Firebirds Rising

by Sharyn November

  The next morning, while they were all having tea and toast with jam, Blythe came into the Common Room with a quizzical look on her face and her hands behind her back.

  “The strangest thing,” she said. “On my way up here I glanced over at the Lost and Found. Couldn’t tell you why. Nothing lost in ages. But this must have caught my eye.”

  She held out a small brown bear, one shoebutton eye missing, bits of fur gone from its belly, as if it had been loved almost to pieces.

  “It seems to be yours,” she said with a smile, turning up one padded foot, where DINSY was written in faded laundry-marker black.

  Dinsy wrapped her whole self around the cotton-stuffed body and skipped for the rest of the morning. Later, after Olive gave her a snack—cocoa and a Lorna Doone—Dinsy cupped her hand and blew a kiss to the oak woodwork.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, and put half her cookie in a crack between two tiles on the Children’s Room fireplace when Olive wasn’t looking.

  Dinsy and Olive had a lovely time. One week they were pirates, raiding the Common Room for booty (and raisins). The next they were princesses, trapped in the turret with At the Back of the North Wind, and the week after that they were knights in shining armor, rescuing damsels in distress, a game Dinsy especially savored because it annoyed Marian to be rescued.

  But the year she turned seven-and-a-half, Dinsy stopped reading stories. Quite abruptly, on an afternoon that Olive said later had really felt like a Thursday.

  “Stories are for babies,” Dinsy said. “I want to read about real people.” Olive smiled a sad smile and pointed toward the far wall, because Dinsy was not the first child to make that same pronouncement, and she had known this phase would come.

  After that, Dinsy devoured biographies, starting with the orange ones, the Childhoods of Famous Americans: Thomas Edison, Young Inventor. She worked her way from Abigail Adams to John Peter Zenger, all along the west side of the Children’s Room, until one day she went around the corner, where Science and History began.

  She stood in the doorway, looking at the rows of grown-up books, when she felt Olive’s hand on her shoulder.

  “Do you think maybe it’s time you moved across the hall?” Olive asked softly.

  Dinsy bit her lip, then nodded. “I can come back to visit, can’t I? When I want to read stories again?”

  “For as long as you like, dear. Anytime at all.”

  So Dorothy came and gathered up the bear and the pillow and the yellow toothbrush. Dinsy kissed Olive on her papery cheek and, holding Blythe’s hand, moved across the hall, to the room where all the books had numbers.

  Blythe was plump and freckled and frizzled. She always looked a little flushed, as if she had just that moment dropped what she was doing to rush over and greet you. She wore rumpled tweed skirts and a shapeless cardigan whose original color was impossible to guess. She had bright, dark eyes like a spaniel’s, which Dinsy thought was appropriate, because Blythe lived to fetch books. She wore a locket with a small rotogravure picture of Melvil Dewey and kept a variety of sweets—sour balls and mints and Necco wafers—in her desk drawer.

  Dinsy had always liked her.

  She was not as sure about Dorothy.

  Over her desk, Dorothy had a small framed medal on a royal-blue ribbon, won for “Excellence in Classification Studies.” She could operate the ancient black Remington typewriter with brisk efficiency, and even, on occasion, coax chalky gray prints out of the wheezing old copy machine.

  She was a tall, rawboned woman with steely blue eyes, good posture, and even better penmanship. Dinsy was a little frightened of her, at first, because she seemed so stern, and because she looked like magazine pictures of the Wicked Witch of the West, or at least Margaret Hamilton.

  But that didn’t last long.

  “You should be very careful not to slip on the floor in here,” Dorothy said on their first morning. “Do you know why?”

  Dinsy shook her head.

  “Because now you’re in the nonfriction room!” Dorothy’s angular face cracked into a wide grin.

  Dinsy groaned. “Okay,” she said after a minute. “How do you file marshmallows?”

  Dorothy cocked her head. “Shoot.”

  “By the Gooey Decimal System!”

  Dinsy heard Blythe tsk-tsk, but Dorothy laughed out loud, and from then on they were fast friends.

  The three of them used the large, sunny room as an arena for endless games of I Spy and Twenty Questions as Dinsy learned her way around the shelves. In the evenings, after supper, they played Authors and Scrabble, and (once) tried to keep a running rummy score in Base Eight.

  Dinsy sat at the court of Napoleon, roamed the jungles near Timbuktu, and was a frequent guest at the Round Table. She knew all the kings of England and the difference between a pergola and a folly. She knew the names of 112 breeds of sheep, and loved to say “Barbados Blackbelly” over and over, although it was difficult to work into conversations. When she affectionately, if misguidedly, referred to Blythe as a “Persian Fat-Rumped,” she was sent to bed without supper.

  A note about time:

  Time had become quite flexible inside the library. (This is true of most places with interesting books. Sit down to read for twenty minutes, and suddenly it’s dark, with no clue as to where the hours have gone.)

  As a consequence, no one was really sure about the day of the week, and there was frequent disagreement about the month and year. As the keeper of the date stamp at the front desk, Marian was the arbiter of such things. But she often had a cocktail after dinner, and many mornings she couldn’t recall if she’d already turned the little wheel, or how often it had slipped her mind, so she frequently set it a day or two ahead—or back three—just to make up.

  One afternoon, on a visit to Olive and the Children’s Room, Dinsy looked up from Little Town on the Prairie and said, “When’s my birthday?”

  Olive thought for a moment. Because of the irregularities of time, holidays were celebrated a bit haphazardly. “I’m not sure, dear. Why do you ask?”

  “Laura’s going to a birthday party, in this book,” she said, holding it up. “And it’s fun. So I thought maybe I could have one.”

  “I think that would be lovely,” Olive agreed. “We’ll talk to the others at supper.”

  “Your birthday?” said Harriet as she set the table a few hours later. “Let me see.” She began to count on her fingers. “You arrived in April, according to Marian’s stamp, and you were about nine months old, so—” She pursed her lips as she ticked off the months. “You must have been born in July!”

  “But when’s my birthday?” Dinsy asked impatiently.

  “Not sure,” said Edith as she ladled out the soup.

  “No way to tell,” Olive agreed.

  “How does July fifth sound?” offered Blythe, as if it were a point of order to be voted on. Blythe counted best by fives.

  “Fourth,” said Dorothy. “Independence Day. Easy to remember?”

  Dinsy shrugged. “Okay.” It hadn’t seemed so complicated in the Little House book. “When is that? Is it soon?”

  “Probably.” Ruth nodded.

  A few weeks later, the librarians threw her a birthday party.

  Harriet baked a spice cake with pink frosting, and wrote DINSY on top in red licorice laces, dotting the I with a lemon drop (which was rather stale). The others gave her gifts that were thoughtful and mostly handmade:

  A set of Dewey Decimal flash cards from Blythe.

  A book of logic puzzles (stamped DISCARD more than a dozen times, so Dinsy could write in it) from Dorothy.

  A lumpy orange-and-green cardigan Ruth knitted for her.

  A snow globe from the 1939 World’s Fair from Olive.

  A flashlight from Edith, so that Dinsy could find her way around at night and not knock over the wastebasket again.

  A set of paper finger puppets, made from blank card pockets, hand-painted by Marian. (They were literary figures, of course, all of them n
ecessarily stout and squarish—Nero Wolfe and Friar Tuck, Santa Claus and Gertrude Stein.)

  But her favorite gift was the second boon she’d wished upon the Library: a box of crayons. (She had grown very tired of drawing gray pictures with the little pencils.) It had produced Crayola crayons, in the familiar yellow-and-green box, labeled LIBRARY PACK. Inside were the colors of Dinsy’s world: Reference Maroon, Brown Leather, Peplum Beige, Reader’s Guide Green, World Book Red, Card Catalog Cream, Date Stamp Purple, and Palatino Black.

  It was a very special birthday, that fourth of July. Although Dinsy wondered about Marian’s calculations. As Harriet cut the first piece of cake that evening, she remarked that it was snowing rather heavily outside, which everyone agreed was lovely, but quite unusual for that time of year.

  Dinsy soon learned all the planets, and many of their moons. (She referred to herself as Umbriel for an entire month.) She puffed up her cheeks and blew onto stacks of scrap paper. “Sirocco,” she’d whisper. “Chinook. Mistral. Willy-Willy,” and rated her attempts on the Beaufort scale. Dorothy put a halt to it after Hurricane Dinsy reshuffled a rather elaborate game of Patience.

  She dipped into fractals here, double dactyls there. When she tired of a subject—or found it just didn’t suit her—Blythe or Dorothy would smile and proffer the hat. It was a deep green felt that held slips of paper numbered 001 to 999. Dinsy’d scrunch her eyes closed, pick one, and, like a scavenger hunt, spend the morning (or the next three weeks) at the shelves indicated.

  Pangolins lived at 599 (point 31), and Pancakes at 641. Pencils were at 674 but Pens were a shelf away at 681, and Ink was across the aisle at 667. (Dinsy thought that was stupid, because you had to use them together.) Pluto the planet was at 523, but Pluto the Disney dog was at 791 (point 453), near Rock and Roll and Kazoos.

  It was all very useful information. But in Dinsy’s opinion, things could be a little too organized.

  The first time she straightened up the Common Room without anyone asking, she was very pleased with herself. She had lined up everyone’s teacup in a neat row on the shelf, with all the handles curving the same way, and arranged the spices in the little wooden rack: ANISE, BAY LEAVES, CHIVES, DILL WEED, PEPPERCORNS, SALT, SESAME SEEDS, SUGAR.

  “Look,” she said when Blythe came in to refresh her tea. “Order out of chaos.” It was one of Blythe’s favorite mottoes.

  Blythe smiled and looked over at the spice rack. Then her smile faded and she shook her head.

  “Is something wrong?” Dinsy asked. She had hoped for a compliment.

  “Well, you used the alphabet,” said Blythe, sighing. “I suppose it’s not your fault. You were with Olive for a good many years. But you’re a big girl now. You should learn the proper order.” She picked up the salt container. “We’ll start with Salt.” She wrote the word on the little chalkboard hanging by the icebox, followed by the number 553.632. “Five-five-three-point-six-three-two. Because—?”

  Dinsy thought for a moment. “Earth Sciences.”

  “Ex-actly.” Blythe beamed. “Because salt is a mineral. But, now, chives. Chives are a garden crop, so they’re…”

  Dinsy bit her lip in concentration. “Six-thirty-something.”

  “Very good.” Blythe smiled again and chalked CHIVES635.26 on the board. “So you see, Chives should always be shelved after Salt, dear.”

  Blythe turned and began to rearrange the eight ceramic jars. Behind her back, Dinsy silently rolled her eyes.

  Edith appeared in the doorway.

  “Oh, not again,” she said. “No wonder I can’t find a thing in this kitchen. Blythe, I’ve told you. Bay Leaf comes first. QK-four-nine—” She had worked at the university when she was younger.

  “Library of Congress, my fanny,” said Blythe, not quite under her breath. “We’re not that kind of library.”

  “It’s no excuse for imprecision,” Edith replied. They each grabbed a jar and stared at each other.

  Dinsy tiptoed away and hid in the 814s, where she read “Jabberwocky” until the coast was clear.

  But the kitchen remained a taxonomic battleground. At least once a week, Dinsy was amused by the indignant sputtering of someone who had just spooned dill weed, not sugar, into a cup of Earl Grey tea.

  Once she knew her way around, Dinsy was free to roam the library as she chose.

  “Anywhere?” she asked Blythe.

  “Anywhere you like, my sweet. Except the Stacks. You’re not quite old enough for the Stacks.”

  Dinsy frowned. “I am so,” she muttered. But the Stacks were locked, and there wasn’t much she could do.

  Some days she sat with Olive in the Children’s Room, revisiting old friends, or explored the maze of the Main Room. Other days she spent in the Reference Room, where Ruth and Harriet guarded the big important books that no one could ever, ever check out—not even when the library had been open.

  Ruth and Harriet were like a set of salt-and-pepper shakers from two different yard sales. Harriet had faded orange hair and a sharp, kind face. Small and pinched and pointed, a decade or two away from wizened. She had violet eyes and a mischievous, conspiratorial smile and wore rimless octagonal glasses, like stop signs. Dinsy had never seen an actual stop sign, but she’d looked at pictures.

  Ruth was Chinese. She wore wool jumpers in neon plaids and had cat’s-eye glasses on a beaded chain around her neck. She never put them all the way on, just lifted them to her eyes and peered through them without opening the bows.

  “Life is a treasure hunt,” said Harriet.

  “Knowledge is power,” said Ruth. “Knowing where to look is half the battle.”

  “Half the fun,” added Harriet. Ruth almost never got the last word.

  They introduced Dinsy to dictionaries and almanacs, encyclopedias and compendiums. They had been native guides through the country of the Dry Tomes for many years, but they agreed that Dinsy delved unusually deep.

  “Would you like to take a break, love?” Ruth asked one afternoon. “It’s nearly time for tea.”

  “I am fatigued,” Dinsy replied, looking up from Roget. “Fagged out, weary, a bit spent. Tea would be pleasant, agreeable—”

  “I’ll put the kettle on,” sighed Ruth.

  Dinsy read Bartlett’s as if it were a catalog of conversations, spouting lines from Tennyson, Mark Twain, and Dale Carnegie until even Harriet put her hands over her ears and began to hum “Stairway to Heaven.”

  One or two evenings a month, usually after Blythe had remarked “Well, she’s a spirited girl,” for the third time, they all took the night off, “for Library business.” Olive or Dorothy would tuck Dinsy in early and read from one of her favorites while Ruth made her a bedtime treat—a cup of spiced tea that tasted a little like cherries and a little like varnish, and which Dinsy somehow never remembered finishing.

  A list (written in diverse hands), tacked to the wall of the Common Room.

  10 Things to Remember When You Live in a Library

  We do not play shuffleboard on the Reading Room table.

  Books should not have “dog’s ears.” Bookmarks make lovely presents.

  Do not write in books. Even in pencil. Puzzle collections and connect-the-dots are books.

  The shelving cart is not a scooter.

  Library paste is not food. [Marginal note in a child’s hand: True. It tastes like Cream of Wrong soup.]

  Do not use the date stamp to mark your banana.

  Shelves are not monkey bars.

  Do not play 982-pickup with the P-Q drawer (or any other).

  The dumbwaiter is only for books. It is not a carnival ride.

  Do not drop volumes of the Britannica off the stairs to hear the echo.

  They were an odd, but contented family. There were rules, to be sure, but Dinsy never lacked for attention. With seven mothers, there was always someone to talk with, a hankie for tears, a lap or a shoulder to share a story.

  Most evenings, when Dorothy had made a fire in the Reading Room and the wooden shelve
s gleamed in the flickering light, they would all sit in companionable silence. Ruth knitted, Harriet muttered over an acrostic, Edith stirred the cocoa so it wouldn’t get a skin. Dinsy sat on the rug, her back against the knees of whomever was her favorite that week, and felt safe and warm and loved. “God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world,” as Blythe would say.

  But as she watched the moon peep in and out of the clouds through the leaded-glass panes of the tall windows, Dinsy often wondered what it would be like to see the whole sky, all around her.

  First Olive and then Dorothy had been in charge of Dinsy’s thick dark hair, trimming it with the mending shears every few weeks when it began to obscure her eyes. But a few years into her second decade at the library, Dinsy began cutting it herself, leaving it as wild and spiky as the brambles outside the front door.

  That was not the only change.

  “We haven’t seen her at breakfast in weeks,” Harriet said as she buttered a scone one morning.

  “Months. And all she reads is Salinger. Or Sylvia Plath,” complained Dorothy. “I wouldn’t mind that so much, but she just leaves them on the table for me to reshelve.”

  “It’s not as bad as what she did to Olive,” Marian said. “The Golden Compass appeared last week, and she thought Dinsy would enjoy it. But not only did she turn up her nose, she had the gall to say to Olive, ‘Leave me alone. I can find my own books.’ Imagine. Poor Olive was beside herself.”

  “She used to be such a sweet child.” Blythe sighed. “What are we going to do?”

  “Now, now. She’s just at that age,” Edith said calmly. “She’s not really a child anymore. She needs some privacy, and some responsibility. I have an idea.”

  And so it was that Dinsy got her own room—with a door that shut—in a corner of the second floor. It had been a tiny cubbyhole of an office, but it had a set of slender curved stairs, wrought iron worked with lilies and twigs, which led up to the turret between the red-tiled eaves.