by Rahma Krambo
He made the mistake of looking down, lost his grip and plummeted towards the ground. A wooden beam broke his fall and from there, he leaped to the top of a bookshelf, unsettling small puffs of ancient dust. As he descended to the floor, he breathed in the rich scent of old paper, leather and ink and the promise of countless stories.
The silence was made deeper by the steady ticking of the grandfather clock. But there was something hiding within—he could feel it—and he moved with stealth through his new surroundings, alert for any sign of danger.
His ears perked up as he caught a quick spatter of voices.
Cautiously, he approached the stacks. The voices spoke, muffled and intermittent, as though waking from a long nap.
Marco could not resist eavesdropping, no matter the risk, and followed them right into one of the dark hollows, its walls made entirely of books. Like vendors calling out their wares, the books began making their pitch.
“I never knew a trail to get cold so quickly,” came a gruff voice from one book.
“Let us carry Sir Gill’s body in honor from the battlefield, lest he be trampled by the horses.” That voice came from a different one.
“If Mr. Boswell shot himself,” a mystery book argued, “there would be powder marks around the wound.”
Further on, a woman screamed, a man shouted, and he heard the clip clop of horse hoofs on brick.
“They are dragging her away!”
A clank of metal. “Good! My sword is at my side. I will defend her at all costs.”
Talking books sure made it easier to find something to read, thought Marco, as he pawed The Three Musketeers off the shelf and settled down on the floor. He liked the hero, d’Artagnan, and as he read, he forgot he was a cat. He became d’Artagnan, rescued several fair maidens, fought evil and injustice, and shrugged off danger as if it were a game.
In the middle of a duel, a faint sound, like the tinkling of bells, broke the story’s spell. He lost his concentration, left d’Artagnan on his own and got up to investigate. A soft rush of air and a wave of motion passed through his body, like the flutter of angel wings. He followed the rustling of energy as though it beckoned to him. What kind of books might possibly be on the second floor?
Chapter 6: The old library cat
At the top of the stairs, the sound of pages turning and a deep, almost human sigh drew Marco toward the farthermost row of shelves. They hid a wall of doors, all closed except for the last. Through the crack in the door, he saw a wall of books leaning against each other like old men.
Marco moved into the doorway. On a long table sat a cat. Not the same as the one in the window. This one, larger and silver-spotted, was hunched over a book. All around him were stacks of books, and he seemed not to notice anything except what he was reading. His tail, laid out to the side, quivered in annoyance.
Marco stood spellbound, half-in, half-out of the room. A soft light moved about, illuminating dust motes and causing shadows to ebb and flow like waves.
Bang! A massive book hit the floor like a gunshot, and Marco jumped a foot off the ground. The room darkened and the grandfather clock downstairs pealed off twelve counts of midnight.
Marco's heart raced. He stared in wonder at the other cat, who continued his studies as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Marco took a deep breath and chanced a step closer to the elder cat, who remained arched over his book. He crept in, tilting his head to try and read the titles. Something about an atom, another book about visible and invisible light, and one called The Double Slit Experiment.
It was obvious this cat did not want to be disturbed, so Marco decided to leave. But he turned too quickly, misjudging the placement of the door, and thudded against it.
With a disgruntled sigh, the scholarly cat looked up. “What is it? What do you want?”
Marco dearly wished he’d stayed downstairs.
“Speak up. What are you looking for?”
“I’m… I’m not sure what I’m looking for,” said Marco.
“Then how will you know when you find it?”
His mind went blank; he was ready to bolt.
The older cat left his book, his tone softening. “I see you are enjoying The Three Musketeers.”
Marco halted in his tracks. “Well… yes,” he replied. Books were one thing Marco could talk about, and now that he had something to say, he lost some of his shyness.
He started to ramble on about the story, then caught himself, remembering the strange titles this cat had been reading. He wouldn’t be much interested in Marco’s adventure stories.
“I didn’t know other cats could read,” said Marco. “I thought I was the only one."
“There is much you do not know, young Marco.”
“How do you know my name?” he asked, and then realized he hadn’t told him what book he was reading, either. How had he known?
The old cat ignored his question. “D’Artagnan is waiting for you to come back and give him his voice. The characters are like that sometimes. If they find a reader they like, they freeze until the reader releases them.”
Marco felt deep in his bones that he had already known that, but he didn’t realize he knew until now.
The old cat jumped to the floor and came toward him, limping slightly.
“My name is Cicero,” he said. "I am glad to make your acquaintance. Reader cats are a rare breed these days."
Marco had no memory of meeting Cicero before, but there was something familiar about him.
Cicero looked directly into Marco’s eyes. “If you would like to learn more, come again tomorrow night.”
Cicero was odd, but Marco was curious and the old cat didn’t seem dangerous. "I’ll be back,” Marco said and turned to leave.
He was already out the door when Cicero called out. "The storeroom on the other side… the window's always open."
Marco realized Cicero had given him directions for getting out of the library. When he turned back to give him a nod of thanks, however, the elder cat had vanished.
Chapter 7: Narrow escapes
Marco squeezed through the narrow opening in the window to find the magnolia tree waiting. He made note of this handy arrangement, glad he wouldn’t have to fall through the roof to get back into the library.
He trotted off down the street in good spirits. All he needed was a safe place to sleep until morning. A house where the owner kept cat food on the porch would be especially nice. Oh, and a cushioned chair. He nosed around porches and back yards in his quest for the perfect spot.
Sounds of soft rolling drums in the distance announced a coming storm. The smell of impending rain flavored the scent of dry food wafting between the cracks of a board fence, and his stomach growled a fierce reminder of his neglect. The fence was a lot trickier to climb than a tree, but hunger drove him to success, and he perched for a moment on the top rail to view the lightning flashes. Better hurry before the rain starts, he thought.
That’s when Marco discovered a creature more deadly than stray cats. Without warning, a beast of a dog, the size of twenty cats, smacked against the inside of the fence. The dog jumped up again and again, like his hind legs were made of springs, his fangs slathered with drool.
Marco had never been somebody’s prey. He dug his claws into the narrow rail, his destiny teetering in the imbalance of the wobbly fence. On one of his jumps, the dog’s teeth sank into Marco’s tail, and his fate seemed to edge towards a grisly death. The dog lost his grip on Marco’s slender tail and there was a moment of blessed silence.
Before Marco could start breathing again, however, the dog returned, with renewed vigor. When the dog’s razor-sharp teeth nipped at his hind leg, Marco’s survival instincts kicked in. His powerful hind legs pushed him off the fence, like a swimmer soaring off a diving board.
He flew into the air. Not high, but high enough. His body spiraled and arched into a perfect back flip achieved only by felines and practiced gymnasts, and he made a four-point landing
on the safe side of the fence. The dog clawed and barked stupidly on the other side.
Marco didn’t stop running until he reached the safety of a tree. For a long time his heart pounded so hard, he barely heard the thunder. He only noticed when it stopped and the lightning made a brilliant show, turning night into day. Who would guess its delicate beauty masked its true purpose? How could he know beforehand that the lightning was a warning?
Then thunder cracked its whip, sounding like the world had split in two, and Marco almost fell off the wide branch. He scrambled back up and held on while the skies opened and let everything loose.
Even though Marco had seen rain before, it had been from inside a house, protected by windows. A thick cover of green foliage, which might have sheltered him during a light shower, was taking a beating too, and Marco finished out the night hunched on the branch, wet and shivering, trying to endure.
When dawn finally arrived, the storm lumbered off like a beast seeking the cover of darkness. Marco felt like a sailor, lost at sea. I’m shipwrecked, he thought, wishing he’d finished the book about the sailor so he knew how the story turned out.
The sun appeared and the sky cleared to a brilliant blue, but Marco was determined to stay gloomy. A gust of wind stirred the damp leaves and shook water droplets onto his already soggy fur, which helped justify his mood. That, and the flock of crows that landed in the tree.
Their raucous cawing was the final straw. Marco picked his way to the ground and found a sunny patch of sidewalk, where he started grooming his fur. When he was a little drier, he set off to look for something to eat, still feeling sorry for himself.
“I’m too young to die!”
Marco heard the cry for help, but saw no one.
“Help! Get me outa here!” At the corner of the house, a pipe ran top to bottom, out of which protruded a bushy wiggling tail. Marco pawed it.
“Cut that out!” The invisible creature squealed and struggled inside his enclosure.
Marco had all kinds of questions, but the biggest one involved helping. What could he possibly do? He tried poking his paw inside the pipe, but it agitated the creature more. He scratched at a loose section and got his claw wedged in between the metal strapping and pipe. Now he was stuck. He yanked and pulled until the metal band broke loose from its fastener, freeing Marco. He was licking his wounded paw when the whole pipe split open like a cotton pod and out spilled a creature like nothing he’d ever seen before.
Poor thing doesn’t have any ears, was his first thought. The long willowy creature dashed off like he was leaving, then ducked and rolled into a somersault and came hurtling back towards Marco. He screeched to a full stop and pressed his nose into Marco’s face.
“You saved my life! You’re my hero!”
“I didn’t really do…”
“Man, I thought I was going to die!” He took off running, then came back chattering nonsense and swooped over Marco, nuzzling him like they were old buddies.
“I’m freeeeee!”
Marco was stunned.
“Hey, you’re kind of fat for a ferret, aren’t you?”
“A ferret?” said Marco. “What’s a ferret?”
“I’m a ferret!” the creature declared, bobbing and arching across the lawn like something made of rubber and springs.
The ferret looped his way back. “Hey, you’re awfully quiet. What’s your name? I’m Polo. You wanna see my treasure chest?” He didn’t wait for an answer and disappeared into a hole under the house.
Marco peered inside, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. The ferret was bounding around the small space.
“Stay close to me or you might get lost,” he said and disappeared again.
Marco followed, across wooden beams, around metal pipes and over cardboard boxes. When the ferret reached his destination, he stood upright with his arm pointing to a pile of rubbish. “Tada!” he announced in a grand voice.
Marco walked over to the pile and sniffed.
“Isn’t it great? Hey, I got something I want to show you. Where is it now?” He looked around and then dove into and out of the clothes, sometimes buried and sometimes emerging, just to disappear again seconds later. When his head finally popped up, he had a gold bracelet in his mouth.
“Cooo...huh?” Polo dropped the bracelet. “I shouldn’t talk with my mouth full. Me mum always told me that, but sometimes I forget.”
Marco moved among the piles of clothes and gadgets, mystified by the ferret’s enthusiasm. Some treasure. What kind of creature collects trash and calls it treasure?
Polo sprang to within an inch of his face. “Hey, I just had an idea. We could be a team. You and me. Wouldn’t that be fun! You’ll be the lookout.”
As strange as he was, Polo’s company cheered him immensely. He was, by a long shot, friendlier than anyone he’d met on the streets. Maybe things were looking up.
Then the little creature suddenly collapsed in a twisted heap and Marco dashed over, nudging the ferret to see if he was dead.
Chapter 8: Night watch
Cicero’s room was filled with books, old favorites like Shakespeare, biographies of great men, and the more challenging ones about quantum physics. Their presence filled him with peace, like old friends who read together, not needing to hold meaningless conversations.
Cicero arose and stretched his front legs out on the table where he was reading a book by a man named Einstein. It was time for his regular night watch of the library, not that there was much to lose sleep over in all the years he’d been here. No one would ever find him or the Book in this sleepy little town. But the stiffness in his old bones wouldn’t let him forget he was going to need a successor soon.
Out on the balcony, Cicero overlooked his domain. He had grown very fond of the Angel Springs library, even though circumstances for his transfer here were made under duress. Except for the ticking of the grandfather clock, all was quiet. In the darkened library there was only the soft glow of a large aquarium in the children’s area.
Cicero’s ears perked up at the sound of pages turning. Had the young cat returned as promised? It was critical Marco had kept his word about returning tonight, but Cicero was used to broken promises. He tried to contain his hopes as he searched the first floor and found Marco lost in a book.
The young cat didn’t even notice his presence and Cicero fought the impulse of making a rash decision. He did not want to make the same mistake again, but there was something about Marco. Something besides his choice of reading material and long tail, a sure sign of intelligence.
He had to remind himself that intelligence was only one aspect needed to be a Guardian. Wasn’t it his own reverence for knowledge that had blinded him before? Hadn’t he learned how deceiving appearances could be?
Marco’s slender tail twitched. He was young; all the better for training, but youthfulness had its drawbacks. The vulnerability of youth could be heartbreaking. Cicero sighed. He had enough worries. Why did he always want to add more?
Then he winced. He was getting way ahead of himself. He barely knew Marco. And why on earth did he think it was only the young who were victims of deceit?
Cicero gave himself a good scratching to shake off his fears and exchanged his gloomy thoughts for the cheerful anticipation of a visit to his old friend Akeel. It must certainly be no accident that Marco showed up at this critical time. If destiny was working in his favor, he would have a traveling companion.
To Marco, he said, "I see you are reading about your namesake."
***
Marco jumped a little, startled by Cicero’s sudden appearance.
"Yes," he replied. “I… I mean Marco Polo… was being introduced to the Mongol emperor.”
“You enjoy a good adventure,” said Cicero, in a way that could have been either a statement or a question.
“Yes,” Marco answered, flustered by Cicero’s gaze. He had questions. Like how did the adventurer get two names? And what did it mean that he and Polo shared the name of
this famous explorer?
But he didn’t ask. The look in Cicero’s eyes stopped him.
“You are free to continue reading about the adventures of others,” said Cicero. “Remain among these common books.” He spoke in such an odd way, as though he were giving and taking something at the same time.
Marco held his breath.
“But I must counsel you,” continued Cicero. “There are worlds far beyond your ordinary imagination, far beyond what you find here.” With that, Cicero turned and headed for the stairs. He paused but did not bother to glance back. “Tonight, you must make a choice. Stay with your safe adventure stories,” he said as he climbed the stairs. “Others’ adventures, I should say...”
Marco felt light headed, then remembered to breathe.
“...or follow me, young Marco Polo, on a true adventure.” Cicero continued up the staircase, in no way resembling heroes Marco met in books. But even when he could no longer be seen, Cicero left a trail of powerful energy in the room.
He tried to shake off the spell, and when he finally did, he was a little offended by Cicero’s remark. Safe? Who does he think he is? And just what is wrong with my imagination?
Marco was getting a little indignant. I travel throughout the human world in their books. Sometimes I even forget I am a cat. What’s safe about my adventures?
He scrunched over his book, but he’d lost his place and couldn’t remember what had been happening anyway. His thoughts were muddled and the air was filled with an electric charge. Even though he tried ignoring it, curiosity grabbed hold of him. Cicero was bigger than he looked, thought Marco, and then wondered what in the world that meant.
When Marco entered Cicero’s chambers, the old cat was curled up, sleeping on a long wooden table. His eyes were still closed when he said, "Come in. I'm just resting up for our journey."
Chapter 9: The last peaceful moment
‘What journey?’ wondered Marco. He thought Cicero wanted to show him a book. What other kind of adventure would be in the library?