Bookweirdest

by Paul Glennon

  “We’ll just have to face it: the book’s going to change. The important thing is that we save Jerome.” He shook her gently. “Right? Isn’t that what’s important?” He tried to pull her to her feet. He needed her working with them and helping them again.

  “Shouldn’t I have some choice in this?”

  “Pardon?” Norman asked, surprised. They hadn’t heard Jerome return. He had left the torch on a rock at the far side of the cave and crept up on them.

  “Shouldn’t I have some choice in this?” he asked again. His voice was low but assertive. “This thing that you call a story but I call my life?”

  “I’m sorry, Jerome. We’re being rude. You’re right—you should be involved in the decisions.”

  Jerome wasn’t listening to his protests. “You talk about my life as if it were predestined. You call it a book as if it were already written.”

  “Jerome …” Malcolm had appeared at his side. Of all the people in the cave, the stoat king was the only one who could truly understand what the boy was going through. But the archivist was through listening.

  “You think I don’t know?” he demanded. “You think I’m ignorant of the plots and conspiracies that swirl around me?” His voice began to grind with indignation. “Nantes was looking for Johan of Vilnius’s son. You think Godwyn hasn’t dropped enough hints over the years for me to guess? I’m not stupid.”

  Meg and Norman were speechless. This was the secret they’d been trying to keep from him, waiting for the right time to reveal it, but Jerome had suspected it all along.

  “That’s why we need to get you out of here,” Norman told him. “Your father is waiting for you in Jerusalem. Together you will resurrect the Livonian Knights.”

  “Oh, he is, is he?” he replied bitterly. “That’s what will happen? You’re so sure. What if I don’t want that? What if I want something else? Does that matter?”

  Neither Norman nor Meg had an answer for him.

  Jerome turned away from them and gazed back down the tunnel. “What do I care about the great Johan of Vilnius?” he asked. “He’s just a name to me. I have had better fathers. One lies dead back there in the dirt of a cellar. Another lies in his bed, gasping for breath. They, like you, seemed to think that my destiny was already written for me.” He turned his eyes towards the roof of the cave and shook his head wearily. “I’m supposed to give up the books I love and become a leader of men. No one has thought to ask me.”

  He started to wander away to reclaim the torch, but even then no one could think of anything worth telling him. He was right about everything. To them it was a book—a book they loved, but still just a book. To him it was his life.

  Jerome stopped halfway across the cave and turned to get one final thing off his chest.

  “I had many fathers here in San Savino—a surplus of fathers—but I had only one friend. She came only briefly and unpredictably in the night, but oh, how I loved those nights! How I loved sitting there in the dark, talking to her. Do you know how I waited for those nights? Each night I would lie awake in expectation, hoping that the magic maiden would whisper her incantation and visit me. Even that was not in my control. Can I not have that? Can I not have a friend?”

  This was too much for Meg to take. She leapt to her feet.

  “I’m not leaving again. I’m staying here with you,” she declared tearfully. “I meant what I said about marrying you.” She threw her arms around him and put her head on his shoulder.

  It occurred to Norman that a scene this emotional should be difficult to watch, but there was something comforting about this. They stood together in each other’s arms, holding each other the way they always did—the way they would when they were his parents. The bookweird had shown him some strange things in the past, but this was up there.

  “So are we going back to the fortress?” Malcolm asked, as if he hadn’t interrupted anything. He was many things, but a romantic was not one of them.

  They worked their way back towards the fortress. Malcolm darted off dutifully to reconnoitre every passage they came across, but he returned each time shaking his head. For his part, Norman was preoccupied with the paradoxes that the bookweird had presented him with this time. Meg and Jerome—or Edward, as he should probably call him—seemed fine with the situation. They were going to stay here in medieval times and live happily ever after. Never mind that their real problems lay ahead of them at the end of the tunnel. The duke was still dead—as was Sir Hugh—but his vengeful knights would be roaming the fortress in search of him. As far as Meg and Jerome were concerned, these problems were nothing anymore. They had each other. But was it even possible? Could Meg just stay in the book forever? Norman had never faced the problem of trying to stay in a book. Usually he was trying to find a way out.

  And what did it mean for him? If his mom stayed in The Secret in the Library, would he still be born? Or would this Meg Jespers and this Edward Vilnius have a whole different set of medieval children? Would he even be able to bookweird back to reality? Or would he be stuck here in the desert, or in some other imaginary world constructed of scraps of stories like the one Kit had made for himself? He was beginning to feel very lonely.

  It was Malcolm who provided the obvious answer. “Just tell her,” he said, catching up to Norman and leaping to his customary place on his shoulder. “Just tell her you’re her son.” The stoat had developed an uncanny knack for knowing what was on his human friend’s mind.

  Norman supposed he’d have to in the end, but he wasn’t looking forward to it. He dragged his feet as they retraced their steps to the trapdoor, examining the walls for any sign of another exit. The cave walls were covered with primitive pictures of animals and stick-figured men and strange angular writing scratched in some ancient alphabet.

  “Do you think you could bookweird out of here by licking the walls?” Malcolm asked, trying to lighten the mood.

  Norman hoped it didn’t come to that.

  Soon enough, they had a new and different problem: they arrived at the end of the tunnel to find the trapdoor closed, as they’d left it, but the duke’s body had vanished.

  “Are you sure he was dead?” Meg asked, voicing Norman’s immediate concern.

  “Sure as stoats,” Malcolm replied firmly.

  Norman was relieved that the body was gone—it was too obvious a reminder of the bookweird’s real dangers. But its disappearance was puzzling. Someone had moved the duke’s body, so somebody knew about the tunnel, and yet no one had followed them. Whoever had removed the body must have wanted them to escape. Someone was protecting them. Someone—Father Lombard, perhaps, or someone else loyal to Sir Hugh—was covering their tracks.

  Fearing that someone was lying in wait for them in the cellar, Jerome pushed on the trapdoor gently at first. When it didn’t budge, he gradually increased the pressure. He was pushing hard with two hands when he began to worry. Norman and Meg both lent a hand, but the door didn’t move. They all seemed to realize what had happened. Whoever had covered their tracks had covered them too well, and too literally. Something very heavy was now placed over the trapdoor. They would not be able to move it from there.

  For a long time, they just sat there and felt sorry for themselves. They had been either fleeing or fighting since the morning.

  “Do you think anyone will hear us if they come down to the cellars?” Norman ventured hopefully.

  “They might,” Jerome said, “but not until the morning.”

  “We can wait,” Malcolm assured them. “At least we have supplies.”

  Norman didn’t like counting on the chance of someone coming down and hearing them. “What about an escape tunnel? Do you think we can dig our way out, or gouge a hole through the wood?”

  “It might be the end of this fine Santandarian rapier here,” Malcolm replied, “but we could probably carve a hole through those boards that I could fit through. It’ll take you two lads the best part of a day.”

  “And if you got through, do you thi
nk you could move those barrels?”

  The stoat scoffed. “Yes, me and a squad of mole-sappers. We could probably dislodge the things.”

  “You’ll have to find Father Lombard and tell him.” Norman glanced at Meg, expecting her to disapprove of yet another “miracle” in San Savino, but she did not protest. Since she’d decided to stay behind in this world, she didn’t seem as bothered by Norman’s interferences.

  “You could always bookweird your way out,” she suggested.

  “I’m not leaving Jerome here,” Norman replied firmly.

  “Then bookweird your way out on the other side,” she said. “You can move the barrels and let us out.”

  “That would be two days from now—one sleep for each leg of the journey.”

  “We can wait.” She touched Jerome on the arm.

  “It’s a good idea,” said Norman as he thought more about it. “But you’d better do it too. My ingress isn’t always”—he searched for the word—“reliable.”

  She looked at Jerome and shook her head. “I can’t leave Jerome alone for that long.”

  He actually laughed at that. “I’ve spent all my life hiding in the dark. Two more days won’t hurt. Besides, I’ve got Norman’s magic flameless torch.” He held up the flashlight as if it were some wonder of the world.

  “I’ll stay and keep the lad company,” Malcolm volunteered. “Should you magicians get stuck somewhere, you’ll be counting on me squeezing through a hole and sweet-talking some big-armed scullery maid into shifting those barrels.”

  “I’d welcome the company, Your Majesty,” said Jerome. There was nothing like a plan and a backup plan to lift everyone’s mood.

  The archivist started on Malcolm’s escape tunnel right away. He found a crack between two floorboards and began to whittle away the wood in little slivers. It was slow work and tough on his shoulders.

  “Let me try,” Norman said, after watching him for a while. It would have been much faster work if they’d had the larger rabbit-made sword, but whoever had dragged away the duke’s body had taken Norman’s sword too.

  Jerome handed him the rapier reluctantly.

  “What I really need,” the archivist concluded, “if I’m going to be at this all night, is a cup of coffee.” Norman would have thought it ridiculous to stop to make coffee at a time like this, but he had seen what the grown Edward Vilnius was like without his morning cup.

  “Won’t you need a fire for that? Do you think there’s enough air down here?” Norman asked.

  Malcolm’s nose twitched as he sniffed the air. It was one of those gestures that reminded Norman he was an animal, something that was so easy to forget. “There’s some fresh air coming in. In the morning, I might even be able to find the openings. But it’s too dark now. Let the boy have his coffee.”

  Jerome ground his own coffee beans right there on the rocks. If ever his father complained about the lack of an espresso machine, he would have to remind him of this. The archivist gathered straw and wood fragments that had fallen through the cracks from the cellar, and with Malcolm’s help, he built the tiniest fire Norman had ever seen. He placed the beans and a small amount of water in the travel-sized coffee pot Godwyn had given him.

  “Watch the pot for me,” Jerome told him. “This fire needs more fuel.” It was the first time Norman had heard the other boy speak so gruffly. Maybe he really did need his coffee.

  Norman did as he was told and stood guard over the little coffee pot. His father had offered him espresso once. It was just about the worst thing that he’d ever tasted, and this was from a kid who ate books as a hobby. He wondered now if his father had ever tried eating a book.

  Jerome and Meg were farther down the passage, scavenging straw and wood fragments. Malcolm sat on the other side of the fire, watching it with him. The stoat caught his eye as Norman reached for his knapsack.

  “Might as well get a start on this,” Norman said.

  He selected a page he’d written describing the Shrubberies. He could have chosen his room, but for some reason, he’d found it easier to describe the kitchen at breakfast time, with his sister being her usual annoying self and his father grumpy before his first coffee.

  He ripped the page into strips as he usually did. It felt good to eat paper like a ribbon of pasta or a long roll of liquorice, feeding it slowly into his mouth and letting it dissolve before he chewed off the end.

  Malcolm watched as Norman fed two strips into the top of Jerome’s coffee pot. The stoat’s eyes widened into an unspoken question. Norman just shrugged. It could work, couldn’t it?

  They watched the pot until it bubbled over and Jerome plucked it gingerly from the flames. From inside his cloak, he removed a tiny porcelain cup, smiling as he poured the thick brown sludge into it. “Does anybody else want some?” he asked. Norman and Malcolm were quick to shake their heads. Norman had to stop himself from grimacing.

  Meg took a single polite sip and handed it back. “That’s plenty for me. You have it.”

  Jerome knocked it back in two quick gulps and smacked his lips. “Let’s get back to that escape route,” he urged, as if just the taste of the coffee had revived him.

  The three human children took turns boring the hole for Malcolm to slip through. Norman tried to do his part, but Jerome was taller, stronger and more determined. When everyone else decided to give up for the night, Jerome insisted on pressing on just a little bit longer. Norman sat on the floor of the tunnel and watched the boy who would become his father work at their escape route. He had pitied Jerome once, felt sorry for the orphaned boy locked up in the library. Now he didn’t know how he felt.

  The dirt floor of the tunnel was surprisingly comfortable to lie down on. Weariness can make any bed comfortable, but it was getting cold in the tunnel. Meg was already dozing under Jerome’s cape when Norman pulled on his sweater and covered himself with his knapsack. It helped when Malcolm curled up on his chest. Norman felt the warmth of his body even through the sweater.

  “I’ll be back for you,” Norman whispered. It killed him to have to bookweird away without his friend.

  “I know,” the stoat replied confidently. He seemed to settle down to sleep for the night, but after a few moments, he spoke up again. “That trick with the paper in the coffee? Do you think that’ll work?”

  “I doubt it,” Norman replied with a yawn. He really didn’t think it had much of a chance.

  A Final Waking

  Norman could tell without opening his eyes that he was back at the Shrubberies. He knew the sound of the sparrows by now, and the smell of pancakes downstairs told him something else: his mother was home. He knew this not just because he thought Kit was incapable of making pancakes. After all, Esme could probably have managed, and they would be tiny, perfectly delicious rabbit-sized pancakes. No, a boy knows the smell of his mother’s pancakes. There was just one doubt that kept him in bed, unwilling yet to discover the truth. Would his father be here too, or was he stuck in the tunnels beneath San Savino, still unaware that he really belonged in a whole other time and place?

  He rolled over and dangled an arm over the side of the bed. As he dragged his fingers across the floor, they brushed against a pile of bedclothes. He opened his eyes to find a small figure asleep beneath a flowered comforter. His first thought was of Malcolm, but the lump was too big to be a stoat. He finally spotted the tattered stuffed yellow dinosaur and the little pink fingers that clutched it. Dora. What was she doing curled up with her comforter and her old stuffed animal on the rug beside the bed?

  He woke her gently, and she surprised him by wrapping her arms around him and clinging to him tightly. Norman wasn’t used to hugging his little sister, but he decided he was enough of a hero to manage it. When Dora smelled the pancakes she quickly released him, as if she’d just realized what she was doing, and rushed downstairs. Norman followed her more slowly, prepared for anything.

  He was tired of the bookweird, but if his father wasn’t there, he would have to go back.
He would save him from the fire all over again if he had to. He’d stop the duel in the cellars. He’d tell Malcolm to aim for Black John’s right hand first, and if it came to it, he’d dig out the floorboards of the cellar himself. He wasn’t going to let the bookweird hurt anyone he loved again.

  And so it was a relief to see Edward Vilnius standing there in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee and a grin.

  “Good morning, Spiny,” he said, raising his coffee cup as if in a toast. “Slept well, as always, I see.”

  “Better help yourself to some pancakes before they’re all gone,” his mother told him.

  He didn’t move right away. He was watching both his parents, observing their expressions and their gestures, seeing if he could pick out any echoes of the childhood versions. Maybe something in the way his father stooped, almost apologetically, echoed something he’d seen in Savino—the tall youth ducking under the huge beams of the library, the boy hiding away among monks. His mother’s eyebrows, raised in bemused expectation as he stood there thinking, was something he’d seen in the childhood Meg, but there was a softness in her eyes that hadn’t been there in the young girl he’d met in the desert fortress.

  “Thank you for watching Dora last night. That was very mature of you. I didn’t see any emergency messages on my mobile phone and there are no reports of police or fire being called to the scene, so all in all a good night. Did Mrs. Lamley from next door at the Hedges look in on you like I asked?”

  Norman wasn’t sure what to say. Did his mother really believe that this was what had happened, or was she asking him to go along with her cover story? He took a largish bite of pancake and made a sound that could have been either “uh-uh” or “uh-huh.”

  “Where did you guys go last night, anyway?” Dora asked.

  “We went to an opera,” his father replied, singing the word “opera” in a deep baritone.

  “Yes,” his mother added breezily. “An opera based on the works of Edgar Allan Poe.”