ten-year-old boy you will ever know. So evil that he scared off the animals of my circus to better steal them.”
No one laid eyes on Nick. Instead the members of the committee, heads lowered, read the petition from Mr. Crutchfield’s file.
“He has been the cause of innumerable and insurmountable suffering to all my hard-working and devoted employees—my family, and of course, myself!”
Nick shook his head again and again. What was this old fool talking about? He had no clue, had no memories whatsoever of any of the accusations. With his chin, he kept pointing at his jacket, where the report stuck out. The great white parrot rose from his throne and circled Nick, his hands enmeshed behind his back, his expression accusatory, the nostrils of his nose flaring in exasperation. Only the metal heels of his shoes against the tiles could be heard. What a tragedy thought Nick. There he was in front of the very and only people who could help him go back to the real world, and he was unable to refute the misdeeds and ludicrous claims and utter a single word in his defense. Mr. Crutchfield pouted and pulled his handkerchief to dry his leaky eyes with one hand, while rubbing the bottom of his back with the other to better display his torment. His Supreme Eminent Editor kept circling Nick several times, who wriggled his arms, hoping to drop the report on the ground. Nick’s eyes searched in vain for his Supreme Eminent Editor’s, who seemed too absorbed to notice them. A member of the committee rose behind him.
“From my observation, it is my conviction that the said accused, here present, wriggling in front of us, has ants in his pants, and I do not see any mention anywhere in my documents why he should be behaving this way. Which can only mean that there is a typo somewhere, and we have not found it.”
“The last thing we want is an invasion of typos,” added another member, checking about his desk. A commotion ran around the table. “We cannot review this case before it has been proofread again and corrected.”
Mr. Crutchfield’s expression shifted. “See how viciously cunning he is. He’s trying to distract you.”
“Distract, d-i-s-t-r-a-c-t,” spelled out the white parrot, considering.
“Most highly distinguished constituents and unequaled proofreaders of the Committee of Revisions, our case has reached its conclusion. We are left with the same question once again: are we willing to incorporate new and uncorrected elements in the story of Mr. W. C. Crutchfield and send his book back into circulation?”
“Are we willing to incorporate new uncorrected elements in the story of the said Mr. W. C. Crutchfield and send his book back into circulation? C-i-r-c-u-l-a-t-i-o-n, circulation,” said the supreme white parrot with gravity. Mr. Crutchfield clapped in approval. “It’s not a correction. It’s the truth,.” he said throwing a euphoric fist up, sensing that his eighty-year wait for this moment was about to come to an end. Once his name cleared, he would have once again free access to the Grand Library and would be free to dispose of Nick at will and free to resume his malicious plans to conquer the Grand Library of Books United to become his unquestioned ruler. Nick had to do something. It was not just his fate at risk but also the one of every single character in the Grand Library and perhaps the one of Grand Library itself. His window of opportunity was closing fast on him. What could he do? No one would listen to him, and he could not even move or do a gesture so tight the domestics restrained him.
“Quiet!” howled someone hitting a desk with a gavel.
“Law 657 of proofreading and pre-editing markings: We are not allowed to touch the original,” said another voice.
“Original, o-r-i-g-i-n-a-l,” said the great white parrot with deep concerns.
“All stories are re-written sooner or later,” shouted Mr. Crutchfield from the front table and pointing an accusatory finger at Nick Klaus, and added: “Because of criminals like this one, we are obligated.”
“All stories are re-written sooner or later,” said someone at the table across.
“Re-written, r-e-w-r-i-t-t-e-n,” said his Supreme Eminent Editor, frowning so hard that his eyebrows covered his eyes.
“Perfect, therefore this session is adjourned,” said a member in a black gown signing his name with a long white quill on a very long parchment.
“What’s the verdict?” dared to ask Mr. Crutchfield, searching the room nervously for an answer.
“Who knows if no one has proofread it?”
“Aren’t you going to make the amendment to my file?” pleaded Mr. Crutchfield. Nick detected a slight shake in his hands.
“Not until your name is clear of all your crimes,” continued the voice with indifference. Mr. Crutchfield looked around in panic. “But I’m innocent. He is guilty,” he added digging his finger into Nick’s back. Nick shook his shoulders. He whimpered as loud as he could. This man is a liar! A liar! No one paid attention.
“Enough!” shouted a proofreader at the back of the room. “There’s only one way to clear his name first. And the only way is to find out if this W. C. Crutchfield is correct.”
Mr. Crutchfield held his breath. The proofreader approached him, his silver wig dazzling the audience as he crossed through beams of light. His nose was pointed and looked like an eraser.
“How do you spell shoe?”
“Shoe?” repeated Mr. Crutchfield taken aback. “S-h-o-e.”
The proofreader came close to his face. “What about the word home?” Mr. Crutchfield spelled out the word correctly. “What about book, pencil, fish.” The proofreader leaned close to the old man’s wrinkled face. “And how do you spell W. C. Crutchfield?”
“But that’s my name?”
“Can you spell it?” repeated the proofreader with grave emphasis. Without hesitation, Mr. Crutchfield spelled his name correctly. The proofreader clapped a couple of times. “In all evidence, this man can spell. And a man who can spell is obviously innocent.”
Mr. Crutchfield breathed with relief for the first time. Nick shook his head. He could not take this committee seriously.
“This is the obvious proof that the mistake in the register did not happen at the proofreading stage. If the list of animals was wrong, the mistake must have eluded the copywriters.”
The proofreaders looked at each other, cheering at the verdict, then they glanced at his Supreme Eminent Editor to gauge his reaction. As stern as ever, his head swiveled back and forth scanning the crowd.
“Copywriters? C-o-p-y-w-r-i-t-e-r-s. Copywriters!”
“What’s the verdict?” Mr. Crutchfield asked with impatience, unwilling to go through another process with the copywriters. “Just like any other citizens, I should be able at least to get access to all the books in the Grand Library.”
Another round of murmurs ran through the room.
“We’ll let you have your circus back,” declared a proofreader.
“We’ll let you have your circus back,” repeated the grim white parrot.
“My circus?” mumbled Mr. Crutchfield surprised at the unexpected verdict.
“Once your case is finally settled, you’ll gain access to the library.”
Nick turned livid. This verdict was ever worse than expected. With his circus, Mr. Crutchfield could travel the country.
“Isn’t that what thou wantest?”
Mr. Crutchfield displayed a broad smile for the first time and bowed at the feet of his Supreme Eminent Editor, who sat back down on his throne, saying: “Isn’t that what thou wantest?”
Mr. Crutchfield nodded in appreciation. He snapped his fingers, and the domestics shoved Nick back in the potato sack. Despair set in. He had lost his case without a change to fight.
“Do not remove property of the committee from this hall!” ordered a proofreader. Mr. Crutchfield spun around to find where the voice came from. “We are just going to shred him up on your behalf,” he replied abruptly. A proofreader whose fingers looked like a sharpened pencil stood before the table.
“How are we going to delete every single mention of the said Nick Kl
aus from all our books, as if he never existed, when he still flaunts himself right in front us?”
His supreme great white parrot appeared bothered. “When he still flaunts himself in front us? Flaunt, F-l-a-u-n-t, flaunt.”
“Because if he does not really exist that means that the copywriters cannot blame us for not doing our job. This is a copyediting mistake not a proofreading mistake.”
Someone else stood up. “Besides, Mr. Crutchfield if this Nick Klaus does not exist that means you do not exist either. And that is not a proofreading mistake either.”
Mr. Crutchfield looked unsure whether he understood the nature of the complication. “I captured him. He belongs to me,” he said looking for an ally in the crowd.
“He belongs to us, and now has to be revised,” said the member, putting his glasses on and glancing over the rim. “I say let’s shred them both. That way the copywriters won’t be able to accuse us for not doing their job properly.”
Having already won his case and with no desire to be shredded, Mr. Crutchfield declared with assurance: “Let me revise him. He tortured my animals. Now I’ve got them back, it’s only logical he should be punished by taking care of them.
Now that the old man had his circus back why did he still need Nick? The bookworms came to mind. Help! Help me! Someone please help me! howled Nick behind his taped mouth, his fate hanging at the mercy of a technical error. He kept wobbling, wrestling to untie his hands.
“Perfect solution,” approved a proofreader. “The sooner we get them out of here, the better for our reputation and the health of our department.”
“This way we won’t miss our lunch, l-u-n-c-h,” said the great white parrot, rubbing his chin slowly.
“This way we won’t miss our lunch, l-u-n-c-h,” repeated another proofreader, throwing his silver wig up in the air. Soon everyone copied him, except for his supreme eminent white parrot, who continued to peer at the sack changing shapes. He raised his hand with a brief authoritarian gesture. At once all quieted. Nick was so taken aback that he himself stopped fidgeting. The closest member to the great white parrot leaned towards him.
“Since it would take years to correct the manuscripts, books, and cross-references of the said Nick Klaus in our Grand Library, allow the accused to be revised under the tutelage of the said defendant W. C. Crutchfield.”
“To be revised under the tutelage of the said defendant W. C. Crutchfield,” agreed his Supreme Eminent Editor peering at the crowd suspended at his words. Mr. Crutchfield turned, and his domestics carried the sack out. Nick fought back his rage. To be condemned to live in the Grand Library was one thing. At least he still had a chance to look for a way to escape from it. But now with his name cleared and his circus back in his ownership, Mr. Crutchfield was going to feed him to the bookworms, and that was another thing. His life would be over soon enough. He would never again see Valerie and Isabelle. What other reason could there possibly be for Mr. Crutchfield to demand to Nick?
Nick Klaus and the Incurable Jumblelium Page 3