The Librarian (Book Two: Unhappily Ever After) (6 page)

"Careful," Douglas said. "It's a long way down."

Randy cautiously looked over the cliff's edge only to find he couldn't see the bottom through the soupy mist clinging to the canyon walls.

"You need a break?" his father asked.

"No," Randy panted. "I'm fine."

Douglas slowed his pace just enough the two could walk side-by-side. They traveled in silence for a few minutes, Randy watching as his father occasionally looked back in the direction they'd come.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No. It's just... someone might be following us."

"The librarian." It wasn't a question.

Douglas looked down at him. "Why would you say that?"

Randy shrugged.

"Maybe," his father said. "We'll have to see, I guess."

"Is that why you sent
him
back? To look?"

Douglas put an arm around his son. "You're a little scared of Bones, aren't you?"

Randy didn't answer. He was scared and didn't understand why his dad had given the hooded man such a playful nickname.

"It's okay. I imagine
all
of this is a little scary."

"That's just it," Randy said. "I don't know what any of this is about. I don't know what the heck is going on."

"It's complicated."

"I'm too dumb to understand." Randy hung his head in a pout.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

Douglas wasn't going to explain any further but changed his mind when he saw his son's long face.

"When I was a kid – about your age, actually – the librarian and I were... well... we were friends."

"So you really
did
win the writing contest?"

"I
did
," Douglas explained. "And when I won, the librarian promised to give me something very special. And then he never did."

"What was he supposed to give you?"

"A book."

A laugh came rushing out of Randy's mouth before he could catch it. "Sorry. A book? Really?"

Douglas nodded but his interest was beginning to wane as his eyes moved to something in the distance.

"What kind of book? What's it about?"

"Finally," Douglas whispered wearily.

Confused, Randy followed his father's gaze to see what had stolen his attention. The boy's mouth fell open when he saw what was waiting on the horizon ahead of them.

Barely visible through the mist, a dark castle was perched on a stone spire in the distance. Though built of brick and mortar, the strange building looked like the tangled roots of a centuries-old tree stump. Randy couldn't help but think the building looked alive. Inside, candles lit up the castle windows like tiny eyes looking out into the murk. Its drawbridge entrance was shaped like a mouth, ready to consume any visitors that dared approach.

"I was beginning to think we were going the wrong way," Douglas confessed.

"That's where we're going?"

"Don't worry. We'll be fine. We'll get some rest and wait for Bones before we find a way to cross."

Randy couldn't believe he wanted the Headless Horseman to return. He'd seen the villainous visage waiting beneath the dark man's hood, but at least the Pumpkinhead was on their side. Whatever waited in the castle beyond was unknown, and yet, Randy was sure it was an evil beyond anything that had ever set foot in Sleepy Hollow. He wasn't even sure the chasm between them and the castle was enough to keep them safe.

The little voice in his head was back.

You should have gone back when you had the chance.

It's too late now, Randy.

Too late.

THE ASSISTANT LIBRARIAN was marching Wesley and Taylor up the stairs that led out of the library's basement. She had Taylor by the arm and was pulling Wesley by the ear.

"Oww! That's my ear!"

"Stop," Taylor whined. "We can explain!"

"I should have known the two of you would show up again," Hope snarled. "Don't you think you've caused enough trouble?"

She forced them onto a long wooden bench in one of the building's dark corridors where she made them sit.

"Doesn't mean you have to be so mean about it!" Taylor rubbed her arm. "Dang!"

"You just threw a rock through our basement window. How do you
think
I should treat you?" The kids clammed up, neither answering. "But I guess it does pale in comparison to the trespassing offense from yesterday."

"Trespassing?" Taylor tried to act offended even though the words coming out of Hope's mouth echoed her own.

"As if I don't know about your little jaunt into Oz." The kids looked surprised. "Didn't I warn you? I specifically said, 'Don't touch the carvings.'"

"We're here to see the librarian," Wesley said defiantly.

"Oh? You are? Why didn't you say so?"

Taylor clenched her jaw, and Wesley shook his head. Neither appreciated the woman's tone.

"He's not here," Hope said. "After all, someone's got to clean up the mess you made." She turned to walk away. "He left for Oz late last night."

"Wait," Wesley said. "How?"

"Through the carving, kid. Just like you."

Wesley and Taylor came off the bench and hurried after her into the main hall. There was an eerie atmosphere in the library this afternoon. It was empty, and none of the lamps were lit, leaving most of the building enveloped in shadow. It felt like someone had dropped a veil over the building. Taylor was beginning to feel like someone had dropped a veil over her life.

"That's not what I meant," Wesley began. "How's he gonna clean up our mess?"

Hope turned to face them. "What exactly did you two do over there?"

Wesley pressed his lips together, unwilling to talk.

"We freed the Tinman," Taylor whispered in shame.

"What were you thinking?" Hope stabbed Wesley in the chest with an extended finger. "You of all people? I thought for sure you'd have more respect for a story than that."

"I do!"

"Oh yeah, I can tell!"

"It's not his fault!" Taylor raised her voice so it could be heard over their bickering. Both stopped the minute the declaration was off her lips. "Wes told us something like this might happen. Don't yell at him."

The room fell silent.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Wesley asked.

"You played with toys that don't belong to you," Hope sighed. "Stories are like puzzles. Okay? When a writer sits down he has a million ideas. Some of those ideas fit well together, some don't. Not every idea gets used, but eventually, the writer spends enough time playing with the pieces that a picture comes into focus. He starts to understand what his story is about."

Wesley nodded in agreement. He had a small shoebox in his closet that was filled with stories he'd written, screenplays, even the beginnings of a fantasy novel he planned to finish over summer break. But also in the box, scattered haphazardly throughout, were tiny notes with just a handful of words written on them: his idea slips. Some were story concepts; others were just good lines he wanted to include in his next project; others still were a single word, maybe a place or subject he wanted to tackle in some future work. He'd never thought of them as puzzle pieces, but that seemed an apt metaphor. He usually spent Friday night thumbing through the tiny shreds to decide what he would write about and often found several of the ideas naturally fit together to help create a more complete story.

"See? Dorothy was meant to kill the Wicked Witch, but if you know the story well enough you know she can't even make it to the Witch's castle without the Tinman's help. You took away one of the most important pieces of the puzzle. So now, all those pieces? All those story elements you know were taken apart and put back together again. Only this time the picture's just a little bit different, isn't it?"

Hope grinned ruefully, pleased to see her explanation had upset Taylor and Wes.

"But I'm guessing that's not enough to make you break out my window. Something tells me you aren't the kind to go around vandalizing private property on a whim."

She saw the kids exchange a look and knew what was being said without hearing the words:
Should we tell her?

"Let me guess," Hope continued. "Things were just a little different out there than you remembered?"

Another look traded:
How the heck does she know that?

Taylor finally spoke up. "Why would the things we did in Oz affect the real world, too?"

"They didn't," Hope explained. "The school you left this morning? That isn't your school. The bed you slept in last night? Not your bed. Everything and everyone you've seen since leaving the library doesn't belong to you." She looked through the window at the busy street outside. "Your actions in Oz didn't change anything in our world... they took us to a
new
one."

PART TWO

LOCKE STOOD ON the beach looking for a smooth stone he could skip across Mermaid's Lagoon. He wouldn't find one, of course. He knew that much. He'd looked for the stone more times than he could count. More times than
anyone
could count, really.

Eventually, like always, he dug a rough chunk of stone from the black sand and tossed it into the lagoon. It landed with a splash and sent ripples racing across the water's surface. He stood and watched. Then, right on schedule—

"Why are you just standing around?"

Locke turned to find Nibs approaching. Like Locke, Nibs was a Lost Boy. His clothes were old remnants put together for dramatic effect: a tattered tuxedo jacket paired with a black top hat that was wrinkled up like an accordion.

"C'mon," Nibs said. "Peter's a-waitin!"

Locke watched him scurry away, one hand on the brim of his hat, the other wrapped around the handle of a scuffed briefcase. He stumbled over an exposed tree root as he went. Just as he'd done the time before and the time before that.

Right on cue, a streak of yellow light cut through the air toward Locke. It circled him twice and left a trail of golden dust wrapped around him like a lasso. A moment later, Locke felt Tinkerbell's tiny hands pushing on his back.

"I'm going, Tink! Jeez! Relax!"

She came around to face him, stopping to hover just inches from his face. A true fairy, Tinkerbell was no bigger than the smallest finger on Locke's hand. Her blonde hair was tied up in a messy bun that allowed her pointed ears to be seen. She wore a tiny green dress that was open in the back for her wings – wings that were moving so fast they were nothing more than a blur.

"I said—"

Tink flipped Locke on the nose before he could finish and flew away. He shook his head and grinned. He always fell for that.

Locke started down the shore, following the trail of fairy dust as it began to dissipate. The other Lost Boys were climbing into a small rowboat just ahead of him. All but one. One of the boys was floating in mid-air with a hand on each hip. The redhead had a face full of freckles and was wearing a mischievous grin and clothes that seemed to be tailored from autumn leaves and cobwebs.

His name was Peter Pan.
 

"That it?" Peter asked as Nibs climbed into the boat.

Nibs nodded.

"Good," Peter said excitedly. "Don't get it wet."

"What do ya take me for, Peter?" Nibs asked. "I know better than that."

"Well," Peter began, "I'm just reminding you."

"I don't need no remindin."

Locke smiled at the playful banter he'd heard so many times before. He waited for Peter to lower himself into the boat before pushing it away from shore and hopping into the dinghy beside a pair of twin boys.

"Careful, Locke. You know the mermaids will pull you under if you give them a chance."

Locke looked into the water as it passed beneath the boat. Why did Peter always have to remind him of that? He knew he was in no real danger – he'd been here before – but that didn't ease his nerves. The mermaids were always trying to drown anyone that dared enter their waters. Well, anyone but Peter, that is.

The kids sat in silence as a Lost Boy named Tootles rowed the boat out of Mermaid's Lagoon before turning north toward Skull Rock. There, anchored near the creepy rock formation deserving of its name, was Captain Hook's ship.
 

"There she is," Peter called. "The Jolly Roger."

The boat's ancient wood seemed to moan as the Jolly Roger rocked back-and-forth. The galleon-style ship was a dark vessel: a wooden behemoth with four giant sails, a crew of thirty men and a dozen guns. A black flag decorated with a white skull-and-crossbones was flying proudly atop the ship's tallest mast.

Peter pointed to a skinny man who was stationed in the ship's lookout. "Take care of that, Tink."

The order was barely off his lips before Tinkerbell had darted away, seized the pirate's telescope and used it to knock him unconscious.

"Alright, Lost Boys. It's zipped lips from here."

Tootles pulled his oars into the boat. Everyone kept their eyes fixed on Hook's ship as they skimmed the water's surface and closed in. The small boat looked like an insect beside the Jolly Roger. An insect begging to be squashed.

The rowboat slowed to a stop near a rusted chain that extended from a porthole in the ship's hull and disappeared into the water where it was hooked to an anchor on the ocean's floor.

Peter climbed the chain first, throwing his leg over the ship's rail when he was close enough to climb from the chain onto the deck. Peter had found a rickety staircase that led below by the time his friends had followed him onto the deck.

"This way," he whispered.

Peter led them down the steps.

All around them, the kids could hear the snorting and snoring of sleeping pirates. Knowing the scoundrels were so close was enough to put the Lost Boys on edge as they followed Peter down the hall and into a room that was filled floor-to-ceiling with broken clocks.

Alarm clocks, grandfather clocks, pocket watches and more. They sat precariously shoved together on shelves and on tables. There were even piles of them on the floor. Hundreds of clocks. Maybe more. All of them broken with a rubber mallet that was leaning against the wall as if tired after a long day's work.