Bookweirder

by Paul Glennon

  The stoat perked up. “Something smells good.” He stood up and sniffed the air. “Let’s hurry up and get that book, and then we can have some breakfast.”

  “Smells like pancakes,” Norman replied. He could tell already that it was going to be difficult to keep Malcolm out of sight.

  “Come on, then. Which way is the library?” Malcolm licked his lips with his tiny pink tongue. “I’m hungry, so let’s get the job done.” He leapt from the bed to the dresser and then to the floor.

  “Wait!” Norman cried. “You have to be careful. They can’t see you.”

  “Why not?” Malcolm sounded offended.

  “Because stoats don’t talk in this book, and neither do mice or rabbits or anything.”

  “Are you sure?” Malcolm asked, his nose wrinkled skeptically.

  “Very sure,” Norman assured him.

  Malcolm rolled his eyes as if such a thing were preposterous. “Oh well, George and Pippa had never seen a talking stoat before either, and they got over it.”

  “I tried to stop you then, too,” Norman argued. “If things get mixed up, it gets complicated. We could wreck the whole book.”

  “Did you wreck my book?” Malcolm asked impatiently.

  “I nearly did, didn’t I? It was because of me that you got stranded at Scalded Rock. It was because of me that Simon Whiteclaw died.”

  Malcolm blinked and started to say something. “All right,” he conceded reluctantly. “You check if the coast is clear.”

  Norman dashed down to the kitchen to find his dad at the stove. Edward Vilnius knew how to cook two things, and only one of them was suitable for breakfast.

  Norman verified that there was a pot of coffee on the counter beside his dad before inquiring, “Pancakes?”

  “You know it, Spiny.” He turned around to offer Norman a plate. “But with a twist. These are English pancakes, in honour of your mother and her rediscovered Englishness. Apparently you eat them this way.” He spread jam on the thin crepe and rolled it into a tight tube.

  Norman took the plate of pancakes from his father but did not sit down. “Where is Mum?” he asked, as casually as he could.

  “Gone for a jog,” said Edward.

  So that was his mother accounted for. It just might be safe to sneak into the library.

  Norman picked up the crepe and took a tentative bite from one end. “Hmmph. That’s actually pretty good,” he mumbled through a mouthful of pancake.

  “Full of surprises, these English,” his father said, his back turned. “You want to tempt fate and wake your sister? She’s supposed to be up by now.”

  Norman didn’t need to be asked again. He bounded back upstairs, stopping by Dora’s door to listen for just a moment. Once he’d confirmed that all was quiet inside, he tiptoed down the hall and opened his own door just a crack. “Malcolm, the coast is clear. We can search the library.”

  There was no answer. He opened the door wider and poked his head inside. “Malcolm?” he repeated in a loud whisper as he scanned the room for his friend. The stoat had vanished. Why couldn’t he just stay put?

  Norman hurried down the hall to the library. The door was gapped just wide enough for a stoat to squeeze through. Norman opened it wide and whispered Malcolm’s name again.

  “Over here,” the stoat replied, from somewhere in the shelves.

  Norman ducked inside and closed the door behind him. “Where are you?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “That’s the biggest pancake I’ve ever seen!” From somewhere over Norman’s shoulder, Malcolm whistled appreciatively. Norman turned in time to see the pancake snatched from his plate in one lightning-quick movement.

  “I told you to wait for me.”

  “There’s no time to be wasted. We have to get that map and get back to George.” He stood on a shelf chomping on the rolled-up pancake voraciously, as if he were biting its head off.

  “Okay, let’s get going,” Norman urged him. “My mom might be back any minute. I’ll search the shelves from my head down. You search the higher ones I can’t reach.

  Malcolm stuffed the pancake in his mouth crossways, like a buccaneer’s dagger, and leapt nimbly to the top shelf.

  Norman knelt down and began his own search on the row where he’d located the Intrepids books. He pulled out the biggest encyclopaedia volumes and stacked them beside him on the floor so he could examine the second row properly.

  Up on the high shelves, Malcolm chattered while he searched. “This Fuchs-Todd fellow seems to know an awful lot about you and your family, don’t you think?” he mumbled through the pancake.

  “I suppose,” Norman replied. He wasn’t really listening. He was thinking about finding the book and getting out of there without anybody seeing the talking stoat.

  Malcolm pressed the question. “Don’t you think it’s a bit strange that he knows what books are in your library?”

  “I guess so.” The same thing had been bothering Norman. He just didn’t want to think about it yet. He finished rifling through the shelf of Intrepids books. There was no Secret in the Library amongst them.

  The stoat was making swift progress on the top shelves, darting from book to book and scanning them as rapidly as he spoke. “He must have been here, right? You saw how he got us here. He told us to think about someone in this book. He told you to think about your mum. He told me to think about you. Same as last time back in Lochwarren. The abbot told me to concentrate on you.”

  “There was something about the paper, too,” said Norman without looking up from his search. “That paper was from my dad’s university. Was there anything special about the paper the abbot used to get into George’s book?”

  The stoat stopped his search and replied eagerly, “Yeah, there was! It was a contract. Abbot had me write on the back of it. I didn’t understand a word of it, all lawyer gibberish, but it was something about Kelmsworth Hall. Abbot told me it helped for beginners to have something from in the book. Said paper was best, but any old thing would do in a pinch. He told me he could fetch you using your shoe.”

  “He said that?” Norman stopped, alarmed by the thought. “He said he could fetch me?” Norman had left a sneaker behind in Undergrowth. It was now bolted to the wall of the grand hall of Lochwarren Castle.

  The stoat nodded grimly.

  “He needs something from inside that book,” Norman concluded. “Or maybe he needs to follow someone else. He followed me into The Magpie.”

  “So how did he get here?” Malcolm asked again. “How does he know about your library?”

  “He could have followed me. He knew me from before, from the library back in America. He could have nabbed something of mine. Some of my papers. Maybe he’s got some of my school notes. It would explain how I lose so many of them.”

  It left one big question. Norman had been trying not to think about it, but Malcolm wouldn’t leave it alone.

  “How’d he get here the first time?”

  Norman waved the question away. “Maybe he met someone here. Maybe someone from here visited his book and left her shoe,” Norman muttered. He was thinking all of a sudden about his mom.

  Malcolm finished another shelf and leapt to the next. “I think he’s from here,” he said. “I think he’s from the same book as you. That’s how he knows about the library and everything else.” Malcolm had convinced himself, if nobody else

  “Shhh,” Norman hushed him. The problem of Fuchs-Todd was just a distraction now. How did he know about the library here at the Shrubberies? How did he know anything? How had he known where Norman would be to rescue him that time in The Magpie, and why was he not helping more now?

  “And another thing,” Malcolm continued, getting it all off his chest, “if he could send us here, he could come here himself. Couldn’t he? Why didn’t he?”

  “I suppose he didn’t want to get caught. If he got caught taking the book out of the house here, he’d be taken in as a burglar. Right? If I do it, it’s just me not doing what I’m told a
gain.”

  “He’s got us doing his dirty work,” the stoat grumbled.

  “He won’t get the map from me. And he’s not getting this book, either,” Norman snapped. “I’ll make sure of that.”

  “What book? And who’s not getting it?” a stern voice demanded.

  Norman jumped at the sound. It wasn’t Malcolm’s voice at all. It was his father’s. “Who were you talking to?” he asked.

  “Myself.” Norman’s eyes darted to the shelf where Malcolm had last stood, but the animal had vanished.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be waking Dora up?” Edward Vilnius’s voice was deep and strained. Norman never could tell when his dad might be cheerful or annoyed. Sometimes his mood changed without warning. Mom usually put it down to how well his work was going. Norman thought lack of coffee was a more important factor.

  “Did you leave that book out?” Edward frowned and indicated the encyclopaedia on the floor.

  “I was just about to put it away.”

  “Yes, you were,” Edward declared firmly. “Do it and get downstairs and finish your breakfast. When you’re done you can go outside and play. I’m trying to write this morning, and I don’t want you hanging around the house.”

  Norman twisted to look over his shoulder. There was no sign of Malcolm. “I’ll just put the encyclopaedia away.”

  “I’ll deal with it.” Edward Vilnius put a firm hand on Norman’s shoulder and ushered him out the door.

  Norman didn’t go outside after breakfast, even after his father had returned upstairs to work and Dora had begun rummaging frantically for her riding gear. All Norman could think of was the library and what Malcolm was doing up there by himself. He was still moping around the kitchen table when his mom came in from her jog.

  Her hair and running cap were wet from the morning rain, but she didn’t seem to care. She was her old self, relaxed and happy after her run. It was hard to imagine that yesterday she had given him a lecture about the bookweird. It was as if it had never happened, but Norman was still nervous when she climbed the stairs, carrying two cups of coffee. He craned his neck to watch her go up and prayed that she didn’t go into the library.

  Upstairs he heard doors opening and closing and the low, muffled conversation of his parents. He had no idea what they were saying. It was several minutes before they both came down. His mother’s face was hard to read, but his father raised a warning eyebrow.

  Had she been to the library?

  “Your father tells me he’s had to lock you out of the library.” Meg flashed Edward a smile, but Norman wasn’t fooled. He was being set up.

  His father’s stern face softened, as though he saw the humour in this. “Wasn’t the trouble last time being locked inside the library?” he asked.

  That was true. The last time he’d returned from Undergrowth, Norman had woken up in the public library.

  Meg took a sip of coffee and regarded him coolly over the rim of her mug. “What were you looking for in there, anyway?”

  Norman couldn’t think what the best answer was. Should he just say he was looking for an Intrepids book?

  “He was looking something up in the encyclopaedia, apparently,” Edward offered. “Seems the boy’s trying to educate himself now that we’ve forbidden it.”

  His mother gave his father an indulgent smile and took the empty coffee cup from his hand. Something in her glance told Norman that his father didn’t know the whole story either. But the idea of his mother keeping a secret from his father was even more far-fetched than her being able to tap into the bookweird.

  “What were you looking up?” she asked breezily, putting both cups in the sink and turning on the tap.

  “Actually, I was just looking for something to read.”

  “What? More Intrepids?” she called over her shoulder. She handed a dish towel to her husband, who joined her at the sink.

  It was as if they had never had the other conversation. Not two days ago she had forbidden him to touch the Intrepids. Maybe this was a trap.

  “No, no, not the Intrepids,” he reassured her. “I didn’t much like it. George Kelmsworth is a bit of a know-it-all, and it’s obvious that the lawyer is ripping him off.”

  “He’s a know-it-all, is he?” Meg repeated with a wry smile. “He seemed like the perfect boy to me. Intelligent. Brave …”

  “Obedient?” Norman couldn’t resist the poke.

  “Respectful,” his mother replied pointedly.

  Norman relaxed a little. This was more normal: his father amusingly grumpy, and his mother cheerful and teasing. It was impossible to imagine her now as his opponent in a game of hide-and-seek inside books. He’d feel whole lot better, though, if he knew what Malcolm was getting up to in the library.

  What he needed to do was change the subject. “Mom, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  Norman began hesitantly. “It’s about another book.”

  “Yes?” she turned warily to face him.

  “About that book you were reading last year, the crime story, The Magpie.”

  She looked at him sharply now. “What about it?”

  “Did they ever catch the killer?”

  “Of course they caught the killer,” she replied. “They always catch the killer.”

  “Are you sure?” He was frowning now, as if the question deeply concerned him.

  “Why are you asking?”

  “It’s just something that has been bugging me. I read a bit of it last year. You told me not to, but I did, and I sometimes dream about it.” He pulled the pathetic face he used when he was trying to get out of going to school.

  His mother’s face softened. “This is a Conran book, right? With Rorschach and Darwin?”

  Norman nodded.

  “It’s the one that gets weird. A body disappears from a crime scene and there’s a horse there instead.” Meg thought for a while, trying to remember the details. “It wasn’t very good. I stopped reading Conran after that.”

  “It was the big bald guy, right?” Norman gulped. “The one who steals credit cards and works out at Vito’s Gym?”

  Meg didn’t reply. That look of suspicion returned, as if Norman’s question had suddenly given her an idea of where that horse might have come from.

  Drying dishes at the counter, Norman’s father was oblivious to his wife’s wary tone. “No, that’s not it. That’s that Wentz guy, Rorschach’s snitch,” he interrupted. “Bit of a sad character, really—kicked out of the army, became a small-time crook and informant. Remember, Meg? He was in the movie version, too.”

  Meg coughed, interrupting him. “Why are you asking this again?”

  “Wentz,” Norman repeated, wanting to hear it confirmed. “He’s the killer?”

  “Why would you think that?” she asked, avoiding the question.

  “I guess he was in the part of the book I read, and I dreamed the rest.”

  “That,” she admonished, “is why you should keep your nose out of books that aren’t meant for you.”

  There was a long silence that was broken only by Dora’s arrival. Norman wondered how long she’d been standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Can I get a drive to Penny’s? I’m going to be late now.”

  “You can walk the back way,” Meg replied, but she didn’t take her eyes off Norman. “If you hurry, you’ll get there on time.”

  Perhaps it was something in Meg’s tone, but Edward Vilnius turned to look, placing a dried plate on the counter behind him. Something over Norman’s shoulder caught Edward’s attention. He stepped towards the back window and peered out. “Norman, is that your book again out there on the lawn?” His tone had turned grim.

  Norman stood up and looked out. “I don’t think so.” He had learned that just because he didn’t remember doing something, it didn’t mean he hadn’t done it. “I’ll go see.”

  “You stay where you are,” his father told him. He strode to the door and let himself into the backyard. />
  Dora followed her father to the doorway. She watched for a second while he fetched the book, turning back only to mouth, “You’re in trouble,” her ponytail bouncing in rhythm with the singsong taunt.

  “I thought you were late,” Meg reminded her.

  Dora managed to pull one more face before slipping out the door.

  Norman opened his mouth to respond, but his mother’s voice snapped him to attention.

  “You didn’t listen to my warning, did you?”

  Any trace of a smile had vanished, and her eyebrow was arched like a taut bow. Her eyes looked about ready to fire arrows.

  Norman could not reply. He bit his lip and glanced anxiously from his mother’s angry glare to the scene outside.

  “I can’t tell you how much you remind me of your uncle Kit sometimes,” she muttered. Norman could tell this was not a good thing.

  On the lawn Edward waved goodbye to Dora and stooped to pick up an open book from the grass. He looked around as if he expected to catch the reader somewhere in the garden, and then glanced up towards the roof or the second-storey window. Apparently seeing no one, he returned to the kitchen with the book. As he walked, he turned the book back and forth in his hand and brushed bits of grass from the cover.

  “A Secret in the Library. Ever heard of it?” he asked, closing the door behind him.

  All Norman could do was shake his head slowly from side to side. He knew he looked guilty, but he didn’t know what sort of noise would come out. He didn’t dare open his mouth.

  Meg Jespers-Vilnius fixed Norman with the full power of her motherly stare. She waited for him to blink and look away.

  “Strange thing is that it’s perfectly dry. The rain only just stopped before you came in from your run.” Edward turned the book over in his hands, perplexed.

  “Can I see that, Edward?” Meg asked gently. Norman wasn’t fooled by the evenness of her voice. He was in big trouble.

  “Have you heard of it?” Edward asked as he handed her the book.

  She turned the pages carefully, smoothing them out with her fingers. “It’s probably my favourite book in the entire universe.” She ran her fingertips across the blue cloth cover and opened it gently. She did not raise her head for a long minute. “It is also extremely, extremely rare.” She clapped the book shut and regarded Norman evenly. “You’re very lucky that there’s no damage. When your grandfather gave this to me, he told me that it might just be the only copy left.”