The Librarian (Book One: Little Boy Lost) (3 page)

  
He stepped forward, reaching out, ready to lay his palm flat against the Oz landscape when – someone grabbed his wrist from behind. Wesley jumped with a start, yanking his hand free from the woman’s grip. It was Hope, the assistant librarian.

  
“Please!” she said sternly. “Don’t touch the artwork.”

  
“I’m sorry. I just—“

  
“It’s fine,” she explained. “Just...
don’t
.”

  
Wesley thought the woman was different now. Hope had greeted them so warmly before, offering nothing but pleasantries since Wesley and his classmates walked through the door. But here, in this dark corner of the library, she was a different person, maybe a dangerous person. Wesley found himself hoping Ms. Easton was somewhere nearby.

  
“What are these things?” Taylor asked, the silence finally broken.

  
Hope kept her gaze on Wesley for a long moment before answering. “These? Well... just... it’s artwork the librarian’s picked up on his travels around the world.”

  
Wesley furrowed his brow. Again, she seemed different. She’d been so knowledgeable before, confident in her every answer. Now she was stammering, hesitant and unsure. Why was
this
question so tough to answer?

  
“Where
is
the librarian?” Taylor asked.

  
“He’s here. He’s reading through your essays now.” Hope placed a hand on Taylor’s back and led her up the aisle and into the library’s main hall where the others were waiting. “Don’t worry. You guys’ll see him soon.”

  
Both expected Wesley to follow, but he lagged behind, waiting for them to disappear around the corner before focusing his attention back on Oz.
 

  
Knowing he’d have just a few moments, Wesley soaked up as many of the details as he could. He noticed each carving was wrapped in an ornate frame carved directly into the wood. Also, each had a symbol near the artwork’s upper edge, the same symbol on every carving: an open book with strange lines extending outward from its pages. He scrunched his mouth into a frown. He was onto something, but he wasn’t sure what.

  
“Alright, guys.” His teacher was calling the class together. “Let’s line up.”

  
Wesley started down the aisle, ready to join the others but stopped when he felt an unexpected draft on the back of his neck. Only it wasn’t a draft. It felt like wind from an open window, but there were no windows on this side of the library. His neck started to prickle as he turned around. The wind was gusting now, and he found there was a strange light coming from the end of the next aisle.

  
The light brightened, glowing white-hot. Wesley shielded his eyes with one hand while grabbing hold of a bookcase with the other as the now howling wind whipped a number of books off the shelves.
 

  
Birds called in the distance. The smell of salt water filled the air.

  
Wesley dropped his hand. Beams of light were bending around the bookcase and into his aisle. Not beams, though. Not really. They were more like fingers, long tentacles of light reaching around the corner, alive, exploring the world in a way that was anything but natural.

  
“Oh man! Oh man! Oh man!”

  
He slapped a hand over his eyes again, this time squeezing them shut as if it might grant him some added protection. He was sure one of those things was going to wrap around his ankle and drag him away. Or worse, maybe it would cut right through him. If that happened, he didn’t want to look.

  
But the wind subsided just as quickly as it had materialized and carried the bird-calls and sea-salt air away with it. Wesley opened his eyes and found the strange, unexplained light was all that remained, though it was dimming fast, its tentacles quickly retreating around the corner from which they came.

  
Every instinct told him to run, shouting from the rooftops: “Get out of here! Find Ms. Easton! Quick, kid! Go!” But he didn’t listen. He took a single step toward the light, then another, until eventually he was giving chase, pursuing it around the corner as fast as his wiry legs would take him.

  
He came into the aisle just in time to find the long beams of light receding into one of the carvings, as if some powerful light source was shining through from the other side. The fingers shortened, pulling back into the carving, dimmer and dimmer, until eventually, there was nothing left of them at all.

  
“What the heck?!”

  
Wesley stepped toward the artwork. It was the Neverland carving he and Taylor had studied so closely before. Looking again, he saw he’d been right. There was a small piece of the carving that was darker than the rest, a tree in the island’s forest carved into the shape of a small dagger.

  
With no one to stop him this time, Wesley felt the dark imperfection with the tip of his finger. It was warm to the touch.

  
“What are you doing?!”

  
Wesley wheeled around, sure he was in serious trouble. Instead, Taylor was marching toward him, alone.

  
“Did you see that?” he yelled.

  
“You’re gonna get us
both
in trouble!” She grabbed him by the arm and yanked him down the aisle. “C’mon.”

  
“Wait a minute!” He pulled away from her with such force it left her a little stunned. “Stop, Tay. Please! Tell me you saw that!”

  
“Saw what?”

  
“It was insane! Light... this blinding light. And wind. There was light and wind and... birds chirping...” He stabbed a finger at the carving. “Coming out of that.”

  
“Really, Wes. If I get in trouble because you—“

  
“I’m serious, Tay. Not just light. It was like... I don’t know... a thousand suns, all burning at once!”

  
“That is
the dumbest thing
I have
ever heard
.” She turned to leave. “Tell me how light can pass through a block of wood. Oh yeah, especially when there’s nothing but a brick wall on the other side.”

  
“I don’t know. It just... did.”

  
The two friends continued arguing as they walked up the aisle, and neither noticed that a young boy was watching them through the cracks of a nearby bookcase.

  
As Wesley and Taylor hurried to catch up with the others, the strange boy stepped into the open, watching them intently until they were gone.

  
Like them, he was about twelve years old. His skin was olive, his hair like a beaver dam, wild and unkempt. His clothes were a heavy, coarse weave but were frayed at the edges. He wore odd little boots made from the hide of an animal and tied with rough strips of leather.

  
Neither Wesley nor Taylor saw the boy watching them and wouldn’t see him until much later, when the stranger, armed with a knife, would leap from the shadows, intent on killing them both.

THE LIBRARIAN SAT in darkness, a single candle offering just enough light to read. The old man had worked his way through each of the essays. As always, they ranged in quality. Some had clearly taken the time to do their best work, others hadn’t.

  
The study door opened with a creak, and Hope appeared in the doorway. “They’re ready for you,” she explained. The librarian didn’t respond. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Hope continued. “It seems... rushed.”

  
“It’s been done this way for centuries, Hope.” He took the winning essay off the stack on his desk. “But we’ve made mistakes before. My only hope is that this boy truly is the one.”

  
Hope left the room, closing the door softly behind her. The librarian took the winning essay from the top of stack on his desk. As powerful as the work was, there was an incredible sadness in the voice of its writer that gave the old man pause.

  
“I hope he’s the one,” he said quietly. “And I hope he’s up to the challenge.”

FINISHED WITH THE tour, Ms. Easton’s students were sitting patiently on long wooden pews in a small auditorium. Most were talking quietly with a neighbor, but Wesley and Taylor had spent so much of their tour bickering back and forth that they were through talking now. Taylor sat with arms folded across her chest. Wesley had his head turned away from her, eavesdropping on the kids in the row behind them.

  
“My mom says the librarian has secret passages built through this whole building.” Wesley recognized the whiny voice. It was the girl in pig-tails. Apparently, she was in a better mood after getting a chance to refuel on yogurt.

  
“Oh yeah?” The girl’s partner took a shot of medicine from her inhaler. Ally Asthma. “Well,
my sister
, she told me the librarian caught her friend’s brother writing in one of the encyclopedias and no one ever saw him again.”

  
“The librarian?”

  
“No –
her friend’s brother
!”

  
Wesley rolled his eyes and turned in his seat, ready to set both girls straight, but something was happening at the back of the room that demanded his immediate attention.
 

  
Ms. Easton was there, standing with Randy, her palm out and waiting for him to hand something over. Randy smirked, digging the dagger from his waistline and gently setting it down in the teacher’s hand.

  
“Go back to your seat.” Wesley could barely hear from so far away. “We’ll talk about this later.”

  
Randy stepped down the aisle, heading back to his spot beside Caleb. Wesley tried to look away, but Randy spotted him before he could. His eyes were alive with fire and rage, all of it directed at Wes.

  
Wesley looked over at Taylor. “You told Ms. Easton?”

  
“
Someone
had to,” she snapped.

  
“Yeah?” He slumped in his seat. “But
I’m
the one who’s gonna pay for it.”

  
Ms. White appeared near the front of the room and was holding a single hand into the air for everyone to see. “Okay,” she started. “Bottoms to bottoms, backs to backs.” The kids quickly straightened in their seats, their eyes finding Hope as she moved up the steps to take her place behind a wooden podium in the center of the auditorium’s stage.

  
“So I hope you’ve all had a great visit,” Hope said. “I know I speak for everyone when I say we enjoyed having you. Can anyone tell me what they liked most about their day?”

  
The room exploded with enthusiastic replies, no single answer audible over the rest. The adults laughed. “So you had fun? That’s good!” Hope said, though her grin was quickly fading. “That’s good.”

  
“Now, I know your teachers have already explained that the city recently reversed the library’s landmark status and will be allowing developers to replace the building with a more modern facility this summer.” The room fell silent, all of the fun rushing out through the door. Ms. Easton watched her students. Part of her was proud to see so many long faces, but she wished they could go a little longer without having to face such serious realities. “At this point there’s probably very little we can do to save this place, but it would be great if some of you told your parents just how much you enjoyed your time here today. If we can get enough calls into the mayor’s office, well... who knows, right?”

  
She pushed a few strands of hair from her face and forced a smile. “But that’s enough about that. You guys have waited patiently, and I’m not mean enough to make you wait any longer.” She stepped away from the podium, her arms outstretched. “I think it’s time to announce the winner of today’s writing contest, don’t you?”

  
The kids answered with a round of applause. Everyone was excited to see who had won. Everyone but Wesley.
 

  
Taylor gave her friend a concerned look. He needed her, and she wasn’t going to pout any longer. “You okay?” she asked. He didn’t answer.

  
Hope moved to the podium and carefully picked up a large leather-bound book with a thick red ribbon hanging from its gilt pages. “This old book is very special,” she explained as she placed her hand on its cover. “Let’s see who gets to take it home and put it on their shelf.”

  
Hope motioned to the back of the room. “Here he is, boys and girls. The man you’ve all been waiting for. He’s something of a legend in this little town of ours. I give you:
The Librarian
!”

  
The children turned in unison just as the large double doors at the back of the room opened. Light flooded into the auditorium from behind the librarian so that the children saw little more than the silhouette of the old man’s slight frame: a rail-thin shadow come to life.

  
Everyone watched as the librarian stepped into the auditorium. Reactions to his presence ranged from confusion to pure disappointment. For most, this was their first opportunity to experience the dramatic tug-o-war between urban legend and reality. The kids in Astoria had spent years swapping stories about their library’s reclusive caretaker. So many, in fact, that over time the legend grew so great that no one could have lived up to it – let alone the frail old man standing before them today.

  
Randy choked back his own response until he couldn’t hold it any longer, finally blurting it out with a short laugh. “That’s him? It’s just a crusty old man!”

  
The librarian leaned heavily on a bone-colored cane as he moved down the aisle toward the stage. His hair was thick and silver, accented by an occasional stripe of black and combed away from his head like the quills on a porcupine. His clothes were custom-made from the finest fabrics and were quite regal: black pants, a dark purple vest and a muted, red bow tie. He wore wire-framed spectacles that were perched at the end of a nose so thin and long it seemed cartoonish.