One evening, when she had treated me with particular neglect, I heard her and Archibald talking far into the night. The light flooding through the window into the main chamber attested a full moon. Though I could not discern what they said, I despaired, thinking I had lost her affections. I was drifting into a black, mournful sleep, when I became aware of the sounds of movement. Rousing, I found the Contessa stirring beside me.
"What is it?” I asked.
"You're awake,” she said. “Excellent. Help us push."
"Push what?"
"Archibald. We must move him toward the Gray Book. It's the only way."
My pages fluttered. “Why does he want to go there? What—"
"Help us,” she ordered. “I've no time for questions."
Time being our greatest commodity, I thought that a peculiar answer. Nonetheless, I pressed with all my paper might.
Movement is difficult for a book, but we set our pitiable strength to the task. It proved a grinding effort, as we struggled through the long hours. Finally, when the moonbeams slanted into the farthest corner, I heard a delicate whoosh.
"What was that?” I asked.
"We've done all we can,” the Contessa said. “Archibald has tipped against the bookend holding the Gray Book."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because we require an ally if we wish to escape. Why does Diedo keep the dark book separated from the rest of us? If it were once a sorcerer, as some say, it might help us."
Though unable to make out the words, I could hear Archibald speaking to the Gray Book and the volume answering with guttural replies. To captives, tiny rebellions take on great significance, but I could not help but wonder if our actions had been wise.
"Read me, Jakob,” the Contessa demanded. “I want to celebrate tonight's victory."
I read her far into the morning hours.
* * * *
By dawn, the entire library knew what had happened. Through messages passed along the shelves from volumes with a better view, we learned that Archibald remained upright, leaning lightly against the bookend, the top of his cover touching the Gray Book. The two of them conversed continuously, but Archibald ignored any questions from the rest of the shelves. The books fell into furious debate, some arguing that he should withdraw at once, others wanting him to discover the truth concerning the mysterious volume.
"Has anything like this ever been tried before?” I asked Captain Steed.
"None of us were ever placed close enough to reach the Gray Book,” he replied gruffly. “And it shouldn't have been done now. The book is evil. I would have tried to stop you if I had realized what you were doing."
Yon Diedo did not come to the library for the next two days. This was not unusual; like all men he pursued his hobbies when time allowed, but it was unfortunate.
In the afternoon following the day Archibald first spoke to the Gray Book, he began to whimper in an animal whine.
"What's happening?” I demanded.
"I don't know,” the Contessa replied.
We called to Archibald, but he did not answer. And still the Gray Book murmured to him, its voice increasingly caustic.
By the second night, Archibald began screaming, a frail, thin noise like that of a book being eaten by silverfish. The entire library began shouting, begging him to push away from the vile text, but if he heard he gave no answer.
"If only he'd stop,” the Contessa moaned. “He's driving me mad."
Eventually, Archibald did cease his cries, but only after his voice reached a continuous wail ending in savage abruptness. Into the silence rose a shuffling sound. From the corner of my vision, I saw a pair of objects flash past, the bookend and Archibald. My eye involuntarily shut at the impact of his body slamming to the floor.
Nor was the ordeal over, for its contact with Archibald had roused the Gray Book, and the Contessa soon gave a choking whisper.
"Jakob, the book tries to reach us."
Nothing happens quickly in a library, and this was no exception. Throughout the night, we listened, sleepless, as the Gray Book struggled, emitting a rustling, whining noise I hope never to hear again, a cross between the grunts of a pig and the screams of a horse.
Around three o'clock in the morning, the noise grew louder. Apparently, something had impeded the Gray Book until then; it had either been marshaling its strength, or had needed to overcome some type of restraint. Whatever the case, it now moved toward us.
"You must protect me,” the Contessa urged. “You must."
There was little I could do, but I spoke to Captain Steed, sending word down the line to see if there were room for flight. We had some difficulty; Van Gelder, the fourth volume down, was a nihilist who insisted we were in no danger since nothing really existed. (Perhaps not an extreme philosophy for one turned into a book.) But at last we convinced him to comply. With four inches of space between ourselves and the side of the shelf, we began a slow retreat, hoping to buy time until Yon Diedo appeared.
The night passed; the pale light of sunrise tipped the library walls, and still we fled. All the while, I felt a palpable aura of malevolence emanating from the direction of the Gray Book.
"Tell them to hurry,” the Contessa cried, over and over. “It's getting closer. Oh, you must save me."
Some of the others, discouraged by our shuffling flight, would have faltered completely except for Captain Steed, who proved himself a true leader. Through encouragement and remonstrances, he spurred the volumes to their greatest efforts.
The Contessa and I required no such incentives. The Gray Book was so close we could hear it whispering; though the phrases it spoke were nonsense, they filled us with indescribable dread, as if at any moment they might become words too horrible to bear. If, I thought, in some obscure age the book had once been human, it must have given itself to such complete evil as one never meets in the sunlit streets of the world.
At last, toward evening, our flight ended. Word came down that we had closed the gap; there was nowhere left to run. The Contessa, nearly mad with fear, kept crowding against me, as if to bury herself in my cover.
The murmuring of the Gray Book was closer now. Though I could not see it, I imagined it towering above the Contessa's corners, looking down upon us. I felt sick with the weight of its malice.
"Trade places with me!” the Contessa demanded. “Shield me, Jakob. Don't let it get me."
She, who had always appeared strong, panicked. Despite my fear, I would have tried to help her, but getting between her and the Gray Book was impossible. Even if there had been enough shelf space, it would have taken half a day.
The next hours were a purgatory. My mind began to wander; dreadful visions assaulted me, horrors I will never attempt to describe. I did not believe there could be such hatred in the world.
As the evening sun faded from the library, a bitter cold pierced my spine.
"Jakob!” the Contessa screamed. “It touches me. Oh, please, make it stop."
At that moment of despair, Yon Diedo entered. A buzzing cry of alarm went up from the entire library, loud enough to startle the sorcerer. He hurriedly lit the lamp above his chair and turned to examine the alcove. When he spied the Gray Book pressed against the Contessa, his brow grew inflamed.
He picked up the awful volume as one might grasp a serpent, touching it only with his thumb and forefinger, moving it safely away from us. Retrieving poor Archibald, he thumbed through him and set him aside, then picked up the Contessa and read her final three or four pages.
"Vile witch!” he cried. “You think me evil, who am but a collector."
He picked me up next and scanned my last pages. Only then did I realize that our stories did not end when we were changed into books; we grew to include our experiences in the library.
"Poor dupe,” he said to my open pages. “But not so foolish as Archibald."
He returned me to my place and picked up Archibald's silent form. Opening his pages, Diedo furiously displayed them to all the
books, walking up and down the aisle, turning from side to side so everyone could see.
Every page was blank.
"This,” Diedo shouted, tears of either rage or sorrow in his eyes, “is the fate of those who encounter the Gray Book. It drains the life from its victims. Did you think I kept it separated from you for any reason other than your protection? Archibald is ruined! Ruined! Such a magnificent volume!"
He took Archibald, and laying him carefully upon the fireplace grate, built a pyre and consigned him to the flames. Removing Pastor Niemoller from the shelf, Yon Diedo read aloud from him as the book was consumed. His voice broke more than once during the ceremony, and when it was done he sat in the chair, weeping with his face in his hands. But whether he felt pity for Archibald or merely mourned the loss of a rare volume, I could not tell.
When he had grown calm once more, he rose stiffly and addressed the library in a subdued voice.
"I am sorry, my friends. The fault is not yours, but mine. The Gray Book, for reasons I will not divulge, must remain in the library. But I was careless, leaving it too close to some of you. I had thought ... I had hoped ... that the kindnesses I have shown you would be appreciated: the way I rearrange you so you can experience a variety of companions, my careful placement to prevent any book from being too crowded, my constant vigilance against foxing, mold, and insects. I mend your pages; I watch for your safety. But not all appreciate my efforts. I can understand that some of you are new here, but I tell you, sometimes I grow weary. A collection is not an easy burden. A little consideration would be appreciated, a little policing of yourselves, so I do not have to do it for you."
He strode from the room, leaving the books murmuring.
The library held a memorial service of its own immediately after. Archibald had made many friends, and wonderful eulogies were passed around the shelves. Under the Contessa's influence, I had apparently misjudged him, whose stories may have been more true than she had suggested.
The Contessa, overwrought by her terror, demanded to be comforted. That night I read her again, but with a new eye, realizing for the first time that despite her protestations she was one of those Janine had spoken of, who enjoyed being scanned by a man with Yon Diedo's power and wealth.
* * * *
I could not be content, thereafter, but longed for the days spent with Janine. I still found the Contessa compelling; despite her self-absorption, she was a vibrant, extraordinary woman. Men are not always wise in these matters. But the evil of the Gray Book made me long for the goodness of my friend.
To make matters worse, we were shuffled a week later. Any small group of people creates its own society, and in our library those societies rose and changed with each rearrangement. Some were gracious; others less so. Some turned acerbic.
I was placed between a watchmaker from Stockholm and a dancer from Vienna. For Diedo to have chosen him, the watchmaker must have possessed a rich, inner life, but it was one he never displayed. Sullen, withdrawn, he scarcely spoke a dozen words in all the time I knew him. The dancer tended toward an unfathomable esotericism wrapped around her art. She also had a streak of cruelty and a dagger-tongue that spared no one. Only a bright young boy on the shelf below and a circus acrobat from the shelf above made life bearable. But altogether, we were a sullen group. Having lost even the amusement of the Contessa's company, I began to despair.
Two weeks of this convinced me that I had to take action. I decided to work myself forward until I stuck out enough to draw Diedo's attention. Noticing me, his curiosity would surely compel him to read my final pages and discover my desire to be with Janine. If he had pity, he would place me beside her. But if he proved cruel, I might find myself exiled from the others or even given to the fire.
Still, I was determined. I began early in the morning, pushing first with my left cover, then my right, waddling my way forward. By the time Yon Diedo arrived that evening, I had succeeded in writhing out almost an inch. His hands wandered over the shelves as they often did, preparatory to his choosing a volume. To my dismay, he casually patted me back into place. I roared in frustration, but if he heard me, he gave no sign.
Three days in a row I followed my plan, but each time he returned me to my original position.
I decided my scheme had not been bold enough and resolved to push myself until I careened to the floor. Yon Diedo would surely read me then. This was a dangerous strategy, however, as I had no way of knowing if I could survive the fall.
I began in the early evening, while Diedo was still reading, knowing I would not be far along by the time he left. He departed without noting my efforts, and I spent the rest of the night creeping toward the edge. I ignored my companions’ inquiries, especially those of the dancer, who had been particularly disdainful of my previous efforts.
"Message from Janine,” a book on the shelf below called to me in the early morning light. “What are you doing, Jakob?"
I glanced across the shelves. The last reshuffle had brought Janine and me only slightly closer. She was positioned on the third shelf up, but at the far end of the alcove, while I sat higher, in the middle section.
"Getting Diedo's attention,” I said. “Trying to reach you."
As I continued my exertions, I heard my message passing down the line from book to book.
"Jakob, don't do it,” her reply came back. “You'll be killed!"
I laughed sardonically. “You call this living? But I won't die."
I tried to sound more confident than I felt. She implored me, but I refused to give up. Others sent messages as well, words to encourage or dissuade me. A few feared upsetting the sorcerer. Captain Steed informed me that several books had made similar attempts in the past, only to suffer broken spines or dented corners. I thanked everyone for their concern and kept to my task. Shortly before Yon Diedo's normal hour of return, my weight shifted forward and I toppled, top down.
Though the fall took the barest second, it seemed an eternity before I bounced onto the floor. The pain was not as dreadful as I had imagined, more akin to a bad dive into a pond. My spine tingled, but I could still see, and my edges remained uncrumpled.
Janine's voice flowed down from the heights.
"Jakob? Can you hear me?"
Momentarily forgetting what I was, I tried to raise an arm in triumph, an effort that caused my cover to flap the barest fraction, bringing cheers from my fellow books. I shouted my reassurances, then lay waiting for our captor's return.
Perhaps the sorcerer was not as insightful or as curious as I had suspected, for upon seeing me on the floor, he clucked twice, showing none of his expected anger. His moods, always unpredictable, ranged daily, even hourly, from sullen to exuberant.
"Jakob Mamolok, what are you doing? Do you think you can run away from home? Where would you go?"
Chuckling, he picked me up and examined my spine. “No harm done,” he proclaimed, placing me back on the shelf.
"Read me!” I yelled. But he gave so sign of hearing.
I fumed that evening while he browsed the pages of a trader from Cathay. But before Diedo departed, I began creeping forward again.
By the next morning, I noticed Janine doing the same.
"You shouldn't try it,” I sent to her. “You could be hurt."
She did not listen.
I fell first and was again unharmed. She followed shortly after. She took a bad bounce that brought her less than a foot away, spread pathetically open, her pages showing. At first, I thought she was weeping.
"Janine?” I called. “Janine, are you ... are you ... laughing?"
"Oh, Jakob. That was fun! I haven't had such a thrill since I was a child."
I admired her courage. After the fear of the fall, her laughter became infectious. We lay there, flat against the floor, helpless in our mirth.
* * * *
By the time Yon Diedo returned, anticipation had erased our levity. When he saw us on the floor, he did not appear amused as before, but annoyed.
"A
gain?” he said. “And who is this?"
But he did what I desired. He read my back pages and then Janine's. We waited in trepidation.
His eyes flamed with anger. “I try to be considerate. I try to make everyone happy. But I will not have my books dictating their positions to me. I will not have the niceties of my collection, my careful arrangements, ruined by two seditious volumes. You, especially, Jakob, have caused far too much trouble."
He put us each back in our places, and then, having dealt with our tiny rebellion, went about his usual reading.
Overwhelmed by grief, I asked the books beside me to pass word to Janine, expressing my regrets. By return message she said she did not blame me, but rather, admired my determination.
But the battle was not over, for something in our story touched the inner pages of the library that night.
"Don't worry,” the lad on the shelf below me said. “We'll find a way to get you near her."
Many offered encouragement. Messages passed back and forth. Oaths were made. Cries of unfairness rang out.
"Diedo hasn't the right,” the dancer declared. “He hasn't the right."
A great murmuring rose from the books, louder than I had ever heard before. This lasted for some time before Captain Steed's deep bass finally called for order.
"There has been much talk, but talk is inadequate,” he said. “Is it your wish to take action against Yon Diedo, even if it means punishment, or even ... destruction?"
"Yes,” the books cried. And “Yes!” again.
"Then there is but one course, if we have the courage,” the Captain continued. “We must disarrange ourselves."
"We will do it!” the dancer shouted. “We will show the big man."
* * * *
The next evening, when Yon Diedo came to read, nearly every book, except a handful who refused to join the revolution, lay scattered on the floor. The sorcerer gaped; his eyes turned bleak with concern, then red with rage. He lifted his foot to kick the books before him, but held himself back, not daring even then to harm his collection.
"Where,” he hissed, “is Jakob Mamolok?"
He waded among the volumes, moving carefully even in his wrath. He pushed books aside until he found me. Taking me up, he set me on the fireplace mantle, lit the fire, and lifted me high in the air. A gasp came from the volumes.
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