by Eve Paludan
He shuddered. “Tammy Moon, just what are you getting me into?”
“I don’t know yet, but somewhere in here, there has to be an old Beowulf book, I mean, not the one we already read for class—”
“—I got to see the movie,” Nick said.
“Yeah? Well, trust me, the book is always better.”
“Always?”
“You should try it sometime.” As I bellied up to the help desk, I didn’t see anyone there. “Ahoy, Mr. Maximus? Are you here?” I called out.
No one answered or showed himself.
I looked at Nick and shrugged. “Huh, he’s not here. That’s weird. The guy practically lives here. In fact, he might actually live here, for all I know.”
“So, what do we do? Just look around on our own?” Nick asked.
“What else can we do but snoop?” I headed for a computer. The monitor’s screensaver displayed: The computer network is undergoing routine maintenance. Please use the card catalog.
Nick pointed to an ancient card catalog in the corner. “I’ve only seen those in the movies.”
I laughed. “Remember the card catalog scene in Ghostbusters?”
Nick guffawed. “That was my exact thought.”
“How hard can it be? Let’s dig in,” I said.
Nick pulled out a “B” drawer. “Hey, it’s not in here.”
“It has to be,” I said. “It’s a primitive filing system, not the Rosetta Stone.”
“Nope. No Beowulf here.”
“How are you spelling it?” I knew he wasn’t a great speller.
“B-A-Y-W-O-L-F.”
“It’s spelled B-E-O-W-U-L-F.” I pushed in that card catalogue drawer and pulled out the appropriate one.
Nick said, “No wonder I’m in the movie class and you’re in the book class.”
I smiled at my friend. “It’s fine, Nick. You’ll get it correct now.”
He sighed. “I feel so dumb, though. I’m supposed to be writing a report on the dude, and I can’t even spell his name.”
“Don’t sweat it. If you were using phonics to try to spell it, there’s no way you could have gotten the spelling right.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that. All I do know is, I need to pass my literature class and get off the football bench before the scouts come to our next home game.”
“You’ll do great if I have anything to say about it.” I paused. “You’re going to get at least a B on your Beowulf project. Or my name’s not Tammy Moon.” I paused. “So, what sort of assignment is it again?”
“It can be a movie review, a poem, or a written report. One of those. A ‘B’ would be excellent.”
“I wish I had your teacher,” I said. “My teacher has a doctorate degree. And I have to write a ten-page term paper for literature honors class. With footnotes and a bibliography.”
“Ugh,” Nick said. “I hate that kind of stuff. It’s so fussy about where all the commas go and what goes in italics, not to mention the references list at the end. And footnotes. Don’t even get me started on how hard those are. I don’t even understand how to add them.”
“I can show you how in Microsoft Word. It’s like three clicks. Once you know the trick, it’s pretty simple.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he said.
“You should learn how to write proper term papers with all the bells and whistles. You’ll have to do it in college. A lot. There’s no way to go to college and not write them.”
“I know and I’m dreading that. But I want to play football for Cal State, so I guess I better step up my game in school.”
“You will. Baby steps, my friend. Baby steps.” I found Beowulf in the card catalog and there were several cards for it. I looked for the oldest version of the story. “Hey, Nick? There’s an actual super-old manuscript in a special collection in this library. It’s a handmade book of some sort, probably from medieval times, and it is in a climate-controlled glass case.”
“You’re kidding. That sounds completely awesome.”
“Very awesome. It’s not in English, of course, but according to the card catalog, it’s being translated and is annotated in a virtual 3D viewer inside a glass case.”
“Really? Wow. Where’s the glass case?”
I glanced at the card. “In the lab.”
At exactly the same time, we both looked at a door behind the help desk that was marked ‘Private.’”
I closed the card catalog drawer with a snap and made my way toward the forbidden zone.
“We probably shouldn’t go in there,” Nick said, concern lowering his voice an octave.
“Nick, you can be the voice of reason all you want. I’ll take point.” I brushed boldly past him behind the help desk and walked right through the ‘Private’ door.
I held open the door for him. “Come on, trusty sidekick.”
After Nick followed me, it was a full minute before we spoke again as we found ourselves in an unexpectedly huge lab that was maze-like—a lab filled with bubbling tubes and strange smells. A rock tumbler was spinning noisily and there were whirling centrifuges all over the place. It was a wonderland of intriguing experiments and/or inventions in progress.
He said, “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s like Harry Potter meets Dexter’s Laboratory.”
“The cartoon?” I said, laughing.
“Yes.” He blushed and changed the subject. “Hey, so what is this place anyway?” Nick asked, his eyes drinking it all in as we looked around at all the weird stuff.
I waved my arm like a spokesmodel. “It’s the first time I’ve seen it, too. Welcome to the inner sanctum created by the mysterious and brilliant Archibald Maximus.”
“It looks like the lair of a modern-day wizard,” Nick observed. “Or an insane genius. Or both.”
“You’re probably not far off with that observation.” I pointed to a door of a glassed-in cubicle with a sign that I read aloud: “Climate-controlled room. Keep door closed.” I snapped my fingers. “Bingo!”
“Maximus probably keeps it locked.”
I turned the knob and it clicked. “Nope. Come on in,” I said. “And shut the door behind you.”
He did, and the door shut with a whoosh sound, like a vacuum was sucking it shut.
In the frigid little glass room, Nick and I stood over a glass case upon which rested a single pair of white gloves. An illuminated manuscript, one like medieval monks used to letter and illustrate, rested inside the lighted glass case that felt super cold when we got near it. There was a sign on a tank hooked up to the glass case: Nitrogen in use. Do not touch glass.
“It’s probably like dry ice so don’t touch the glass with your bare hands,” I said, putting on the white gloves that had been left there. “Your fingers might freeze to it. Or we might break something if we touched something hot to the cold glass.”
We peered down through the glass.
“Whoa,” he said. “Someone made this. It’s like art with all the scroll designs on the sides and bottoms of the page. And illustrations.”
“It’s called an illuminated manuscript. I can tell someone hand-lettered this whole thing. It’s not like a printing press made it.”
“I agree,” Nick said. “So, it’s not in English, but what language is it?”
“Probably some sort of Scandinavian language.”
“How do you know all this stuff?” Nick asked.
“I read Beowulf. Or at least a few versions of it, all in English. The story originated, as far as we know, in southern Sweden or Denmark or thereabouts.” I looked at him. “How do you learn stuff?”
“You mean because I don’t read much?” he asked.
I nodded, embarrassed for him.
“I experience it live and in person. My guidance counselor gave me a test and said I’m a visual learner.”
“Good to know. Did she sign you up for some classes that address your unique learning style?”
“Not yet. There’s nothing that’s free.” He squirmed unc
omfortably. “I gotta tell you something, Tammy, especially since you’re my English tutor.”
“What?”
“I… I have a reading disability.”
I blew though my lips because I could see it was killing him to admit it. I said gently, “I know that, Nick.”
“You do?”
“I’ve known it since I helped you with your first assignment.”
“And you still wanted to be friends?”
“Of course. People are good at different things. For example, don’t ask me to figure out what a first down is in football because I have no clue. And look at how you’re restoring your dad’s old Mustang. It takes a high level of intelligence to fix machines. I know you’re smart. Reading is just a challenge for you as a visual learner.” I paused. “We’ve all got our demons, so to speak. As you know, mine just happens to be chemistry.”
Nick smiled. “Thanks, Tammy. You’ve been nothing but gracious and understanding when I ask for your help with my English assignments.”
I added, “The only thing I ask of you when I am helping you with assignments is that you try. Not understanding a concept is one thing. Not even trying to understand it is another. If you didn’t want to learn, I wouldn’t be your tutor.”
“You’re pretty smart, too,” he said. “Kind of like a teacher.”
I smiled. “I’m not as much smart as I am just a good reader and a careful observer of human behavior.”
“Because you can read minds?” he asked.
I nodded. “Especially because of that. And because I am a huge, huge bookaholic.” I pointed at the Beowulf manuscript with my gloved hands. “Let’s see what’s in this manuscript that we don’t already know about the ancient story, so we can get some ideas for our assignments.”
“Okay.”
I saw an on-off switch and pressed it with my gloved hand. A lighted hologram of Archibald Maximus came up, kinda like that thing in the first Star Wars movie where Princess Leia said, ‘You’re my only hope.’
“Wow! Is that cool or what?” I said.
“Oh, yeah, it’s a 3D animated projection.”
“That guy’s Archibald Maximus, but he’s wearing a Renaissance costume,” I said.
“Really? That’s what he looks like? With those bright-green eyes?”
“Yep. I’m amused that he dressed up to narrate this. That is a man with a lot of time on his hands.”
“He’s probably a perfectionist, too. Wants things to look historically accurate.”
“I’m sure he’s a stickler for authenticity,” I agreed.
The pages were now lighted up, and I figured out that I could use my gloved fingers to swipe a touchpad right to go to the next page and swipe left to go back. I swiped left a bunch of pages for the touchpad and went back to the beginning of the manuscript. All the way back there was a start arrow lit up on the glass. I pressed it gently.
Max’s hologram face said, “Hail, countrymen of Denmark. I bring you the true story of my conquests. It is the fiftieth year of peace and the third year of the famine in our land. To feed the peasants, lest we have no more workers, I have been using the treasure to buy food from neighboring lands. What we could not buy, we seized, until they, too, began to succumb to hunger. We are all gaunt here—the treasure I wrested from a dragon stripling that half-century ago is not enough to sustain us. It must not have been within his power, because he has not come for it. At the same time, I also took the Cup of Forgiveness. On the counsel of my necromancers, I have not yet drunk mead from it. They advise me that if I am not worthy, it will kill me, and if I am worthy, that I will regret what is wrought. My name is King Beowulf and this is my story…”
“Dang,” Nick said as I swiped right to advance the page.
I paused. “Notice anything?”
“Yeah, the movie is nothing like the book.”
“I’m guessing this book is way more different than anything we’ve read so far on the topic of Beowulf. It seems to be a first-person story and not a retelling by a bard, which is pretty unusual for the times.”
“When was this?” Nick asked.
“I’m guessing, sixth century was the original history of when it happened, but the story was retold over and over. We really don’t know if Beowulf wrote this journal, but what if he did?” I speculated.
“It’s interesting. Keep going, Tammy,” Nick said.
So, I did.
The 3D hologram of Archibald Maximus read the first-person story to us in English about a dragon clan that became furious when their treasure of precious metals and gems was stolen. Beowulf also took a Cup that had special meaning to the early church and he wanted to gain the political allies, so this was a prize beyond belief. Beowulf hid the treasure in the deep blue sea in a place where only he and his most loyal thane knew the exact location.
The young dragon, nicknamed Thorn by the villagers because of his head crest of spiny quills, accompanied by his parents and grandparents, retaliated and ravaged the villages by burning them with fire and strayed to the far reaches of the country almost every night, until the young dragon’s elders were murdered by mercenary dragon slayers and he was left alone in the world.
I paused the hologram viewer. “His name is Thorn!” Joy surged in me.
“Whatever. Keep going,” Nick said, not knowing I had met Thorn in a dream.
The young dragon, Thorn, driven by grief and rage, burned Beowulf’s fine house in the country, forcing him to take refuge in a stone castle which he disliked, not just because of its damp chill, but also because the king he had seized it from had left loyal subjects who were much put out that Beowulf had usurped the throne after the death of their beloved monarch. After Beowulf killed the ones who opposed him taking the throne, Beowulf felt like spies were everywhere and swore that he would hunt down the dragon after dark and take his quill, thereby reaping the power from it like a magic wand…
I gasped and pressed the pause button on the holographic projection. The dragon’s quill could be used like a wand?
“What? What is it, Tammy? What’s wrong?”
“The dragon’s quill. I have it.”
“You have it? But how?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“I’ll do you one better. I’ll just show you.” I took off my backpack and took Thorn’s quill from it, unwrapping it from my scarf. Instead of being still and stiff in my hand, or prickly, it was soft, warm and pliable. I waved it in the air, experimentally, just a few times, and light traced from it in arcs that made a popping sound.
“How did you do that?” Nick asked.
“I don’t know how it works. First time I’ve waved it around.”
“Then, should you be waving it around?” He made a move to take it from me and I accidentally bopped the glass with it and a small crack appeared. And spread until it was a long crack and a cold steam wafted up.
Now, Nick gasped. “The nitrogen is escaping! The book’s going to be ruined by the regular air.”
“You don’t know that,” I said.
“Why do you think Maximus put it in there? Listen!” Nick said.
We stopped talking and there was a definite hiss in the room.
“The nitrogen is leaking out. Look what you made me do by fooling around in here!” I said.
“Me? I was just trying to stop you from throwing magic around randomly. You don’t even know what you’re doing. And aren’t magic spells supposed to rhyme?” Nick said.
I opened my eyes and peeked at him. “I don’t know. I’m not a witch. You think it should rhyme?”
“Yeah, Beowulf is a poem and every one of the magic spells in Shakespeare are a poem, too.”
“Well, I know the whole ‘double, double toil and trouble,’ lines, but that has nothing to do with this situation.”
The glass began to crack and fall away into big shards and smash on the lab floor.
I cried out in dismay.
“Hurry,
Tammy. If you know someone in the book, he could die if the book gets destroyed. If that’s a wand, use it right!”
“I’ll try.” My voice squeaked as I ad-libbed a magic spell, closed my eyes and held the quill-cum-wand to my heart. “Hark!” I called out, visualizing his dragon face and body as it had appeared to me in the dream. “Before this glass is sand and before this book is dust, dragon, burst from this book. Please, hurry, you really must!”
The floor vibrated a little and the occult books rustled on the shelves.
Nick said, “That rhyme was so lame. Even to me.”
“Stop judging me! I’m not used to writing a poem without paper.”
He said, “Try again before the book crumbles.”
More glass fell from the bottom of the case and smashed on the floor.
I felt like I was going to cry and was at a loss for words.
He urged me on. “No time for pen and paper. As more of the nitrogen leaks out, the room is getting super cold and the book is getting exposed to warm air. Hurry, Tammy. Hurry! Your friend could die.”
Under this kind of pressure, tears welled up in my eyes as I squeezed the wand until my hand bled and made up a spell on the fly. It poured out of me in a voice that was not quite my own, and yet, was: “Where dreams meet flesh and hearts meet bone, hark my cries that rise from wishes sown: Prison of glass, before you shatter, change Thorn from this story’s page into living matter.”
“Dang, that was pretty good, Tam!”
“But nothing happened,” I said, more than disappointed. I was all choked up. Drops of blood fell on the cracked glass from my hand that gripped the prickly hot quill/wand. I held my breath for a moment, watching the dark-red droplets drip down through the cracks and onto the book pages.
Suddenly, it seemed like the floor was moving under our feet.
Nick shouted it first: “Earthquake!”
“Oh, no!” I said and tried to keep my balance, to no avail. I got tipped over on my butt and all sorts of experiments in the lab crashed to the floor, as well as the glass case containing the very, very old Beowulf book.
The iridescent glass case smashed on the floor with a crash and a tinkle. I screamed as a large sheet of broken glass flew through the air sideways and probably would have beheaded me if Nick hadn’t rolled me out of the way, through all of the shards of glass. He lay on top of me, protecting me from falling glass.
