The edge of everywhen, p.19
The Edge of Everywhen, page 19
Gordon laughed and pushed the smaller package toward Piper. “Here, you hold onto this,” he said. Then he pulled the larger package closer to Phoenix. “And this one is for you, kiddo. I had wanted to give you something like this for your last birthday before I went overseas,” he said.
Phoenix tore through the brown paper, revealing three thick artists’ sketchpads and a box of mixed charcoal pencils. He gave Gordon a quick hug, nuzzling his dad’s cheek with his own. Gordon opened the pack of already sharpened pencils, and Phoenix studied them closely for a few long moments before deciding on the one he wanted to use first. He flipped open the cover of the top tablet and started to draw with his tongue stuck out in concentration, still sitting in Gordon’s lap.
With twinkling eyes, Gordon grinned and said, “You’re next, Pipe.”
Piper removed the twine first, then unfolded the brown paper to reveal a rustic diary bound in soft leather the color of butterscotch. “Oh, it’s so pretty!” Piper breathed as she unwound the straps and opened the journal. “I’ve always wanted one of these!”
Gordon grinned and said, “I remember you asking for a diary for Christmas, and I didn’t get the chance to get one for you before I left. Mr. Greene went on a little shopping trip for me yesterday,” he explained. “We can have your name engraved on it, if you want.”
Piper jumped from her chair and ran around the table to wrap her arms around Gordon’s chest, mindful of his still-healing shoulder. “I love it,” she whispered into his neck, breathing in the warm coffee morning scent she had missed so much.
Aunt Beryl rose from her seat with a smile and said, “Not to steal your thunder, Gordon, but I also have a gift.” She glanced up at Mr. Greene and said, “Would you mind bringing it in?”
Mr. Greene left the room with a wide grin on his face. Aunt Beryl looked at Piper and said, “Close your eyes, my dear.”
“Me?” she squeaked. Piper looked at Phoenix, who was engrossed in drawing with his tongue still stuck out. She glanced at Gordon, who looked as surprised as Piper felt.
“Don’t look at me!” Gordon said.
Piper sat back down in her chair and closed her eyes, and she heard Mr. Greene return to the breakfast room a minute later. An object was placed on the table in front of her with a heavy-sounding thud.
“Now?” she asked.
Aunt Beryl’s voice was warmed by a smile as she said, “Now.”
Piper opened her eyes, grinning as she recognized the antique typewriter from Aunt Beryl’s study.
“No way!” Piper whispered. She ran her fingertips across the metal keys and looked at Aunt Beryl in shock. “For me?”
Aunt Beryl nodded firmly. “I believe that nothing should go to waste, be it things or talent. It was a souvenir your uncle picked up on one of his book-buying trips to Europe, but I never had any use for it. Also . . .” She reached under the table and drew out an unopened ream of typing paper. “You spend so much of your time with your nose stuck in a book, I thought perhaps you had it in you to write a story or two of your own.”
Ignoring the No Running in the House rule, Piper flew out of her chair toward Aunt Beryl and flung her arms around her in a tight hug. Piper breathed in, enjoying the faint mixture of lilac-scented perfume mingled with talcum powder. “Thank you!” she said.
Aunt Beryl patted Piper on the back. “It’s a gift for the both of you,” she said, nodding toward the still-drawing Phoenix. “One day he might like to type on it as well.”
Piper went back to her seat to examine the gift more closely. “Is that a new typing ribbon thingy in there?” she asked.
Aunt Beryl dipped her head toward Mr. Greene as she said, “Thank Mr. Greene for finding it on the internet for me. I was surprised to learn you can’t just pick them up at the corner store any longer.”
Mr. Greene smiled, raising his coffee cup toward Piper in the air as he said, “Dibs on reading your first draft.”
“I know you have a laptop you can write on,” Aunt Beryl said. She patted the typewriter and said, “But writing on something like this is . . . different.”
“I know!” Piper gushed. “Smashing the ink into the paper makes whatever you’re writing seem more alive or something.”
Gordon said, “We’ll rustle up a proper desk to go in your room so you can write whenever you like.”
Piper looked around the table, her heart swelling as her eyes went from Mr. Greene to Sofia to Aunt Beryl to her dad to Phoenix.
This house is finally starting to feel like home.
Freedom House
Just thinking about being chained in one place forever makes my ink dry up. If I were chained to a library desk, I could never venture into the homes of my Readers and cozy up to a roaring fire in a bleak midwinter.
—Bestil Haruldane
The car pulled up to the curb and stopped in front of a pleasant drive sheltered by trees. “Is this where we turn?” Piper asked, leaning to look out the window. She read the sign aloud. “Waterville Community Complex, next right.”
Mr. Greene nodded. “This is it,” he said. The trip from Côte de Gris to Waterville had taken a little less than two hours.
Mr. Greene and Piper could have made the trip alone, but Gordon insisted on the four of them going together. Gordon and Phoenix were sitting beside Piper in the spacious back seat, and Phoenix had fallen asleep an hour earlier.
“We’re here, buddy,” Gordon whispered, stroking Phoenix’s hair. Phoenix sat up and blinked, looking out the car window with interest.
Gordon had reunited with his family six weeks earlier, and the gaunt look in his cheeks was just a memory now. With Sofia’s delicious meals, and with daily walks in the sunshine with Piper and Phoenix, Gordon was looking much more like his old self again. He had exchanged the gauze bandage for a sleek leather eye patch a few weeks earlier, but his arm and shoulder remained immobile in the sling while they continued to heal after a second surgery.
“So this is the place you picked?” Mr. Greene asked, looking over the grounds with an approving nod. “I think every library should have at least one magic book on the shelf.”
Mr. Greene turned the car into the entrance and drove through the grounds, passing several weathered buildings with signs like, “Head Start,” and “Job Assistance,” and “Community Food Pantry.” He drove toward the back of the complex, and the driveway circled around in front of a stately brick building that appeared to have stepped out of an 1800’s photograph. Two stories tall, the brick-red building was designed in the New England colonial fashion with tall chimneys on both sides, a steeply pitched tin roof, and a welcoming front porch. A hand-lettered sign proclaimed FREEDOM HOUSE LIBRARY.
Mr. Greene brought the car to a stop, and all four travelers climbed out to stretch their legs. Part of Piper grieved my going away, but she also knew it was time.
I knew it as well, Dear Reader. I was created to be shared, to be given away to the next person who needed me. Piper’s heart was far too large to keep me to herself.
She led the group up the stairs and into the library through an imposing set of double doors. The interior of the building had also retained its 1800’s-era décor.
Do you smell that, Dear Reader? It’s the scent of ink, paper, dust, time, and Story. Breathe it in. Put the wide-open spine to your nose, and inhale. No matter if someone is watching.
Piper was glad to find the library stocked with plenty of modern books, a bank of computers, and desks for studying in various corners. A smiling young librarian sat behind an antique round circulation desk. “Do you need help finding something today?” she asked.
“I called a week ago about a book donation,” Piper said. Gordon, Phoenix, and Mr. Greene began to browse among the stacks and tables. Piper ran her fingers across my front cover one more time, then slid the book across the desk to the librarian with a determined nod. “Did I talk to you on the phone?”
The librarian’s face lit up. “Oh, yes! I’m Tammy. I believe we did speak on the phone. Lovely to meet you, my dear.” She pulled a pen from a nearby drawer and said, “When a book is donated, we like to make a dedication sticker that goes inside the front cover, saying who the book was donated by with a few words of thanks. What name would you like to be listed?”
Piper thought hard about her answer, going from her name to Aunt Beryl to her dad, Phoenix, and Naomi, but none of them felt right. Looking at the cover again, Piper smiled as another name came to mind. “I’d like for it to say, ‘Courtesy of Uncle Lonnie’s Library.’”
Tammy penned the dedication in neat, swirly handwriting and held the label up for Piper’s approval. “Does this look right?” she asked.
“It’s perfect,” Piper said.
Tammy carefully placed the sticker inside my front cover. Then she taped on a spine label and fastened a library card pocket inside my back cover, complete with a blank due-date card. “I had the card pocket and a spine label typed up right after you called,” Tammy explained. “We’re switching over to the barcode system next year, but now this guy is all ready to check out.” Tammy reached out to shake Piper’s hand. “The Freedom House Library thanks you for your donation, young lady,” she said. “You’re welcome to look around if you like.”
I was left there on the counter unattended. Tammy pushed a book-laden cart into the stacks on the other side of the room and began shelving the day’s returns.
It was hard to turn down time at a library, but Piper wasn’t inclined to browse at the moment. As the four of them gathered near the front door, Phoenix’s stomach growled long and loud. Gordon tousled his son’s hair with a grin and said, “Let’s go find someplace wonderful to stuff our faces and feed this boy.” Then Gordon cupped Piper’s cheek with his hand and said, “I am so proud of you, Piper. I know how much you cherish your books, and it’s very mature and thoughtful of you to donate one.” He leaned forward to kiss her forehead, and Piper breathed in his aroma: peppermint, with a hint of strong coffee.
Piper looked up into Gordon’s eyes, barely suppressing a pout. “I still don’t understand why you couldn’t read it. I thought for sure you needed a story all your own too,” she said.
Does it surprise you, Dear Reader, that I did not have a story to tell Gordon? I don’t have a ready answer, I must admit. I’m at the mercy of my Creator and can only deliver the stories that well up inside my pages. I do not create them.
Gordon hugged Piper with his good arm and knelt down in front of her. With a shrug he said, “What can I say, Pipe? The pages of the book you gave me were blank.” He kissed her forehead and added, “God has given me everything I need right here, and we have enough stories between the three of us to last a lifetime.”
Phoenix took Piper’s hand, Piper took Gordon’s hand, and the trio headed toward the exit with Mr. Greene.
Just before the big doors began to close behind them, a girl about Piper’s age brushed past the Guthrie family and into the library, glaring at her shoes as she went. “I’ll be just a second, Dad,” Piper said as she dropped back to hold the door open for the girl.
As Piper recognized a familiar sadness in the girl’s face, her heart began to ache. Piper lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching. The girl drifted aimlessly through the shelves, trailing her fingers on spine after spine in a half-hearted search for something to read.
My spine began to tingle. (How I do love this part!)
The girl paused. She cocked her head sideways as curiosity and confusion toyed with her features.
Piper’s heart skipped a beat as she watched from the doorway.
The girl closed her eyes and became absolutely still, her brows furrowing as she tucked a wayward coil of dark hair behind one ear and turned her head.
She’s listening!
After several moments her solemn expression lit up with intrigue as she made a beeline for the circulation desk. A pale blue light shimmered in the air, and the girl blinked.
Hello, Dearest Sasha. I am honored to know you.
Sasha picked me up from where I had just been placed and ran her fingers over my worn front cover, turning me over to gaze at my spine. Better than anyone, Piper understood the puzzled smile on Sasha’s face as she looked from left to right, searching the deserted library with a confused gaze.
Piper slipped out the front door, and it closed behind her with a solid thump.
A Final Mysterious Message
The story wanted to be written, so it worried and prodded and pestered the poor girl until she gave it flesh and blood in the form of ink on paper.
—Eunice Sprague
Piper’s bedroom had been turned into her own personalized writer’s study. The aroma of a cinnamon-scented candle mingled with the scent of peppermint tea. The dark spool of a fresh typewriter ribbon and a new ream of paper filled Piper’s belly with anticipation.
The desk Mr. Greene rescued from the basement fit perfectly in the corner of Piper’s room near one of the windows. Aunt Beryl had showed Piper how the clumsy ribbon was inserted into the machine, and Piper was required to practice taking the spools in and out for when she would need to replace them on her own. Aunt Beryl also watched Piper roll the paper in and out a few times so that she got the hang of putting it in straight. Going from tablets, palm-sized cellphones, and two-inch USB jump drives to this bulky relic was so strange to Piper that she couldn’t help but laugh. Twice she caught herself looking for a nonexistent power switch.
Piper donned her comfy slippers and took a sip of peppermint tea. She inserted a blank sheet of paper into the typewriter and managed to get it jammed underneath the roller. Afraid of tearing the paper and leaving bits of it under the roller, she felt around the edges of the machine for some sort of latch that would let her open the giant metal contraption. The top half was fastened to the bottom half with four tiny screws.
Mr. Greene had showed Piper where the small tools were kept in the basement, so in no time she retrieved a little screwdriver and began working the screws loose. They were shallow and turned easily, and it took just a few minutes to remove the lid and extract the wedged-in paper.
As Piper went to replace the heavy top, she noticed a small brass plate welded to the inside of the lid, an inch-tall metal rectangle bearing an engraved inscription.
To the Book Collector.
FOR WHEN A NEW STORY WANTS TO BE WRITTEN.
MAY OUR STORIES BE TOLD,
AND MAY THE WORDS HAVE LIFE.
N.C.
Piper ran her fingers over the engraving. She remembered that, according to Aunt Beryl, Uncle Lonnie had brought the antique contraption back with him from a trip to Europe many years ago.
I’d bet a hundred bucks that it’s our own Nemo Cognivit!
With intentions of showing the new discovery to her family later, Piper hoisted the lid into place and put the screws back in. Making sure the edges of her paper were straight this time, she successfully rolled a fresh sheet down to where she thought the first word should begin and stared at the empty page. Thinking about what kind of story she wanted to write, she wrapped her hands around the cup of tea, her thoughts bouncing around and bumping into memories to see if they had the makings of a good story. She glanced up at the bookshelf and her eyes landed on a beloved children’s book Mr. Greene had commented on the day he helped Piper unpack. Piper’s favorite line from that book-centric tale echoed inside her head in Mr. Greene’s resonating voice.
“Everyone’s story matters.”
As Piper stared at the spine of the children’s book on the shelf and repeated that sentence in her head, she began to hear a series of clicks and clacks coming from the typewriter. When she looked down at the paper, she saw a sentence printed there.
She hadn’t touched a key.
She still had both hands wrapped around her cup.
With shaking fingers, she set her tea beside the typewriter and rolled the paper up to see what it said.
Everyone’s story matters.
A Note from Novus Fabula
Dear Reader, several of the delightful quotes I’ve included to start these chapters are from dear book friends of mine. But sadly, these fellow books are not to be found on typical human library shelves. They belong to my world only; yet I’m thrilled to have shared a few of their lovely words with you.
There are a few quotes whose words are pulled from books that are indeed found on your world’s shelves. I have listed those below for you. Ask a librarian if you need help finding them. He or she might just have another extremely special book for you to read as well. . . .
Page 25 The Christian Standard Bible
Page 72 New Revised Standard Version Bible
Page 108 Holy Bible, New International Version
Page 130 Francis Bacon, from “Of Studies,” in Complete Essays (Mineola, NY: Dover Publications, 2008), 150.
Page 139 Holy Bible, New King James Version
Page 180 Ancient proverb. Public domain.
Page 192 Charles Hamilton Musgrove, from “The Admiral’s Return,” in Pan and Aeolus: Poems (Louisville, KY: John P. Morton, 1913), 25.
Page 208 The Holy Bible, English Standard Version
Page 214 Christopher Morley, Parnassus on Wheels (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, Page, and Company, 1917), 39.
Acknowledgments
To my agent, Elizabeth Bennett: Thank you for believing in a newbie. I cried the day you called me with an offer for representation. This is just the beginning.
To the entire B&H team: You’re amazing! Working with Michelle Prater Freeman, Anna Sargeant, Amanda Mae Steele, Jenaye White, and Mary Wiley has been wonderful, and there are many others whose names I don’t know. It truly takes a village, and I’m honored to know you all.
