by David Ward
Bones shook his head. “Can’t take things out of books. Ye can only go inside. And ye can come back out.”
Thoughts were swirling in his head so fast that Yeats could hardly think. “So I can go inside any book I want?”
“Aye.”
“Wow.” Yeats’s mind was flooded with possibilities. He knew a lot of good stories! Peter Pan. He could go to Neverland! Robin Hood. Fighting the Sheriff of Nottingham with a quarter staff. Wa-hoo!
The pirates waited impatiently. He shook his head vigorously to clear his mind. “Wait, wait a minute,” he murmured. “This is what happened to Shari, isn’t it?” His eyes widened as the truth struck home. “She made a wish, didn’t she?”
Skin and Bones nodded. Yeats’s gaze dropped to the book on the floor. “She wished to be in the Arabian Nights!”
“Aye,” said Bones. “More to the point, she wished to be Shaharazad.”
All the glorious possibilities drained away as Yeats imagined his father’s desperate face. “What did my dad wish for?” he murmured.
Bones covered his heart with his hat. “He wished to be with her. Very honorable, I’ll give him that. Then, not long after they were in the story, he broke the spell and came back.”
“Why? How?”
The pirate snapped his fingers at Yeats’s eyes. “Would ye mind settin’ a poor old man down for a moment? To get me balance?”
Yeats regripped and said vehemently, “No way!”
“All right, all right,” grumbled the pirate.
“How did my dad break the spell?” Yeats repeated. “And why?”
Bones rested his sword arm on Yeats’s thumb. “Spells are meant to be broken,” the pirate said. “That’s the way of magic. It don’t last. But ye’ve got to want it with all yer heart—more than anything else—before it will break. Yer dad wanted to come home. And he wanted the girl to go with him.”
“But she wouldn’t,” Yeats said softly. “Because her parents were dead. Because she was searching for a happy ending.”
“Ye can’t wish for another person,” said Bones. “Only yerself. Yer father had to come back alone. And in the nick of time too. He was about to lose his head!”
Yeats looked around the room and thought of the books, the history and stories, and all the glorious worlds he had read since he was little. His father had stood in the same place twenty years ago. But he was not alone back then. And the story was chosen by Shari. The result of that wish had left old Mr. Sutcliff unstable, his father in a lifelong depression, and his family on the brink of splitting.
Yeats scowled. He knew what he had to wish for. But before he said the words he needed answers to a few questions.
“If I asked, could you take me to Shari?” he asked.
“Aye,” said Bones.
“And if I could convince her to go with me, would the spell be broken and she could return?”
The pirates regarded each other. Finally Bones shrugged and said, “If she wants to come back here with her whole heart … then yes.”
Yeats leaned eagerly forward.
“But it gets muddy in the story world, lad,” Bones added. “It will be hard to think clearly as ye do now. Especially for the girl. She’s been in for a long time! Her memory will be like a cloudy soup.”
Yeats squeezed his eyes shut. “Is there a chance I could get stuck in there too?”
“Aye,” they said together.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Yeats.
“’Course ye don’t,” jeered Skin. “Ye be as lily-livered as yer father.”
Yeats turned red and scowled as fiercely as any pirate. “Say that again, Skinny, and I’ll chase your boogers up your nose with your own sword.”
Skin hopped up from his sitting position and swung his sword. “I’ll kill him! Davy Jones, I don’t care. Just let me kill him.”
Bones thrust his finger at Yeats. “Say yer sorry!”
“No!”
“This isn’t going to help yer father. Say it!”
Yeats pounded the top of the shelf, bouncing Skin off balance.
“Sorry,” Yeats said through gritted teeth. “Sorry,” he said again. “But don’t you ever call my dad a coward.”
Skin regarded him closely for a moment before putting away his sword. “A sword up the nose, eh? Very pirate-like. Might use it meself.”
Yeats took a deep breath and regained his composure. “Will you help me if I get stuck?”
“Why should we?” Bones retorted. “Not like we owe ye or yer father anything! The codfish! Hauled me off to the garden when the girl didn’t come back. Demanded more wishes to go back and get her.”
The sudden image of his father as a frightened boy filled Yeats with rage. “You didn’t help him? He needed you! That’s disgusting, even for a pirate.”
“I’ve been eating garden dirt for twenty years,” Bones retorted. “I suppose I paid for it by being marooned.”
“Well, if you’re so hostile to my father, then why are you answering my questions?” Yeats shot back.
“We have to,” answered Skin sulkily. “There’s a certain rotting fairness built in to the magic. Gives ye yer chance. Questions come before the wish.”
Yeats rubbed a hand over his eyes. He had to think. The magic of the house was beyond reckoning; it tore down his defenses and left him numb. No wonder his father was depressed! He had to live in the logical world of the university while knowing what had happened in this room defied common sense.
But at least his father was not crazy.
The pirate’s gravelly voice broke into his thoughts. “So, lad. It’s up to ye. I’ve been away for twenty years and have lots to do. Let’s get on with it. Time to make a wish.”
lthough it was his first time in the library, Yeats felt a strong connection to the place. He was loath to make his wish and leave. In the library, his father, mother, and even Gran were only a shout away. And it didn’t help knowing that one other person who had been in his position had never returned.
He rubbed the back of his neck and touched his father’s necklace. The bell made a faint tinkle. That gave him the courage he needed. Yeats squared his shoulders and sat up straight. “I’m ready,” he said.
Bones smacked his hand. “Open yer fist,” he commanded. Now that it had come to the moment, Yeats knew instinctively he could release the pirate. He set him down beside his partner.
“Ye can’t change a wish partway,” Bones instructed.
“A wish is final,” Skin added with a snarl.
“Occasionally there’s a wind when the story world opens,” Bones said. “Don’t mind it! And don’t shout. Focus on the words!”
“What words?” Yeats’s voice cracked.
“Are ye daft? Ye’ve got to be reading the book in order to get there. Now pick it up.”
Yeats reached for the Arabian Nights. His hands shook as he placed it on his lap.
The pirates raised their swords and pointed them at Yeats’s nose. “Now, lad!” they cried. “What be yer wish?”
Yeats was about to ask that they take him to Shari when a thought suddenly struck him. He needed to see her alone. Someone had taken Shari when she and his father had first come to the story. Gran called them “abductors.” They could still be around. Yeats wiped away a bead of sweat. “I wish for you to take me to Shaharazad where she is alone!”
He squeezed his eyes shut. He waited but nothing happened. He felt Odysseus’s warm side against his legs. One of the pirates coughed. When he opened his eyes Bones was tapping his sword impatiently on the shelf. The pirate indicated the book. “Read!”
“Oh!” Yeats exclaimed. “I forgot.” Once again he mustered his strength. “For Dad,” he whispered. “This is for Dad.” He flipped a page or two and began to read.
Shaharazad was the eldest of the vizier’s daughters. She devoted herself to poetry and stories, studying the books and lessons of the past.
An image of the pretty, determined girl from the picture in
Gran’s kitchen popped into his head. Many books had been gathered to the palace and the girl rigorously attended to the wisdom of the wise and the history of peoples all over the world. By day, she recited poetry and basked in the treasures of stories long forgotten by all but the poets and minstrels.
In the corners of his eyes the library blurred. Odysseus pushed hard against his legs. A wind tore through the stacks and the pages of the book flapped. He felt dizzy and his hair blew wildly.
“Hello, matey!” Bones shouted. The library was gone. They were in a rowboat shrouded by cloud. Skin, as large as life, sat at the tiller. Oars creaked. They rose and fell with the swells under the canopy of early dawn.
“Where are we?” Yeats whispered. He clung to the sides of the boat. The air was damp and free of salt. Green water lapped against the hull.
“Where do you think?” Skin snapped. “We’re on the sea of words.” He was much more alarming in human size. Neither pirate’s skin was metallic anymore. Now, every feature of the flesh-and-blood buccaneers stood out in the dim light, from their stubbly beards to the tattoos laced around their arms. Bones looked more tattered than Skin. There was a hole in his hat and his face was darker and deeply tanned. His sword, too, was pockmarked. But then again, he had been outside for the last twenty years. Erosion had taken its toll.
“It doesn’t smell like ocean,” said Yeats. Rather, the air smelled musty and reminiscent of Gran’s library.
“It will,” said Bones. “We haven’t made harbor yet. Hold on!” he yelled.
Something butted against the bottom of the boat. They lurched and Skin gripped the gunwale, grinning. “I love the small stuff.”
Yeats peered into the bubbling green sea. “What is it?”
“Words,” puffed Bones.
“We’re rowing through words?” Yeats exclaimed. He caught sight of black shapes rolling through the water. And to think that his father had traveled in the same boat!
“’Course!” Skin cranked hard on the tiller. “Small print. It’s an old book!”
“I don’t understand,” said Yeats.
“We be skimmin’ pages,” said the pirate. “We haven’t committed yet. When we commit to a chapter then ye’ll smell the sea. Then we’ll weigh anchor and ye can talk to the girl.”
Odysseus’s claws were fully embedded in Yeats’s sock. Yeats untangled the cat and put him on his lap. The book, he noted, was gone.
“That’s the second time that mangy beast has come for a ride.” Bones pointed to the cat. “He came with the girl and yer father too. Seems he can’t grow old till the young lass comes back.”
“No wonder Dad was surprised to see you!” Yeats said to Odysseus. “You must be the world’s oldest cat!”
Mist poured over the bow and brushed past Yeats’s face in whimpers and whispers.
Yeats swatted at the clouds. “What is that?”
“Echoes from the story world,” Bones answered. “Ye’ll hear more of it. We’re just past the introduction.” He leaned into the oars with practiced ease, his muscles bulging under his shirt. Skin sang an old chantey:
“So swab the decks and reef the sails!
Hold ye hats and mind the gale.
We’re off to San Francisco!”
His singing voice was gravelly, just as Yeats imagined it would be, yet also strong and wild. His peg leg scraped against the bottom of the boat with each swell. Yeats was certain, bookends or no, they were capable of handling themselves in a fight.
A few minutes later Yeats’s skin tingled and a thrilling sensation rippled through his body. He sucked in the musty breeze and instantly felt brave and strong like a warrior.
“Hurrah!” he shouted. Seconds later he cowered on all fours, terrified to look over the side. “What is happening to me?” Yeats gasped.
“It’s normal for a first voyage!” Bones assured him. Yeats clutched Odysseus. Bones rested his oars. “We’re passing through Chapter One. Ye be sensing all the emotions. Be thankful we aren’t traveling too far.”
Yeats felt his strength returning. Suddenly, without knowing why, he cupped his hands around his mouth and burst into the national anthem. His voice did not sound anything like Skin’s, but he didn’t mind. He sensed hundreds of people watching his performance and he put his arms out to them.
Skin snorted and Yeats felt silly. The feelings kept roaring through him. Panic struck his heart like a fist.
“When will this stop?” he gasped.
“Fight it,” said Skin.
“How?” he groaned.
“Think of one thing and the rest will go.”
“One thing, one thing,” he muttered as the panic rose. Yeats grabbed his necklace. The marble was smooth and cool and when the bell tinkled he thought of his father’s concerned face. “I am here for Dad,” he murmured. “I’m on a rescue mission.” He squeezed his eyes shut. A wave of terror washed over him. Just then, a monster welled up in his mind, but he pushed it back with the words, “I’m going to rescue Shari and bring her back.” The panic subsided, melting away as quickly as it had come.
Yeats shuddered. He needed to stay focused. Talking seemed to help. “How do we break the spell?” he asked. “How do we get Shari to remember who she is?”
“We?” Skin frowned. “Not we. Ye.”
Bones growled, “I told ye that in the library! We’re finished with our end of the bargain soon as we weigh anchor. Enough questions!”
Yeats shook off a wave of giddy laughter by murmuring, “My dad is depressed; my dad is depressed.” Out loud he said, “Fine. How do I break the spell?”
The pirates said nothing.
“Well?”
“We’ve answered all we have to,” said Skin. “Now that we’re on the way.”
“Oh, I get it,” said Yeats. “Now that I’ve made my wish you don’t have to help me with anything else.”
Still the pirates said nothing. Skin squinted menacingly.
Now more than ever Yeats needed answers, before his escorts fulfilled their magical obligations and “weighed anchor.” “Hey, Skin,” Yeats said. “Want to know a really good pirate insult? I mean one that will curdle people’s blood, they’ll be so mad? It’s very witty.”
Skin squirmed.
“I know some nasty ones,” Yeats added.
The pirate could not contain himself. “Tell me!”
Yeats smiled and looked at the sea. “No. Not unless you answer a few more questions.”
“Not fair!” shouted the pirate.
“That’s right,” retorted Yeats.
“Come on, lad,” said Skin. “Be nice now. I could use a little wit.”
“Huh!” grunted Bones in agreement.
“All right,” said Skin. “I propose a swap. An insult for an answer.”
“Done!” agreed Yeats.
“Ye both be daft,” muttered Bones.
“Let’s begin,” said Yeats. Skin sat poised. Yeats scowled and said, “If courage was measured by the length of your sword, you’d be wearing a sewing needle.”
There was a pause while the pirate digested the insult. When it finally sunk in, his hands began to shake and his face twisted with wrath. He reached for his sword.
Yeats leaned as far back as possible, but there was nowhere to go other than over the side. All of a sudden, Skin gave a great guffaw and slapped his knee. “Good, good! That got me. And I was going to kill ye!”
Yeats blanched. He swallowed hard and then asked his first question. “How do I undo Shari’s wish?”
Bones glared at his partner but did not interfere when Skin answered, “Ye must make her want for something outside the story world, from her home world. She must remember who she was and wish to be herself again with all her heart. Names, places, anything might help her drain the bilge of the last twenty years. Objects seem to work best—favorite childhood toys, a stuffed animal, that sort of thing.”
Yeats nodded. He would be a stranger to her, but he could certainly tell her about his father. A
nd her grandfather and Gran. Even Gran’s house. If only he had a picture!
Skin looked at him expectantly. “Come on, lad,” he said. “Another insult.”
Yeats shuffled as far from the pirate as he could. Then he cleared his throat. “I’ve seen better mustaches after a glass of milk,” he said.
The pirate twirled the ends of his mustache agitatedly. The insult had obviously been effective, for Skin leaned menacingly toward Yeats one second then forced himself back to the tiller the next. When he was in command of himself he gasped, “I like that one too. What’s the question?”
Yeats chewed his lip. He knew there were many questions to ask that would be helpful, but which were the most important? “Who will I be in the story?” he asked finally.
“Yerself,” said Skin. “Ye did not ask to be a character.”
“But won’t I look strange? I mean, it’s the land of Arabia. From a long time ago.”
“That’s another question,” said Skin. “Insult me please.”
While thinking of insults was tiresome, the present company greatly aided inspiration. “You’re such a pathetic pirate,” Yeats said, “the insignia on your flag should show a puppy holding a rose instead of a skull and crossbones.”
Bones stopped rowing. Skin bared his teeth. “Ye insulted the Jolly Roger,” he growled. “That’s going too far.”
“No I didn’t,” answered Yeats quickly. “I said, ‘you are so pathetic.’”
Bones looked at Skin and shrugged. “Fair point.”
“What be the next question?” asked Skin.
Yeats considered. He needed to load the question, at least a two for one. “How can I do what I need to do in order to rescue Shari when I am still me and not one of the characters and I don’t even speak Arabic?”
Skin stared back blankly, then said to his partner, “That be a bit of a mouthful for me. What say ye?”
“There are thousands of unwritten characters in any book,” said Bones to Yeats. “Ye’ll find yer way. Make use of yer wits,” he said and then winked, “like ye’ve done with us, and lose yerself in the crowd. And why would ye need to speak Arabic? This book is written in English!”