Bookweird (3 page)

 

The Replacement Librarian

“M
orning, Spiny,” Edward Vilnius said cheerfully as Norman sat down heavily at the table. Obviously his father had had a coffee already and the curse had been lifted for the morning. Perhaps it had been transferred to Norman himself. Usually he just ignored it when his dad called him Spiny. He didn't really know why his father did it, but he could say that about a lot of things. This morning being called Spiny seemed like a deliberate provocation. Norman put both elbows on the table and stared down at the flat surface.

“Is everything all right, Norman?” his mother asked. Meg Jespers-Vilnius didn't call him Spiny, but somehow her being nice to him was just as annoying.

“He's mad because he can't use his computer,” Dora announced with her usual tone of self-satisfaction.

“I am not,” Norman barked, but it reminded him that he had other reasons to feel that disgruntled.

“I thought you were reading your new book.” Norman's father slid a few pancakes in front of him. A grunt was as close as Norman was going to get to a thank-you this morning.

“What's it called?
Grokloman
?
Rabbitrover
?
Flatweasel
?” In a better mood, Norman might have seen that his father was trying to
humour him, but this morning it just sounded like teasing. Norman cut his pancake savagely, scraping his knife along the plate.

Dora held her ears theatrically and squealed, “Mom, he's doing that on purpose!”

Norman's father put his hand gently on his shoulder and whispered, “You don't have to slaughter the pancakes. I dispatched them already. They can't have survived the heat of the griddle.”

Norman shrugged his father's hand away but knew better than to screech his knife against the plate again.

“Is there something wrong, Norman?” his mother asked again. She was dressed in her running gear and was stretching against the kitchen counter. At least she'd be gone for an hour—one less person to pester him.

“I'm just having a bad weekend is all,” Norman said, enunciating each word, just like his dad did when he was trying to make a point.

Norman's mom just raised an eyebrow and answered cheerfully, “And who can change that?” She was out the door before Norman could think of a surly retort. What she meant, of course, was that only he could change that. Who could believe that his mother got paid to say things like that? It was a joke. Norman would gladly pay her
not
to tell him these things, at least this morning. He wolfed down the rest of his pancakes and chugged some milk to try to dislodge the knot of food his hasty eating had left at the bottom of his throat.

“I'm going to the library,” he shouted as he headed for the door.

He ignored his sister's “Can I come?” but it slowed him down enough that he was able to hear his father say, “Maybe you should change out of your pyjamas first.” Norman looked down. His father was right. He was still wearing his pyjamas. It didn't make him any happier to have to be reminded.

Only twenty minutes later, Norman was locking his bike to the rack outside the library. He headed right for the computer terminal. Norman knew the system by heart. He was here at least once a week. At the search screen, he pecked out “Lochwarren” in the title field and brought up the result page, showing that his local
library had one copy. He fully expected it to be signed out. He almost didn't stop to look at the details, almost didn't believe the status was “Returned.” Blinking just once to make sure, Norman didn't stop to write down the shelf location. He knew where the Undergrowth series was shelved better than most librarians did. Only years of coming to the library and his father's solemn training on proper library behaviour stopped him from shouting for joy and running to the fiction shelves.

There were nearly twenty books now in the Undergrowth series. The library had multiple copies of some, so that they filled nearly a whole shelf, just above Norman's eye height. He checked them alphabetically at first, then, when
The Brothers of Lochwarren
was not in its place, went through them methodically from left to right, his finger sliding along their spines.
The Brothers of Lochwarren
was not there. He returned to the computer terminal and confirmed the status. It still read “Returned.” This had happened before to Norman, and he knew exactly what to do.
The Brothers of Lochwarren
just hadn't been reshelved yet. This was excellent luck. If it had been reshelved, it would have been snapped up by now. It must be in the reshelving stack behind the desk. All he had to do was ask.

Norman was somewhat taken aback when he arrived at the desk. His usual librarian, Mrs. Balani, the kind but taciturn Indian lady who always recommended excellent books that Norman had never heard of, was not there. Maybe she was on vacation. Maybe she had been promoted. Behind the desk in Mrs. Balani's place was a tall teenager dressed completely in black. When he turned around, Norman could not help staring at his lip piercing and the circular earrings that made a huge hole in his earlobes.

“I can stick a pencil through them,” the librarian said nonchalantly.

“Pardon?” Norman managed. When he was intimidated he tended to be very polite.

“See,” the teenager said, threading a pencil through the hole in one ear. “Fits right through.”

Why anyone would want to do this, Norman could not guess. Maybe puberty did make you crazy, like his friend Jean said.

“I'm looking for
The Brothers of Lochwarren,
the new book in the Undergrowth series.”

“It's out,” the teenager replied without glancing at his computer. He flipped a long bang of dyed black hair out of his face and continued to stare at Norman.

“The, um, computer says it's returned,” Norman stuttered.

The librarian in black curled his pierced lip and turned to his terminal. His typing was so quick that Norman almost believed that he was just pretending.

“It's reserved. The person's already been called,” he replied after only a few seconds. “That's a good book. It's almost as good as
The Wastrel
and
Thorsten's Brood.
You should read it.”

“I
am
reading it,” Norman replied, a little annoyed.

“Then why do you want to sign it out?” the young librarian asked suspiciously.

“I don't want to sign it out. I just want to see it,” Norman insisted.

“To see it?” The librarian made a face as if Norman was the crazy one.

“I just want to read one page.”

“One page?” the new librarian asked. “Is that a special reading program you're on for school?”

Norman bit his lip in frustration. Did the whole world want to wreck his weekend? “It's just that my sister scribbled on a page in my copy,” he lied. “I just wanted to read that one page here.”

“You want to check something? Why don't you ask me? I read it last week.”

“I'd rather read it myself.”

The strange librarian typed again on the keyboard. It sounded like he was just hitting keys blindly, the way Dora did when she was pretending to be writing on the computer.

“It's damaged,” the librarian said. “It's out for repairs.”

“You just said it was reserved and that you'd called the person who reserved it.”

“Unlucky for him, I guess.”

Norman stared at the black-clad librarian in disbelief. He probably thought this was funny.

“You sure you don't want me to tell you what happened?” the librarian asked, faking sympathy.

Norman shook his head, unwilling yet to walk away.

The pierced librarian changed his tone and ran a pencil through his ear hole again. “What if,” he asked, as if offering a special bargain, “I could arrange for your copy to be fixed.”

Norman knew he was joking now. “Sure, go right ahead.”

“All right, but you know you have to give something up, right? I'll replace the page you lost, but you have to give me another page.”

“Sure,” said Norman sarcastically. “I'll bring it right over.” Norman turned his back now and walked away, before he did something that would get his borrowing rights revoked.

“No need for that,” the librarian called after him. “I'll look after it.”

It was only when he had cycled halfway home that Norman wondered how the librarian in black knew the page was missing. He was sure he'd told him Dora had scribbled on it. Not that it mattered. Librarians shouldn't make fun of the clients. Norman told himself that he'd report the new guy to Mrs. Balani. He'd never find the courage to do so, but for the duration of the ride home it made him feel better to imagine that he might.

 

Between the Pages

A
chill rippled up Norman's arms and legs. Without opening his eyes, he reached for the covers but found them out of reach—kicked off the bed again, probably. His mom could never believe how he twisted sheets. “Who were you wrestling with?” she always asked.

It was the whispers that finally made him decide to get up.

“By the Maker, what creature's that?” one nervous, hoarse voice asked.

“Must be a bear, by the size of it,” another replied unconvincingly.

“That's never a bear. Just look at it. It 'as hardly a hair on it. What manner of bear looks like that?”

“A sickly one, per'aps?”

“Aye, mebbe a sickly bear, mebbe.”

At this point Norman opened his eyes.

“You've done it now, Makkie. I told you to keep quiet. You've gone and wakened it.”

There was a rustling in the bushes in the direction of the voices, but Norman could see no one. Norman's bedroom did not normally contain bushes, nor was he used to sleeping on damp moss, but it was the sort of things a few blinks usually sorted out.

He rubbed his eyes and looked out again wearily. Blinking was apparently losing its magic. Norman climbed to his feet from his unfamiliar moss bed. His pyjamas were damp and grimy, but they were still his pyjamas. Nothing else was familiar, though. Pale sunlight streamed through a forest of pine trees. Somewhere behind him was the sound of a swiftly churning stream, but that was it—no other forest sounds, no insects or birds, certainly no people. If there had been people in the clearing when Norman woke, they had run away now.

Norman took a few tentative steps in the direction from which he had heard the voices. Gingerly, he poked a bush with a stick. No one emerged from it. He had imagined the voices, like he had imagined all of this. And imagined things, he knew, disappeared as easily as they appeared. He wouldn't worry about the voices, he decided. He'd worry about the forest. There was really only one question: was this the sort of imaginary forest you were supposed to try to find your way out of, or was it smarter just to stay here in this little clearing? It seemed safe enough. Nothing had tried to eat him yet.

He patrolled the clearing for a while, examining the tops of the trees and straining his ears until he thought he could hear his own blood rushing through his veins. Occasionally he stepped on a twig, making himself jump into a stance that he imagined a ninja or a black belt would take when faced with peril. When no danger presented itself, he stood up straight again and pretended to himself that nothing had frightened him. What he was feeling was not yet fear, but there was something growing in the pit of his stomach, something maybe worse than fear. Fear was for things you knew and understood.

Waiting finally became too much.

“I can't stand around in my pyjamas all day,” Norman told himself. Talking to himself out loud might have been meant to calm his nerves, but the sound of his reedy, trembling voice was hardly reassuring.

The clearing had no obvious entrance. If the bushes seemed less thick in any spot, it was in the direction from which he'd first heard voices, but he could not force himself to go that way.
He retreated the other way, away from the imaginary voices and into the imaginary forest. Very quickly he found his route covered with thick, thorny brambles. And only just quickly enough did he discover it also concealed a deep ravine that almost guaranteed a twisted ankle. For a moment he considered climbing a tree to see if he could get a better view, but the saplings around him weren't quite tall or strong enough for climbing, so, slowly and carefully, he pushed into the bush where it appeared most sparse.

This was only slightly better than the opposite direction, but at least the ground seemed level. The thick brush forced Norman to shuffle forward with his arms in front of his face, to avoid poking his eyes out on a branch. He tried to bend the pine boughs out of the way and edge through the gap he made, but the trees got their share of swipes in. The beating he took at least kept his mind off the weirdness. He couldn't think about getting out of the dream of the forest at the same time as he thought about getting out of the forest itself. After a few minutes his pyjamas were ripped in two places and he had a nice scratch on his forehead from a branch he'd failed to duck.

It was slow going and tiring work. Maybe if he hadn't been concentrating on keeping his eyesight, he might have seen what was coming next, but it's unlikely. What was coming next did not want to be seen yet and was very good at keeping itself concealed when it wanted to. A gap of sunlight finally opened up in the brush, just a small one. Above and around it the bushes seemed thicker than ever. Norman got down on his hands and knees to get through, keeping his head down and his eyes half shut as the brambles and bushes grazed his head. He kept going, steadily, his teeth gritted and his eyes squinting toward the growing gap of sunlight, until an authoritative voice commanded him to stop.

“Heel, beast,” it ordered. “Advance no farther.”

Norman blinked and looked up. He half recognized the shape that stood before him. This half recognition only made him blink again. Once he started this blink, he found it hard to open
his eyes again. He kept his eyes shut tight and prayed to wake up from this dream.

“Is this the beast you spied?” the commanding voice asked.

“Aye, that's the foul thing,” a somewhat squeakier one answered.

“'Tis a hideous creature, to be certain, and ungodly huge.”

Norman opened his eyes fully and gaped at the figure that stood before him. He knew what it was, but he refused to believe it.

The impossible figure continued to speculate about Norman. “But hardly fearsome. If it is a bear, it is a sick one or a cub. 'T'has only a patch of fur. I wonder if its eyes have only just opened.”

“If it is a cub, then likely its sow might be looking for it,” a quavering voice added. Norman recognized it from when he'd first woken in the clearing.

“I'm…I'm not a bear,” Norman said. He didn't want these strangers to be any more nervous than they already looked, but his squeaky, stuttered words had the opposite effect. The welcoming party took a collective step backward, leaving its leader alone at the forefront. Only he remained still, his legs steady on the boulder, his cape swept back over his shoulder and a steady sword arm holding a blade at the level of Norman's eyes. His eyes narrowed with curiosity, or perhaps suspicion.

“'Tis no baby, then. 'T'has the power of speech. Yet 'tis a mighty weird creature still.”

Norman made a move to rise to his feet and wave his hand in friendly greeting, but the swordsman warned him with a waggle of his sabre.

“We'll have none of that. Stay where you are.” He stood about two foot tall on his hind legs. His sharp little eyes squinted slightly as he appraised his captive, and his jaw was set at an angle that exposed a sharp canine tooth on one side. His whiskers rippled just slightly as he sniffed Norman from a safe distance. On his head he wore a black Cavalier hat with a broad brim and a long white feather. The rest of the animals kept their heads bare. It was the hat that gave him away.

Norman wondered if there was anything he could do or say to let them know that he was no danger to them.

“I know you,” he said in a voice that surprised him with its wavering. “You're Duncan.”

A dozen more blades were instantly drawn from their sheaths.

“My name's Norman,” he continued uncertainly. “I don't come from here, but I'm a friend.”

Duncan's whiskers bristled as he crouched even more threateningly. “Many's the varmint that claims to be a friend when faced with the blade of River Raider,” he growled.

“Really, I am,” Norman insisted rather lamely. “I'm a friend to the stoats. I'm on your and your brother's side.”

Duncan thrust the tip of his sword toward Norman, stopping just short of his throat. “What do you know of me and my brother?” he muttered.

Norman gulped, feeling the air around his throat disturbed by the sword blade. “I know you are going back to Lochwarren, to reclaim your kingdom.”

“And
how
do you know this, beast?” There was a sharp note of threat in the buccaneer's voice.

Norman could see how this was suspicious. His mind raced. He couldn't really say that he'd read about them in a book. No one would believe this.

“I'm a seer,” he said quickly, hardly knowing where the inspiration came from. He had read enough Undergrowth books to know it might work, though. “I'm an apprentice seer. I saw your journey in a vision. I saw you and your company leaving from Rivernest, and Cuilean and James leaving from—”

“Enough of that, beast. Keep your tongue,” Duncan commanded. And then, in a low voice, to himself he murmured, “And so Cuilean lives too.” His face became thoughtful. “Stand up, beast. Let's see the height of you.” Duncan made an upward motion with his sword.

Norman staggered slowly to his feet. The stoats took yet another step backward and sucked in a deep collective breath.
Duncan shook his head in disgust or wonderment.

“By the Maker, you have some altitude, don't you? What manner of beast are ye?”

Norman decided to tell the truth. “I'm a human.”

Duncan nodded his head. “Aye, I've heard of such things—read of them in books when I was a bairn. Never thought to lay my eyes upon one. Are all your kind of such mass?”

“I'm average height for my age. My father is six feet tall.”

“Merciful Maker,” Duncan muttered. “Six of
your
feet, perhaps. You look to be fifty paws yourself. I hope I never meet your father.”

Norman assured him that it wasn't likely.

They led him back to their encampment. They didn't tie him up, but they made him sit alone on the edge of the camp with two armed guards for company. Duncan's war party seemed to be readying itself for travel. There may have been twenty or thirty stoats in all. Some packed weapons and cooking utensils into bags, while others carefully erased all trace of their fire. When they were ready to depart, Duncan brought two of the larger packs over to Norman. Norman didn't mind carrying them. They were light, and he welcomed a chance to show that he could be useful.

“Keep your seeings to yourself for the time being, apprentice seer,” Duncan growled as they set off.

Norman nodded obediently. “My name's Norman,” he reminded him.

The stoats made Norman walk at the head of the column, where they could see him. They were leaving the forest behind now and heading into the more barren region of the Glace mountain peaks. The rocks and low scrub afforded little cover, and the stoats could not count on their stealth to conceal them. Norman served as their lookout, keeping an eye on the path ahead, as they kept an eye on him. He walked slowly and absorbed the situation while the stoats bustled behind him. He had daydreamed like this before, when a book got really good. You wanted to help the heroes. You thought you could give them advice, tell them about action going on in other parts of the book that they didn't know
about. But this was more than a daydream. He couldn't tell what it was yet, but it was no ordinary dream either. It was strange how easy it was to accept it, to just go along as if it was normal and push away that awful anxiety that had started to fidget in his belly. It was better to give in to the story than to his fear.

Norman found himself wondering about the contents of the chest. What had fallen out of the shattered box at the bottom of the cliff? Duncan's mood was no real indication. Secretly Norman hoped that Duncan already knew that Cuilean was destined to be King. The pirate-prince's dour mood tempted him to think so, but Norman had read enough to know that Duncan was always this cantankerous.

As the day dragged on, Norman was lulled with the dullness of it all. His legs ached and his bare feet stung. He wished he'd entered the book with Cuilean and James. No one had offered him breakfast, and the anxiety in his belly now fought with the grumblings of hunger. He didn't dare ask for anything to eat. He knew what stoats normally ate.

Cuilean, he was sure, would have offered him a sandwich. Cuilean would have talked to him properly and invited him into his confidences. After a morning's march, Norman was more sure than ever of who was the rightful king of the highlands. And in his wistful sulk, he wasn't overly focused on the path. Perhaps if he had been paying more attention he would have recognized the danger on the road ahead. When a bird settled at the crest of the hill before them, Norman saw only a bird. It wasn't until it spoke that Norman remembered where he was, and what a large black bird like this must be.

“Alarm, alarm!” the black bird cried in its raspy voice. It fixed an inscrutable black eye on Norman, and paused a moment before taking to the air.

“Raven!” Norman cried, turning back toward the stoats, but his warning was late. Duncan and his men had already drawn their weapons.