The Book of Nonsense

by David Michael Slater

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  The Book of Nonsense

  Sacred Books, Volume I

  Copyright © 2008 David Michael Slater

  ISBN (10): 1-933767-00-6

  ISBN (13): 978-1-933767-00-0

  All rights reserved. This book may not

  be reproduced in any form without express

  written permission. For more information

  write to:

  Rights Department

  CBAY Books

  PO Box 92411

  Austin, TX 78709

  Library of Congress CIP data available.

  For Heidi,

  who puts up with volumes of nonsense.

  For every rational line or forthright statement there

  are leagues of senseless cacophony, verbal non-

  sense, and incoherency…. The impious maintain

  that nonsense is normal in the Library and that the

  reasonable…is an almost miraculous exception.

  — Jorge Luis Borges —

  the abc’s of the abc

  It was downright embarrassing to get treated so shabbily, especially after the way she’d gone on about how great the place was. Daphna’s father hadn’t even gotten out of his taxi before she’d announced the big news: a rare bookshop had opened in the Village while he’d been away.

  “It took over that entire warehouse, the one that’s been boarded up forever!” Daphna had enthused. She’d forgotten to bother with ‘Welcome home,’ or even ‘Hello.’ “It’s called The Antiquarian Book Center, but I call it the ABC. It’s incredible! It’s huge! It’s the most amazing shop I’ve ever seen! And what’s really weird is that every single book in there has to do with magic, not that I’m really into that sort of thing, but still! In all your years as a book scout, I’ll bet you’ve never seen anything like it, Dad. There’s definitely nothing like it in Portland.”

  Daphna knew Milton would want to investigate, though maybe not twenty seconds after getting home from such a long trip. Six weeks was by far his longest scouting mission ever. But he admitted to having a number of books to sell around town, as well as a rather unusual item he was anxious to learn more about. When Daphna heard this, she’d insisted they take it straight to the ABC. So here they were, standing among the musty, cramped shelves in the entry of the glorious place.

  The problem was they’d been standing there for several minutes, waiting to get the attention of the frighteningly large, pale boy at the front desk. Daphna saw the boy almost every time she went in, and she’d been in every day since the shop opened four weeks earlier. As usual, he was hunched over with his head down, flipping through a number of books spread out around him. There were nine on this occasion. Directly below his chin, also as usual, sat a large old leather-bound ledger with some sort of list running down its pages. Daphna had only seen the boy add something to it once or twice, even though he always clutched a pen while he read.

  Milton cleared his throat for the eighth time, but the boy just kept ignoring him. He might have gone on doing so forever had Daphna not inched forward to get a closer look at what he was doing. As she leaned over the ledger, the boy slammed it shut. Then he grinned in a positively bestial way and jerked his head up. Daphna jumped back. When the boy’s eyes met hers, she couldn’t help herself—she screamed.

  Even Milton let out a short, shocked exhalation. The boy’s eyes were ravaged. They were the color of blood and seemed nearly lifeless, sagging into smudge-black bags beneath them. Daphna was glad she’d never attracted his attention before; if she had, her summer vacation might’ve been spent investigating old books on the Internet.

  “Mind your own business, girl,” the boy hissed, staring directly into Daphna’s flecked green eyes. Then, grinning, he looked her over from her black bob down to her old white sneakers and whispered, “I bet it’s gonna be you.”

  Daphna was too shaken to react, but Milton stepped forward. He cleared his throat once again and explained, rather tersely, that he was a well-respected dealer of rare books with an unusual item he might consider selling if the store’s buyer was available.

  “Give it,” the boy demanded, jabbing out a giant hand. “I got to make sure nobody wastes the old man’s time.”

  Daphna saw her father bristle. He probably wanted to get away from this ghastly creature almost as much as she did, but she simply had to share this place with him. “Go ahead, Dad,” she urged.

  Grudgingly, Milton produced from his shoulder sack a book wrapped in a long, sheer cloth. The cloth took some time to unwind, and Milton grimaced a bit as he worked it off. Daphna felt a pang of remorse for not letting him relax after his travels. His arthritis was probably killing him from the plane and cab rides, not to mention the cool August weather he’d come home to. When the cloth was finally free, Milton set the book on the desk.

  Daphna had seen her father sell some strange books over the years, but never anything like this. It was long and thin, like a thick menu—but that was only slightly unusual. She’d recently seen a book of that shape, though she couldn’t remember where. What was unprecedented, for a supposedly salable book, was its brutalized condition. The book’s cover was blackened, cracked, battered and gashed. The pages were warped, as if they’d once been drenched, yet their edges were charred and flaked, as if the book had, at some other time, barely escaped a fire. Furthermore, while it appeared to be some kind of journal, the book was apparently filled with nonsense. On the short drive over to the ABC, Daphna had briefly inspected one of the brittle, handwritten pages. What she could make out appeared to be a jumble of outlandish looking foreign languages, but it was impossible to tell because everything looked blurry. Daphna never could read in the car without getting dizzy, so she’d carefully wrapped the book back up.

  The boy snatched the book off the desk and began flipping through it as if it were no more valuable than a brand new comic. Daphna was sure he was going to obliterate it with his brutish hands. “Ah, get this pile of junk outta—” he started to sneer, but he was interrupted by a series of smacking sounds coming from somewhere deep in the store.

  Daphna and her father both looked up over the shelves that enclosed the front room, but the noise stopped. The boy snapped the book shut and shoved it back at Milton.

  “Who cares,” he snorted. “Go show it to the old man. Cubby’s in the center of the store, behind the curtain.” But rather than lead them, or at least tell them which way to go, he slipped on a pair of dark, wrap-around sunglasses and said, “Tell ’em Emmet went hunting.” He headed for the door but paused briefly in front of Daphna. “See ya tomorrow,” he said in a knowing way that made her skin crawl. Then he was gone.

  It was disturbing to learn that boy knew she came in every day, but then again, it wasn’t that surprising. “Sorry, Dad,” said Daphna, shrugging off the creeps.

  Milton looked irked but peered with interest down one of the book-lined halls leading into the heart of the store. They branched out from nine places around the entry room. Daphna could tell he was getting the notion he’d underestimated the size of the place.

  “Follow me!” Daphna said. And before anything else could de
rail them, she set off into one of the narrow halls. Her father trailed behind on his collection of rickety joints. Immediately, the pair was swallowed up by books, a universe of books. Books of all shapes and sizes were everywhere—beside them, above them, below them. There were no walls inside the warehouse. Rather, it was partitioned by massive shelving units, which angled this way and that, making it impossible to predict where any aisle led. Tangled passageways turned every which way, and they all opened into six-sided nooks and niches brimming with mysterious old volumes. When Daphna peered over the tops of any row, she could see simultaneously through dozens of “rooms” and “halls.” Evidently her father had discovered the same kaleidoscopic effect because, as they wandered among the packed and looming shelves, he was uttering quiet expressions of awe.

  Daphna took in a series of long, deep breaths, savoring the familiar nose-tingling scent of old books. It was a complicated smell: worn leather and threadbare cloth; crinkled pages stained by countless fingers and the innumerable foods and drinks they smeared. It was the smell of flights of fancy and of people’s very lives. It was the smell of Time, Daphna thought, and it was a smell she’d known all her life. It made her feel alive.

  But of course it wasn’t smells that made Daphna love books. No, it was the words themselves. It was mind-blowing to think that you could learn absolutely anything in the world if you just had the right words in the right order.

  “Slow down, Daph,” Milton called from somewhere.

  Daphna stopped. She’d gotten used to roaming aimlessly through the ABC, trusting her reliable instincts to lead her around. But this was not a good plan with her father, who was having an especially difficult time because books were piled practically every few steps in tilting towers on the floor.

  When he caught up, Daphna looked at him closely for the first time since he’d arrived home. He seemed not so much tired as distant or distracted.

  It has to be Dex, she realized. Her brother had intentionally not been home when the cab arrived, and Milton hadn’t even asked about him. He was obviously too upset! Dexter knew the cab was coming some time after breakfast, yet he still chose to go out loitering, or whatever it was he did all day. Not being there was his way of punishing their father, she assumed, for scouting all summer. Daphna certainly hadn’t been happy about it either, but she wasn’t going to sulk. She understood that when a scout gets onto promising leads, he’s got to follow them. And besides, Milton did get home before their birthday—even if he only made it by a day. Daphna could hardly wait to find out what he had planned.

  As long as she could remember, he’d talked about how important the thirteenth birthday was in a person’s life and how they’d do something really special when it came.

  “Sorry, Dad,” Daphna said, watching her father recover his breath.

  They trudged on, now at an even slower pace, taking one blind turn after another among the books.

  Daphna, growing excited again, began pointing out sections they passed. “Those books are all on Wizardry,” she declared, waving a finger. “Oh, those are Sorcery and Enchantment. These, all these, are on Conjuration.” She pronounced this last word with some gravity, having just the other day looked it up.

  “Over there, Dad—those are manuals for casting charms, spells and hexes. Don’t know what any of those books over there are. Never seen that section, either. Oh, up ahead is an aisle full of biographies of witches and warlocks. I think, earlier, all those annoying piles—those were handbooks for identifying amulets and talismans. Somewhere back there was a section of instruction books for wands and staffs. Crazy, isn’t it?”

  To Daphna, magic was a childish pursuit, but she had to admit the books in this place looked enchanted all collected together, glowing ever so slightly under the dim and dusty light thrown off by the flickering lamps hanging overhead.

  “Spectacular,” Milton puffed. “Never seen anything like it. But I’m afraid I’m getting a bit—Well, now!” They had just taken one more in a seemingly endless series of haphazard turns, but now they found themselves in front of a heavy maroon curtain hanging between two especially large shelving units. “I was beginning to think we were going in circles,” Milton sighed.

  Daphna meant to admit fearing the same, but her eyes were drawn to an opening in the curtain. Just visible through it was the silhouette of a stooped and frail man sitting at a desk in the dark. She felt an unaccountable stab of panic at the sight.

  A match was struck inside the cubby, and two candles were lit by a pair of trembling hands.

  “Come in! Come in, my good man,” croaked a ragged, rasping voice. “I’d love to have a word with you.”

  only the rain

  While his sister and father were no doubt drooling together in some lame bookstore, probably that new one Daphna had been practically living in all summer, Dexter Wax ranged over the many unpaved roads of Multnomah Village. It wasn’t really a ‘village,’ of course. That was just a rustic name for their neighborhood, specifically for the row of antique shops—junk shops in Dex’s opinion—running along the main street. Dexter had an atrocious sense of direction, but he loved to walk, and he didn’t care about getting lost for a while. The way he figured it, you can’t miss what you don’t aim for.

  No way, no how, was he going to sit around waiting for his father. Why should he, just to watch Milton get all jazzed up with Daphna about how much a pile of useless old books might be worth? And so what if it was their first chance to spend time together in over a month. He’d probably leave right away for another trip, anyway. Dex would just say he forgot what time the cab was coming. And so what if he never forgot details like that? There was a first time for everything. If his dad actually was planning something for their supposedly big-deal thirteenth birthday, Dex thought it would be ideal if he could manage to “forget” to be there for that, too. Maybe he’d sneak out of the house before everyone got up tomorrow morning.

  Scraggles of ripped material flicked from the holes in his jeans as Dex passed the Multnomah Village Post Office and merged onto the path that led into Gabriel Park. It was going to rain any minute, but that annoyance didn’t even register. He was too agitated about having his last week of freedom messed up to worry about darkening skies. He needed some time in the Clearing.

  Off the trail ahead was a path he’d forged in the woods last year. It was the first day Dex had ever skipped school, so he’d been looking for a place to hide. The good thing about middle school was that the teachers were far too busy to apply much pressure to a kid who barely scraped by, as long as he didn’t bother anyone.

  Of course Dex had gotten lost as soon as he’d gone into the woods that day, but while looking for a way out, he’d come upon a circular clearing ringed by a group of interesting trees. In the springtime some of them had greenish flowers hanging from them. It was like stepping into another world, a quiet, peaceful world, all leaves and branches and birds.

  Dex had been going there several times a week all vacation long to watch seedpods spinning in the breeze when they fell. There was nowhere else he could go to get away from all the nags in his life. He could go see Ruby, of course, his secret friend at the rest home. She understood him, but going there was always dicey since Daphna might be around at any time doing her stupid good deeds.

  Absorbed by a rising tide of hostility, Dex hurried on with his head down, watching the path pass beneath his shoes.

  There was a second in which Dex saw the other shoe. It was huge, but there was no time to react. He collided with its owner, someone massive, and went crashing to the ground.

  The next thing he knew, Dex had been seized by the neck, lifted to his feet and jammed against an enormous cedar tree. Three inches off the ground now, his feet twitched uncontrollably. His eyes bulged. Strangling, he was just able to take in the hideous red eyes of the monstrous boy squeezing the life out of him.

  The boy, whose sunglasses had been knocked askew, leaned into Dex’s face and whispered, “What a coincide
nce! Maybe it’ll be you.” But then he said, “Better wait,” and dropped Dexter in a heap.

  “Yeah, you better wait, you—!” Dex roared, gasping and scrambling to his feet.

  Emmet smiled expectantly, but when Dexter failed to finish, he laughed outright. And there was other laughter, too. A tall, lanky boy with upward swept, spiky red hair standing nearby cackled like a lunatic and repeatedly looked back over his shoulder at some other laughing boys behind him. Dex avoided all these well-known hoodlums like the plague. Fortunately, they hadn’t been around much that summer—but of course they’d be here now.

  “I said keep away!” Emmet yelled at the red haired boy. “Or no deal!”

  “All right, all right,” the boy said, “C’mon, fellas.” Snickering, he led his gang away, looking over his shoulder as he went. Emmet watched them go for a moment, then turned and walked off without another glance at Dex.

  But there was still more laughing. Dex saw the rest of them now. Pops, the rich kids who played Frisbee in the park. Dex steered clear of them, too.

  It was baffling. Was what happened funny enough to make so many kids who’d otherwise go nowhere near one another stand together and laugh at him this much?

  Yes, Dex realized, because he finally felt the wetness spreading down his pant-leg. There were no words to describe the humiliation—or the fury. Dex opened his mouth to rage at these callous jerks, to somehow bring down the sky itself on every last one of them. But he couldn’t even manage a word.

  Suddenly, thunder exploded directly above. Rain came down in wild sheets, and everyone scattered.

  Dex, coming back to his senses, seized the opportunity to slip into the woods and then down onto his hidden trail. Like the living-dead, he shuffled all the way to the Clearing without processing a single thought.

  Once there, he walked to the center of the leafy ring and dropped down into a collection of soggy moss and leaves. He could’ve found a sheltered spot under a tree, but he just didn’t care. If there had been a pit dug there, he’d have jumped right in.