On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness

by Andrew Peterson

  Leeli stayed inside with Nia, preparing food, stitching a tear in a pair of Podo’s breeches, and cleaning the ashes out of the fireplace. When she was finished, she sat in the front room practicing a new song on her whistleharp and memorizing the words to the holiday classic, “Round the Gumpkin Danced the Meep.”

  They each went about their chores with gladness, even Tink and Janner when they shoveled the hogpig droppings into the wheelbarrow.3 It was hard to complain when the sun was warm and their bellies were full, not to mention the fact that they had escaped death and torture three times the day before. But if Janner had been watching closely that morning, he would have seen how often his mother peeked out the window toward the town, and he might have noticed the troubled look in her eyes. If Janner had thought about it, he might have wondered why Podo had stayed so close to both boys all morning, and why his trusty club remained at his side.

  16

  In Books and Crannies

  Janner, Tink, and Podo walked to town after their lunch of apples and butterbread. Podo had insisted on accompanying them, which made Janner and Tink feel safer. The closer they got to Main Street, the more anxious they were about being seen by Slarb or Gnorm or any of the Fangs they’d been so unfortunate to meet the night before.

  Glipwood was eerily quiet now that the many visitors had packed up their belongings and left town for another long, sad year in Fang-infested Skree. J. Bird’s lanky form could be seen inside his barbershop, sweeping. Ferinia’s Flower Shop had a CLOSED sign in the window. The Only Inn’s windows and doors were wide open, and Podo waved at Mr. and Mrs. Shooster, the proprietors, busy changing the bedding and shaking out the rugs. Shaggy sat snoring on a bench outside his tavern.

  Without turning his head, Janner stole a glance at the jail. Commander Gnorm, to his relief, was dozing in his rocking chair on the jail stoop with his pudgy greenish hands folded across his chest. The rings on his fingers glimmered, even in the shade. Janner pulled his eyes away and moved a step closer to Podo.

  “You lads run along to Oskar’s,” said Podo. “I’ll be watching over ye from the tavern. I feel the need to wake up old Shaggy and wet my whistle.”

  Janner started to protest but caught himself. While he didn’t want to spend even a minute alone so close to the jail, he also wanted Podo to know that he could be brave and responsible. “Yes sir,” he said, straightening his back to his full height. “Come on, Tink.”

  The brothers moved carefully past the jail to Books and Crannies, where Zouzab was perched like a vulture at the apex of the roof, his patchwork shirt waving like a flag in the breeze.

  Janner waved to the ridgerunner.

  “And hello to the Igiby men,” said Zouzab. His voice was soft and delicate. “I trust your time at the festival was pleasurable?”

  Janner was surprised that Zouzab didn’t seem to know about their near-death experience the night before. “Yes,” he replied. “It was an eventful day.”

  “Is Mister Reteep inside?” Tink asked.

  “Inside, yes. Many are the boxes that arrived by wagon not an hour ago. Many new books for you to read, Janner Igiby.” Zouzab was courteous, but Janner always felt like there was far more going on behind his little eyes than his mouth ever spoke.

  Zouzab said no more and watched them enter the bookstore.

  Books and Crannies was a place of wonder. Rows upon rows of books, many of them tattered, charred, and ancient looking, filled every shelf and corner nearly all the way to the high ceiling. Tall books, skinny books, books about daggerfish, books about the lineage of the kings of Skree, books about the rise and fall of the use of sugarberries in cake, books of legend about Anniera, books about books about other books, all organized according to subject in a maze of shelves.

  But it wasn’t just books. Rolls of maps and odds and ends and surprising surprises were lying here and there among the many volumes, in plain sight but easy to miss in all the clutter. No matter how many times Janner had been inside Oskar’s store, he still managed to get lost at least once before he made it to the office at the back of the building.

  When the door clicked shut behind them, Janner smiled and took in a deep breath. He loved the musty smell of the place. Tink had only visited a few brief times, so his eyes shot back and forth, trying to take in all there was to see. As they made their way toward the back of the store, they saw a wooden bowl full of dusty old spectacles. Beside the spectacles was a tiny, beaked skull with three eye sockets.

  “Look!” Tink whispered.

  Janner smiled, enjoying Tink’s excitement. On another shelf was a jar of dead, bright orange insects, and on yet another was a miniature wooden castle with a mouse watching them from the spire window. Janner came to a dead end and stopped in front of a shelf labeled BOOKS ABOUT BLACKSMITHING AND/OR PIE, and Tink, so focused on trying to read the spine of every book he passed, collided with him. Janner’s feet got tangled in themselves and he pitched forward. He tumbled to the floor, knocking over a fat, round candle from the shelf. Glaring at Tink, Janner picked up the oily greenish candle and set it back in place. A handwritten label on the candle said SNOT WAX. Janner retched, wiping his hands on the front of his tunic.1

  “Eh? Who’s there?” came a muffled voice from somewhere nearby. Suddenly several books on the shelf to their right slid backward and vanished—replaced by Oskar’s spectacled face peering at them from the other side. “Ah! Janner, Tink, I didn’t hear you come in,” he said with a smile. “There’s a lot of work to be done, so no dillydallying. Time for browsing later. Follow me.”

  The books slid back into place and Oskar’s footsteps thumped toward the back of the store. After three more dead ends, Janner and Tink found the owner of Books and Crannies pacing the floor of his storeroom with a pipe in his mouth.

  “Now lads, I’d have thought your Podo would have taught you better than to laze about while an old man like me needs your help. What in Aerwiar have you two been doing out there?” he said.

  “We took a wrong turn at SKREEAN HISTORY,” Janner said, “and then another at POINTLESS POEMS and—”

  “No matter,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I believe it was the great Chorton who wrote, ‘To worry over dallying brothers is not worth the trouble when a large shipment has just arrived.’ Or something to that effect.”

  Oskar’s wide desk was cluttered with stacks of parchment, various kinds of pipes, feather quills, and bottles of ink. A nearly spent candle sputtered on a brass candlestick and lit up an ancient-looking map that was unrolled on the center of the desk. Tink moved closer to examine it.

  “Easy, young Igiby,” Oskar said, scooting behind the desk and turning over the map. “Surely your big brother’s told you that not everything here is permissible for young eyes. There are mysteries in the world that should remain mysteries for the young.”

  Tink flushed, embarrassed that he was already in trouble. Janner caught his eye and gave him an encouraging wink.

  “Where did all these books come from, sir?” Tink asked.

  Oskar’s eyes twinkled as they took in his shop with pride. It was easy to get Oskar to talk about his books. “The real question, young Tink, is where didn’t these books come from. I traveled all over Skree after the Great War, salvaging what could be salvaged. You wouldn’t believe the rubble. Those rotten Fangs burned our homes and cities to the ground. But as it always does, the dust settled. As the Skreeans began to unearth a life again, they also unearthed these treasures. Books. Only they weren’t treasures anymore. Not to everyone. I knew that I had to gather them up, preserve them.”

  At the mention of the Great War, Janner’s thoughts once again returned to his father. He had never asked Oskar if he had known his father, or if he knew any details about his death. Until recently, the subject was studiously avoided in the Igiby cottage. When he had found the picture in his mother’s room, it was as if a crack formed in the dam that held back his father’s memory; Esben Igiby was seeping into Janner’s thoughts, and there was
no way to seal the leak.

  Janner wanted to ask Oskar what he might know, but Oskar was busy dusting off piles of books and rambling. “Most people were working so hard at rebuilding and adjusting to life with evil snake men breathing down their necks that they didn’t have time for books,” he muttered. “They were given to me or sold for pennies. As the infamous Bweesley the Leaf Thief said in his memoir, ‘Cheap is almost free.’ Look around you, lads. This is the best of the old Skree. Or at least, it’s what’s left of it.”

  Janner and Tink stood in the silence of the study. Suddenly the piles of books and cluttered shelves were somehow more than that. What Oskar had preserved was the memory of a world that had passed away—as surely as Esben Igiby had passed away. Oskar too seemed lost in thoughts about the past. He tenderly cradled a stack of books in his hands. “On Dragon Day,” he said, “the people who visit me come to remember who they were. They always leave sad.”

  Janner pictured in his mind the faces of the people in town with their weak smiles and hollow laughter.

  “Now then,” Oskar said, interrupting Janner’s thoughts. “Here’s what I need from you two. I’ll sit here at the desk and keep record of the books and their categories—very taxing on the mind, I assure you—and you two unload the crates and stack them where old Oskar Noss Reteep tells you. Just holler out the title and author. Can you handle that?”

  Janner’s and Tink’s nods halted as Oskar swung open the large double-door to reveal a stack of eighteen wooden crates of various sizes sitting on the lawn, piled precariously high. On top of the highest crate perched Zouzab, who smiled at the shock on the boys’ faces.

  “Well! We have much to do, I’d say!” Oskar chuckled as he sat at his desk and lit his pipe. “What was it the great poet Shank Po wrote?”

  “Huh?” Tink asked.

  “Ah yes,” Oskar said with a puff of smoke. “‘Get thee busy.’”

  17

  The Journal of Bonifer Squoon

  Janner and Tink worked for hours while Zouzab skittered here and there, giving unwanted advice on how they should proceed and occasionally serenading them with sad, haunting songs on his odd little flute.

  Oskar N. Reteep sat at his desk with glee, his spectacles on the end of his nose, recording the titles and authors in a large leather-bound tome while he directed the boys where to stack each book according to its subject.

  “The Sound of Sidgebaw by…Riva Twotoe,” Tink read.

  “Ah, a fine work. Very rare. File under SITTING UTENSILS, there in the corner, see?” Oskar pointed above Tink’s head.

  “I Came and I Wept Like the Sissy I Am by Lothar Sweeb,” Janner read from another spine.

  “Sweeb? Ah, yes, a mediocre talent, but very prolific. File under BACON SONGS, just behind the lampstand there.”

  “Bonked by Phinksam Ponkbelly.”

  “GARDENING. Excellent book.”

  Hours of this later, the boys were sweaty and exhausted. Tink’s stomach growled constantly. Twice, Oskar bade Zouzab to fetch water for them, which he did without complaint before scampering back up the pile of crates and leaping across to the roof of the building like a squirrel.

  Podo appeared from the front of the building, announcing his arrival with a bone-rattling belch. “Not bad manners, just good ale,” he said with a wink. “I see old Oskar’s puttin’ ye both to good use.”

  Janner and Tink were grateful for an excuse to rest a moment. “Yes sir,” Janner said. “We’re almost finished, then Mister Reteep’s going to let us bring a few books home.”

  “Aye, that’s kind of him,” Podo said with a nod. “If you lads are fine and well, I’m off to the cottage to fetch the shovel. Need to turn it in to the blasted Fangs before sundown. Will you two be okay to walk home without me?”

  Janner and Tink looked at one another. Janner was still anxious about being so close to the Fangs, but he was determined to show his grandfather that he could be trusted. “Yes sir, we’ll be fine.”

  “If anything happens,” Tink said, “we’ll call for Leeli and she’ll come kicking.”

  This brought a hearty laugh out of the old pirate. “Ho! Let the lizards beware of Leeli Igiby and her deadly dog!” Podo looked them both in the eye. “You lads just keep to yourselves and come straightaway home, eh?” And with a clap to Janner’s shoulder that nearly knocked him over, Podo was gone.

  The last crate was smaller than the others. It appeared to be much older too. On the lid was one horrifying word: DANG.

  Janner and Tink gasped. Even Zouzab, who had been watching so quietly all day, gasped.

  “Aha! I’ve been waiting all day to look through this one, my boys,” Oskar said, appearing behind them. He looked to his right and left and whispered, “It’s from Dang.”

  “But—how? Who—who do you know in Dang?” Tink asked.

  “Shh!” Oskar put a finger to his lips and looked around again. “There are Fangs afoot in Skree if you haven’t noticed. Do you want to be thrown in jail again?”

  It was the first time he’d shown any sign of knowing about the Igibys’ troubles the night before, and Janner noticed it.

  Tink lowered his voice, “Sorry, Mister Reteep. Who do you know in—”

  “I don’t know anyone in Dang. I found this old box along with the others, but I didn’t want to draw any attention to it, so I piled it at the bottom of the wagon. I opened it long enough to see that it’s full of books. That’s all I know.” He rubbed his hands together like a happy child about to eat a piece of cake, then lifted the lid. The brothers took a step closer to the crate and looked inside. They looked like ordinary books, but knowing that they were from a faraway land of danger and mystery made them fascinating to behold.

  “Just bring these to me one at a time so I’ll be able to record them properly.” Oskar smiled and stared at the books longingly, “I mean to read them all tonight.” He came to himself, cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows. “The afternoon is nearly spent, boys. These may be from you know where, but they’re still just books after all. As the great explorer Jinto Qweb said, ‘Hurry! Reading is fun!’” Oskar lit his pipe and shuffled back to his desk, humming as he went.

  Janner pulled the first book out of the crate. It was worn and heavy, the cover decorated with intricate loops and knots. In the center, flowing letters said Ridgerunner Rhyme: Poetry of the Mountains.1

  Zouzab squealed with delight and leapt to the ground. He was back on the roof of the building in the blink of an eye and left Janner standing there, empty-handed. Already the book was open and the little ridgerunner’s lips were moving while he read.

  “You asleep out there?” Oskar called from his desk.

  As Janner and Tink scampered to bring Oskar book after book, he sat at his desk with pipe smoke drifting about his head, scribbling notes in his ledger, and mumbling.

  “Mmm. Fascinating! Nasal Dysfunction in the Woes of Shreve…”

  Janner tried his best to inspect each of the books as he carried them, and he only accidentally dropped four. Some of them were written in strange runes. Others contained maps of lands of which he had never heard. One book was titled Mostly True Tales of the Pirates of Symia. Janner thought of his grandfather and cracked it open. On the first page was a picture of a sleek ship lifting over a giant wave. The deck of the ship was full of pirates in flamboyant clothing clutching swords and daggers. He could barely contain the delight he felt holding that book in his hands, imagining salty seas and reckless sailors. He handed it to Oskar reluctantly.

  “All in good time, lad,” Oskar said, taking the book with one hand and pressing one long lock of his white hair across his forehead with the other.

  Tink found a book with drawings of creatures that he could never have imagined; small dragonlike creatures with saddles and men astride them, horses with wings and clawed feet, great hairy beasts that walked upright and had teeth as long as a man’s arm. Beside each picture were notes and specifics on the creature’s weaknesses and strengths. Ti
nk walked slowly to Mr. Reteep’s desk, enthralled by the pictures. Oskar smiled and held out his hand.

  “Pembrick’s Creaturepedia,2 son. Don’t worry, that’s one I’ll let you look at. There’ll be time enough to peruse all you like.”

  With that, Tink quickened his pace, and before long Janner was reaching into the crate for the last book of the bunch. Smaller than the rest, its worn leather cover was decorated with the image of a dragon, wings outstretched.

  Janner flipped open the book the same way he had all the others, but the inside was different. He was surprised to see handwriting, not printed type:

  This is the journal of Bonifer Squoon

  Chief Advisor to the High King of Anniera

  Keeper of the Isle of Light.

  Read this without my permission

  and I will pound your nose.

  Janner’s breath caught in his throat. High King of Anniera? Could this be real? Everyone had dreamed of Anniera’s fair shores at least once, even those who denied it existed. Yet here he was, holding the king’s advisor’s own thoughts in his hands. Of course, the journal could be a hoax, but like everyone else in Skree, Janner wanted to believe that such a place existed—or had before Gnag the Nameless destroyed it. Janner showed the opened book to Tink, whose eyes grew wide. But just as Janner started to turn the page, the book was snatched from his hands.

  “Zouzab!” Janner hissed, and he turned to face not Zouzab, but Mr. Reteep, whose face was stern.

  “That’ll be all then, Igiby boys.” Oskar put the book under one arm and gestured at the crates with his pipe. “Stack those by the woodpile, and you can come in and browse the rest of my books all you like. Each of you can take home three volumes, but I must approve of them before you go.”

  Janner and Tink stood still, feeling the weight of Oskar’s gaze. Janner wanted desperately to know what was in the journal, and he wondered why Mr. Reteep would be so secretive with it.