Finding Serendipity

by Angelica Banks

  Denis nodded. ‘I think that might be best.’

  ‘If I go quickly, maybe I can catch her before she gets to the Library. Once the Librarian gets hold of her, well … then it’ll be too late for her to back out. She’ll have to go all the way to The End,’ said Serendipity, starting for the door.

  ‘All right,’ said Denis, following her.

  ‘I can’t believe you let her go,’ Serendipity said as they quickly climbed the stairs. ‘Was there nothing you could do?’

  ‘No,’ said Denis. ‘She was in the air by the time I got there. Before I’d even crossed the room she was out the window. Baxterr was in her arms, and she looked so entirely happy. They both did.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,’ said Serendipity. ‘The first time can be very tricky, you know. Anything could happen.’

  ‘She’s a clever girl,’ said Denis. ‘She’ll work it out.’

  ‘I should have been back!’ Serendipity said, her brow furrowed, her tone growing more anxious by the moment. ‘But I felt such an urgency to finish the book. I’d never experienced anything like it. I had this enormous surge of determination that I must finish today. I never imagined …’ Back in her writing room, Serendipity flung open the window and called hopefully, ‘Tuesday! Tuesday!’

  The empty sky made no reply, although an early morning jet passed high overhead with its wing lights blinking.

  Chapter Five

  ‘This is it,’ said Blake Luckhurst, peeling his hand away from Tuesday’s.

  They were still surrounded by the mist that had been with them since they had left the hillside of The Beginning. Tuesday didn’t think they’d been walking for very long, but it had been long enough for her hand to become sweaty holding onto Blake’s. She wiped it discreetly on her jacket.

  ‘The Library,’ Blake announced, pointing.

  As Tuesday watched, the mist rolled back to reveal two carved lions crouching on stone plinths. Tuesday followed Blake along the path and up wide stone stairs. She could hear a fountain trickling, but she couldn’t see it. At the top of the stairs was an enormous building. At the entrance were polished wooden doors, and etched in enormous letters into the stone above these doors was a single word – Imagine.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Blake Luckhurst as he saw Tuesday taking in the word. ‘As if anyone forgets that.’

  He pushed open the doors to reveal a vast marble foyer with huge columns, wide corridors and many doorways. Standing just inside, waiting for them to enter, was an ancient woman. She was so short that she was smaller than Tuesday, and so old that her face was as lined as a walnut. Despite her age, she was sprightly and graceful. She wore a long lilac gown, and a short velvet jacket in the same shade, as if she were dressed for an evening at the opera. The lilac clothes enhanced the colour of her eyes, which were a deep, shining violet.

  ‘Blake Luckhurst,’ she said imperiously.

  Although she was looking up at Blake when she said this, she managed to convey the impression that she was actually looking down on him. Tuesday glanced sidewards at Blake who, to her surprise, was blushing and fidgeting nervously.

  ‘Back so soon?’ the woman said. ‘I wouldn’t want to think these stories of yours were hastily done. Hmmmm?’

  ‘Ummm,’ said Blake.

  ‘We shall see. And you’ve brought me a new recruit,’ the woman said, turning her intense gaze on Tuesday.

  ‘This is Tuesday McGillycuddy, Madame Librarian,’ Blake said in a surprisingly polite voice.

  Tuesday blinked. He knew her name perfectly well, after all. ‘She’s writing a rescue book,’ Blake continued a little uncomfortably, ‘about a lost mother – and as she herself was lost, I thought it best to bring her to you.’

  Tuesday stared at Blake. Were all boys his age like that, constantly changing their behaviour? But she had no more time to think about it because the Librarian, her face alive with delight, was saying, ‘Well, welcome, Tuesday McGillycuddy, to the Library. It is my great pleasure to meet you.’

  She offered her tiny hand to Tuesday and gave Baxterr a brisk pat on the head. Tuesday observed the Librarian carefully, noticing how her white hair sat short and tight on her head like a luminous swimming cap. From her earlobes dangled two enormous, shimmering pearls that wobbled as she spoke.

  ‘Now, Blake, go and get yourself some breakfast while Tuesday and I take a tour around the shelves,’ she said commandingly.

  ‘Nah, I’m good,’ Blake said. ‘Deadline.’

  ‘That’s no excuse for going without breakfast, Blake Luckhurst. I won’t hear of it. Off you go. Now!’ she said, firmly indicating a door on the far side of the foyer.

  ‘Okay, sure, Madame Librarian,’ said Blake, obediently loping away.

  Tuesday couldn’t help but smile to see Blake being bossed about.

  ‘Well, then,’ said the Librarian, clasping her hands together and turning again to Tuesday. ‘Shall we?’

  As the Librarian led Tuesday towards grand double doors on the right side of the foyer, Tuesday looked back at the disappearing Blake.

  ‘Thank you, Blake,’ Tuesday called to him.

  Blake raised his hand lazily in farewell without turning.

  Tuesday felt a small sting of sadness and wondered if she would see him again.

  ‘It was very nice of him to bring me here,’ said Tuesday.

  ‘Oh yes, Blake can be such a sweet boy,’ said the Librarian. ‘But let’s talk about you, dear Tuesday.’

  The double doors swung open to reveal the biggest room Tuesday had ever seen. It wasn’t just big, this room, like an art gallery or a museum. This room was as vast as a sports stadium. If she tipped her head right back, Tuesday could just make out ornate patterns and paintings on the ceiling far above her. Hanging down on long golden cords were lamps with green shades illuminating rows and rows and rows of bookshelves that were spaced across the floor. And every shelf, reaching from the floor to the enormously high ceiling, was filled with books.

  ‘Oh!’ gasped Tuesday, feeling very small.

  ‘In this room,’ said the Librarian, waving her hands like a conductor commanding an orchestra, ‘is every story ever written. Your own will grace these shelves one day.’

  ‘But I’m not writing a …’ Tuesday began.

  ‘Hush,’ the Librarian interrupted, turning a fierce frown upon Tuesday. Then, just as quickly as her frown had appeared, it disappeared, replaced by a cheerful smile. ‘Stories, stories and more stories. The whole rich world of human imagination in every language, for all time – it’s all here. I shall take you on a tour!’

  The Librarian’s hands flew all about and her pearl earrings shimmered.

  ‘I think we might begin over here, today. At the end of the alphabet, just for something a little different,’ she said, pointing to a row on the far side of the Library. Beyond the windows, Tuesday could see that the mist had not cleared. There was nothing but endless whiteness. The Librarian clicked her fingers and a small platform with a railing rolled towards them. The Librarian stepped onto the platform.

  ‘On!’ she instructed briskly, and both Tuesday and Baxterr obeyed, stepping up beside her.

  Then, to Tuesday, the Librarian said: ‘Hold tight.’ And to Baxterr, she said: ‘Sit.’

  As the platform rose from the floor without help from anything that Tuesday could see, the Librarian patted Tuesday’s hand.

  ‘Rrrrr,’ said Baxterr, in a surprised fashion as the platform lurched slightly under his paws.

  Tuesday gripped the platform’s railing tightly, and wedged Baxterr’s body between her feet to keep him safe. When they were quite a way up, the Librarian smiled.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she asked, her violet eyes twinkling.

  Tuesday nodded uncertainly. The platform slipped sideways and Tuesday grasped the railing with all the strength she could muster and clamped her legs tighter against Baxterr. The Librarian giggled and Tuesday, half in terror and half in excitement, giggled too. Baxterr joined in with a deligh
ted ruff. They whizzed past shelves full of books, diving up and down as if the platform were a dolphin leaping gently over waves as an ocean of books rolled by.

  ‘Oh, I do love books, don’t you?’ the Librarian asked, rather breathlessly, reaching out to caress the multitudinous volumes as they passed.

  Tuesday caught sight of authors’ names beginning with Z’s and Y’s and even X’s. At the far end of the room, they rounded the corner of the shelves and started back the way they had come, the names beginning with W’s, V’s and U’s. Rounding another corner, they were into the T’s and, at length, the S’s. Tuesday was feeling giddy.

  ‘I suppose you have a lot of Smiths,’ Tuesday said.

  ‘Hmmm, what’s that, dear?’

  The platform slowed to a crawl so that the Librarian could lean close to Tuesday.

  ‘Smiths. You must have a lot of Smiths,’ Tuesday repeated.

  ‘Yes! Smiths! Some people say Smith is a common name, but of course that’s wrong – it’s a famous name!’ the Librarian cried.

  As she was speaking, Tuesday caught sight of a long stretch of books covered in blue fabric, each of them with the name Serendipity Smith embossed on the spine in gold letters. Tuesday felt comforted that here in the Library were each of the Vivienne Small books, as well as all the other books Tuesday’s mother had written before Tuesday was even born. She tried to look more closely, but the platform sped up again as if the Librarian had put her foot on an invisible accelerator.

  ‘Some people write just one book. Only one!’ said the Librarian, her hands flying up in wonder. ‘And some people write hundreds! Incredible!’

  Off they went again at speed, up and down the shelves, through the ranks of the R’s and Q’s and the P’s, the O’s and the N’s. Then, once again, the speeding platform slowed, and rose higher. At length Tuesday, the Librarian and Baxterr reached a shelf right up near the ceiling. Here, the platform came to a halt and hovered, though it rocked gently as it did so.

  ‘There,’ said the Librarian, gesturing proudly to a shelf full of books by people whose names began with Mc.

  ‘What am I looking at?’ asked a bewildered Tuesday.

  ‘This is where your book will go,’ the Librarian said. ‘I like to show every new recruit where they will be shelved – I find it spurs them on to great things!’

  ‘Ruff,’ said Baxterr, who was feeling safe enough to reach his front paws up onto the railing of the platform where he could sniff the books for himself.

  ‘You are going to do me proud, Tuesday McGillycuddy,’ the Librarian said.

  ‘No, no. This is a mistake,’ Tuesday said.

  The Librarian’s gaze grew frosty.

  ‘Oh?’ she said.

  ‘You see, I’m not a writer,’ Tuesday stammered. ‘My mother is a writer. I used her typewriter and, well, I don’t know how it worked, but it did.’

  ‘Not it,’ said the Librarian impatiently. ‘You. YOU! It’s not typewriters that write books. It’s writers.’

  ‘But that typewriter … I think it thought I was my mother.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘Well,’ said Tuesday, awkwardly. ‘She’s, well …’

  Tuesday bit her lip. It was the second time in one day that she had desperately wanted to blurt out the secret of her mother’s true identity. ‘Lost …’ she finished lamely.

  ‘Lost,’ said the Librarian, eyeing Tuesday keenly.

  ‘Yes,’ Tuesday continued almost in a whisper, averting her eyes from the Librarian’s piercing gaze. ‘I’ve come to find her but … I’m not a writer at all.’

  ‘I can assure you, Tuesday McGillycuddy,’ said the Librarian quietly, ‘that you can’t get here because of a typewriter. You came because you have a story inside you wanting to get out. What happened might appear to be magical, but the magic comes from nowhere but within you. It doesn’t matter whether you write on a fancy laptop or an old typewriter or, for that matter, with a pen on a paper napkin. All of that is beside the point. The point is that stories want to be told. Stories have a power of their own and they choose their writers carefully. But you can’t write a story until you’ve felt it. Breathed it in. Walked with your characters. Talked with them. That’s why you come here. To live your story.’

  Tuesday gulped, feeling horribly out of her depth.

  The Librarian looked at her more softly.

  ‘Only writers come here, Tuesday,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you how to write your story, or what it will be called. I know only that you have talent, and a story strong enough that it has brought you here. You’re here a little earlier than some, but you’re not the youngest who has come. Does that make you feel a little better?’

  ‘A little,’ said Tuesday.

  ‘Excellent,’ said the Librarian, taking a deep breath. ‘Now I must ask you for your thread.’

  ‘My … thread?’

  ‘Yes, Tuesday. The thread that brought you here.’

  Tuesday took her ball of silvery string out of her pocket. ‘What does the thread do?’ Tuesday asked as she looked at it again. She felt reluctant to let it go. ‘What is it for, exactly?’

  ‘It is what tells me, Tuesday dear, that you are a real writer. It is the means by which you arrive here, and that’s all you need to know for now. Let me keep it safe for you,’ the Librarian said, smiling.

  ‘Safe? Safe from what, or who?’ Tuesday asked, still keeping the thread firmly in her hand. Tuesday wasn’t sure why she felt as she did, but she didn’t want to give her thread to the Librarian.

  ‘I have not always needed to insist on these precautions, Tuesday. But now it seems to have become necessary,’ said the Librarian, holding out her hand. ‘The world is less certain. Or perhaps people are less certain. I can’t be sure.’

  Tuesday extended her hand, but still her fingers clung to the ball.

  ‘I’m not going to keep it forever,’ said the Librarian sweetly, but her gaze was steely. ‘Goodness, child. You may collect it again when your story is finished. I’m sure you will finish it, won’t you, Tuesday?’

  Baxterr let out a small growl, and Tuesday stroked his head to calm him. Reluctantly she released the ball of thread into the Librarian’s hand.

  ‘Oh, good girl. Very good,’ said the Librarian with obvious satisfaction, instantly slipping the ball away into the folds of her gown and offering Tuesday a dazzling smile as a reward for her compliance. ‘Now, let’s get you started, shall we?’

  Without waiting for an answer, the Librarian, set the platform in motion once again. Following a rather circuitous route, it zipped sideways, whizzed along rows and around banks of shelves, taking the corners fast so that Tuesday, Baxterr and the Librarian were squeezed together, and then flung apart.

  Tuesday glanced over the edge of the platform to the floor far below. She noticed that interspersed between the banks of shelves were rows of dark wooden desks. Each desk was topped with a small green-shaded desk lamp and matched with a comfortable chair covered in green leather. Sitting at some of the desks were people who appeared to be writing or quietly reading.

  ‘Those people down there, are they … writers?’ asked Tuesday.

  ‘Yes, dear,’ said the Librarian, dropping the platform a little lower, and slowing its pace so Tuesday could see more clearly.

  Could her mother be here, at the Library? Tuesday wondered. She craned her neck, peering along the rows of desks, but her mother was nowhere to be seen. There were several women, but two had grey hair, one was wearing an elaborate headscarf and one had a long auburn ponytail. Tuesday observed several men, too. One was wearing a colossal white cowboy hat. He looked very familiar to Tuesday, and she thought perhaps that she recognised him from one of the literary events she and Denis had attended while pretending to be fans of Serendipity.

  ‘Do you know,’ Tuesday began carefully, ‘if Serendipity Smith ever comes here? I mean, it’s just that, well, she’s my favourite writer. I expect she’s lots of people’s favourite writer …’
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br />   The Librarian’s face broke into a delighted smile.

  ‘Serendipity Smith? Yes, of course! She likes to sit at one of those desks just over there, by the window. Oh, how I long to read that new story of hers. I simply adore Vivienne Small. If I’m not mistaken, the fifth volume must be very, very close to finished.’

  Tuesday’s hopes soared.

  ‘So, she’s been here … lately? I don’t suppose she’s here right now, is she?’

  The Librarian’s delighted grin diminished to a half-smile. She turned away from Tuesday and the green-shaded lights above flickered and stalled, the way the lights did back in Brown Street when a thunderstorm was on its way. No sooner had Tuesday registered this slight disturbance than it stopped, and the lights regained their composure, glowing steadily once again. The Librarian turned her face back to Tuesday.

  ‘Your main concern, Tuesday McGillycuddy, is your own story, is it not?’

  Tuesday had the distinct impression that she’d once more said the wrong thing, but if she had, the Librarian gave no further sign of it as she brought the platform slowly and gracefully back to the Library floor.

  ‘Well, here we are then,’ said the Librarian cheerily, snapping her fingers to indicate to Baxterr and Tuesday that it was time to step down.

  ‘This way,’ she said, as she briskly led them out of the vast room. Tuesday blinked and looked back at the closed doors. It was hard to believe that such a vast room could actually exist, but she had no time to think about this because from the pocket of her lilac jacket, the Librarian had produced a large gold coin that she pressed into Tuesday’s hand.

  ‘You’ll need this. Now, breakfast is through that door over there,’ she said, pointing straight ahead in the direction she had sent Blake. ‘The coin is not for the food, though. The food here is free, and the helpings generous, since I do not recommend that anyone attempt to write on an empty stomach.’

  ‘Wait, though,’ Tuesday began, ‘about my mother…’

  ‘Breakfast,’ the Librarian said. ‘And then, if I have time, I shall come and find you on the balcony. Oh, and by the way, I say this to all first-timers but they are prone to forgetting, so do please remember this. Whether or not you can see it, the Library is always here. All right? Now off you go.’