Devon Ellington
The Forest Library
“But it’s a library,” said Bonnie, looking in wonder at all the shelves amidst the trees. “Nothing bad can happen in a library.”
“It must have been abandoned for years,” Marise said, peering inside. “Why hasn’t anyone found it?”
“Maybe they have.” Sonja shivered. “Maybe we’ll find bones here.”
“The books will protect us,” said Bonnie.
She led the way through the arched doorway in the trunk of the rowan tree. Marise and Sonja exchanged a look.
“We can’t let her go on her own,” said Marise.
“It’s not often she’s the bravest of us,” Sonja added.
“Maybe we can hide here,” Marise added, half to herself.
They followed Bonnie through the hollow tree into the…what was it? A room? A building? Not quite. The trees soared about them, arching over, and yet there was starlight. The floor was a carpet of soft grass. Flowers peeked shyly around tree trunks. There was a sense of both freedom and containment.
And books. So many books!
The wooden shelves rose between the trees, in the trees, around the trees. Everywhere there were beautiful, beautiful books, in jewel-toned bindings with gold or silver or copper lettering on the covers. Nothing moldy, damp, or damaged. Not abandoned at all, then.
Some of the books were splayed on the floor. Bonnie reached down and picked one of them up. “Hmm,” she said. “Interesting.”
“Do you think they’ll look for us?” Marise asked.
“They’re too busy with the others they’ve caught,” said Sonja. “Or those that tried to run. But failed.”
“What do you think they’re doing to them?” Marise shivered.
Sonja didn’t spare her. “Terrible things. But we escaped. Maybe they won’t find us here.”
Bonnie looked up from the book in her hands. “They won’t. We will find answers here.”
“How do you know?” Marise asked.
“Because all the answers are in books,” said Bonnie. “We just have to find the right one.”
Sonja looked around, at the endless rows of books. “It might take a while.”
“We’re safe here,” said Bonnie.
“How do you know?” Sonja persisted.
“It’s a library,” Bonnie emphasized. “Libraries are safe.”
“They burned the library at Tharus,” Marise reminded her.
“With the librarians and scholars in it,” Sonja added.
“Do you think the books escaped from there to here?” Marise asked.
“They won’t find us,” Bonnie promised.
“Are you feverish?” Sonja demanded. “You’re usually timid.”
Bonnie smiled. “Books make me brave.”
“I guess we’d better get to work,” said Marise. She picked up a random book and looked around. “I’ll be over in that chair.”
Sonja frowned. “Was that there a minute ago?”
“I don’t remember,” Marise admitted.
“It’s there now,” said Bonnie. “Enjoy it. I’ll be on the sofa.”
Sonja giggled. “It looks like something out of a grand house. Do you think this was a grand house once?”
“I think it’s something better,” said Bonnie, and curled up on the red velvet sofa with her book.
Marise withdrew with her book to a wingback chair with a blue and white checkerboard pattern. Sonja picked a book at random. A large leather club chair bumped up against the back of her knees, and she sat.
For a few minutes, the only sounds were breathing, pages turning, bird chirps, and the whisper of a slight breeze through the flowers. The scents of jasmine and honeysuckle filled the air.
“What’s your book about?” Sonja asked.
“Trains,” said Marise.
Sonja wrinkled her forehead. “What’s a train?”
A look of wonder passed Marie’s face. “I’d never heard of one before I opened the book,” she said. “But it makes perfect sense. It’s a series of rooms on wheels. It’s a way for people to ride long distances, in chairs, looking out the windows together. They can chat and make friends as they travel, and see villages and towns they’d only heard about before. The cars are pulled by something called an engine and run on something called tracks. It sounds like wonderful fun. What’s your book about?”
“Poison,” said Sonja.
“You always wanted to study with Old Mother Berry,” said Marise.
Sonja grimaced. “Papa promised me to the miller’s boy, and he didn’t want a wife who knew about poisons.”
“He didn’t want a wife with a brain,” Marise said.
“He doesn’t have to worry about that now, does he?” Sonja snapped, and then looked down. “I’m sorry. That was unfair.”
“Just because you didn’t want to marry him doesn’t mean you want something bad to happen to him,” said Marise. “Bonnie, what’s your book about?”
Bonnie looked up and smiled. “Possibilities.”
Before anyone could ask her what that meant, they heard something rattle farther into the structure. They looked at each other, got up as one, and closed their books. They left the books on the seats and moved into a darker portion of the library, with the occasional firefly lighting the way.
Marise, in the lead, tripped over something hard. “Ow,” she said, looking down, and then, “Oh.”
“What did I tell you?” Sonja demanded. “Bones.”
Marise knelt down by the pile. “What kind of bones do you think these are?”
“Bones of those who do not respect books,” said an unfamiliar voice.
The three young women looked up. Beside them stood a figure in brown trousers and a dark red tunic, with a long, open robe over it, decorated with scrolls and stars. The figure wore dark, sturdy boots, and a tall, pointed hat with designs that matched the robe, and carried a lantern in one elegant, long-fingered hand. Long hair flowed past the shoulders. The figure shimmered, sometimes appearing as an old man, sometimes a young woman with coppery hair, sometimes an old woman, sometimes a young man, and then through the round again, with different colored skin and hair and eyes. “What is it you seek?”
“Who are you?” Marise asked, mesmerized.
“I am the hermit of the library,” they responded.
“How shall we address you?” asked Sonja.
“I find ‘hey you’ often works,” the hermit returned, in a dry tone.
“I mean—” Sonja flushed.
“I know what you mean,” said the hermit. “I cannot be defined by something as limiting as gender. Or even age.” They gave her a soft smile.
“It’s rude to say, ‘hey you’ to someone of your status,” Sonja argued, feeling on steadier ground.
“And yet it doesn’t stop them,” said the hermit.
“Them?” Marise asked, pointing to the bones.
The hermit shrugged. The three young women waited in silence. Finally, they relented. “You may call me Ainsley,” they said.
“Pleasure to meet you, Ainsley,” said Marise.
Sonja nodded. The argument wore her out.
“What is it you seek?” Ainsley repeated.
“Refuge,” said Marise.
“Revenge,” said Sonja.
“Knowledge,” said Bonnie.
Ainsley watched the young women for a few long heartbeats, but none of them flinched. “Interesting,” they said. “What do you offer?”
“I fix things,” said Marise.
“I break things,” said Sonja.
“I learn things,” said Bonnie.
“Hmm,” said Ainsley. “There are things here that need fixing, things that need breaking, and plenty that needs learning. Such potential.”
“I hope you’re not making fun of us,” said Sonja.
“Me?” Ainsley pretended to be shocked, then chuckled. “Maybe a little. I don’t get many visitors. Not ones that survive, anyway.” They turned away. “Come on, then. You must be hungry. Tired. You need food and sleep.”
“We should warn you,” said Marise.
Ainsley turned back. “Yes?”
Sonja sent her a quelling look, but Marise continued. “Taking us in could put you in danger. Our entire village—”
“Yes, that was unfortunate, but you are safe here.” Ainsley turned and walked into the darkness.
“What if he murders us?” Sonja asked. “What if we’re added to the pile of bones?”
“He won’t,” said Bonnie.
“Says the girl who’s never been farther than a half a day’s ride from the village before.”
“It can’t be worse than would happen if we were caught,” said Marise.
They emerged into a kitchen area, with a round, friendly wooden table and chairs with hand sewn cushions on them. Sonja leaned down to take a look.
“Printed with peonies on them,” said Ainsley, not turning to look at them from the stove. “And not filled with the hair of my enemies.” They gave her a quick glance over one shoulder. “I’m not wearing a necklace of teeth, either.”
“Sorry,” Sonja mumbled.
“No, no, it’s wise for a young woman to be cautious, in many a dimension,” Ainsley assured her. “You’d think, after so much time, we’d have figured that bit out, but no, not yet. I have soup. No poison in it, I promise. There’s hot tea and cold, and fresh bread. Dishes are in the cupboard to your right, drinks along the counter. Set the table, please.”
“How does the library grow?” Bonnie asked, as the young women set the table. “The books don’t just pop up here, do they?”
“No, no,” said Ainsley. “I have a regular round of Inkpickers who stop by and show me their latest finds. If I don’t have it, and it’s in good enough shape to repair, I usually buy it. Weary travelers either tire of carrying their books, or they read them on the way and don’t want to keep them. And then there are those who remember the library in their wills.”
“How do they even know it exists?” Marise asked.
“Those who can’t come in person often find it in their dreams,” said Ainsley. “They can’t take anything back with them, of course. This isn’t a lending library. But a visit here imbues them with a passion for books. They spend the rest of their lives accumulating too many of them, and then will them here.”
“How do they get here?” Sonja asked, slicing the crusty bread, warm as though it had just emerged from the oven.
Ainsley smiled, as they ladled the soup into the bowls Bonnie brought them. “They follow the scent of ink and paper.”
They sat around the table and ate their supper.
Sonja looked up. “Are we dead?” she asked.
“No,” Ainsley assured her.
“Are we dreaming?” Marise asked. “Because something awful is happening to us elsewhere?”
“No,” Ainsley said, in a kind voice. “Your bodies and your spirits are here.”
“Can we stay?” asked Bonnie.
“As long as you like,” said Ainsley. “I have the room. Would you prefer to stay together, or be in separate rooms?”
“Together, at first,” said Marise.
Ainsley nodded. “When you decide differently, you can read the room into a different configuration.”
Before Marise could question that, Sonja asked, “What’s expected of us, if we stay? How do we earn our keep?”
“Treat the books as friends, with respect.” Ainsley began ticking off requirements on their fingers. “Don’t ignore them if they try to warn you about something. I’ll teach you binding, mending, how to listen to the pages, the spines, the souls. You can help keep the place tidy, with dishes and mending and washing and the like, but I don’t need or want scullery maids or servants. You’ll need to study to achieve that which you seek.” He looked at Sonja, “Revenge might take some time. And clearer definition.”
She nodded.
“Can we return if we go past the door?” Bonnie asked.
“You can come and go as you please on short trips,” said Ainsley. “Although I advise caution in these turbulent times. Don’t leave unarmed, be it with a blade or a vial of belladonna.”
“The bones—” Marise began.
“Don’t worry, they didn’t die of over-reading,” said Ainsley.
Bonnie giggled.
“Intruders?” Sonja hazarded.
“In a sense,” said Ainsley. “There’s the type of word-hater who is upfront about it. They hate words, literature, passion, entertainment, education. They must be quashed before they gain a foothold and power, or they destroy everything in their path. Then there is the other kind of word-hater, the more insidious kind. They pretend to love words, but the truth is, they only love their own. They claim they know what is ‘good’ and ‘right’ and that their opinions are exalted, and the only opinions that matter. They are even more dangerous, because they manipulate those who would have a wider, more complex reading and learning experience without them. The upfront haters can’t get in; the library is fortified against them. It can’t yet hunt them down and remove them; we would need to create and train Ink Knights for that. And let’s face it, most of us would rather stay in and read than go out and do battle, until the battle is brought into our parlors. The bones you stumbled across are the bones of the insidious. They might get in, but there’s no one here for them to manipulate. Eventually, their own misanthropy and bullying bile eats them from the inside, and nothing is left but their bones.” Ainsley sighed. “I supposed I could tidy them up a bit, but I do like a little bit of drama here and there.”
“If we ever decide to leave,” Sonja began.
“If it is ever safe to leave,” Marise added.
“Then you will leave, with goodwill and blessings,” said Ainsley. “To be readers or writers or whomever you wish.”
“But we can’t come back,” said Bonnie. “If we left, for years. We’d forget?”
“The path to the rowan would close to you,” said Ainsley. “But you could return in your dreams.”
“As long as we don’t become insidious,” Sonja countered, and they exchanged a smile.
The girls finished their supper, listening to Ainsley tell stories of their youthful adventures discovering caches of scrolls and caverns of cuneiform. Together, they washed the dishes, and then Marise yawned.
“I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassed.
“You’re exhausted,” Ainsley said. “Best get some rest. Through the birch arch there.” They pointed.
“Thank you,” said Bonnie, and the other two young women echoed with sleepy voices.
The bedroom held three large four-poster beds, the foot-boards angled toward each other. The beds were stacked with fluffy pillows and, soft quilts, with a nightdress set out on each bed. And, of course, shelves of books with beautiful, luminous covers edged the space.
Sonja opened a small door. “A bathroom, thank goodness,” she said. “I was worried we’d have to use an outhouse.”
The trio performed their evening ablutions, crawled into their beds, and were asleep almost as soon as their eyes closed.
Sometime in the night they were woken up by shaking branches, rolling thunder, and angry voices outside. They heard the clash of swords, the shouts of fury, and was that a cannon? The room shook, and roof of leaves above their heads rattled.
They climbed into the bed with Sonja and huddled together.
“Are we dreaming?” Marise asked.
A walnut fell from above them and bopped Sonja on the head. “I don’t dream in walnuts,” she said, flicking it off the bed.
“It’s real,” said Bonnie. “It sounds bad, but we don’t need to be frightened.”
“How can you be sure?” Sonja demanded.
Bonnie smiled. “I believe in the books.”
Sonja snorted. “I still wish Ink Knights existed.”
Bonnie’s smile widened. “Maybe we can create them.”
“We’ll put it on our project list,” Marise joked as Sonja rolled her eyes.
Another blunt blow shook the building. The girls huddled tighter together.
“What if they come through the roof?” Marise whispered.
“We stab them with a hatpin,” said Sonja.
Marise opened her mouth to point out they didn’t have hats, much less hatpins, when Bonnie said, “Don’t imagine them breaking in, and then they won’t.”
“If only it worked that way at home,” Marise whispered.
“This is home now,” said Bonnie.
A book jittered off one of the shelves above them, due to the vibration of the fight outside, and dropped into the bed in front of them. It was bound in blue leather, with silver trim.
“Pick it up and read to us,” said Bonnie.
“Shouldn’t we stay as quiet as can be, so they won’t find us?” Marise asked.
“We should read this book,” Bonnie insisted.
Sonja picked it up and turned the pages. “Once upon a time, there were three brave girls, who grew into three adventurous women. They didn’t slay dragons. They slew those who hunted dragons…”
Sonja read in a strong, true voice, as the room stopped shaking and the voices receded. Marise and Bonnie snuggled beside her, excited to learn what happened next. Sonja read about the girls’ adventures and challenges, their laughter, their tears. “And so they lived, happily ever after, because they were true to themselves and each other. The end.” Sonja closed the book with a snap.
Marise looked up. “Is it--?”
A series of strange screeching noises began, and grew in volume. Then more shouting, and screaming. The girls dived under the covers, trying to block out the sounds. The sounds of battle died away, the screaming lessened into moans, and then silence. The three of them drifted off to sleep, still curled together in one bed.
They woke, the next morning, to the sounds of birds chirping. The songs were familiar.
Sonja sat up in bed and frowned. “I didn’t think birds could tweet folksongs,” she said.
“They can do many things here,” said Bonnie, climbing out of bed.
“Look at her, she’s almost smug,” teased Marise.
“Hallooo! Good morning!” Ainsley called from the other side of the door. “Breakfast is ready. I hope you like coffee, although I can fix tea.”
“Coffee’s great,” Marise called. “We’ll be right out.”
Quick morning ablutions, even quicker dressing, and they were in the kitchen, facing beautiful poached eggs heaped with creamy sauce on muffins, and sides of hash browns. “Come, come,” said Ainsley, “eat while it’s hot.”
Sonja went to help herself to a cup of coffee and stopped short at something on the floor. “That’s a cannonball.”
“It’ll make a lovely doorstop, once I’ve polished it up a bit,” said Aisley. “it’s a bit too heavy for a bowling ball.”
“You bowl here?” Marise asked.
“It’s a library. Everything is here.”
“Last night—” Sonja began.
“Sorry about the ruckus,” said Ainsley. “Raiders are stupid and blunt. Which makes them easy to defeat, it’s not like there’s a lot of fresh ideas in their repertoire. But sometimes it takes longer to turn them back than others.”
Marise looked up at the roof.
“It’s almost fixed itself,” said Ainsley.
“And the raiders just…ran away?” Sonja asked, her tone cautious.
“Oh, no, the liberdactyls ate them,” said Ainsley, with good cheer. “I hope the screaming didn’t keep you up.”
“Liber. Dactyl?” Marise asked.
“I expect it’s like a pterodactyl,” said Bonnie. “I remember reading about them in school. I always wanted to go to the museum in Oberland to see the skeleton in the natural history museum there.”
“Very good memory,” Ainsley beamed. “A liberdactyl looks very much like a pterodactyl, but quite large. And vicious toward anyone or anything that attacks the library.”
“If we go out the front door, will the ground be littered with body parts?” Sonja asked.
“Maybe an eyeball or two,” said Ainsley. “The liberdactyls are quite omnivorous; you usually find evidence of their meals in their scat.”
“I think I’ll pass,” said Marise, and the others laughed.
They ate, until Marise said, “Does this mean our village is safe again?”
“I’d never feel safe again, and I don’t want to see what’s left and what’s been destroyed,” said Sonja. “I feel I should, to bear witness, to see if anyone survived, but I don’t want to.”
“Even if the group last night was the group that attacked your village, it would only be quiet until the next group came through,” said Ainsley. They looked at Sonja. “I suspect you three are the only survivors.”
“Shouldn’t we make sure?” Marise asked.
“I don’t want to leave,” said Bonnie. “Our parents told us to run and we ran. We need to stay here, and safe, for now. If any of them survived, we will find our way back to each other, through ink.”
“How many more groups of raiders are coming through?” Sonja asked.
“I don’t know,” said Aisley.
“Would the books know?”
“They might have information on patterns.”
“That’s where I’ll start then,” said Sonja. “Learning the patterns and figuring out a way to break them.”
“I’ll look for their weaknesses,” said Marise. “Then we can figure out how to build our strengths.”
“I’ll learn their fears, and create something worse,” said Bonnie.
“Sounds like a good day’s plan,” said Ainsley.
“I was scared last night,” Sonja admitted.
“How long can the library hold?” Marise asked.
“As long as people love words and stories,” said Ainsley. “And while that’s true—”
“The books will protect us,” said Bonnie.
Devon Ellington is a full-time writer, publishing under multiple names in fiction and nonfiction, and an internationally-produced playwright and radio writer. She spent years working in professional theatre, including as a dresser on Broadway. www.devonellingtonwork.com
