The Magpie's Library

by Kate Blair

  Grandpa was saying something.

  I shook my head. “What?”

  “I said, I shouldn’t be putting this on you. I’m getting morose. It’s this stuff.” He held up his beer. “I need to talk to Janet and your mother. And I need to go to bed.”

  “Yeah,” I said, distracted.

  “And so do you, Silva. Come on. I’ll turn things off down here. Up you go.”

  I stumbled into bed still trying to process everything.

  Margaret was my great-aunt. She had been an actual living, breathing person. She died without finding the cure she was searching for in the dollhouse.

  I tried to focus, but my head buzzed with the static of exhaustion. I listened to the sea until the hiss of the waves sounded like the rustling of pages. Then the bed, the room, Grandpa’s home felt insubstantial, as if a gust would blow them all away and reveal the library.

  I had to get back there as soon as I could. Had to figure out what this all meant.

  I WOKE TO voices arguing downstairs. Janet’s nasal tone merged with Grandpa’s low rumble and Mum’s clipped delivery. My Ravenclaw clock said 8:02 a.m., but the sky was so overcast it could still be night.

  I crept down the stairs and peered around the banister.

  They were in the kitchen, with the door open. Janet wore her holiday camp uniform: a bright blue receptionist blazer with her name tag on it. Mum was still in her pajamas.

  “You can’t let him do this,” Janet said.

  I ducked back before they could see me, and sat on the bottom stair, hidden behind Janet’s coat, tossed over the banister. An ache echoed through me, making it hard to concentrate.

  “I’m right here, Janet,” Grandpa said. “Don’t talk about me as if I’m not.”

  “Someone needs to talk sense into you. I’m here a lot more than she is, and we’ll end up dealing with it all when she sods off again.”

  Mum spoke. “I’m not ‘sodding off,’ it’s just that my job means —”

  “Your job means more to you than your family. Moving all over the country, dragging those poor children around, unwilling to commit to anywhere, or anything. Not even their dad.”

  “Janet!” Grandpa’s voice.

  I picked at the carpet, working a loop loose. Dad and Mum split when I was little. We visited for a while, but he remarried and had another family. We hardly ever saw him, now.

  “You two used to be close,” Grandpa said. “What happened?”

  “She’s the queen of petty grudge-holding,” Janet said. “Been angry at me for decades.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake. I’m not angry at you.”

  “You’re never here. You weren’t here when my husband left, or when Mum died, or through Chloe’s difficulties. And you won’t be here now.”

  The loop I was fiddling with pulled out of the carpet, leaving a hole in the floral pattern.

  “I’m not saying you should go into hospital, Dad …”

  “He should.” Janet interrupted.

  “But there’s no reason not to take your medicine.”

  “Look at them! Just look at them!” I heard Grandpa’s footsteps, and then something slammed and rattled: his pill boxes. They usually sat on the counter: translucent red boxes joined in a line, marked with the days of the week, each segment brimfull of pills.

  “I can’t stand the side-effects. They make me so sick and tired.”

  “You need them.” Janet’s voice. “They keep you alive.”

  “But for what?”

  “For us?” Janet said.

  “I can’t be left alone. Yesterday made that clear. I’m not going into a home, and I’m not having a nurse. It’s time for nature to take its course.”

  I felt as if I were underwater; ears ringing, breath stopped. I put my hand over my mouth and my elbow nudged Janet’s coat. Just a tap, but enough to tip it. It hissed as it slid from the banister and hit the ground with a soft thump.

  “Is that one of the children?” Janet asked.

  A chair scraped across the floor. I tried to stuff the loop of carpet back, gave up, and scurried upstairs. The steps creaked as Mum followed. I made it under the duvet, but her voice came from the doorway.

  “Silva, I know you’re awake. What did you hear?”

  I stared at the green wall in front of me. “Grandpa’s not going to take his medicine.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”

  Her footsteps crossed the floor. “No. Why would you say that?”

  “Because I didn’t watch him, and now he doesn’t trust himself.”

  The mattress sagged as Mum sat on my bed, tipping me toward her. She laid a hand on my side. “Silva, don’t blame yourself, please.”

  “He’ll die without his medicine, right?”

  “Not right away.”

  “Don’t let him do this.”

  It was hard to get the words out. They felt wrong. I shouldn’t have to say any of it.

  She stroked my hair. “I can’t force pills down his throat.”

  I rolled onto my back and looked up at her. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her short hair was flat, not styled like usual.

  “Stay here. We could live here. Then he wouldn’t need a nurse.”

  “But my job …”

  “You don’t even like your job. Get another job. One where we can stay in one place.”

  She pushed my hair behind my ears. “We need the money.”

  This was an old argument. But today I felt the heat rising, the blood rushing to my head. I batted her hand away.

  “I wish things were different, Silva.”

  I closed my eyes. Pushed hard against the sockets with the heels of my hands. The kettle was my fault. He’d still be taking his medicine if I hadn’t left him alone.

  “Grandpa is lot better. He has an appointment with the doctor tomorrow morning. If he’s on the mend, he’ll probably be fine for months. We can head to Bedford in the afternoon, and come back for Christmas, like normal.”

  I dropped my hands. “We can’t leave tomorrow.”

  “You have school, and I have work.” She exhaled. “I shouldn’t have been so hard on you yesterday. I’m sorry.”

  She’s letting this happen, a voice in my head said. Janet’s right. She cares more about her job than she cares about her family.

  “Just go.”

  “Silva …”

  “I said go! Get out of my room!”

  “Okay.” Mum raised her hands, a shield in front of her. “I love you, Silva.”

  I stared at the plaster swirls on the ceiling, like albino rainbows, and didn’t respond, even when I heard her muffled sob from the hall.

  IT WAS SUNDAY, so the library was closed. I wanted to spend time with Grandpa before we left, so I finally dragged myself down. He seemed more distracted as the morning wore on, not quite following along with the conversation. For lunch, Mum made old-school tacos, a favorite of mine, probably meant as an apology, but I avoided looking at her as I ate. Ollie loaded his up with meat and cheese, avoiding all the vegetables. I made a healthier one, but the hard shell cracked when I bit it, and stabbed into the roof of my mouth. I spat it out.

  “Silva,” Mum said. I ignored her.

  Grandpa paused between bites. “Since it’s raining, why not take the children to the cinema?”

  “It shut down years ago,” Mum said. “It’s flats now.”

  The lost look I’d seen at the hospital reappeared on Grandpa’s face for a moment before he pulled his features back into a smile. I pushed away the rest of my taco.

  After lunch, Ollie went upstairs while Mum moved Grandpa into the front room and asked me to make tea. I tried not to look at the deflated kettle. Grandpa wouldn’t let anyone else clean it up, but he hadn’t tried to do it himself.

&nbs
p; The steps of making tea felt like random motions, separated from meaning: grabbing the mugs, pouring water, putting them in the microwave. It was all pointless.

  That’s when they caught my eye: Grandpa’s pills.

  They sat in their transparent red boxes: his antibiotics, his heart pills, and the others.

  Hope jumped in my chest. Mum said she couldn’t force medicine down Grandpa’s throat, but perhaps we could, in a way. I could slip a couple of Grandpa’s pills into his tea. If I made the tea today and tomorrow morning, it might be enough to get him over his infection, at least.

  He’d never have to know.

  I wandered into the hall to check no one was around. The murmur of conversation came from the front room; Mum and Grandpa.

  All clear.

  I ducked back into the kitchen, flicked opened the box marked Sunday, and picked a few pills at random. The microwave beeped, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  Deep breaths. I poured the hot water into the cups. If I just stirred the pills in, they wouldn’t dissolve fully. I had to crush them.

  Rain pattered urgently against the window, as if hurrying me. I opened cupboards, looking for Grandpa’s mortar and pestle, the one he used to grind herbs from his garden. I found it shoved behind some dishes. I glanced outside. The herb beds were overgrown, Ollie’s football half-swallowed by them. How long had it been since Grandpa made his own pesto?

  A magpie sat on the fence. I gasped. It was the same one, it had to be. I waved.

  A flutter and swoop, and it landed on the windowsill. I put my hand against the glass, streaked with raindrops. The magpie hopped closer to my fingers, as if it wanted to feel my touch, even through the window that separated us.

  “I wish I could come today, but the library’s closed.”

  In the front room, Grandpa started coughing, bringing my attention back to my task.

  “I’ll come tomorrow. When they go to the doctors. I promise.”

  I threw the pills into the stone bowl and ground them until there was nothing but powder. I tipped it into Grandpa’s mug. That’s when I heard footsteps.

  The magpie flew away. I turned, stomach dropping.

  Grandpa stood in the doorway. His gaze fell on the open pill box, on the powdery mortar I held above his mug. “Silva?”

  I tried to think of something to say, something to explain away the scene. Pressure built in my head.

  Grandpa raised his voice. “Liz! Come here.”

  Mum hurried in. “Silva! What are you doing?”

  The two of them stared, anger in my mother’s eyes, disappointment in my grandfather’s. The moment stretched out. Blood pounded in my ears.

  I dropped the mortar. It hit the counter with a loud crack as I dashed out of the kitchen, past Mum and Grandpa. I grabbed my coat, threw open the front door, and ran into the rain.

  “Silva!” Mum shouted.

  I didn’t look back.

  The drizzle stung my eyes and I barely noticed the world, the cars, and the wind that came up from the beach and pushed me along the road. I ran as far as I could stand, until my breath came so hard I doubled over, coughing. No one was shouting my name now. I checked over my shoulder. No Mum. Just a dark figure, a little way behind, hood too low to see their face.

  Where could I go, in the rain, on a Sunday? I couldn’t stay outside. The pavement was slippery with moss and wet leaves. The tang of sea air was strong, and gulls cried out in the sky above me.

  Then another bird joined them. One with dark wings with a flash of white.

  My heart soared. My magpie. I reached toward it as it flew overhead. It cawed, the sound almost lost on the wind. I pulled my coat tighter and hurried on. You couldn’t expect a magpie to understand Sunday closing. Still, following it was a better option than going home.

  A message buzzed through on my phone. I pulled it out: Mum.

  Where are you?

  If I didn’t reply, she’d end up calling the police.

  Going for a walk. Don’t come after me. I need some time alone.

  Dots on my screen as Mum wrote back. They disappeared, as if she’d reconsidered what she was writing and deleted her message. A pause, more dots, and the bubble appeared.

  Fine. I could almost hear her sigh. We’ll have a proper talk when you get back.

  As I hurried up the road, I tried to forget the look in Grandpa’s eyes. Like I’d betrayed him. I felt a prickle on the back of my neck and glanced over my shoulder.

  The dark figure was still there. I’d been walking fast, but they’d kept up. They were probably just hurrying to get home, get out of the drizzle.

  Still, I sped up.

  The magpie landed on the wall outside the library and waited.

  “See,” I said, a little out of breath. “It’s closed.”

  The magpie took off again. But it didn’t head for the entrance. It flew around the corner. I followed, across the waterlogged grass that ran down the side of the library, separated from the grounds of the primary school by a chain-link fence.

  And there, set into the gray-brick outside wall was the magpie’s door.

  Excitement rushed through me. Of course the door could be here. It was magic, after all. The door could be anywhere.

  “Thank you!” I said out loud, although the magpie had disappeared. It would be waiting inside, no doubt. I ducked out of the rain and into the golden light of the magical library. I shook my damp jacket off, already feeling better.

  Outside, the wind had cut through me, the drizzle chilling me. I’d felt fragile, like soggy paper that could fall apart at a touch. Here I felt myself. Felt complete, healed by the magic all around. I took deep breaths, inhaling the invigorating glow of the library.

  The magpie sat on the chair.

  “I should have realized you wouldn’t worry about opening times.”

  I walked to my feathered friend, and held my hand out. It jumped onto my thumb, and perched there, little claws digging in, but not enough to hurt. Its tail twitched, counterbalancing its weight. I ran a finger over its smooth dark feathers, down its back, to the end of its tail.

  “Margaret was my great-aunt,” I said.

  The magpie nodded, gaze fixed on me.

  “Are all these stories about real people?”

  Another nod.

  “Are they all dead?”

  The magpie shook its little head. I exhaled, and the library seemed lighter. I didn’t want to think about death right now. But maybe that was the point. Maybe I was meant to remember people, now Grandpa was forgetting. Still, the stories I’d been reading had been a bit depressing.

  “Can I have a book where the main character isn’t dead?”

  The magpie took off from my finger. The removal of its small weight felt like a loss. It flew to one of the branches, near the top. With a whisper of paper, a book eased itself from the shelf and swooped down to my waiting hands.

  A familiar girl looked out from the picture on the cover. I almost dropped the book.

  “Chloe.”

  The magpie nodded.

  But it wasn’t the Chloe I knew now. It was the Chloe I barely remembered: the Chloe who smiled a lot more before she lost her grandmother, before she got into horror, before she got kicked out of school for bullying.

  On the cover, she was about my age, long brown hair pulled into a high ponytail. She wore a yellow jumper and stood in a garden filled with statues, reaching out toward the nearest one with an excited expression.

  I flipped through to a random page.

  Chloe woke on the soft ground.

  I carried the book to the chair and sat down.

  Time was running out, and she was no closer to finding a solution.

  The letters moved, scuttling toward my hands. It felt weird to read this, almost rude. These were Chloe’s thought
s.

  The park was there for a reason. It had to be.

  But I was curious, so I let the words creep over my skin, forming skittering sentences.

  You could enter another life. So maybe you could recover from a terminal illness, too.

  The words tightened, tying me to the now-blank page.

  It stood to reason. Didn’t it?

  The text pulled me down into the white of the book.

  Chapter Nine

  I LAY ON grass: mossy, soft, and comfortable. Vivid green surrounded me, punctuated by the white marble of statue bases. The sun hung close to the horizon and, in the distance, dark walls encircled the park.

  I pushed myself onto my knees, and the blood rushed to my head. With it came the memories of another life, the thoughts of another person. Chloe’s thoughts.

  If only I could hang out here a bit longer.

  Her fear was as hard as a stone in my gut: fear for her grandmother. This had to be about four or five years ago, when she was still alive.

  But I’ve been out way too long. I’ve got to get back. Got to make sure she’s okay.

  It was hard to keep her thoughts at bay. And I didn’t want to. I’d come to the library to forget Grandpa’s decision. To forget about the pills and the disappointment on his face. Chloe was worried, but hopeful. She didn’t have my guilt, my shame turning her stomach.

  So I let myself fall into her feelings. Let them become my own.

  I hurried out the magpie’s door and the pain of the real world hit. Leaving the park had always been hard, but it was getting way worse. My arms were so heavy my shoulders ached.

  The weather didn’t help. In the statue garden, a few clouds drifted in the blue sky, pretty and fluffy. But out here they were the gray of old concrete, pushing down on me.

  I leaned on the statue in the real park to catch my breath. Lichen spread over the plinth like a nasty scab, unlike the clean white of the statues in the magpie’s park.

  I had to get home to Gran. She got sad if I was out for more than a couple of hours.

  She’d made me promise I’d be there when she died. Made me hold her hand and swear it. I had, but I’d made another promise, after she fell asleep.