A Dreadful Fairy Book

by Jon Etter

  At that moment, a balding, bespectacled brownie with a neatly trimmed beard rushed up. Like Ginch, he was dressed head-to-toe in chocolate brown, but unlike Ginch, this one’s three-piece suit was in excellent shape and fit him perfectly, and he wore a precisely tied bowtie that bobbed up and down as he spoke. “I’ve got it this time!” he cried, his eyes wide with excitement as he waved a sheaf of papers. “Ha-ha! Yes! The perfect organizational system, at last!”

  “Our ’ead of general collections, Monsieur Dewey,” François explained.

  Dewey gave Shade and company a curt nod. “We shall organize alphabetically by the fifth word on the eighty-ninth page of every book! It’s perfect!”

  “But what if the book doesn’t have eighty-nine—” Shade began to ask, but the brownie was already gone, laughing and kicking up his heels as he went. She turned to François and Émilie. “That system makes no sense.”

  François sipped reflectively. “Oh, few of ’is systems do. Émilie, remember when ’e organized zem by weight?”

  The white lady smiled. “Or when he arranged them by color?”

  “Oh, zat was lovely! Ze ’ole library looked like a great rainbow!” The gargoyle chuckled. “’E’s quite mad, you know. But ’e takes wonderful care of ze books. And I ’ave faith—’e will find ze perfect system someday.”

  “But if he’s constantly reorganizing the books in weird ways, how does anyone find anything?” Shade asked.

  The gargoyle’s eyes twinkled. “Follow, if you please! Follow!”

  The five circled down to the ground floor with François in the lead. Once there, he headed over to a large wooden cabinet filled with tiny drawers, each one labeled with a range of letters, from “A-Ac” in the upper left corner all the way to “Zu-Zz” in the lower right. “Wizin zis cabinet, we ’ave cards zat catalog every book, every scroll, every document, and every artifact wizin zese walls by author, title, and subject, all arranged alphabetically.”

  “That’s really impressive,” Shade agreed, “but how does this help anyone find anything if Dewey’s constantly donkling with where everything goes?”

  “Allow us to demonstrate,” Émilie answered. “François, would you be a dear and look up Rabin’s Birds of North Elfame?”

  “D’accord!” François opened one of the drawers, riffled through a series of cards until finally stopping on one. This card he pulled out gently and gave it a little toss. Once out of his fingers, the card folded itself into a bird, gave a papery chirp, and fluttered up to the third floor. “The cards will find the books wherever they may be and wait next to them until they are collected, at which point they will come back and refile themselves.”

  Shade’s heartbeat quickened. If every book in the library is listed in there, Shade thought, I can find out in seconds if . . .

  François smiled knowingly at her, his face, in spite of being a gargoyle’s, was the very picture of kindness. “Zere is some special book zat you wish to see, oui?”

  “Yes.”

  Émilie placed a smooth hand on her shoulder. “By all means, have a look.”

  Shade looked nervously at the four faces that smiled at her, then pulled out the drawer labeled “Go-Gu.” Please let it be here! Please let it be here! she prayed as she searched. At last her fingers paused. They trembled slightly as they gripped and then pulled loose a card. Shade hesitated, fearing that if she released the card, it would somehow disappear forever. Taking a deep breath, she let go, and the card wafted to the ground. Before it landed, however, it twisted itself into a child with butterfly wings and fluttered off, giggling.

  Shade followed it as it flew up and up and up, circling the stacks until they were near the very top of the library, never once taking her eyes off the paper sprite for fear of losing it. At last, it lit upon a shelf and leaned against a thin book bound in red leather. Shade wiped her sweaty palms on her jacket before reaching out for the book on the shelf. Once the book was in her hands, the card blew her a little kiss and then dived over the railing and down the center of the library back to the card catalog.

  Shade ran her hand across the cover, which was in much better shape than her copy had been, and years and years of treasured memories came flooding back. Her vision slightly blurred, she opened the cover. There on the title page was a picture of a pair of sprites, a mother and father, tucking a little girl sprite into bed, above which were the words Goodnight, Little Sprite. Shade turned the page and read:

  Goodnight, little sprite,

  Time to sleep tight.

  Your day of play is done.

  It’s time to turn out the light.

  Shade wiped away the tears brimming in her eyes for fear of them falling onto the book.

  “It’s-a the kiddie book,” Ginch said over her shoulder.

  “Yeah,” Shade whispered as she paged through it. “My parents read this to me every night when I was little. I can still recite it word for word. It’s the first book I ever loved.”

  And we all know, no matter how many books we come to read and love in life, how special that first beloved book is, don’t we, my friend?

  “So what would everyone like to see next?” François asked. “Ze map room? Our grimoire collection? Ze ancient scroll—”

  “Actually, could I just have a quiet place to sit and read, please?” Shade asked. “It’s just that . . .”

  “No need to explain,” Émilie said, then led her to a sunny room filled with leather couches and high-backed chairs. “I hope this will suffice.”

  “It’s perfect,” Shade said, clutching Good Night, Little Sprite to her chest, along with another dozen books she had pulled off the shelves along the way.

  François gave her a slight bow, then turned to the Professor. “While Mademoiselle Shade avails ’erself of our library’s bounty, Madame Tonnelier and I would be honored to speak to you at lengz in our private offices, my most esteemed Professor.”

  “He no does-a the talk,” Ginch said, pointing at the Professor. “Well, no much, anyway.”

  “The Professor’s embarrassment over his stutter is well-reported in academic circles,” Émilie acknowledged. “As are his skills at non-verbal communication. Between that and the wealth of paper and ink in our office, I’m sure we’ll do just fine. What do you say, Professor?”

  The Professor smiled and gave two thumbs up. As the three left, Ginch took out a deck of cards and began to shuffle them. “I think-a I go see the doggy-guy. He look-a like the easy mark. Unless you need-a me?”

  Ginch, who wandered off soon after, may as well have asked the question to one of the books stacked next to Shade’s chair as she was already lost in a sea of words. First she read Goodnight, Little Sprite cover to cover several times, even though she knew every word by heart, then moved on to her favorite passages in Hagan Finnegan, The Conquests of Queequeg, Meager Expectations, and other old friends. Books that we love truly are our friends, always there to comfort us in times of trouble, revel with us in times of joy, and inspire countless acts of kindness, nobility, and goodwill every day of our lives. When she’d visited with a good number of old friends, she moved on to introducing herself to new, never-before-seen books and the joys contained therein.

  For hours she read voraciously, savoring every word, treasuring each page, all but completely forgetting that her dreams of spending the rest of her life like this were still uncertain, their fulfillment resting in the palms of four cold, stony hands.

  In which Shade faces a moral

  dilemma and ends up thoroughly

  donkled . . .

  Had Shade turned around, she would have seen blue and black waves playing and purple clouds drifting lazily above the setting sun as it glowed on the horizon where the water met the orange and red twilight sky. Instead she faced the dark, bark-covered door that had just been shut in her face.

  Shade felt a hand on her shoulder. “We come-a back tomorrow,” Ginch said resolutely. “We come-a back tomorrow, and we
show them they make-a the big, big mistake, and we get-a you the job. You leave it to me. I’m-a the shrewd negotiator. Why once I—”

  “Oh, shut up,” Shade sighed, brushing off his hand. Without looking at him or the Professor—for she could not bear their pitying looks—she trudged over to a rock overlooking the sea. She sat down and sulked, her mind going over again and again what had been said to her after hours of lovely reading.

  “We’re sorry, but we just don’t have any need for more workers.”

  “Zere just is not ze room for more fairies to live ’ere amongst ze books.”

  “You are, like all book lovers, always welcome to come visit whenever you can.”

  “Oui! And we ’ope to see you again soon and often!”

  For the first time in her very literate life, Shade was at a complete loss for words. She had had no words to respond to Émilie and François as they had crushed her dreams and ushered her out of the library (“We must close up for ze night,” they had said); she had no words to express how desolate and angry she felt; she could remember no words from anything she had ever read to comfort her in this, her lowest moment. She felt empty, like the cover of a book whose pages had been ripped out. I won’t share with you what Shade thought must be written on the cover, but suffice it to say that it might shock your sweet, delicate Aunt Petunia into an early grave if she were to read it.

  Ginch and the Professor sat on either side of her. They said and did nothing for a time. Shade didn’t look at either of her friends, instead silently watching the sea ebb and flow far down below. She sniffed and rubbed her eyes. She suddenly felt very, very tired.

  The Professor nudged her. When she turned to face him, he grinned—which kind of made her want to slap his pale, silly face—reached into his jacket, and handed her a book. She opened its red leather cover and in the light of the setting sun read, “Goodnight, little sprite, Time to sleep tight.”

  Shade looked at the Professor in disbelief. “You stole this. You stole this from the library . . . for me.”

  He shrugged. He was still grinning, but now Shade could see the sadness in it she had overlooked before. She looked back at the book. There it was: her book. The one thing she wanted most in the world, and it was hers for the taking. She could have it with her always. She could read it whenever she felt lonely or scared—why, she could read it every night and day no matter what! Maybe, in time, she could find more books and build herself a new collection with Goodnight, Little Sprite and Radishbottom’s book as its core and find a new home—Weren’t they going to build me a new one back in Pleasant Hollow? she remembered—and spend the rest of her days surrounded by books that were hers and hers alone, always there at hand whenever she needed them.

  Then she remembered what had happened to all her books before. How could she guarantee that this book would be safe when her last copy, through absolutely no fault of her own, was gone forever? Wouldn’t it be much safer in the library? And what if there was some other sprite out there—or brownie or pixie or goblin or kobold or what have you—who was desperately looking for this special, special book and who, like her, came a long, long way and endured hardship after hardship to get to this magical place? Did Shade’s love—her need—for this book really give her the right to deny that fairy the chance to ever read it?

  “Oh, pucknernuts!” she groaned. “Professor, I really appreciate what you tried to do here, but . . . I can’t keep this. We’ve got to give it back.”

  With book in hand, Shade got up to go pound on the library door and return the book.

  “Oh, did you think you were going somewhere?” a harsh, unfortunately familiar voice sneered.

  Shade’s eyes grew wide. “We are so dingled and dangled,” she muttered.

  “And-a donkled,” Ginch replied. “Really, really, donkled.”

  In which enemies attack and your

  humble narrator’s favorite character

  reappears (Finally!) . . .

  Lady Perchta stood there, gleaming short sword in hand. She was still clad in the bronze and leather armor from her Wild Hunt but no longer wore her helmet. Her silvery hair fluttered in the breeze as she sneered at Shade. Around her, looking battered and bruised and none too friendly, were a wulver, a spriggan, and twin hyena-headed goblins. In the near distance, mounted on their horses and clutching spears, were three members of the Wild Hunt—those with the wolverine, bear, and wolf heads—next to whom stood four large, armor-clad humans, their faces scarred and vicious.

  Ginch stepped in front of Shade. “’Ey, you no can-a hurt the little Sprootshade! You’re on-a the Wild Hunt and—”

  The wolverine-helmed goblin reached into a saddle bag and tossed something that landed with a thud in front of Ginch. It was a beautiful tiny fawn, golden and translucent, as if carved from quartz. A black arrow pierced its throat.

  “You are not in a civilized place, our hunt is long over, and . . .” Perchta slapped Ginch with the flat of her sword, knocking the gallant brownie to the ground, “I can do. Whatever. I. Want.”

  “I think not!” a deep, valiant voice declared. From out of the shadows of the library tree strode the brave and noble Sir Justinian! Just behind him trudged the good squire Grouse, leading an old, sway-backed horse laden with gear.

  The Professor hopped up and down and clapped, and Shade’s heart soared with hope. “Sir Justinian! What are you doing here?”

  Sir Justinian smiled winningly, white teeth gleaming in the twilight. “Having lost all trace of the fearsome beast we sought—”

  “You sought,” Grouse muttered.

  “My good squire and I decided to follow you, knowing that you might need our aid—”

  “Because he gets bored easily.”

  “And sensing that, in spite of your attempts to convince me otherwise, you were on some grand quest!”

  “But mostly because he couldn’t think of anything better to do with his time,” Grouse grumbled.

  “Now leave her, vile Duchess of Sighs! In the name of the Seelie Court, I arrest thee and thy cohorts for attempted child abduction!” Sir Justinian pointed his sword at them. “Surrender, and I will take thee unharmed to the Seelie Court where thou shall receive fair trial. Resist, and feel the burning kiss of my cold steel blade!”

  Lady Perchta laughed a cruel, haughty laugh. “I choose . . . resist.” She whistled, and the riders and human goons encircled Sir Justinian and Grouse.

  “Arm thyself, good Grouse,” Sir Justinian said as he readied himself for combat. Grouse grabbed a heavy iron skillet from the horse. “Not with a saucepan, squire! Grab a sword.”

  “For the last time, this is a skillet!” Grouse barked. “The saucepan is deeper! And I’m much better—”

  Not waiting for this culinary debate to play out, one of the savage humans charged, bellowing at Grouse, sword raised high above his head. Grouse swung his skillet in a wide arc that connected hard with the side of the barbarian’s face. He landed heavily, spitting out teeth as he hit the ground.

  “With a skillet than a sword!” Grouse finished.

  Justinian raised an appreciative eyebrow. “Fair enough. Let’s give them what for! Ha!”

  Metal clanged against metal as riders and barbarians fell upon Justinian and Grouse. Lady Perchta turned her attentions back to Shade, the Professor, and Ginch, who rubbed the bright red side of his face. “They’ll make short work of your knight in tarnished armor and his surly squire,” Lady Perchta purred. “As for you, little Owlet, you I will take care of myself.”

  As she said that, Ginch balled up his fists, and the Professor plunged his hands into his coat pockets and pulled them back out, each one sporting battered metal gauntlets. “You’re-a no going to—” Ginch began to say before he and the Professor were seized from behind by the wulver, spriggan, and goblin twins. They thrashed about, but to no avail.

  “So much for them.” Perchta smiled her hideous, scarred smile. Shade held Goodnight, Little Sp
rite against her chest, not sure if she was trying to protect it or protect herself with it. Whichever was the case, she failed at both as Perchta snatched it from her hands and kicked her hard in the stomach. Shade fell to her knees, the wind knocked out of her.

  “Give it back,” she gasped.

  Lady Perchta turned the book over in her hands then flipped through the pages. “Why, it’s nothing but a children’s book,” she snorted. She looked Shade in the eyes, her own seeming to soften with understanding and sympathy. “But it means something to you, doesn’t it? Something very special. I can see that it does . . . Good.”

  Lady Perchta tossed the book off the cliff.

  “NO!” Shade shouted. I can’t lose it. Not again, she thought, and before she knew what she was doing, Shade leapt over the cliff.

  “Sprootshade!” and “Sh-sh-shade! No!” her friends screamed, but she was barely aware of their cries—all her attention was focused on the red leather book as it fell toward the dark, hungry sea below. Without thinking, Shade held her arms against her sides and her legs together and gave a few hard flaps with her wings before folding them close to her body as well. She shot down, the distance between herself and the book closing second by second. The harsh, cold waters roared louder and louder as she plunged downward. She drew nearer and nearer the book; the sea loomed larger and larger. If she waited much longer to pull out of her dive, she would hit the waters below and either die on impact or drown in minutes. In desperation, she reached out her hands. Her fingertips touched the sides of the book. Like a falcon seizing a pigeon in its talons, she grabbed the book, opened her wings, and pulled out of her dive, the toes of her boots kicking up a spray of salt water as she glided just above the tops of the waves.

  It’s safe! Shade exulted as she flapped her wings and rose higher. I saved it!

  But her euphoria vanished in an instant as she remembered where she had left Ginch, the Professor, Grouse, and the wonderful—and criminally underused in this story, in the opinion of your humble narrator—Sir Justinian. My friends! That ugly, evil scab-eater has them! Somebody has to save them!