stop in front of me.
“Huh?” said Grimsby, furrowing his eyebrows.
I picked it up to study it more closely. It was an age-yellowed index card, its once-sharp corners rounded and creased from use. Random sequences of numbers were stamped onto it in different colors. I flipped it to the back, but the other side was blank.
“I don’t get it,” I said, looking up in confusion. “How will this help my dad?”
Granny V swept to her feet. “As the great Mick Jagger once said, ‘You can’t always get what you want.’ ” With that, she scooped up her dog, turned on her heel, and disappeared into the haze of cigar smoke.
“I can’t believe this!” I said, stomping angrily to my feet and dropping the card onto the table. “I was an idiot to think she might actually be able to help my dad.”
Grimsby cracked his knuckles with a loud pop. “Want me to go after her? Give her a little shakedown maybe?”
Gwynn raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
He turned to her, looking a little relieved. “Why not?”
Without answering, she plucked the card off the table and held it in front of her. “You guys really don’t know what this is?”
Grimsby and I exchanged a look. “No,” we said together.
She pointed to a series of letters and numbers typed along the top of the card. “Here’s a hint. See this? That looks like a call number.”
“Ohhhh …” I said excitedly, making the connection. “Duh, I should have recognized it! It’s one of those cards libraries used to keep track of which books were checked out before computers, right?”
“I think so,” Gwynn said.
I took the card from her and inspected it more closely. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one of these. So you think the clue is a book, then?”
Grimsby rubbed his chin. “Okay, that could be a little more helpful. Depending what the book is, I guess. Maybe Chicken Soup for the Dark Valkyrie’s Captive Souls?”
Ignoring Grimsby, I asked Gwynn, “Does Vale’s library still use these?”
She shook her head. “Not anymore. But I work there as an aide sometimes, and occasionally I’ll come across a really old book that still has one in it.”
Grimsby peered over my shoulder. “What are all these other numbers? 06.10.78 … 10.31.45.”
“I’m pretty sure those are due dates,” Gwynn said.
“Hmmm … that means 06.10.78 would be, what? June 10, 1978?” He frowned at the card. “Wow, so the last time this book was checked out was in 1978? How do we even know it hasn’t crumbled to dust by now?”
Gwynn checked her watch. “Well, hopefully it can last one more day. The library is already closed for the night.”
“Okay, so let’s meet in the morning and visit the library before class,” I said. “I really should check on my dad right now anyway.”
I left the bingo hall with my spirits slightly improved but still with the feeling that whatever the book was, it wouldn’t be an easy fix. Just keep hanging on, Daddy. I’m trying.
The next morning I met Grimsby and Gwynn outside a pair of large doors with the words “F. J. Feola Library” stenciled over them.
“How is your dad?” Gwynn asked, laying a hand on my arm.
I pictured the dark circles around his eyes. The way his cold hands lay curled in his sheets as if clutching desperately to this world. “The doctors keep reassuring me he’ll pull through. But I can read the worry in their eyes. They’ve taken blood samples, run brain scans—all the usual stuff and then some. But nothing seems to make any difference. It looks like it’s going to come down to unlocking the secrets of the svefnthorn.”
She squeezed my arm. “And you? How are you holding up?”
I reached back and massaged a kink in my neck; the wooden arm of the chair I’d been sleeping on by my dad’s side seemed to have dislocated one of my vertebrae. “I’ll make it. Just hoping whatever we find in the library sheds some light on any of this.”
When we entered the library, I was awed by the sheer number of books. Shelves stretched nearly to the ceiling in countless rows around a central study area and along each wall, alternating occasionally with arched stained glass windows that threw soft blue and red geometric shapes across the floor. A balcony ran along the outer walls to provide access to the books higher up. The whole scene—the scent of ink on paper carrying to us like incense, still forms bent over open pages as if in prayer, the pregnant hush of expectation—made it seem like we were entering some lost temple of lit
erary wonders.
“This way,” said Gwynn, motioning us deeper into the stacks.
“Does the call number give you any idea what the book is about?” I said.
Gwynn walked past more bookshelves, studying the numbers on them as she passed. “I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think it’s somewhere in the botany section.”
“Botany?” asked Grimsby. “So maybe it’s like a book on herbal remedies for obscure ailments?”
Gwynn stopped and ran her forefinger along the spines at the end of one shelf. “I’m not sure. But if it’s here, then it should be right about …” She knelt and continued to the next row down. “Oh …”
“What’s wrong?” I said.
She looked up at us over her shoulder. “It should be right here, but the numbers skip past the one we’re looking for. It’s possible it was mis-shelved.” She double-checked the surrounding books and the shelves above and below. “But if so, it could be anywhere in the library.”
Grimsby snorted loudly, stepping back to take in the expanse of books around us. “So you’re saying we have to search this whole place for one book? Talk about a real needle in a haystack.”
The excitement that had been steadily building in my chest all morning suddenly fizzled out as I studied the ocean of books around us.
“Maybe not,” Gwynn said. “Let’s check with the circulation desk first and see if they can help.”
She led the way across the room to a large, waist-high oak desk behind which a woman stood tapping on a keyboard.
The woman looked up and smiled as we approached, the delicate chains draped from her eyeglasses giving off a soft tinkling noise when she moved her head. “Oh, hello, Gwynn. What can I do for you?”
“Hi, Mrs. Mallo,” Gwynn said. “This is my friend Abby Beckett. Yesterday was her first day at Vale. And I think you know—”
“Mr. Grimsby,” said Mrs. Mallo, finishing with an audible sigh.
Grimsby chuckled awkwardly. “I swear that book was like that when I checked it out.”
Gwynn rolled her eyes before continuing. “Anyway … we were hoping you could help us with something?”
Mrs. Mallo noticed the card in Gwynn’s hand. “Oh my, I haven’t seen one of those in quite some time. Where did you get it?”
“It’s sort of a long story.” Gwynn gave me a quick look. “But actually, this is what we need help with. We tried to find this book on the shelves, but it doesn’t seem to be there.”
“Hmmm, well, let me take a peek and maybe I can find something.”
Gwynn handed the card across to Mrs. Mallo, who studied it for a few seconds before placing it on the desk next to her keyboard and typing in the call number. She frowned, typed a few more keys, and then her frown deepened.
“Is something wrong?” Gwynn said.
“Not exactly,” said the librarian, still studying the screen. “This book appears to be on reserve.”
“Oh no,” said Gwynn. “So we can’t check it out?”
Mrs. Mallo looked up at me then. “I’m sorry, dear, what was your name again?”
“Um, it’s Abby. Abby Beckett.”
“And this is just your second day at Vale?”
“That’s right,” I said.
The librarian nodded and looked back at her screen. “Normally new students don’t appear in our system for ten days. But the name on this hold”—she looked back at me—“is Abby Beckett.”
Gwynn and I stared at each other. Huh?
“That’s weird,” said Gwynn, turning back to the librarian. “So someone put a book on hold in Abby’s name?”
“That’s the other odd thing about this one. Normally holds expire if not picked up within fourteen days.”
“Oh,” I said. “Then … when was this one placed?”
Mrs. Mallo peered at me over her glasses. “Nearly four years ago.”
While we waited for the librarian to return with the book, I stared at the floor, feeling a tight knot forming in my stomach.
“Four years?” said Grimsby. “How did someone put a reserve on this book for Abby four years ago?”
Gwynn reached out and put a hand on my arm. “Abby, are you okay? You look like you’re going to be sick. Did something happen four years ago?”
But I continued staring at the floor without answering. There was no way. It had to be a coincidence. Because I knew exactly what had happened four years ago. That was when my mom had died. Had she placed a book on reserve for me right before then? No, that seemed … impossible. But still. Someone had reserved it for me. And if not her, then who? And how had a dark Valkyrie happened to get her hands on the book’s library card?
Just then Mrs. Mallo returned. She handed a thin book to me across the desk.
“Here you go, Abby. Please be careful with it. As you can see, it’s a bit fragile.”
The book felt brittle, with a cracked leather binding that was way older than the 1940s.
“Thank you, Mrs. Mallo,” said Gwynn. “Guys, let’s grab a table and get a closer look at this.”
I took a seat at a nearby study table and laid the book in front of me, feeling reluctant to open it. The cover had no title, only three symbols etched in dull gray.
Grimsby leaned over the table. “Backward seven, letter ‘Z,’ upside-down ‘Y.’ Huh?”
“I think those may be Norse runes,” I said.
Gwynn nodded. “Exactly what I was thinking.” She pointed toward each one and recited, “Laguz, for water or renewal. Eihwaz, for the tree of life. And this one …” She broke off. “Well, it looks like Algiz, for protection, but I’ve never seen it upside down like that.”
The knot in my stomach squeezed tighter, and I said quietly, “I have.” And I told them about my encounter with the dark shadow in my home in North Carolina, when my pendant had burned red with the same symbol. “I think upside down it means danger. Or even death.”
Grimsby’s eyes widened, then, recovering, he said, “Hmm, well, you said this was a book about plants, right? So … renewal. Tree. Death. Maybe it represents sort of the circle of life. You know, hakuna matata … something like that.”
“That’s actually not a bad suggestion,” Gwynn said.
I gingerly opened the cover and started to flip through the book. Its pages were dog-eared and yellowed with age, and they looked like they might disintegrate if handled too enthusiastically. A spidery handwritten scrawl and rough ink sketches filled the pages.
“It looks like some kind of journal,” I said.
Gwynn studied the pages over my shoulder. “All the entries seem to be from the early 1800s. Mostly descriptions of rare flowers and other exotic plants.” She pointed to one entry and read aloud, “ ‘V.H. greenhouse damaged by late winter storm.’ ”
“V.H.,” Grimsby said. “That’s probably Vale Hall. So you think this is a journal of some plant enthusiast who lived here back in the 1800s?”
“That’d be my guess,” I said as I continued flipping through more pages. “Maybe a botany teacher or—”
“Hold on,” Gwynn said excitedly. “Go back a page.”
“What is it?” I said. I stared down at the page she was pointing to, trying to make out the spidery script as I read aloud: “ ‘10 June 1826: svefn. cultivar … shows particular sensitivity to sunlight.’ ” I jerked my head up in surprise. “Wait. Svefn—do you think that’s … ?”
“Yeah,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “Dr. Swenson called it a svefnthorn. That’s kind of a unique name. What other plant could this be?”
“Sniffin … what?” said Grimsby as I scanned farther down the page.
“Svefnthorn,” I said. “It’s the thorn that caused my dad’s coma.” Then I read the next line in the journal: “ ‘Bloom appears to counteract toxin in common harvest mouse. Law of Similars.’ ” Below that was a rough sketch of a plant with wicked-looking thorns interspersed with tiny pale flowers.
“Law of Similars?” I asked, flipping to the next page, b
ut it only had an entry for another plant. “What’s that?”
Gwynn nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve actually heard of that before. It’s a concept that’s been around for a long time in natural medicine. The idea that the same thing that makes you sick can also heal you. Or basically ‘like cures like.’ ”
An electric thrill shot through me as I made the connection. But I mentally squashed it down, not ready to let myself get too excited about something that might turn into a dead end. “So what you’re saying is that somehow this same plant that poisoned my dad … can also make him better?”
Gwynn held up her hands in a cautioning gesture. “Maybe. All we have to go on right now is a vague entry in this old—”
“Details,” Grimsby chimed in, waving his hand dismissively. “So where do we find this plant?”
“The journal mentioned a greenhouse here on campus,” Gwynn said.
Grimsby frowned. “Vale has a greenhouse?”
“No, I don’t think so. Not now, anyway. But this was written almost two hundred years ago.” She thought for a minute. “I think I remember there being a collection of old maps and photos here in the library showing Vale’s campus at different times in history. Why don’t you two look for any other mentions of the greenhouse in the journal, and I’ll see if I can find those maps.”
Twenty minutes later, Gwynn returned with a few rolls of paper tucked under her arm. “Find anything?”
“Nada,” Grimsby said. “He only mentions the greenhouse one other time but doesn’t say anything about a location.”
“How about you?” I asked, eyeing the rolled papers hopefully.
Gwynn held them up as she moved toward the table. “I managed to find some surveyor’s maps of the campus from the early 1800s. I figured we might be able to locate the greenhouse on them.”
She unrolled one map and spread it across the table, pinning down the corners with books as the three of us crowded around to study it.
“What language is this?” I asked Gwynn after trying to decipher the unfamiliar characters on the map.
She shrugged. “Maybe some surveyor’s shorthand? I’ve never seen it before.”