Bookweird

by Paul Glennon

  And then Norman knew exactly what to do. He had stumbled into the bookweird by accident, but he was starting to understand it, and he saw it gave him a slim chance to escape.

  But Norman did not know exactly what to do. He did not understand what “bookweird” was supposed to be and he had no idea how to escape. He gaped back at Fuchs, trying to show his incomprehension and frustration by raising both eyebrows in a shrug. In response, the man in black twitched his ear in a way that no human could. With that motion, Norman recognized him. It was the strange librarian who knew about the missing page and who could put a pencil through the hole in his ear. But it was also the fox abbot of Tintern Abbey in Undergrowth. They were the same person, or the same fox.

  “You,” he gasped. It was so obvious now.

  Fuchs smirked ever so slightly and repeated the trick with his ear. Calmly and quietly, his big fingers began tearing the page out of his book.

  “You who?” Rorschach asked, confused. “Who are you talking to?”

  With a grand, sweeping gesture Fuchs removed the typed page from the folder. He closed the yellow folder with a slap and slid the page across the Formica table top to Norman, who stared at it desperately for a clue as to what to do next. It had no instructions for him, just a description of the very scene he was in the middle of. He scanned down the page.

  This was no book for a kid like Norman. Even Fuchs, who thought kids should be tougher, could see that. Even he couldn’t leave the skinny Norman kid by himself in the middle of a bloody New York murder investigation. Fuchs would have loved to stay himself and play the game with the two detectives, but the little part of his good judgment that remained overruled this idea. He would help the kid out sooner, rather than later.

  As strange as it was to see his own thoughts on the page, it was stranger still to see Fuchs’s. And it was frightening to think that his fate depended on the help of this unreliable character, who wasn’t a librarian and who wasn’t a fox abbot and who seemed to be able to move at will between the real world and books. Knowing that Fuchs thought that this was a dangerous book and no place for a kid made him more anxious. The page was shaking in his hands as he desperately searched for an escape route among its paragraphs.

  Rorschach was only going to get angrier and ask more questions about the alley, about why he was there, where the horse had come from and whether he’d seen the body—nothing to tell him how to get out of this. According to this, Norman was supposed to have known how to escape half a page ago. In his nervousness, he ripped off a corner of the page and brought the paper to his mouth. The moment it touched his tongue, he understood.

  “Can I have a glass of water please?” Norman asked in his most polite voice. He tore another corner off the page.

  Darwin slid out the door as Norman continued to chew nervously on the balled-up paper.

  Fuchs covered for him while he ate. “I don’t think you need to be asking questions in that tone. This is a scared boy lost in the city. Look how anxious you are making him.”

  In the next fifteen minutes, Norman made his way methodically through his paper meal. It went more quickly after Darwin brought his water. As he chewed, Norman realized that the paper actually tasted better than the muffin he’d been served as an appetizer. When he was done, he had a moment of doubt. Didn’t he have to fall asleep for this to work? He looked over at the strange fox man, wishing he could ask him a few questions. When he got back home, he was going to visit every library in the city until he tracked him down again. He was beginning to hate the fox man a little bit.

  Fuchs seemed to read his mind. He could read his mind, of course. If the book in front of him really was the book that they were in now, then Fuchs could read everything Norman was thinking right there on the page. The moment Norman found himself thinking up insults and accusations, Fuchs turned to him, his smirking foxlike eyes flashing a silent rebuke.

  Rising to his feet, Fuchs suggested they take a break. “There should be someone here for Mr. Norman by now. I’ll just check at the front desk.”

  Norman gaped at him incredulously. His face pleaded, don’t leave me, but leave he did. As the Child Services man passed Norman’s chair, he kicked a leg hard. His clumsiness wouldn’t have been a problem if Norman hadn’t been leaning back on two legs. The chair slid out from underneath him, and Norman began to fall backward. He had no time to react. In karate, they didn’t teach you how to break your fall when you were sitting on a chair. Norman’s legs flailed in front of him. This was going to knock him out cold, he thought, but his head never hit the floor. He merely fell into blackness.

  Losing It

  “Put a coat on!” his mother cried, as Norman hastily gathered his shoes at the door.

  “Okay,” he called back from the doorway.

  “That’s some coat,” she said, her voice closer now.

  Norman, caught in the open doorway, could only grin back guiltily.

  “Where’s your coat?” she asked.

  “I can’t find it.”

  “Your new one? The yellow one with the black trim we just bought you?” Nothing exasperated his mother more than Norman’s absentmindedness. “Where did you see it last?”

  Norman shrugged. He could hardly tell her that he’d left it on the back of a metal chair in the interrogation room in one of her murder mystery books. Norman had checked and it was still there. There were no stray ponies anymore, no fox-men from Child Services and definitely no kids called Norman Norman, but in the scene when they bring their first suspect in for interrogation, Rorschach picks up a kid’s yellow and black windbreaker from the back of the chair and asks Darwin, making a joke about his height, if it is his. That was all. The rest was all pretty normal for these kind of books, Norman guessed—it was kind of creepy and gross. He understood why his mom wouldn’t let him read them, but he couldn’t understand why she read them. She was pretty nice as moms go. What was with the serial murder stuff?

  “I guess I’ll have to buy you a really cheap geeky one to replace it,” Meg Jespers-Vilnius warned. She probably should, but Norman knew she wouldn’t. His dad definitely would have. Dad was all about teaching him lessons, but his mom understood. While a geeky jacket might embarrass him, it wouldn’t help him remember things. Her letting him off the hook like this might make him more careful next time.

  “Are you going to the library? Put a sweater on then instead.” She disappeared up the stairs for a moment and returned with a grey sweatshirt. Rolling it into a ball, she tossed it to him from the top of the stairs, nailing him in the head.

  “Nice arm,” he said, rubbing his head where the Undergrowth scratches were just beginning to heal.

  “Nice eye,” she replied smugly as he closed the door behind him.

  There was little point in going. He’d been to the local branch every day for a week. Yesterday he’d done a long tour on his bike to the other nearby branches. He’d asked every librarian he’d met if they knew the name of the tall replacement librarian who wore black and had a hole in his ear. Nobody seemed to remember him, and he didn’t seem to be the sort of person you easily forgot. Maybe hole-in-the-ear man wasn’t a real librarian, Norman thought as he slipped on his running shoes. “That’s right,” he said aloud as he kicked and tugged at his shoes to avoid unlacing them, “he’s an impostor!”

  What did he want then, this impostor librarian, and how did he move so easily between books and real life? Was he just like Norman, a kid who had fallen into one book and then just got the hang of it? Another thought struck Norman as he rummaged through the mudroom closet for his bike helmet. What if Fuchs actually came out of a book? After all the crazy stuff that had happened to Norman, the idea shouldn’t have been so frightening. But it was. It was enough that he himself had already messed up three books, but so far he’d always come back home to his own life, unchanged. He didn’t at all like the idea of somebody coming out of a book and disturbing real life.

  “Who is the impostor?” a soft voice asked behin
d him. Norman jumped, surprised to see his mother holding the door.

  “No one,” he answered sheepishly. “Someone from a book.”

  His mom smiled and regarded him affectionately. “I know how that is. Sometimes you get so wrapped up in a book it stays with you all day. You feel like you’re in it.”

  Norman nodded. She said she understood, which was nice of her, but she couldn’t really understand.

  “Just try to keep the conversations in your head,” she warned. “People might think you’re crazy.” She widened her eyes to show the whites and raised her eyebrows manically.

  Norman half smiled. No, he wouldn’t want that.

  “Your dad would like to talk to you before you go out,” his mom added.

  “What about?” There must have been an edge of worry in his voice. He was nervous these days, always prepared for something else to go wrong as his book problems snowballed.

  His mother’s answer was meant to be reassuring, but it was nothing of the sort.

  “Don’t worry. It’s nothing to do with you. Your father’s lost something. He just wants your help to reconstruct his steps.”

  “What…what has he lost?” Norman stuttered. Deep in his heart he knew what had gone missing. A twinge of foreboding went through his chest as he slowly slid his shoes off again.

  “Just go on up. Your dad just needs to talk it out.”

  It was not possible to climb the stairs any more slowly or to push the door to the study open any more quietly. Edward Vilnius stood facing his desk by the window where Norman could see him in profile. His hand was on his chin and he was staring, not exactly at his desk, but at some spot of nothing in between himself and the desk. Norman stood there, not wanting to interrupt, but his father didn’t acknowledge his presence immediately. He just stood there stroking his chin. There was an empty espresso cup on the desk. Somebody obviously thought he needed the strong stuff.

  “Hey, Norman,” he said finally, speaking in a slow, tired-sounding voice. He called him Norman, not Spiny, which was a bad sign.

  “Wh—what’s up, Dad?”

  “Norman, I’ve lost something, and I’m at my wit’s end now, hoping somebody else can think of something.” His voice sounded tight, as if he was straining to keep control of it.

  “Oh, okay…”

  “You remember the poem I brought home, right?”

  It was as if a stone had dropped down Norman’s throat and bruised the bottom of his stomach. He couldn’t have said a word at that moment, so it was for the best that his dad kept talking.

  “It’s called The Battle of Maldon,” his father continued. “It’s very old. You remember I had a copy that had been transcribed by Tolkien, with his notes pencilled in the margins. I was writing a paper.”

  Norman didn’t need to be told about it. He remembered too well what his father was talking about. His attention turned to the desk. The plastic-covered pages were laid out on the desk like patio stones. One, two, three…six, Norman counted. How many of them were there supposed to be?

  “I’m missing a page. I can’t for the life of me think of what I’ve done with it.” Edward Vilnius ran a hand through his hair.

  Norman gulped, desperately trying to bring moisture to his dry throat.

  “You haven’t seen me walking around with these, have you?” His father peered at him earnestly.

  Norman shook his head. No words would come, but his father pressed. “I wasn’t working on them downstairs in the dining room or anywhere?”

  “Not…” Norman stammered. “Not since that day you showed them to me.”

  “No.” His father didn’t seem surprised by the answer.

  “What the devil have I done with it?” He turned to Norman again. “I don’t suppose you’ve been in here, looking at them…or at other stuff? I know you sometimes borrow pencils and paper.”

  Norman croaked a hoarse “no.” He hadn’t been in his dad’s office. He hadn’t touched the plastic sheaths with the old poem pages inside. But that didn’t make him feel any less guilty.

  His father heard it in his voice and saw it in the way he was narrowing his shoulders, trying to make himself smaller, as if he’d be harder to see. Edward Vilnius’s own voice changed with his next question. “Is there something you need to tell me, Norman?”

  All Norman could do was shake his head stiffly. He couldn’t even look his father in the eye. Instead he stared blankly at the plastic-covered pages on the desk. Everything he did now made him look more guilty. It was like being back on the farm with Amelie. He wanted to explain, but how could he?

  “Norman,” his father said through gritted teeth, “I’m not a fool, you know. I can tell when you are not telling the truth.”

  Norman tried to look him in the eyes but couldn’t.

  His father removed his glasses and ran his palm over his head. “Have you any idea how important this is, Norman? This is not just my job at stake. This is a piece of history.”

  Norman gulped. His throat felt clogged, as if he had just swallowed a page whole. He couldn’t get any words out.

  “You are only going to make this worse.” Anger continued to mount in Edward Vilnius’s voice. It was there, but he was trying to hold it back. “If you tell me now, maybe we can sort this out, but I will not tolerate lying.”

  “I…I am not lying,” Norman croaked.

  “You aren’t telling me the truth, either,” his father barked back. He crossed his arms and stared, harsh and judgmental, his jaw set. Edward Vilnius was not an especially big man, but there was a look in his eyes when he was pushed to real anger—an animal look, maybe, the way his jaw twitched as he ground his teeth and squinted. Perhaps only a son could feel the full intimidation of this fierce scowl. Norman’s head wilted under it, unable to hold his father’s glare.

  “Is that it? Is that all you have to say for yourself?” His father held that stare for a long time before shaking his head and turning away in disgust. “Go to your room and think about it.”

  Norman stood rooted in the doorway.

  “Go!” he shouted, so loud it made Norman jump. He backed out of the study as quickly as he could, but not fast enough to avoid hearing the door slam and bounce open again, or to hear his father shout a word that Norman had only ever heard him say once, when he’d hit his thumb with a hammer. It was a word that seemed to come more frequently to Darwin and Rorschach.

  Norman stood in the hallway staring at his father. Edward Vilnius counted the plastic sheets on his desk oncemore, put his fists on the desk and muttered the word again before turning to rummage through some cardboard file boxes. As he did so, he caught Norman standing there in the hall staring. He didn’t say a word, just glared as he stepped forward to slam the study door fully closed.

  The wind raged against Norman as he cycled to the library. He stood up in the pedals, pumping as hard as he could, his hair streaming out behind him. In his haste to get out of the house without anyone noticing, he’d forgotten his helmet. He ignored it now like he ignored the inevitable punishment that would come his way when his dad discovered he’d snuck out. He just needed to get to the library as quickly as possible. The wind thought differently, howling down the bike path between the rows of cedars, turning them into a wind tunnel. So there was a very good excuse for the stinging in his eyes, for the protective film of moisture now forming over them and streaking out of the corner of his eyes across his cheeks. And a perfectly good reason for his nose to be running.

  It could not be that Norman was scared. Hadn’t he been through much worse? Hadn’t he dodged raven’s arrows in the mountain passes of Undergrowth? Hadn’t he heard the blood-curdling howls of wolves honing in on him through the dark? Hadn’t he also been interrogated by two hardboiled big-city cops? Losing the pages of some old poem—that was nothing. Right? So why did Norman’s hands tremble, no matter how hard he gripped the handlebars?

  This was too close to home. Somehow being inside those books had made all the danger he’d faced
recently less threatening. Sure he’d been scared, but scared for himself only. And always in the back of his head, he’d known that there was somewhere more real, somewhere where everything was safe and normal. As long as the weirdness happened only inside books, Norman could just about handle it. But now it was spreading to the real world. This chain reaction of page disappearances got worse every time. First it had been kids’ books. Then it had been his mom’s cheesy thriller, as his dad called it. Now it was a book people cared about it. There were courses at university about it. His dad had a job because of it. Maybe he’d lose his job now…and it would all be Norman’s fault.

  Norman was breathless when he swung through the door or the library. Mrs. Balani shushed him silently from behind the counter with a slight pursing of the lips and rise of her finger. He hadn’t really expected the ear-hole librarian to be there. He hadn’t had any distinct plan when he’d bolted from the house and grabbed his bike. He’d only known that the library was his best place to start. As he stood there though, blinking the moisture out of his eyes and sniffling as quietly as he could, an idea came to him.

  “You know that librarian I was asking about?”

  Mrs. Balani gave him a look that was supposed to express impatience but was really the opposite. You could always tell when a grown-up was only pretending to reprimand you and was actually amused.

  “Well, he lent me a book of his own, and I feel bad that I haven’t returned it to him.” How better to get a librarian on your side than to make it about returning a book? “He told me his name, but I can’t remember it. I’m sure I’d recognize it if I saw it, though. Do you have a list of all the librarians…you know, if you have to call them when someone’s sick?”

  Mrs. Balani studied him for a moment, as if considering whether to indulge him further. Probably she decided it would do no harm, because next she shuffled through a set of files behind her. It didn’t take her long. She handed over four sheets of paper stapled in the corner.