by Kevin Sands
“Take it, take it. Bring it back when you’re done. And if you need any more help, don’t wander about like a fool. Just ask.”
I ran out of the library, headed home. Then, a block away from our hideout, I stopped in my tracks.
I realized: I had the plans I needed. And no one was expecting me back until nightfall.
I returned to the library in a daze.
I was free.
Not forever; I’d have to go back when the library closed. But at that moment, until the sun went down, I was free.
I didn’t know what to do with myself. I grabbed a book from the shelf and just began reading. You’ll think it stupid, but it was the best day of my life. I’d never felt such peace.
As the day waned, reality returned. I took the map home and life went back to normal. Except it didn’t. Because now, every time they told Grover to send me out, I went straight to the librarian and asked him for what I needed.
He always did the same thing. Said something like, “The family tree for the Edwins, eh? Hmm.” Tapped his chin for a moment. Then got up and, within a couple minutes, found exactly what I was looking for. And I had the rest of the time to myself.
For the next three years, I spent every day there. Sometimes I taught myself things. Sometimes the librarian taught me. And some days I just lost myself in a chapbook.
Then came the museum job.
A big exhibit of ancient artifacts was coming to Westport, and the Breakers wanted a piece of it. Security would be tight, so we brought in a gaffer from the Breakers in Slipsey. He’d pretend to be a visiting archaeologist, get close with curators, and we’d have our inside man.
Trouble was, the gaffer knew nothing about archaeology. So they sent me to learn what I could. I went to the librarian and told him I needed the best books he had on ancient history.
“An overview of the Old World, eh? Hmm.” He tapped his chin and set off into the stacks, like usual.
Now, by this time, I knew the library like the back of my hand. So I knew he was going the wrong way. History was on the second floor. Instead, he went up to the third. He led me through the stacks, stopped, and pulled out a book.
“There you go,” he said.
I looked at the title.
The Collected Works of Fox and Bear
as Told by Our Greatest Bards,
with Illustrations in Full Color
“Excuse me, good sir,” I said. “This isn’t what I need.”
The librarian looked at me over his spectacles. “On the contrary, Gareth,” he said. “That is exactly what you need.” And he left.
I didn’t know what to make of it. He was old, maybe he was starting to lose his wits? Either way, I didn’t have time to think about it. I did the research myself, then went back to the Breakers and taught the gaffer what he needed to know.
But I couldn’t get what the librarian said out of my head. The next morning, I returned. Instead of the usual fellow, there was a younger man sitting in his place.
Now I was worried. Maybe he really had become ill. So I went up to the new man and asked him where the librarian was.
“I’m the librarian,” he said. “Do you need assistance?”
“Sorry, good sir,” I said. “I meant the man who was here yesterday.”
He looked at me strangely. “I was here yesterday.”
“No, sorry. I meant the man who always sits at th-this desk.”
Now the young man frowned at me. “Do I need to call for the Stickmen?”
That frightened me. “I don’t m-mean to be trouble. It’s just that there’s been a man s-sitting here who’s been v-very helpful to me.”
The new man stood and leaned toward me. “Child,” he said sternly. “I have no idea what game you’re playing, and I’m not in the mood for any of it. This is my desk. And I’ve sat here for the last seven years.”
CHAPTER 51
Gareth’s tale ended. I shivered, goose bumps prickling my skin.
“You think I’m mad,” Gareth said quietly.
“No,” I said. “I just wish I did. Did you ever see the old librarian again?”
Gareth shook his head. “For the longest time, I thought I’d lost my mind. It didn’t make sense. But I didn’t find all those books on my own. And he knew my name. Cal, I’d never told him. He was real. I know it in my b-bones.”
“So who do you think he was?”
Gareth hesitated. “At first, I thought he must have been a Weaver. Who else could create that kind of magic?”
“But you don’t think that anymore.”
“No.” Gareth sat there for a long, long time, trying to decide if he was going to tell me or not. “I think he was a Spirit.”
I blinked. “But . . . how can that be? There are only two Spirits: Shuna and Artha. Aren’t there?”
“I don’t know. I’ve read things . . . I mean . . . I don’t know. I only know he couldn’t have been a man.”
If Gareth—anyone—had said that three days ago, I would have thought he was mad. “So why do you think he was there?”
“I think . . . I think he was trying to send me a message,” Gareth said. “Something about Fox and Bear. Ever since then, I’ve read every Fox and Bear story I could lay my hands on.”
“That’s why you took the page from the library.”
“No. That’s the thing. I didn’t take that page. Someone—something—put it there. They wanted me to read it.”
“Did you?”
He nodded.
“And?” I said.
He cocked his head. “It was . . . I don’t know. It was only the first page of the story, but I’d read it before. A version of it, anyway. This one was a little different.”
“Different how?”
“Like . . . older. I mean . . . an older version of the story.”
“How can you tell?”
“As stories get passed down, they change,” Gareth said. “The words we use, for example, don’t always look or sound the same as the words our ancestors used. Plus, even when the authors try to keep the tales exactly like they remember them, errors creep in over time. Like, when you first heard the story, it was set in the w-woods, but you remember it as a grove, so you write ‘in the grove’ instead. Things like that. Over time, small errors become big ones, and the stories are no longer the same.”
“Did anything stand out here?”
“Nothing . . . I mean . . . nothing I saw. I can go through it again.”
“Never mind. It’s this riddle that’s important right now,” I said, pointing to his notes. “Unless you can find a reason someone slipped you that page.”
“I can’t think of one,” Gareth said. “But then, I never under-stood why that librarian . . . Spirit . . . whatever he was . . . told me to look at Fox and Bear stories. I just know this page didn’t end up in my notes by accident. I was never even near the . . .”
He trailed off. Slowly, his eyes went wide.
“What is it?” I said.
He stared down at his notes, holding his breath.
“Gareth? What’s the matter?”
“The riddle,” he said. “These numbers. I know what they mean.”
CHAPTER 52
It was a new experience for Gareth, helping me hobble down the street. Because, for once, he wasn’t the one being stared at.
I’d made myself something of a sight for gawkers. Part of it wasn’t my choice: the cloth that covered half my face couldn’t help but advertise some terrible injury below. But I’d made things look even worse. I’d slipped my left arm inside my shirt, letting my left sleeve dangle, tied with a knot at the end, so it looked like I’d lost my arm, too.
My disguise wasn’t for fun. Before Gareth and I had snuck from the hotel, he’d told me Lachlan said the High Weaver was turning the city upside down looking for h
is stolen Eye.
Lachlan was right. I’d never seen so many Stickmen in my life. And not just them; the High Weaver had apparently called on the emperor himself. The Regiment of Pistoleers, the emperor’s personal guard, were out in force, too, looking dangerous in their uniforms of bright red. I’d have taken the Thieves’ Highway to avoid them, but since I’d lost all depth perception, hopping roofs was no longer an option.
The High Weaver may not have seen my face in the darkness and smoke of the sewer, but there was no question: they were looking for a boy. It took all my will to stay calm. One pair of Pistoleers stopped us, challenging us as to where we were going. Gareth handled it well.
“M-my brother has been in . . . injured, sir,” Gareth stammered. “The physick said I must take him out, to g-give him his d-daily constitutional.”
The emperor’s soldiers looked me up and down. I let my head hang, as if too fatigued to keep it up, which wasn’t that far from the truth. But mostly, I wanted to make sure they didn’t get a good look at me. I didn’t resemble Gareth in the slightest; no one would ever mistake the two of us for brothers.
Fortunately, my bandage obscured most of my face. “What happened to him?” one of the Pistoleers asked.
“An ex . . . explosion in the workshop, sir. Our f-father makes f-firearms.”
“Hope he doesn’t make ours,” the soldier said, and his partner laughed. Still, they let us pass. Whatever the High Weaver had seen, it wasn’t a one-eyed, one-armed child.
Gareth helped me the rest of the way, only half pretending to support me. “We should have told the others we were leaving,” he said, after the Pistoleers were gone.
“If we had,” I said, “they’d have made me stay in bed so I could rest.”
“You should rest.”
“Probably. But you won’t make me, will you?”
“No.”
“And that’s why I didn’t tell them. Onward, driver,” I said, and he near carried me the rest of the way.
* * *
I’d never been in a library before.
Books weren’t anything the Old Man had ever cared about. Come to think of it, I couldn’t recall seeing him ever open one. He knew how to read, certainly; he’s the one who taught me, and he’d pored over the newspapers all the time. But other than that, he preferred to smoke his pipe and spend the day lost in his thoughts.
As we entered the Carlow Library, however, I understood why Gareth loved it here. It was peaceful, almost hallowed, a garden of words in the heart of the city, where voices were quiet, whispering, as if to not offend the books themselves.
It was a well-kept place, looked after with obvious care. The stonework on the walls was brushed and clean, the wood panels finely polished. The stacks rose absurdly high, six stories, laden with countless books. To my surprise, the upper floors were made of metal grates, instead of tiles or floorboards.
“In case of fire,” Gareth whispered. “Less wood to catch and burn.” A clever solution, though scholars must have occasionally thought different. I heard the clink-clink-clink of a dropped quill, bouncing through the grates as it fell from an upper floor, followed by some fellow’s muffled curse. He’d have a trip up and down the stairs now.
But we weren’t here to bask in the calm. Gareth said this was where we’d find the answer to Shuna’s riddle. He’d written it out, one line at a time.
3
22, first
4
then follow the sheep
I leaned in close, whispering, “Where are we going?”
He led us up the stairs. After two flights, he stopped and pointed to a sign.
3rd floor
“Three,” he whispered.
He entered the stacks, moving with confidence. I noticed each stack was labeled: 21-F, 21-G, 21-H, and so on. Eventually, he stopped and pointed.
22-A
Twenty-two. And A, the first letter of the alphabet. Twenty-two . . . first.
Gareth counted the shelves from the bottom. One, two, three . . . four.
“The fourth shelf?” I whispered. “That’s what the ‘four’ means?”
He thought so. “We’ll try it.”
Which just left us with the final line. “How do we ‘follow the sheep’?”
“Let’s f-find out.”
Slowly, methodically, he began working his way across the shelf. A few of the books had titles on their spines. Those that didn’t, Gareth pulled down, opened, and read the title page. I remained quiet, letting him work.
He pulled down book after book, not getting anywhere. He took one out, glanced at the cover, slid it back. He reached for the next one.
Then he stopped.
“Find something?” I whispered.
Gareth looked back at the previous book. He ran his finger over the spine. Then he pulled it down again.
The cover was blank, but the book looked ancient. The binding, once white, had turned an ugly yellow. The spine was split in one corner, revealing the glue sticking the pages together underneath.
I couldn’t see anything special about it. “What’s this?”
“Modern bindings are made from calfskin,” Gareth said. “This is lambskin.”
Lambskin.
Follow the sheep?
Gareth took the book to a table near the stacks. Carefully, he opened the cover.
The spine cracked like a branch snapping, and a thick, musty odor wafted from the paper. No one had opened this book in decades, maybe centuries. Cautious of how brittle the pages were, Gareth turned them slowly. They crackled all the way to the title.
Olde Tayles for Yong Childeren
“Odd spelling,” I said.
“It’s from a long time ago.” Gareth kept his fingers from the pages, only touching them at the edge. “From the binding and the print type . . . I’d say five hundred years, at least.”
This was what Shuna had sent us to find? A five-hundred-year-old tome of children’s stories? Dubious, I went back to the shelf and peered into the hole the book had made, wondering if something was hidden behind it. Gareth stayed at the table, intent. Slowly, he turned the pages, reading carefully through each one.
“Anything?” I said when I returned.
For the first time since I’d met him, he looked annoyed. “This may take some time.”
I gave him a two-fingered salute. “Shutting up now, captain.”
He smiled, half-embarrassed, and returned to his work.
This left me with nothing to do. I pulled a book at random from the shelves and found I’d chosen a boring old thing about casting iron. It struck me how lucky we were to have Gareth about, who loved things that I found a chore.
Uninterested in the books, I watched the people instead. I found a great many glances coming back my way. A good disguise was a wonderful thing, but I’d have to do something about this bandage if I didn’t want to remain the city’s new favorite spectacle.
The thought made my heart sink a little. Remembering my lost eye—and my lost future—pushed me back toward despair.
Get out of your head, boy, the Old Man said, not unkindly. It was good advice. Still, it wasn’t particularly exciting watching people read, so I put my head on the desk to rest.
I was a lot more tired than I’d let on. It wasn’t long before my mind drifted off to that half-awake, half-asleep state, where reality starts bending into dream. A bear lumbered past our table, looking for a book on the shelves, while a fox sat on a chair and waited.
Then Gareth started in his chair and gasped.
CHAPTER 53
The dream shattered. I looked to the stacks, but the fox and bear were gone.
I rubbed my eye. “What is it?”
“Look,” Gareth said, breathless.
He turned the book toward me. I read the open page, stru
ggling with the odd words.
All yong childeren ken the tayles of Sionnach and Urtha, the sprightled Foxe and thunderous Bere, who fight in aventures, at a tyme a-twin, aft a tyme a-part.
“I can barely make this out,” I said, handing him back the book. “Sionnach and Urtha . . . are they supposed to be Shuna and Artha? Fox and Bear?”
Gareth nodded. “It’s an old spelling. I’ll read it to you the way it’s meant.”
All young children know the tales of Shuna and Artha, the cheerful Fox and powerful Bear, who begin as friends but end up enemies. There are already so many collections of these stories, we should hardly take space to repeat them. Yet what self-respecting book for little ones could exclude the beloved Fox and Bear?
The story I have chosen comes from the so-called “Creation” cycle, named such because it tells how Shuna and Artha used the Eye of the World (called here the “Eye of Creation,” or what the Weavers call the “Dragon’s Eye”) to bring life unto our globe.
It is a story of particular interest, because it marks the turning point where the friendship between Fox and Bear is finally sundered. A solid tale, with much meaning for children: care for your friendships, lest they turn sour.
I listened, frozen to my chair, as Gareth told the tale.
* * *
One fine summer day, Shuna the Fox was romping with Fiona the Deer in the forest. Their game of catch-me-if-you-can was interrupted by a terrible rumbling of the earth.
“Is the world breaking apart?” exclaimed the Deer.
Bran the Crow fluttered down from the sky and perched on a branch above them. “I fear it is your sister,” he said to the Fox. “Go and see what mischief she has caused now.”
The Fox sighed and traveled through the forest to find the Bear. But when she got to her den, Artha was nowhere to be found.