Bookweirdest (19 page)

It seemed ages before he heard Malcolm speak. Then it was so sudden and so fierce that it made Norman jump a little.

“Who goes there?” the stoat demanded. “You, lurking in the dark corner—reveal yourself.”

There was no reply. The only sound Norman could hear was his own breathing. Maybe Malcolm was wrong? Maybe they were alone in the library after all.

“Declare yourself and your purpose. Don’t think of running. I have a bead on you,” Malcolm threatened. It would not be an idle boast. Somewhere in the darkness, the stoat king was poised with an arrow between his knuckles.

There was the sound of movement somewhere to Norman’s right, the scrape of a shoe on the rough-hewn floorboards, so close he might be able to touch it. He gulped and felt his heart beat a little faster in his chest.

“You will not lay a finger on Jerome tonight,” Malcolm declared. The anger was building in his voice.

“Who’s this Jerome, then, and what makes you think I’d hurt him?” It was a girl’s voice, but so close that it still made Norman jump.

“Never mind that,” Malcolm pressed. “What is your name and your purpose?”

“Please don’t ’urt me, sir,” the girl begged. “I’m only Gwendolyn. You’ll ’ave seen me in the kitchens, per’aps.”

There was something about her voice that was not quite right. Norman couldn’t put his finger on it.

Malcolm did not let down his guard. “What are you doing up here, girl?”

“I only came up here on a dare. I was just curious about these books, is all. Please don’t, sir.” There it was again in her voice. The words were right, but her voice never cracked. She didn’t sound scared enough.

“Get yourself down to the kitchens, then, girl,” Malcolm commanded in his roughest voice.

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” she agreed meekly. “But only … who is Jerome, pray tell?”

It had been a mistake to mention him by name, but who was this girl who was brave enough to ask the question rather than scurrying back down to the kitchens?

There was only a moment of hesitation before Malcolm’s clever reply. “Jerome is my mouse,” he said. “If you were thinking of feeding him to one of those mangy cats you keep down in the kitchen, you can think again.”

But then she made her move. She might have had a chance, had her path to the stair been clear, but she could not have known that Norman was crouched just steps away from her. She ran right into him. He felt what might have been a forearm smash into his nose. The pain shot up his face into the top of his head, and he fell backwards uttering a low grunt. The girl’s limbs tangled with his, and they tumbled to the floor together. She let out a short squeal of pain as she hit the floor. Only then did Norman hear the arrow. What was Malcolm doing? It wasn’t like him to fire in anger.

“I’ve got her,” Norman yelled. “Hold your fire. I’ve got her.” He wasn’t absolutely sure he did have her, though. That felt like an ankle he’d grabbed. A swift back-heeled kick to his nose made him sure of it. He wrestled with the bony bundle of limbs in the dark. When she tried to rise, he heard her squeal again and he knew he’d managed to pin her somehow.

“Jerome, Jerome,” she cried out, “get up. They’ve come for you. Run!”

That was a surprise, to say the least. They heard the sound of wood scraping and of feet frantically hitting the floor. The kitchen girl was still writhing in his grasp, grabbing his ears and his shirt and struggling to free herself, so Norman couldn’t be completely sure what he’d heard when Jerome’s voice called out. It sounded like “Margaret.”

The light of a torch seemed to stop them all, and Jerome repeated what he’d said. “Margaret?”

Norman blinked and covered his eyes with his both his hands to protect them from the bright light of the torch. Beside him, the girl again tried to rise to her knees, but immediately she fell back down to the ground as if yanked by the hair.

“Margaret? Is that you? And Norman? Norman, I thought they’d got you. Didn’t the black knights take you?”

The scullery girl had scrambled out of Norman’s reach. She was struggling with something behind her head. It took him a moment to realize that she was undoing the long braid of hair behind her, the bow of which was pinned to the floorboards by a tiny arrow of rabbit manufacture. Now that she could see what was holding her down, she made quick work of untying the black ribbon that held her braid in place and pinned her head to the floor. She was poised to make another run for it, but she was still casting around to see where her attacker was. Expecting a human archer, she would not have seen the little flash of movement as Malcolm ducked behind a chest.

“Wait—Margaret?” Norman said, slowly coming to his senses. “You said your name was Gwendolyn.”

“But it’s Margaret, Norman,” Jerome said, lowering his torch so that it wasn’t in everybody’s eyes. “You know that. You told me you knew each other.”

It finally dawned on Norman. “M-m-ar … Meg?” he stuttered, starting with one name and finishing with another. He had not expected her to be here, and yet here she was: his mother as she’d looked at his age, or maybe a few years younger. When she bookweirded into
The Secret in the Library
, Meg was always the age she was when she had first read it.

She jumped to her feet. Now that he could see her face, he could recognize her features: the same pointy nose, the same straight brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, the same thinly pursed lips, the same furiously blazing eyes. This was exactly how his mother looked when she delivered an angry lecture.

“I don’t know what this lackey told you, but I’ve no idea who he is. He’s probably one of Nantes’s men. You should report him to Sir Hugh immediately.” The scullery maid accent was gone now. She sounded exactly like herself. She stood protectively between him and Jerome and peered down on him accusatorily.

Norman couldn’t even begin to respond. He was dumbfounded. The bookweird had brought him face to face with talking unicorns and evil knights, but this had to be the strangest meeting of his whole life. He was looking at a childhood version of his own mother.

“Norman, you told me that you were Meg’s friend. You said that you knew her and Kit back in England.” The young librarian sounded more hurt than angry.

At the mention of Kit, Meg’s eyes narrowed even further. “Is that it? Did Kit send you? Are you Kit’s friend? I didn’t know he had any!” She had realized now that the archer, whoever he was, was gone, and she wasn’t afraid of confronting the boy alone.

“You don’t recognize me?” Norman asked.

“Why should I?” she demanded.

Norman realized his mistake: he’d assumed that this was the adult Meg returned as her childhood self, but in fact this was the true young Meg. “No, no. Let me explain.” He shook his head, not sure that he
could
explain. “I’m sorry, Jerome, but I lied.” He wondered where to begin.

The young archivist’s face was full of confusion as he glanced from Meg to Norman and then back again.

“I know Meg, but she doesn’t know me.” What could he say? He couldn’t just tell them that she was his mom. “I live in the neighbourhood. I guess I’ve always wanted to know her.”

Meg was having none of it. “That’s a lie. I know everyone for miles around the Shrubberies. I would have noticed even a little pipsqueak like you. What school do you go to?”

“Erm, I …” Norman caught a glimpse of Malcolm climbing the rack of parchments behind Meg and stumbled on his answer. “I go to boarding school at St. Edwards,” he blurted, naming the only British school he’d ever heard of.

Meg rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Right! With George Kelmsworth? Are you best pals with the Famous Five too?”

Truly worked up now, she leaned in close now and whispered angrily in his ear, “I don’t know what you think you’re up to, but you’d better get out of here fast. Tell your pal Kit that if he ever tries to meddle with my book again, I’ll rip up that favourite little bunny book of his.” Seeing Norman’s stunned face, she added, “Don’t worry. He’ll know what I mean. I know he still keeps his furry bunny book.”

Norman stammered, unable to get out a sensible response. It was so strange to hear his mother sound so vicious and cruel. He knew she was only defending her friend, but it was still hard to take. He wanted to say, “Mom, it’s me, Norman. Don’t you recognize me?” but he knew it was an irrational urge. Instead he reached for his knapsack.

“Don’t you dare reach for a weapon.” She made a fist and waved it threateningly in his direction.

Norman did not know how to react to this version of his mother. If he closed his eyes and listened, it was his mother, but if he looked, it was just another bossy girl. She looked like an older version of Dora.

“Come on, Jerome,” she urged, pointing to the tiny arrow lodged in the floorboard. “That crossbowman has probably sounded the alarm. We’d better get out of here.”

Norman’s brain scrambled to catch up. The “crossbowman” was now rifling through ancient scrolls a few feet behind her. “Malcolm fired that arrow,” he explained breathlessly. “You remember Malcolm, don’t you, Jerome?” He stared pleadingly at the boy, who stood behind Meg with a gentle hand on her shoulder. He needed to get a grip on the situation, and he needed Jerome to believe him. “Malcolm shot the arrow. He won’t tell anyone.”

“Don’t believe another word this liar says,” Meg warned, tugging at Jerome’s sleeve.

“But she’s right,” Norman continued breathlessly. “We do need to get out of here. It can’t wait for the morning. John of Nantes is going to attack the fortress tonight.”

Meg gave him the evil eye and wrinkled her nose, but she took the time to check the little window at the end of the library. A gust of night air blew in as she opened the wooden shutter. Outside, the campfires of Nantes’s men burned at even intervals across the edge of the desert.

Up high on the shelf amongst the parchments, Malcolm held out his empty paws and shrugged.

“Black John thinks I’m you, Jerome,” Norman explained. “He thinks he’s captured you.”

“But you are here. You escaped?” Jerome asked. “You are unharmed?”

Jerome’s concern helped him snap out of it. The girl who would grow up to be his mother may not care that he had been captured and tortured by an evil knight, but Jerome had a kind heart. It reminded him why he was here.

“I’m here to help Jerome. That’s the only reason,” Norman said, reaching into his knapsack. “Read this if you don’t believe me.” He removed the copy of Kit’s story and thrust it towards Meg. “But hurry—we don’t have much time.”

Meg took the stapled sheaf of papers from his fingers. She glanced down long enough to read the title and the name of the author, then flashed a questioning look at Norman.

“That sweater …” she said, suddenly recognizing the burgundy-and-yellow piping of the grey V-neck that George Kelmsworth wore in every cover illustration.

“It’s George’s,” Norman said quietly.

Her brow furrowed and she returned to the pages in front of her.

“Where is Malcolm, then?” Jerome asked, relieved now that his two visitors had made some sort of truce. “I’ve been dying to tell Meg about him. If she could meet him for herself, that would be even better.”

“Don’t be too sure,” Norman started to say, but Malcolm had finally decided to show his face.

“Don’t worry. I’m here,” he announced. “Just looking for something of mine, that’s all.”

He bounded across the floor and began to pry his arrow free. “Can never have too many of these,” he said, pulling on it and the ribbon it held. “Lady Meg, I believe this is yours.” As gallant as ever, he presented the ribbon to the girl. She still had not closed her mouth, which had dropped open the moment Malcolm revealed himself. “My apologies for loosing an arrow upon your lovely hair. I pray you are not harmed. In the darkness, I could not tell that you were a maid. I dare say that in a fair fight, you would have bested young Strong Arm.” He didn’t hide his admiration.

Meg finally found the voice to express her outrage. “I cannot believe this!” She turned on Norman, throwing the pages of the story at him in disgust. “You’re just like Kit. You can’t leave a book alone. Have you any idea what you’ve done? Has anybody else seen the talking weasel?”

Malcolm bared a sharp tooth and let out a low growl.

“Stoat,” Norman corrected her hurriedly. “He’s actually the king of the stoats. The weasels aren’t our friends at the moment.”

Meg snatched the ribbon from Malcolm’s paws and turned on Norman. “Stop it! Stop telling us this. We can’t know. That’s another book altogether. You can’t keep mixing things up like this. What do you think you’re doing bringing him here?”

“To tell the truth, Lady Meg”—Malcolm leapt to Norman’s shoulder so that he could meet her eye
—
“
you
brought us here. You are the one who took the Mustelid treaty map and hid it here.”

“What?” She put her hands on her hips and widened her eyes in an expression of outraged disbelief that Norman recognized instantly. “What are you talking about?”

Norman, Jerome and Malcolm exchanged confused glances.

“But, Meg,” Jerome said, “do you not remember? You told me to keep it safe for you. You said that by hiding it here, you were protecting someone you held dear.”

Now everyone was confused. This Meg, the childhood Meg, had never seen the map. The adult Meg wouldn’t bring it to the library for another twenty years, and yet it was always this library at this time to which she returned. For Jerome it had already happened.
Norman had thought that he was getting used to the bookweird, but this was hard to get his head around.

“I what?”

The sound of a thousand whips lashing the air interrupted her latest outrage.

Malcolm was instantly on his guard, grasping his bow and an arrow as he dashed to the window. “Heads down, everyone!”

But no one obeyed him. Drawn by the sound, they followed him to the window in time to see the arrows unleashed from the desert camp inscribe their fiery orange arcs across the night sky.

Malcolm made a rough estimate of their numbers as arrows rose and fell. “Two hundred archers. That’s a party of some size, and well outside my range.”

Back in Undergrowth, the stoat king was a sharpshooter of some renown, but he’d only witnessed human archery once, and that was Norman’s one lucky shot, which had felled the wolf at Lochwarren. Seeing the work of these professionals, he could not help marvelling at their power.