Bookweirder

by Paul Glennon

  She watched Norman and let the seriousness of the situation sink in. He gulped.

  Her face softened, but not completely. Norman knew he was being warned. “I don’t think we need an inquisition on this. I’m sure you didn’t mean to leave my book out on the lawn, and you had no idea how valuable it was, but it was careless. Until you show us you can be a little more careful, your ban from the library stands. Now go outside and get some fresh air.”

  Norman’s father scowled as if he thought his son had got off lightly.

  Norman knew better. He understood that tone of his mother’s, when she spoke slowly and clearly, enunciating every word. It was worse than being shouted at. He rose quietly and headed to the door. What could he say? He’d been wrongly convicted but lightly punished. It was best not to argue.

  “Norman,” his mother called brightly as he headed out the door, “thank you for finding this. I’d almost forgotten it. I can’t wait to read it again.”

  As she put the book in her purse there was a hard glint in her eyes. She knew he was up to something. She’d said that to make a point. He was to keep his hands off that book.

  Norman just muttered, “You’re welcome.” It was the craziest thing to say, but she had said thank you.

  Norman dangled his legs over the little bridge that spanned the brook behind their cottage. He didn’t even bother throwing pebbles. He just watched his feet sway beneath him. He might as well give up now, he thought. The bookweird had brought him face to face with some fearsome enemies. He’d been attacked by heavily armed ravens and pursued by wolves bent on killing him. He’d been in the clutches of a ruthless murderer. He’d snuck into the private apartment of a notorious blackmailer and political schemer. And he’d have happily done any of these things again, but he did not think that he could really defy his mother. There was no way he could get that book now. A Secret in the Library was truly off limits, and with it so was Malcolm’s map. He was going to have a hard time explaining that to the stoat.

  “So did you get my little present?” The question made Norman jump. He turned to find Malcolm beside him on the bridge. The stoat chuckled, obviously pleased to have startled him.

  “No, I did not,” Norman replied sullenly.

  Malcolm lifted his arms in helpless outrage. “After all that? That’s an enormous book even for a powerful stoat like myself.”

  Norman exhaled exasperatedly. “You left it on the lawn!”

  “Left it on the lawn? That’s not the half of it!” The stoat leapt onto the bridge railing so he was eye to eye with Norman. His whiskers twitched as he tried to convey the heroism of his actions. “It took me ages to find it. Then I had to get it down and out the window. Do you know how hard it was to manhandle that thing out of there?”

  Norman’s jaw dropped open. “You threw A Secret in the Library out the window?”

  “Like a yeoman chucking boulders down from the ramparts.” He puffed out his chest proudly.

  Norman couldn’t hide his disbelief. “You could have damaged it. That’s my mother’s favourite book in the whole world, you know.”

  Malcolm sat down on the railing. “That figures,” he concluded. “She hid my map in her favourite book.” He put a paw on the boy’s shoulder. “Are you ready to ingress?”

  “I can’t,” he muttered sulkily, staring down at the water in the brook. “My mum took it back.”

  Malcolm rolled his tiny black eyes comically. “All right, where did she put it this time?” he huffed. “Nowhere too hard for me to break into, I hope.”

  “She put it in her purse,” he muttered. “She wants to reread it.”

  Malcolm leapt up, ready to go. “Easy as lingonberry pie, then. She’ll have it with her tonight when she’s asleep.”

  Norman shook his head warily. He knew he’d already pushed it too far with his mother. “Maybe there’s another way we can prove your claim to the throne.”

  Malcolm shrugged. He knew he’d convince Norman somehow. “Listen, Strong Arm, I was just talking to some rabbits—”

  “What throne?”

  The shrill voice behind him startled Norman. He turned around to see Dora standing at the other end of the bridge. He snapped his head back to warn Malcolm, but the stoat had already ducked out of sight.

  “Who are you talking to?” Dora asked, wrinkling her nose.

  “Myself,” Norman replied defensively.

  “I stopped having imaginary friends a long time ago,” she said.

  Norman bit his tongue.

  “Are you playing knights and castles?” she continued.

  Norman just stared, hoping that ignoring her would make her go away.

  “You were talking about a throne. Can I play?”

  “I thought you were going to Penny’s.”

  “I was too late. They’ve already gone on their ride. You made me miss it.”

  Norman found it hard to accept that this was his fault. She should have woken up on time herself.

  Dora stood and looked at him, placing her hands on her hips as she worked out a way to annoy him. “You’re wrong about that book, you know.”

  Norman stared at her silently, hoping that she would just go away, but she carried on.

  “That murder book. Wentz isn’t the murderer.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I saw the movie. Pippa and I watched it at her house. Wentz isn’t the murderer. He’s just a robber, but he works for one of the police guys. He’s an informal. The police guy gives him money for information.”

  “You mean he’s an informant?” Norman said, trying to piece it together.

  “That’s what I said,” Dora replied petulantly. “Anyway, he’s not the murderer.”

  Norman just looked at her and thought about what this meant.

  “Do you want to play Clue, then?” she asked, almost plaintively.

  “Later,” Norman told her, eager to get rid of her. “You go set it up.”

  Dora regarded him warily for a moment, then decided to believe him. She twirled and skipped off back towards the house.

  “She seems all right,” Malcolm said, appearing again as quickly as he had disappeared. “Is she coming with us to help?”

  Norman rolled his eyes at the thought.

  Malcolm took the hint and returned to the problem. “So your mum has the map. We can get it tonight.”

  Norman turned to the stoat, his eyes pleading. “You don’t understand. My mother explicitly told me not to touch the book. I can’t defy her. Would you have defied your father?”

  The stoat paused and thought for a long moment, his eyes darkening and his furry brow wrinkling into a sombre furrow. Norman knew he must be thinking of Duncan, his father, who had died on the battlefield during the long war to wrest the highland kingdom from the wolves.

  “Have you another plan?” he asked finally.

  They sat on the bridge and schemed for a long time. Norman was for going directly back to Undergrowth, but Malcolm wouldn’t hear of it.

  “It’s not just about me anymore,” he declared. “I could go back to Lochwarren and fight. My people will fight with me, with or without the treaty map. But we can’t leave George. You can’t do that to a friend. You can’t abandon him.” The stoat looked directly into Norman’s eyes before continuing. “You didn’t abandon me.”

  Norman was already nodding his agreement. Malcolm was right. They would stick by George.

  “We’ll do it tonight,” he declared firmly.

  A Secret in the Library

  The cold, wet touch of the stoat’s nose woke him. Norman looked around to see where he was. It was a habit now—you could never be sure. But he was still in the room where he and Malcolm had fallen asleep hours earlier. He blindly patted the pillow beside him to reassure himself that the stoat was there, but the indent in the pillow was cold.

  He blinked the sleep from his eyes to open them. Moonlight shone in through the gap in the curtains, lighting up the face of the stoat, who stood besid
e him.

  “Wha—?” Norman asked in a groggy voice.

  “I’ve done your booknapping again,” Malcolm whispered.

  Norman rubbed his eyes and saw that the stoat’s foot was planted proudly on the blue cover of a book.

  “Malcolm, did you get this from—?”

  “Yer mum’s room? Yes,” the stoat replied. “Let me tell you, it was no easy thing.”

  Norman sat up in bed. “If she’d seen you—” he began.

  “If she’d seen me she’d‘ve thought some wild animal had got into the house.” He paused and grinned, exposing his sharp teeth. “I suppose one has.” He removed his foot so Norman could pick up the book.

  “But this is dangerous. You could’ve been caught.” Norman didn’t even want to imagine it. He ran his fingers across the woven cloth cover. “So this is it?” he whispered.

  “You remember what else your mum said? It’s Intrepid Amongst the Gypsies that changes everything for George. If we let Todd take this over, George’ll lose it all. Let’s just find the map and I’ll take the book back. You wouldn’t let George down now, would you?”

  Norman gave the pages an experimental flip, catching a few of the chapter titles: “The Sultan’s Arabian,” “In the Dungeons of Acre,” “The Oasis of Agadir.”

  “Looks exciting,” Malcolm murmured in his ear.

  “Uh-huh,” Norman agreed. He was already reading the first paragraph.

  “You want me to take it back?” Malcolm asked mischievously.

  Norman rubbed the stoat’s head, ruffling his hair in reply. The stoat squirmed away, grinning.

  “No need to say thanks,” he said. “I can see you’re busy.”

  They both settled back on the pillow to read, Norman holding the book so they could both see it. Despite it all, Norman couldn’t help feeling just a little bit happy. It was like old times, the two of them together again.

  As the fiery orange sun came up over desert dunes and a low wind began to howl through the turrets and arrow loops of St. Savino in the Desert, a lone rider appeared on the horizon. Silhouetted by the rising sun, horse and rider were clearly on their last legs. His progress was slow, his mount tiring. Few would have suspected that this was one of the finest knights in the Holy Land approaching, nor that he was riding the pick of the sultan’s Arabians. They looked a sorry pair, far from their majestic former selves. The man’s armour was tattered and bloodstained. The horse’s mane was ragged, and its jet black coat was smeared with red sand. But a weaker man and a weaker horse would have succumbed days ago to the heat, the marauding attacks of the Saracen and the relentless speed of their escape. They should have been two piles of bones in the desert by now, food for the vultures and the wild dogs, but instead they were alive and within two arrow shots of safety in the refuge of St. Savino.

  The clang of the portcullis chains and the strained creak of the drawbridge gears were already echoing across the dunes when the sharpest eyes in the lookout towers realized their error. It wasn’t that there should have been two piles of bones in the desert—there ought to have been three. Seated on the horse behind the knight, slumped and unmoving, was another figure. Much smaller than the first man, he wore no armour. His body tossed and jerked with the motion of the horse. It was only a boy, but perhaps he would be a pile of bones before the other two. As the horse and riders reached the gate, the defenders of the desert refuge realized their other mistake. From a distance, the battle grime had obscured the crest of the knight who approached. Only now could they see that he wore the distinctive sea blue cross of the Livonian Knights.

  That evening, when Sir John of Nantes and two dozen knights arrived at St. Savino, there was no hiding the black stallion that raged in the stables. The horse had been fed and watered, but no stable hand within those walls could calm him.

  “Where is the knight who rode this horse?” John of Nantes demanded.

  The governor of St. Savino, Hugh Montclair, answered the great man calmly, if not truthfully. “The horse arrived alone. It came across the desert, fleeing this morning’s sandstorm. There was no rider.” Hugh Montclair knew the risk he was taking in lying to Black John. John of Nantes was possibly the most powerful man in the Holy Land, a man who answered only to the King of France, and only when it suited him.

  “There is a fresh grave in your cemetery, unmarked,” John of Nantes continued, undeterred. “Whose body lies there?”

  The prior of St. Savino, Father Lombard, took his turn to lie. “Those are the bones of Tachino the leper. He died last night of his affliction.”

  John of Nantes curled the nostrils of his noble nose at the very thought of such a disease.

  The body they’d buried might as well have been that of a leper. They’d burned his clothes as quickly and as completely as they would if he’d had the plague.

  Sir John and his men spent the night searching St. Savino. They scoured the kitchens, the dungeons, the stables, the armoury and the priests’ cells. They even took a short, perfunctory look around St. Savino’s dusty little library. But they did not find the rider of that horse, or the boy he had brought with him.

  The men who saw the ragged pair ride through the gates that morning expected to be digging a grave for the boy, so sickly and exhausted had he been, but those were not the boy’s bones that lay in the fresh grave outside the walls. It was the knight whom they had buried, the knight whose name they never knew, but whose sea blue cross they feared. The nameless warrior had collapsed as he’d dismounted and was dead within the hour. By noon he had been sent to whatever afterlife he deserved. His leather armour and the tunic bearing the offending crest were nothing but a pile of grey ash in the kitchen hearth.

  Of the boy even less was known. He wore no armour and no crest. He had not spoken because he had yet to awaken. Brother Godwyn, the archivist and herbalist, did his best to treat the boy’s visible wounds and left him to sleep in a tiny cell behind a wall of scrolls in the library.

  The next morning, Black John and his knights rode out of St. Savino. He might not have known about the secret in the library, but John of Nantes had a feeling, as he turned back for a final glance at St. Savino’s single tower, that he would be returning one day for a more satisfactory visit.

  Malcolm said what Norman was thinking: “This is a great story.”

  “Uh-huh,” Norman agreed. “That boy must be a prince or something.”

  “Or the son of Black John’s enemy,” Malcolm suggested excitedly.

  Norman put the book down, his arm sore from holding it for them both.

  “It’s weird, though. This doesn’t seem like a book my mom would read. It’s … well …” Norman couldn’t find the right word. “It just seems too exciting for a girl.”

  “Well, didn’t you tell me she reads mystery books, books where someone has been murdered? That knight has obviously been murdered.”

  Norman murmured a skeptical “Hmmm.”

  “Keep reading,” the stoat king urged. “My bet is that there’s a girl in it soon, someone to fall in love with the boy in the library.”

  Norman turned on his side and let the stoat settle in the crook of his neck, where he could see the book. As a precaution Norman angled the lamp beside his bed so it shed less light towards the door. If his parents discovered him now, he’d be in huge trouble. If that happened, it might almost be worth introducing them to the talking stoat, just to distract them.

  The opening of A Secret in the Library was a little bit misleading, but by the time Malcolm and Norman had realized it, they were too far into the book to care. There were none of the Crusader battles and knights in armour that they had been led to expect. It was mostly about the boy growing up in the desert outpost of St. Savino.

  Two days after his arrival at the desert fort, the boy woke up. He remembered nothing about his ride across the sands. He didn’t even remember his own name.

  He remained in his tiny cell for a week, cared for by Brother Godwyn. Only three men visited him there:
Godwyn, Father Lombard and Hugh Montclair himself.

  After a week’s convalescence, the skinny, pale-skinned boy was able to walk about and speak both in French and in a strange northern tongue that startled and worried anyone who heard it. He also had a smattering of German and Latin, so he was obviously highborn, probably the son of a crusading knight, but that was all that they could determine. It was enough. The blue Livonian cross on his rescuer’s surcoat told the most important part of his story: the boy was both dangerous and in danger himself.

  Only Father Lombard, Montclair and Godwyn knew that he was alive, concealed in Godwyn’s library. When he was well enough to walk, the boy was allowed the freedom of the archives and a small hidden courtyard. His entire life was constrained to the tiny space of the courtyard and the library. He spoke only to the three men who protected him. Each of them grew to love him. Each tried to teach him, to protect him and to replace the father who was no doubt dead on some battlefield somewhere.

  The boy studied history with Sir Hugh and scripture with Father Lombard, but it was the books of Godwyn’s library that he loved the most. They took to calling the boy Jerome, after the saint who had first translated the Bible into Latin. The boy answered to that name, but as he lay in the tiny chamber behind the bookshelves each night, he prayed for his real name to come back to him in a dream, the name that his dead father had given him.

  The boy whom they called Jerome was not unhappy in the library. The library was the most important part of St. Savino. The fort existed only because of it. A hundred years ago the hermit St. Savino had unearthed this trove of ancient scrolls in his desert cave. The Crusaders had come, built the walls and the tower and enlarged the church, but the heart of St. Savino remained the hermit’s collection of scrolls. Scholars across Europe coveted its treasures: sermons of ancient prophets, diagrams of temples and palaces, and maps to lost cities and treasure mines. This archive was kept in the highest tower of the fort and jealously guarded by a series of archivists, the latest of which was Brother Godwyn.