In the Stacks

I stepped into the cool, cavernous space and blinked as my eyes adjusted from the bright July day to the dusty amber light within. To my right, people sat hunched over books and papers at tables with green-shaded lights. Beyond them, double-sided bookcases marched into the distance as far as my eye could see.

On my left, an older woman dressed with Victorian precision in a drab brown skirt-suit, the frills from her cream-colored blouse spilling from the jacket, was stacking books on a wooden cart behind a marble counter.

I approached her, wincing as the clicking of my heels echoed off the walls and ceiling, breaking the silence.

"Excuse me," I whispered. "Can you help me find a book?"

She turned from the cart, tucking an errant lock of gray hair back into her bun before looking at me with watery blue eyes.

"Why, of course, young man. What are you looking for?"

I considered objecting. At forty-seven, I no longer felt young but decided, with a glance at my watch, to get this over with.

"It's for my son. He wants to read something called the Harry Porter books?"

Her smile widened.

"Ah, yes. Harry Potter, sir. That's a wonderful series for a young reader. It will stay with them for years. Seven books, you know, and they get more advanced as they go."

"Sorry," I said. "I don't really read books. I just want to make sure it's suitable for my son. Can you show it to me?"

She cocked her head, staring at me for an eternity with those eyes before straightening and walking around the counter.

"Follow me, sir."

She moved slowly in front of me, trailing her fingers over the spines of books as we walked. In her wake, I could smell her perfume; a subtle mix of paper, dust, and stamp pad ink, which struck me as odd—I saw no stamp pads, just computer terminals and barcode scanners. Even the card catalogs I remembered from high school were gone.

Once, she paused long enough to move a book back into its place without looking at the title, author, or number stamped on the tape at the bottom. She just knew.

After an age spent wandering, she stopped, pulling a thin volume from the shelves.

"J. K. Rowling," she said, handing me the book, "succeeded, I think, where Tolkien failed in writing a series that the reader could take with them from childhood to late adolescence. Tolkien's The Hobbit is wonderful for children, but the conclusion in The Lord of the Rings trilogy is far too dense for most young readers. And let's not even mention The Silmarillion. I think your son will adore this."

Under her watchful gaze, I opened the book and thumbed through to a random passage to read, and immediately snorted. Imagine the stupidity, the gullibility a child would have to display to run headfirst at a wall with an imaginary, impossible platform number marked on it. And with an owl in a cage, no less…

"I'm sorry," I said, handing the book back and trying not to chuckle. "I don't think this kind of fantasy is good for him. Thank you."

"Wait, please." Again, she looked at me with a gentle, judging stare, her blue-veined hand resting on my jacket sleeve. "Is it the content? I know some parents are worried about the portrayal of magic, but I can assure you, it's harmless fantasy."

"It's not the magic. It is the fantasy. I have to read all the time for work: reports, proposals, and any news story in the papers that might indicate a shift in the markets. That is the world we live in now. I don't want to stuff my child's head with nonsense."

"Oh." Her smile never faded, but her lips thinned. "Just one second, please."

She turned and drew another book from its space on the shelves. "Come with me… better lighting."

At the end of the row, she turned, handing me the book.

"I find this to be a good place for non-believers to start."

"Non-believers?" I looked at the cover, expecting some more magical nonsense, but discovered she had handed me The Three Musketeers.

I smirked and looked at my watch. With seventeen minutes left of my lunch break, I decided to humor her and opened the book.

I hadn't read more than a page when she shoved me, and I staggered back against the end of the bookcase, falling. And I kept falling. The light changed, dimming, and the smell of rot and wet filled the air until hard, uneven cobblestones stopped my descent, knocking the wind out of me.

The library was gone, along with the librarian. I was lying in a cobbled alleyway between two coarse brick buildings. A thin trickle of something foul-smelling ran through the gutters, and somewhere in the dark a rat squealed.

I stood, brushing my suit while I turned. What the hell is this?

The alley dead-ended at another windowless plastered wall, and the opening filled with oddly uniformed men approaching with light glinting off of what? Swords?

"What have we here?" asked the first as he flipped a cape back over his shoulder. "Another of the Cardinal's spies, perhaps?"

"Dressed like that?" added the second man, who twirled the ends of a ridiculous moustache over a pointed goatee. "I doubt it. Perhaps he wandered off from his comedy troupe."

"Wait, wait, wait," I shouted. "I know what this is. Ha! You're Porthos, you're Athos, which means you must be Aramis and, um, Deeartnigan?"

The one I had identified as Porthos laughed. "Did you hear that 'Deeartnigan?'"

"It's pronounced d'Artagnon," the youngest said, sounding like 'dartanion.' "I think it's more likely he's an escaped lunatic."

His blade flashed, and the lower two-thirds of my tie dropped lazily to the cobbles at my feet. I backed away, my hands held out pleadingly.

"Whoa. Um, guys, I think there's been a bit of a… Look. I have no idea—"

"What do you say, Aramis? Is such an insult worth sullying our blades?"

"Oh, friend d'Artagnon," Aramis said, drawing his sword. "I think of it not as sullying, but seasoning."

They charged toward me, and I screamed, turning to run, but where?

I felt a hand on my collar, yanking me backward into the wall.

Through the wall.

"Shh," hissed the librarian. "No screaming in the library. You're fine."

"But I… the swords… and my tie." I looked down at myself. No grit or grime from the dirty street, and my tie remained intact, but my heart jack-hammered. With a gasping struggle, I slowed my breathing and looked at her, wordless.

Her smile broadened and softened.

"No harm can come from books, but the benefits are immeasurable. Is this something you want to deny your son?"

"I, uh, but what about, I don't know… aren't some books evil?"

"That can only be found in the minds of people. The book is blameless. You read of crimes, don't you, in the newspapers? Does that make you want to commit fraud or murder?”

"No. Of course not!"

"Then how would reading about a young boy wizard who works with his friends to defeat evil harm your child?"

"Wait. What? That's what this Harry Potter stuff is about? Teamwork overcoming adversity?"

"Written in words a growing mind can understand, yes."

"And this?" I asked, holding out Alexandre Dumas's book.

"And more. It's always been here for those who know how to find it."

"I… I think I... No. I want more."

She placed the copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone on top of The Three Musketeers, turning back toward the counter.

"Let's get you a library card, shall we?"