She checked the shelves in the living room, the ones in her bedroom, even the ones in her parents’ room. She checked them twice. Nothing.
“Are you looking for something?” her mom asked. She sat in the middle of a sea of papers on the floor. Sometimes it seemed their house was being overtaken by paper.
“It’s a book,” Alice replied. “Dad used to read it to me. I think it was just called The Story Web.”
“Oh! I remember that. Somewhere I have a picture of the two of you reading it. It’s one of my favorite pictures. You’ve got pigtails in—back when you still had some curl in your hair. Dad’s got one of his beards. A scruffy one that you used to like to tug on. You’d had a Popsicle that day, and the whole front of your shirt is stained red. But it’s the look on your face . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she smiled. Alice’s dad called that soft look the smile that launched a thousand ships.
“But have you seen it?” Alice asked.
“Not recently,” her mom said. “You know your dad was bringing a lot of his stuff to the Museum. He saw that documentary on how we all have too much stuff.”
“It’s not there,” Alice said.
“Did you ask Henrietta? I got the feeling she was holding on to some of those things for when he realized he likes having a lot of stuff around.”
Alice nodded, although she hadn’t actually asked.
“I wish we still had a library in town,” her mom said. “I guess you can check in school tomorrow. If not, I can drive you up to the college over the weekend.” She smiled. “Although, if your dad is to be believed, there were only a hundred copies ever printed.”
Alice remembered the little number 47 stamped into the back side of the front cover. A hundred was a lot of copies, though. Surely she would be able to find one of them. Her mom was right. Alice needed to go to the library. Even if the library didn’t have the book, Ms. Engle would probably know about the Story Web. She knew about everything.
“What are you doing, anyway?” Alice asked.
“Getting organized,” she said. The papers around her were bills and pay stubs and some of her father’s military papers. There were stacks with Alice’s school reports and forms that Mrs. Zee had sent home.
“Whoa,” Alice said.
“Yeah, whoa is right. I’m a little behind on my filing.”
Her mom sighed and pushed her bangs out of her face. “I feel like I just did this, but these bills go back a year. I guess what I really need to do is shred them. I wonder if they’re going to have one of those shred days at the bank.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Past couple of hours. I was streaming that show where the inventors pitch their ideas, but then I just got depressed that I didn’t have a great idea to make us millionaires.”
“I’m sure you have lots of good ideas, Mom.”
Her mom stopped and looked at Alice. “You’re the best idea I’ve ever had.” She smiled, and it was almost a real smile.
4
The next day, when everyone else traipsed into the cafeteria, she went to see Ms. Engle. Alice found the librarian perched on a high stool eating soup out of a thermos. She put her thermos on the counter and spun around on her stool. Before Alice could ask about the book, Ms. Engle said, “Are you here to help? Come on back here with me,” she said. “Help yourself to a cookie.” She pointed at a bag of chocolate chip cookies. “I need these books stamped so we can put them into circulation. Now, remember this stamp is a little tricky.”
Alice nodded. She had stamped books before. Sometimes Alice wondered if Ms. Engle kept little odd jobs so the kids who didn’t feel like going to lunch or recess could hide out in the library and feel like they had a purpose.
Alice picked up the stamp and pressed it into the inside cover of a book about sharks. As she reached for the second book, Ms. Engle held a new picture book up for her to see. “This is the most gorgeous book I’ve ever read,” she said. “It made me all misty.”
“Every book makes you misty,” Alice said.
“Fair enough,” Ms. Engle agreed. “I do love a good book and a cry.”
Alice stamped another book and said, trying to sound casual, “Have you ever heard of a book called The Story Web?”
“I have,” she said slowly. “But I’m surprised you have.”
“My dad used to read it to me, and I—Well, I was just thinking about it and about that Story Web. I remember a lot of the stories but not so much about the web itself.” She paused. “Could you, I mean—What do you know about it?”
“Only all about it,” Ms. Engle said. She handed Alice a cookie. “When I was in library school, I took a storytelling class. We had to do a big presentation, and I was tying myself up in knots trying to figure out which story to tell. My professor told me that some storytellers start each session by telling a story about stories. Where they came from, who tells them, all that stuff. She brought me to her office and gave me this ancient book called, can you guess?”
“The Story Web?”
“The Story Web,” Ms. Engle confirmed. “Are you going to eat that cookie or what?”
Alice took a bite. “So you’ll tell me about it? About the Story Web?”
Ms. Engle smiled. She leaned back against the workroom counter. “Of course I will.” She cleared her throat. Ms. Engle had the best voice for telling stories, second only to Alice’s father. She began:
“A long time ago, when the world was new, or mostly new, there was no distinction among the humans, the land animals, the insects, and the sea creatures. Spiders and humans were especially close. Nearly every home had a web in it and a spider to live cozily inside. The humans brought the spiders food, and the spiders spun out the silk that the people needed. Silk for clothing, for bedding, for rope—all of it the spiders provided. Have you ever heard that you’ll have seven years’ bad luck if you kill a spider?”
Alice nodded.
“Well, it’s based in truth. You kill a spider and you lose miles of silk and rope—enough to set you back seven years. Anyway, the world grew larger and the people grew farther and farther apart. Continents shifted, and we were not so close anymore. Wars began, and fear, and cries in the dark. The spiders wanted to bring the people back together with the animals—and with one another—and so they created the web. The web cuts through the earth but is also around it like a blanket—one we can’t see but can certainly feel. It sounds impossible, but it is as it is. Most of the time it is invisible, but sometimes it shows itself. No one knows why it picks the places to show itself, but in forests and deserts and jungles and prairies all over the world there are glimpses of the web. One of those places is right here in Independence. Personally, I’ve always believed there’s a little bit of magic in this town, lots of good stories to be told. I can’t prove it, but I felt it the first day I set foot here. It feels like a storybook place.”
Alice wasn’t sure what Ms. Engle meant by that but felt her father was somehow tied up in it. Whether the magic came from his stories or whether the town somehow fed his magic, Alice couldn’t say.
“No one knows for sure when the web started or who the original weavers were. The silk is strong and pure and has lasted for centuries. There are stories from every culture woven through. Those places where the strands intersect, those are the stories we share. Like the stories of the Great Flood. Or the world-beginning stories. These stories are the strands that move outward and hold it all together.
“What we do know is that the spiders couldn’t do it alone, and so they recruited Story Weavers, people whose stories could bind the world. You know some of their names. Homer, of course, and Virgil. Some you don’t know. Women mostly. Seems women are the ones who get cut out of stories—or in trouble for weaving them like poor Arachne, dear child. Of course Athena was quite the tale spinner as well. Sappho, I quite like her. Anyway, there are countless nameless Story Weavers who’ve done their parts over time. The griots of West Africa sang their tales while playin
g their story gourds. Buddhist monks used the stories to hold their messages and faith. Poets telling tales of heroism in mead halls in Anglo-Saxon times. All of them are Story Weavers. Your dad was one of those.”
Is, Alice thought, but she didn’t correct Ms. Engle.
“Later the authors added their tales, those that were written down and spread around the world. Those are powerful strands of the web. Authors are a special type of Story Weaver.
“Others of us are Storytellers. We don’t create the stories, but we tell them over and over. We watch over the webs and keep the stories alive. All of us work together: the Story Weavers, the Storytellers, the spiders. We keep the web intact. We keep the earth as one. At least, that’s how the story goes.”
As Ms. Engle completed her recounting, Alice remembered walking back from the Story Web with her father and what he’d told her: “You’re very lucky to be able to see a Story Web. Not everyone can. Even fewer can see a single thread, but you followed it right from the house.”
Her father was always telling her how special she was. How magical. What if those hadn’t been just stories? What if it really was up to her?
“Oh dear.” Ms. Engle’s voice cut through Alice’s thoughts. “I’m the crier, not you.” She handed Alice a tissue.
Alice shook her head. “That’s kind of what my dad told me,” she said.
“Buzz knows all the best stories.” Ms. Engle handed Alice another tissue. “I’m sorry, Alice. I truly am.”
Alice snuffled into the tissue, glad that none of her friends was there to see her wet eyes and runny nose.
Ms. Engle said, “Your dad knew how important stories are. How magical.”
“Magical?” Alice asked.
“Oh yes!” She took a deep breath. “You know, sometimes when I’m reading to kids, they get so quiet and lean in toward me. I’ve caught them, and it’s like I’m wrapping them up in the story with me. I don’t know any better magic than that.”
Alice nodded. Her nose had stopped running, but she still reached for another tissue to blow it one more time.
Ms. Engle went on: “I like to think of the stories as real, living things. When I read the story it flutters out, and each kid—each of you—takes the story and carries it with you.”
“Does that only work with books?” Alice asked, thinking of the stories her dad told her.
Ms. Engle thought about the question for a moment. “I think books are one way to hold stories—one of many. But stories are slippery things, Alice. The ones I share, those are ones I hope will help you in some way. But other stories aren’t. And once they’re out, they get all over the place like sticky, dirty goo.”
Alice looked at Ms. Engle for a moment. It seemed the librarian was trying to tell her something, to talk about something without actually talking about it. Alice wasn’t sure what she meant. They just looked at each other a little longer, and then Ms. Engle stood up. “I’m going to look for that book for you,” she said. “When I find it, I’ll bring it straight down. Until then, chin up, young person. You don’t have to carry the world, you know.”
Alice, for once, wasn’t sure if that was true. Maybe she was the hero of this story. If that was the case, she had work to do.
When they were supposed to be doing research about heroes, Alice instead typed the words “The Story Web” into her laptop’s browser. All she found were a bunch of educational websites. She added the word “book” to her search and thought it was more of the same, but as she scrolled to the very bottom of the results, she found a website called simply Rare Books Found.
At the top of the page for The Story Web was a picture of the book, blue as she remembered it. The title was in gold, and there was a golden web that stretched over the whole book. No author was given. The description read:
A most curious book. Only a hundred copies of this story were ever printed. There is no author or editor given. The publisher is listed as Pallas Athene Productions, but there is no record of this publisher ever having existed. Attempts to determine where the books were printed and sold have also proven fruitless. In short, this book seems to have appeared out of nowhere. The book has gained something of a cult following for its unusual grouping of stories and watercolor paintings. Though none of the illustrations is signed, art historians have made connections to some famous illustrators of the day. A second strand of collectors are doomsdayers who have latched on to the book’s prologue, which predicts a frosty end to the earth itself. This event is known as the Freezing, and there are those who believe the book’s description is an accurate prediction of the end of the world.
Most copies found are well loved and in poor shape. A high-quality first (and only) edition might fetch tens of thousands of dollars.
Tens of thousands of dollars? Maybe her father had sold it. Times were tough, after all, and he had all the stories in his head.
Alice checked the clock. Just five minutes to recess.
She scrolled down. The site gave a table of contents for the book. Alice recognized most of the stories listed, but she realized her father had left some of the stories out. The Steadfast Tin Soldier, for example, she had never heard, which seemed strange, since it was about a soldier.
She scrolled some more and found listings for auctions of the title. There were only three, and the cheapest one was four thousand dollars. There was no way she was going to be able to buy one. She had to find her father’s copy.
Mrs. Zee started the clean-up music, and Alice logged out of her computer and put it back on the cart. As she headed for her cubby, Mrs. Zee stopped Alice and asked her to come sit at her teacher table. The rest of the class filed out for Music.
“How are you, Alice?” Mrs. Zee asked.
“Fine.”
“I’ve been meaning to check in with you more. I know this has been a tough start to the year for you.” Alice squirmed in her seat, but she didn’t say anything. Mrs. Zee tried a different tack. “I heard you ran into a moose.”
“Yes. Melanie, Lewis, and I did. It wasn’t really a big deal.”
Mrs. Zee tutted her tongue. “I will tell you this: moose in Independence are nothing new.”
Alice nodded. “My uncle told me a story about how this moose came and played hockey with him and my dad.”
“I remember,” Mrs. Zee said.
“You do?”
“My kid brother was playing. With your dad.”
Alice shifted in her seat. “You’re Dale Zelonis’s big sister?”
Mrs. Zee nodded. “Truth be told, I brought my skates that day. Boys didn’t think as much about asking girls to play back then. I don’t think it even occurred to them. I’m glad your dad and Donny have seen the light on that one.”
“So you saw the moose?” Alice asked.
“It was the strangest thing,” Mrs. Zee said. Her cheeks were pink, and she looked past Alice toward the doorway, like she was ready to run right back to the ice. “The moose brought the puck back and dropped it. He tried to nudge it toward the boys, but then his hoof went through the ice. He got stuck.”
“Wait, what?” Alice asked. This was not how Donny had told the story.
“Your dad and Donny skated over to him, slow as can be. Your dad was talking the whole time. Like, Hey, moose, what’s happening? Are you stuck there? We’re just gonna help you right out. He squatted, and he and Donny started chipping away at the ice until the moose could get free. The moose looked at them, lowered his antlers as if he was bowing, then ran off back into the woods.”
“He didn’t actually play hockey with them?” Alice asked.
“No. Maybe he was trying, but moose and ice aren’t the best match.”
Alice worked over this in her mind. Her uncle had lied to her? But was it a lie, exactly?
Mrs. Zee’s face and her tone changed. “Alice,” she said. Alice’s name hung like a weight in the air, a balloon in the split second after it popped. “I know you don’t like to talk about your father. About his situation.”
But she had seen what he had packed. She saw the rifle he had to carry. You only carry a rifle if you think you might need to use it.
He was gone for seven months.
Then he came back, and it was like he had never left. He coached her hockey team. He made waffles on Saturdays and sat in his special chair with Jewel in his lap.
Maybe there were some differences. Small ones. Like how he jumped when a car door slammed or when Alice dropped a pot in the kitchen. Or the way he got locked in his head sometimes and Alice’s mom had to put her hand on his chest and say his name over and over to get him to come out. Or the nightmares.
She remembered the time he said, “I’m just so very angry almost all the time. Angry and sad and on the edge of losing control.” He said this to Alice’s mother as they sat on their bed. Alice watched through the crack in the doorway. Her mom pulled him close, and he put his head in her lap. She stroked his hair, which had grown back as full as ever.
Alice never saw that anger. He kept it locked away. His sadness, too. It was his fear that showed up from time to time. That lack of control.
“I was in your father’s class. I used to tutor him in algebra. I think that’s when I first thought about being a teacher. He was so kind about it, you know? He made me feel like I was really valuable, really helping him.”
“You probably were,” Alice mumbled.
“He was very popular, your father. I was not especially.”
Alice herself had been popular once. Now she was nothing.
“I concentrated on school and activities. I was editor of the yearbook.” She shook her head. “Anyway, I didn’t really feel like I missed out on anything.”
The Story Web Page 13
