Read Kepler’s Dream Online

Authors: Juliet Bell

Kepler’s Dream (9 page)

It wasn't so much a question as a command.

“Sure!” I said, trying to muster something like enthusiasm.

So the next morning, when I came into the kitchen for my usual breakfast of playground bark in a bowl (when George finally delivered Irene's care package a week later, I could sneak handfuls of Froot Loops in my room, which is how I actually survived), there was Grandmother waiting for me at the table, her eyes as beady as Hildy's.

“Ah, Ella! Shall we set off, when you're finished?”

I half expected to see a thermos and brown bag lunch beside her. She had that jazzy, expectant look teachers get when you're going on a field trip—even if it's to somewhere tedious like the botanical gardens or the local gas and electrical plant.

I'd passed the Librerery a bunch of times when I was walking Lou. As field trips go, this one didn't involve a lot of travel: the building was only about twenty feet from the house. You just had to go through the front door, elbow a few birds out of the way, then go around the side by some deserted wooden pens half covered in brambles. “That's where I used to keep my pet skunks,” the GM said casually as we went by. “Dear old Arpege and Chanel Number 5. Remind me to tell you the story one day.”

Skunks?
But there was no time to ask any more about that, as we trotted down a few steps and there we were.

My grandmother's key to her main house was a huge old-fashioned one, like the kind that unlocks the dungeon door in a fairy tale. But for the
Librerery
she used an ordinary key. As soon as she opened the door, there was a shrill beep, and she typed in a code for the alarm. That was something she didn't bother with at home either, even with all her
things
. It was my first hint that there must be something worth guarding in here.

It had been bright outside, and it took my eyes a minute to adjust to the dimness. The place was cool and hushed, and I suddenly felt very far away from everything. In another world.

It was one long, high-ceilinged room, shaped like a chapel. Me and my mom—
ahem!
my mom and I—weren't churchy people, but during Mom's illness, Auntie Irene had taken me along a few times to her church. It was peaceful, and I liked the singing. I didn't know how to pray, really, but I could see how going to a quiet stone building would get you in the right frame of mind to do it.

The
Librerery
seemed something like that, only instead of saints and crosses all over, there were books.

Hundreds and thousands of books.

They were everywhere. On all the shelves, from floor to ceiling, stacked or spread open on high tables and side tables and low coffee tables, or packed in cardboard in a cluttered back nook. In the center of the room were a couple of armchairs, each with a lamp beside it, like if you were in the mood, you could just
plonk yourself down in one of them, get comfortable and read. For the rest of your life.

“Wow,” I said.

It was not the most imaginative utterance of my life, but I couldn't think of what else to say.

“Yes, Ella.” She didn't correct me, for once. “This is the Library.”

The GM had, as Dad had said, a thing about books.

“Your grandfather and I bought many of these together,” she told me. “I couldn't have done it alone. Edward loved books, too. It was how we met, actually, at an antiquarian bookstore—Christopher's. We were both interested in a volume of Blake.”

She said that collecting started as something they did just for fun, as a hobby. Then they got interested in older, rarer books, and it became a kind of game, a sport, to find unusual editions to add to their growing library.

“Some of these books are very valuable,” my grandmother explained. “Those volumes you should touch only if you have gloves on.” This seemed crazy to me—wearing gloves to look at a
book
?—but it didn't seem smart to say so. “And if I ever see you do this, Ella”—she licked a finger and made a page-turning gesture, that way some people do when they read—“I won't let you in here again.”

Was that a threat or a promise?

I asked the GM how you knew which were the most valuable books. She said if they were signed by an author who was dead, for instance, or inscribed (“Meaning, written in”) by one famous
writer to another. (She had a book by someone named Oscar Wilde that he had signed for his son, who had the wacky name “Vyvyan”.) A very old book, or a book printed on special paper, or with a binding made of some fabulous ingredient, like camel hide. Or gold.

“Which brings us to Kepler's
Dream,
” she said. “Would you like to see it?” It sounded like we were going to read Kepler's mind, somehow. His dream
.

My grandmother solemnly led me to the end of the room, where there was a fireplace and a bucket of firewood. Something you don't often see in the school or local library—a handy place to warm up if you get chilly while you're studying.

Nearby I also noticed a long glass cabinet filled with photographs, objects, clippings. I knew I was supposed to be psyched about Kepler's
Dream,
whatever in the world it was, but the pictures caught my eye.

“Who's this?” I looked at a black-and-white snapshot of a pretty young woman seated next to a tall, silvery guy with a swanky old-time hat on.

“That”—my grandmother's face, normally sharp, blurred some as she looked at the photo—“is Edward. And myself. On our honeymoon.” If I squinted, I could see how that smiling girl might one day turn into this older Violet Von Stern.

“Hey!” I saw another picture, one of the same silvery guy smiling and shaking hands with a familiar dark-haired figure. “Isn't that Michael Collins?”


Yes, it is.” My grandmother seemed impressed that I recognized him. “Edward knew the Apollo astronauts. He was an important astronomer, Ella. His work was of significant help to NASA when it was developing its space program.”

Well, that was worth the price of admission right there. My own grandfather had known Michael Collins! Had shaken the man's hand! I wondered if my mom knew. A spidery chill crawled down my spine.

Suddenly I was very curious about this Edward Mackenzie. There were pictures of him with other people I didn't recognize, and medals and ribbons, and a small plaque with his name. On another shelf, a display of feathered hooks and bright-colored nylon.

“Oh, right,” I said to my grandmother. “He fished, too?”

“Well, yes. He did.” It didn't seem a happy subject: a frown shadowed her face as if I'd just said
What
and not
Pardon.
“But the constellations were his real passion. You know, that is why I returned to my maiden name after Edward died. Von Stern. Do you know what
Stern
means, Ella?”

I stared at her. This seemed like a setup.

“It means ‘star.' In German. Edward loved the fact that my name meant ‘from the stars.'” She sighed. “After he died, I couldn't bear to be a Mackenzie any more.”

“And how did he die again?” I asked.

Wrong question.

“There was an accident,” she said curtly, which seemed all that anyone was ever going to tell me about it. And whatever
warmth had been on my grandmother's face froze right up again. “Now, do you want to see Kepler's
Dream
or not, Ella? Otherwise I should start preparing for those wretched boys. They start work soon.”

“Of course!” I hopped to it.

My grandmother put on a pair of white gloves she kept in a drawer and handed me a pair, too. It made us seem like criminals trying not to leave fingerprints as we got ready for the big heist. She gave a long explanation of who Morris was, and why his edition of this Kepler book was so valuable, how many precious whatnots were part of the binding and how the prints were ever so carefully produced and many other details I would mention if I had truly been paying attention at the time, which I wasn't. My grandfather had been a fisherman, and an astronomer, and he had known Michael Collins! And he had died in some mysterious accident that no one wanted to explain to me. There were a hundred other questions I wanted to ask the GM about him, but first I had to look at her extra-special amazing book.

Grandmother cradled the copy in her hands carefully, as if it were a baby. When she opened it, I saw thick, ragged-edged pages printed in a language I didn't recognize, with vividly colored images of stars and devils and round, looming planets that looked like the earth. And the moon.

“Here, you see,” she murmured. “The witch's son is given a sleeping draught and then he makes the trip to the moon, along with the demons, to see what it might be like to live there.”

With the pictures and big strange writing, it reminded me of
a children's book. Then I remembered that my grandmother had said it was like a work of science fiction.

Finally she showed me the title page, printed in brilliant gold leaf.

SOMNIUM SEU ASTRONOMIA LUNARI,
it said at the top in large gilded letters. Below, the translation into English.

Dream or Astronomy of the Moon.

Here it was. Kepler's
Dream.

Sunday, June 27, Albujerk

(as some people call it)

Dear Mom,

How are you feeling? Crummy, according to Auntie Irene. She reminded me that this was always going to be the hardest part, the treatment before you get the new blood. She told me you said all the radiation is making you feel like a pizza stuck in the microwave too long. When we used to use the school microwave, Ms. Nelson always called it “nuking”—as in, “Here, Ella, why don't you nuke these caramels to melt them” the day we made caramel apples.

I don't like to think of you getting nuked.

Did our horoscopes warn us about this? I know they're about as accurate as fortune cookies, that the pattern of the stars on your birthday doesn't truly shape your future. Still, did either one of us get one that said, “Beware of this summer, for it will suck”?

Big news here, though. We are going to have a Visitor! I will no longer be the only inmate, I mean guest, staying here with Violet Von Stern. His name is Christopher Abercrombie, and he seems famous, because I see his name everywhere. Half the boxes George the nice UPS guy delivers say ABERCROMBIE BOOKS (
VANCOUVER) on them, so that's how I'll think of him, as ABERCROMBIE BOOKS.

He is English, apparently, and he and Grandmother are old pals. He'll be staying in the Haitian Room, which makes me feel sorry for him. It's dark and hot and yellow in there. It will be like sleeping inside an omelet.

It seems unlikely, but maybe he'll be better company than Miguel's daughter, Rosie. I finally met her for the first time today, but it turns out she hates me. It was pretty much hate at first sight, I'm not sure why. She got dropped off by her mom, and when Miguel introduced us, telling her I was from California and played soccer, she chewed her gum and shrugged, like,
Am I supposed to care?
He told me Rosie rides horses at her uncle's ranch, so I said “Cool!,” which was lame. When he asked me if I ride, I said “Oh sure!” which is what Ms. Nelson might call a hyperbole, or exaggeration, since the only time I ever did was when I was about four, at the pony ring at the Sonoma County Fair. Remember that? I was almost too scared to do it but you told me it would be OK, and then afterward I'm sure I went around pretending I was suddenly this great cowkid.

Miguel did say we might go riding up at this ranch sometime. So I may have an actual outing to look
forward to. Maybe when we're there, I can make a break for it and take off across the mesa.

Just kidding.

I love you.

Ella

FIVE

SO
me
C
am
PS H
a
V
e
SLOG
an
S. AT ABBI
e
'S WILD
erne
SS O
ne
,
where you were supposed to develop survival skills, or at least summer craft skills, they told the campers, “When you can rely on yourself, others can rely on you.” When she was younger, she went to more of a hippie camp up near Willits, California, where they taught you circus tricks and how to eat with your hands. Their motto was “Let the sun shine in.”

So if Broken Family Camp had a slogan, I figured it was probably “Don't expect much, and you won't be disappointed.”

This had other uses in life, like not getting too hyped about whether your soccer team would make the playoffs, or caring that the Giants threw away a game in the ninth inning, or being surprised that the summer's huge summer blockbuster turned out to be a dud.

In the current situation, it applied to my hopes about Rosie. I had this crazy idea that another girl around the House of Mud, even if she was only there part of the time, might help rescue me from death by boredom. That turned out to be a mistake.

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